All your questions about what occurred the previous night shall be explained in his current arc, which could last a while. Fun times...

Stevenson's story is always entirely new. I may have Ferrik's story completed, but I don't even start Stevenson's until two hours before I'm finished, so I suppose I'll be learning the answer to that question shortly before you guys do.

Oh, and this takes place a couple of weeks after he left KFC.

Next chapter <Insert sarcastic yay here>
---------------------QEFFAL
Ch. 5: All Water Under The Bridge
---------------------Kain
Kain paced back and forth, scratching his yellow hair every couple of seconds in a fit of thought and wonder as bright, flashing lights flickered on and off all around him, with the soft hum of machinery buzzing and a cool breeze constantly flowing into the room through the ventilation overhead. No shadows could be seen from any angle of the room, as lights were visible from everywhere, from both the computers and the actual fluorescent lights above that were shaped like tubes and came in pairs of twos. A large screen that presently remained nonfunctioning hung on the wall furthest from Kain, who continued to pace for reasons unknown to anyone, including himself, and a large number of wires protruded from the screen and could be followed to a massive jumble of wires and cords in the corner that constituted an organized sort of mess, as each one had been tied specifically to give them the longest reach without them interfering with the rest of Kain’s quarters, which was orderly and hygienic, with a bottle of hand sanitizer standing on a nearby table that seemed to have been used recently.

“That’s a terrible shirt you’re wearing,” said EARL.

Initially, Kain ignored the voice of the computer, having closed off his perception of the world around him in favor of an absolutely clear mind so that he could focus on his next course of action, which depended on EARL’s report of the underground labyrinth that he believed could possibly house vast reserves of many valuable materials, ranging from minerals to potential sources of fuel. An ellipsis appeared on the computer’s screen as it awaited a response from its creator, who still ignored it, despite EARL’s clear attempts at drawing attention through doing absolutely nothing. Then, a moment later, Kain turned to face the screen with an insightful look on his face.

“Ah, I see you’re operational again, EARL. Excellent. Now perhaps I can begin to analyze the data you have retrieved down there,” said Kain, focusing little attention on any of the tasks he presently performed with no difficulty whatsoever.

“I suppose…” replied the computer, returning an equal amount of apathy towards Kain’s suggestion as Kain showed him earlier.

“Excellent. So… what can you tell me of the dark dungeon below, with its unnecessary stockpile of mice and stone?”

“Well… there are rocks,” replied EARL.

“Yes, and…” prodded Kain.

“I believe they’re made of granite,” continued EARL.

“Granite? Then it certainly can’t be a natural construction,” Kain concluded using the information EARL had given him.

“You’re not making this any fun, sir,” said EARL, expressing more boredom than usual.

“Enough rambling. Tell me more of this place.”

“Well, it’s dark.”

“Dark?”

“Yes. I’m sure you’re aware of what happens in the absence of light. Go ahead. Close your eyes. I’m certain that you’ll understand what I am speaking of soon enough.”

“I know what darkness is, dammit. Now tell me something of more significance.”

“Well… there was a patch of grass visible in the corner,” responded EARL after much deliberation.

“Grass…? Interesting…”
------------------------------------ Ferrik
A loud, fuzzy noise buzzed loudly as the four of them waited in silence, or rather, it would be silent, if the buzzing from the radio was to cease. Geoffrey began typing on his computer and quickly returned to fiddle with the radio, attempting to give it a better signal, but to no avail. Mackwell, who had dimmed the lights due to not being particularly fond of light in general, scanned the bookshelves for anything that interested him, only to find a few articles he read previously. Thomas merely leaned on a table close to the corner, flipping a coin with a Maple Leaf continually while gazing intently at the ham radio Geoffrey had constructed, awaiting some sort of response from it. Ferrik sat beside the ham radio, using tools he acquired from Geoffrey to tinker with his dysfunctional watch that ran backwards, though he did not know the present time to begin with, and he wasn’t particularly certain of the date either, having been sleeping for a couple of weeks.

Then suddenly, the noise from the radio became silent, and only breathing could be heard on the other side, followed by a fairly high-pitched girl’s voice, “Hello? Hello? Is anyone there?”

Ferrik allowed a brief pause, and then responded with some surprise, “Flonne? Is that you? What are you doing with a ham radio?”

“Oh. This isn’t mine. Laharl said he found it while looking through another student’s backpack.”

“Laharl? Where is he anyways?” asked Thomas. “I miss having the little maniac around.”

“Who are you calling ‘little?’” yelled the voice of a boy on the other side of the radio. “Say it again, and I’ll shove my foot all the way up your ass.”

“Now that’s the Laharl we’ve grown to love,” chuckled Thomas, using his hands to play with a deck of cards he had found on the table beside him.

“Where are you two right now?” asked Mackwell, who was still looking through Geoffrey’s various news articles for any interesting information.

“Well, right now we’re in the dormitories, along with Mina and Chao, but there hasn’t been much going on around here,” said Flonne, sounding somewhat disappointed, despite her inability to defend herself in a fight.

“In the dorms? But that place is so far away, and I didn’t see you guys there when I woke up,” said Ferrik, sounding confused.

“Well, we did go to class, but then Laharl interrupted the lecture saying, ‘This class blows and so do you, teach. If I wanted to learn something, I’d write it on my fucking eyelids.’ So, he ditched class, and we decided to follow, having nothing better to do, and not wanting to remain in class either,” said the voice of another girl, Chao, who had a slightly deeper voice than Flonne.

“Well, actually I just came to make sure Laharl wouldn’t be lonely,” added Flonne.

“How can I ever be lonely? I need no company to remain sane! I’m the only company I need to have!” exclaimed Laharl.

“Whatever, just stay where you are, I’m coming over there,” said Ferrik, cutting off the power to conserve energy.

“You know, I have the charger over there,” said Geoffrey, pointing to a drawer that contained several cords for several things.

“So?” responded Ferrik rather bluntly. “Mackwell, I need you to go with me. Thomas, you stay here. If anything happens along the way, we need someone to ensure the safety of this hideout, in case it ever reaches a point where we can no longer return to our beds in the dormitories. Geoffrey, see if you can fix this watch. It’s really starting to piss me off. Oh, and keep in touch with the others. We’ll keep in touch via cell phone. You have one, right?”

“Yeah…” replied Geoffrey, who was almost unable to make a response, due mostly to the fact that on the wall behind him there were at least twelve different, modern cell phones lined up along the wall.

“Good. See ya. Mackwell, let’s go.”

The two of them swiftly slid down the ladder to return to the labyrinth below, and immediately began running in the direction they came from, which they actually remembered this time, though neither knew why they were running, and they both quickly slowed to an unhurried walk as the two passed the time by playing a game of questions.
----------------------------Gwen
The walkways were hazardous, and the bridge had gone out a few minutes earlier, forcing the two of them to take another route, mostly because Gwen forgot that Alice had the capacity for flight built in for emergencies, though now they had to walk that way regardless, as they had gone much too far to turn back now, assuming they could remember which direction to take. Alice’s directions did little to help them, as her directions tended to simply be in the form of pointing at walls to disclose the location of the others, and breaking the walls could have the latent side effect of causing the entire facility to collapse upon itself, killing at least three people and Mr. Smith’s cat. They came across another bridge that swayed in a similar manner to the one that crumbled earlier, except this one was metallic, though there were spaces between the metal boards for no apparent reason other than to cause annoyance to any travelers who happened to come across it.

Alligators swung across the bridge on ropes, being able to hold on with some difficulty, and they made hungry stares towards Gwen and Alice, who simply stood at the entrance, unwilling to progress much further without a conference beforehand. The lights in the room were in the shape of smiley faces, and were all pointed directly at the teetering bridge, with everything else in the room completely enshrouded in darkness. Beneath the bridge, nothing could be seen aside from the faint glint of light reflect off a pool of murky water filled with tigers who received a constant food supply from a tube that released hamsters into the foggy depths of the water. They tasted delicious, according to the opinions of some of the tigers who returned surveys released to them a few months ago.

In addition to the oddly placed alligators and tigers, there was a swarm of piranha swimming in the air above, indiscriminately floating to and fro as they carelessly wandered near the electrical cords above, that were exposed, with little copper fibers protruding from the black plastic that wrapped around it. Swarming like flies in random places, the flying piranha were obviously placed their as an additional deterrent to crossing the creaky bridge.

“What the hell is up with this place? We’ve been down here for about an hour now.”

“Actually, Gwen, it’s only been eleven minutes,” said Alice, pointing at a massive clock that hung from a thin thread directly above the abyss, spinning in whatever direction suited it.

“Alice, don’t treat me like that,” whimpered Gwen, who was leaning against the wall in exhaustion, which was a result of having been sleeping before beginning her current escapade with Alice.

“Do you want to rest, Gwen?” asked Alice, somewhat entertained by her friend’s unusual lack of energy and motivation.

“Maybe just a little one,” Gwen admitted, her back sliding against the cold, stony wall until she was sitting on the ground, eyes closed.

“Sleep tight, Gwen,” whispered Alice, sitting down beside her friend.
-------------------------Who Cares? (Prescott)
Prescott finally awoke, after a decent rest, and stood before the broken window, on top of the shattered glass and blood stains. The blood finally dried up and his injuries had had enough time to have recovered sufficiently, and he stepped through the open window and returned to his seat, where he had hoped to be left alone for some time before being interrupted by Envidi again, though it appeared as if Envidi was preoccupied with talking to his special hall monitors again, who wore similar outfits to Gwen and Alice, but were given special colors and had gold lace along the edges.

Prescott sat his head on the table and closed his eyes, not caring enough to question what Envidi was doing with Prescott’s students, not that he ever really cared enough to motivate them, though he did make a point to be kind to his students with a cheery, nonthreatening demeanor and a general lack of concern for misbehavior. He knew that children would always be mischievous, little people who enjoyed a few good jokes every once in a while.

“Whatever,” he sighed, closing his eyes.
-------------------------Things are going to start getting hectic in Ferrik's story.

Chapter 10?

Wow, you move fast.

_________________
Stufflikehearts - He is a Sith Lord. I love Blood Lord :3
Jeffffey - Blood, you look at the information someone says, look over what really happened, and reply in a way that makes them realize what they were really thinking.
Mythrrinthael - Blood Lord, our local expert in interpretation of The Grim Tales from Down Below!
Fievel - Numerous campaigns and conquests, countless bodies decaying after the abandonment of victorious battlefields. Such is the life of Blood Lord.
Dusk_Imp - Blood Lord is like a celebrity here. Everything he does is pure awesome. ALL HAIL BLOOD LORD
Doctress Who - Why couldn't there be a Blood Lord in every forum? It would make life so much easier.
Snafu's Mercypostle.

I don't feel too good right now, but oh well.
------------------------------------------Which Way Is Left?
Ch.6- The Walks Of Life
------------------------------------------
In Stevenson’s hands lay a totaled cell phone with a picture of an albino mouse still on the screen, despite being broken; the wiring scrambled seemingly randomly, with wires extending everywhere but nowhere at the same time, and the buttons had fused with the switches that enabled the buttons to have an effect when pressed, though that was more likely cause by the fact that the switches and the buttons were no longer even attached to the phone, and instead sat scattered on his hands. The metal that coated the speaker had melted away, leaving a copper base that had bent and warped its shape in whatever incident it was that destroyed the phone, and the wiring that connected the speaker to the device that translated electrical energy into sound was jumbled with the other wires, its edges now frayed and utterly useless. Mr. Stevenson could do nothing but gaze blankly at the now worthless pile of electronic garbage that couldn’t even so much as activate, signaling that it could perhaps be repaired, though purchasing a new one entirely would probably be a better use of financial resources.

Recognizing the futility in attempting to dial his wife, as well as the severe reduction in value of the phone, Mr. Stevenson dumped the remains of the device in a nearby recycling bin, though cell phones and technology in general aren’t intended to be recycled in such a manner, and he immediately began to consider his next course of action. Since he was still only wearing a robe and some other clothes meant for nighttime, he decided that the next thing to do would be to acquire some apparel he could use, so as to avoid the deprecating stares of the people as he walked in the streets on his way home, which, for the time being, would be largely unavoidable if he walked out in the open like he was at the moment.

He wasn’t particularly familiar with the neighborhood he was in, as he rarely visited Mr. Cue at his home, so for the moment, until he could recognize his surroundings, he resolved to simply walk in along the sidewalk, moving out of the path of children and people walking their dogs as he made his way to anything that seemed familiar. After the rest from before, he was significantly more aware of his surroundings, and his capacity for reasoning enhanced greatly, as now he could faintly recall some of what had occurred the night before, though the only memory that came to mind was of him standing before an old record player, holding his cell phone by the extendable antennae he added because he incorrectly believed it made it look cooler. He still did not recall the name of the establishment that presently flashed in his head, though at the very least, he could remember the events of the night prior by simply waiting it out as it brought itself to light naturally via vague recollections and subliminal messages.

Mr. Stevenson eventually stumbled across a four-way intersection, with multiple vehicles lined up along either road, in all directions, and he pressed the button to make it so he could cross the street in safety, without the fear of being mowed down by a car looming in his head every second his feet touched the tarred cement. A clown stood beside him, also apparently awaiting the lights to shift in color in their favor, but the light for their direction continued to signal green, and the cars rushed past them, creating a small gust of wind every time one passed that flapped against the clown’s hair in a vain attempt to return him to normalcy, or rather, as normal as a man wearing rainbow-colored, baggy pants and a shirt could be in public. The light finally switched to yellow, signaling that their time was nearly upon them, but instead of shifting to red, as it is usually supposed to, the color changed purple.

“Purple? Purple? What the hell is purple supposed to mean?” wondered Mr. Stevenson aloud, as the shock of a purple traffic light caused him to forget the presence of the clown who continued to wait patiently beside him for the lights to change again.

Mr. Stevenson glanced back and forth, uncertain of what he’s supposed to do in such a situation, but thought failed him, and the only thing he managed to do successfully was verbalize several nonsensical utterances expressing confusion and mild surprise. The clown noticed his bewilderment, but continued to remain silent, not wanting to get into a problem that would occupy too much of his time, as he had to be at a party in an hour, which didn’t leave much time for becoming intoxicated, with the only thing stopping him from drinking in excess now being the fact that it was illegal to walk in public while intoxicated, though he could probably argue that he was just clowning around, as was his duty as a clown.

“What does this purple stand for? What could it possibly mean? Why did they add another color to the already decent system? What could it possibly mean?” Mr. Stevenson consistently vocalized erratically while pacing in a circle around the traffic light.

The traffic light now changed to a pure white, and automobiles from every lane lurched forward almost instantaneously, making the entire scene hectic and amazing, as no vehicles ever hit each other despite the fact that they were all moving at the same time at relatively the same speed. Then the light changed to pink, and all the cars immediately halted, with the clown beginning to cross the street. Mr. Stevenson attempted to follow suit, but the clown stopped him just before he stepped on the concrete below.

“Sorry, buddy. Only entertainers can cross the street on pink. Government workers have to cross on brown.”

“How did you know I was a government official?” inquired Mr. Stevenson, returning to his position beside the traffic light.

“You’re wearing a name tag on your robe,” the clown yelled as he reached the other side, leaving Stevenson alone in waiting for the light to make its eventual shift to brown.

Mr. Stevenson was not aware of these new protocols pertaining to the various meanings of the various colors for the traffic lights, and they struck him as exceedingly pointless, more so than his now trashed phone, but, being a government worker, he felt obligated to obey the rules of his trade, though they applied to all people, and not merely government officials. More cars flew by, with the cars showing little intent in stopping anytime soon, and the light seemed reluctant in changing its color to something more pleasing to Mr. Stevenson than pink, but it did so after much deliberation and after the electrical data was sent to the lights to force them to change against their will to the color brown, which Mr. Stevenson regarded as a personal victory.

“At last, now perhaps I can discover where I am at that gas station over there,” Mr. Stevenson announced to himself.

The vehicles all halted before him, except for the ones that were traveling parallel to the path he was taking, and he swiftly made his way across the river of pavement, keeping a watchful eye on the cars that eyed him with malicious intent. He finally touched ground on the other side of the river, and his foot came into contact with the smooth grass that submitted itself to the will of the slippers that Mr. Cue allowed Mr. Stevenson to borrow until he managed to make it home and change into his regular clothes.

At the gas station, there were two men engaging in an unusually vague discussion of some film Mr. Stevenson might have heard of.

“Hey man, did you see that movie with that guy?”

“You mean the one with the hair?”

“Yeah, that’s the one. Do you remember that part?”

“Which one?”

“You know, the one where that thing happened?”

“Oh, yeah, dude. That part was tight! Especially when that guy did that thing and made the other guy go all ‘Eaaaaaauuuuugh!’”

“Totally, dude!”

Mr. Stevenson decided to ignore their conversation, and simply walked through the doors of the gas station to ascertain his current location.
-----------------------------Not sure what to say about this part.

I hate people that talk like that.
Clowns are Evil!!!

_________________
You... you really don't get it... do you? I... I love him... I'd die with him. Or for him. That's what you do... how you feel when you love someone. - Impulse

I'm not sure if I should give the clown more significance. We'll see if he gets another part next time.

I rather enjoyed writing this part.
----------------------------QEFFAL
Ch.6- Knights Of The Round
----------------------------Angelica
Angelica sat there, tapping her fingers nonstop while waiting for her colleagues to arrive, who would most likely be arriving late, except for Earnest, who always appeared on time, regardless of what else he needed to do. Always. It was his defining characteristic; following the rules and the law, no matter how much of an inconvenience it was for anybody, including himself. Earnest sat one seat to the left of opposite Angelica, and he did nothing but stare, relatively motionless with eyes fixed on one point on the wall behind Angelica, which deeply disturbed her. She mostly found him to be a useful psychopath who was obsessed with the principles of order and chaos, though he didn’t necessarily concern himself with the balance of the two. He struck Angelica as a person who was too decent to devote his life to preserving chaos by preserving order, but she tended to ignore his insanity, much preferring the company of Lucky or Devon, or even Jacklyn, as they were the only people in the group who weren’t overly obsessive with anything. Earnest entered the conference room first, and took his position and assumed his usual stance, making Angelica avert her eyes to the scenery around her, which was done entirely in the modernist style, but in addition to black and white, a few squares of other colors unnecessarily occupied space. He was the seventh member of the organization.

Kain entered the room next, with his train of thought evidently being preoccupied with another matter that he deemed to be of importance. He sat down to Angelica’s right, being the second highest in rank within the organization, though Angelica would prefer to have him be of lower standing, but she wasn’t the one who decided, so she simply decided to make the best of it. His silence only amplified the awkwardness of the situation, with Angelica sitting uncomfortably in her seat, tapping her fingers to the beat of the only song she could remember at the moment. The only thing she had in common with Kain was the fact that they both grew blonde hair on their heads.

Stephanie arrived next, making an extravagant display as she leaped through the door, theatrically and precisely, as if she had practiced extensively for no other purpose than to draw the attention of a few people who could care less about the fact that she walked through the doors. She wore a royal purple leotard underneath a silk robe of similar color, and her dark hair swung gracefully with the air as she stuck her landing, with the soles of her shoes halting her immediately the moment it came into contact with the floor. Her leather shoes were a stark contrast to the rest of her assumed attire, but Angelica never bothered to question Stephanie’s choice in clothing, as it was really none of her business, and she would rather waste her time on something more worthwhile; something that would actually be of much greater significance. She took her seat one to the right of Angelica’s opposite, and retained the sixth rank within the organization.

Loud, hard rock boomed into the room, loud enough to cause the people in the room’s hair to blow and flutter randomly, clearly it was much too loud, and whoever was listening to it was killing their ears, but Angelica knew it was Baxter, who wore sound-cancelling head phones underneath the head phones that played perfect quality music. Made no sense, really, but she just raised her middle finger at him as he entered the room, and he instinctively knew to turn off the music and take off both sets of headphones, the one below being black, and the one above being white. He took his seat next to Earnest’s left, sitting fairly annoyed at the fact that he couldn’t listen to music of any kind during the meetings, lest he be punished physically. He occupied the position as the fifth member of the organization.

Next was a girl who rushed in, seemingly unfocused and hurried, carrying a camera and a microphone, as well as a piece of paper that had a script, then she realized where she was, and rushed back out, handing all of her equipment to the cameraman, shoving him along while doing so, as only members could participate in, or even watch, these conferences. The only problem Jacklyn had, in Angelica’s opinion, was that she never seemed to be completely focused on anything, but at least she was normal compared to the other lunatics she was forced to work with. The only member of the team with any connections to the reporters, and the news in general, she was often assigned tasks that only involved suggesting topics that were beneficial to the organization, and the reporters were smart enough to understand their fate, should they refuse to comply. Jacklyn sat opposite Angelica, smiling. She was the lowest in rank, at number eight.

Lucky walked in next, playing with a deck of cards, doing random tricks just to see if he could still do them, and he sat to Angelica’s left, shuffling the cards as he did so, and began playing solitaire. A master conman and a gambler at heart, always winning, no matter the odds, he could easily flip a coin and force it to land on heads seventy-nine times in a row, all without cheating, though in truth, pretty much anybody could accomplish a similar goal without cheating if they were willing to wait quite a bit of time for the law of probability to rule in their favor. Lucky had swindled and earned plenty of money during his short stay on Earth, and he was probably the financial backing of their coalition, but most people tended to avoid that question, as it did not need to be answered, and they already knew the answer to that question. He was third in rank, a fact which gave him slight ire, as he didn’t think too highly of Kain’s abilities.

The last to enter the room was Devon, the member of the team best suited to combat, and also the fourth in command. He never took himself too seriously, instead taking enjoyment out of his work, but never enough for one to label him as a psychopath. Occasionally, he prayed for the people he had killed with his unique technology, and sometimes, he even went so far as to dig them graves, and give them a tombstone, which the others found to be a bit much, but he felt obligated to. He knew the problems with the educational facility but the only hope he had to gain enough power to do something about it was if he completed all his courses there, a feat which few people were able to accomplish, the principal and vice-principal being among the few who had managed that achievement. Devon sat to Kain’s right.

“So,” began Angelica, now that everyone had arrived, “shall we begin?”
----------------------------------Ferrik
“It quite dark down here,” said Ferrik, wading through the water that occupied much space in this particular part of the maze.

“Agreed. What happened to the torches, if they can be called as such, that were so plentiful earlier?” wondered Mackwell.

“Good question, I don’t even remember when I stopped seeing them,” said Ferrik, trying to think how far back the last “torches” were.

Ferrik and Mackwell drudged along the water, which was increasing in depth as they moved further along, with the ceiling steadily approaching the water as made their way further along the path. Small, non-threatening fish made the waters their home, and they were numerous, making it difficult to see very much in the water, though the fish were very sluggish, as if they’d been drugged. Mackwell swam forward and dove underneath, returning promptly, catching his breath.

“Bad news. I can’t see how far this path goes without a break for air, especially with all those fish in the way,” said Mackwell, kicking his feet in the direction of the underwater tunnel.

“Hmm. That’s certainly not a good thing. We can’t even see if there are more dangerous fish further along,” said Ferrik, moving his head above the surface of the water, attempting to catch a glimpse of more fish, but all for naught.

“Well, most sharks typically swim in saltwater, and most species of fish here are freshwater fish.”

“Maybe, but they could have genetically engineered some fish specifically designed to be excellent killers,” reasoned Ferrik.

“Should we still move forward?” inquired Mackwell.

“Might as well,” said Ferrik, with an ounce of reluctance present.

The both of them dove underwater, swinging their arms and kicking their feet as they forcibly moved the fish from their relaxing wade through the cool water. The fish continued their relaxing swim of ignorance and bliss, wandering around aimlessly, eating random flakes that happened to pass them, which came from small vents that released flakes at random intervals. Mackwell and Ferrik had held their breaths for ten seconds now, and they still didn’t see any exit from the water in sight, and the fish certainly weren’t helping in that regard. Now they were at twenty seconds, and still no exit in sight, though there was a lever that resembled the kind that stuck to toilets, and Ferrik quickly reached for it, realizing that swimming all the way would most likely result in their deaths, and a large whirlpool immediately formed, dragging Mackwell and Ferrik with it, tossing them into walls, making Ferrik think that perhaps it wasn’t such a great idea.

The funnel drained the water at an amazing rate, despite the fact that the hole the water went into was fairly small, perhaps not even bigger than someone’s hand. Thirty seconds now, and Mackwell was already approaching his limit, Ferrik, on the other hand, appeared to be relatively relaxed, focusing his attention on not ramming into the walls, as it could result in him letting out a gasp of air in pain. Forty seconds now, and Mackwell was reaching his hands out, as if attempting to reach the heavens, though he was an atheist. Fifty seconds now, and Ferrik grabbed Mackwell and brought him to the surface of the water, which had now appeared, allowing them to breath. Mackwell coughed up a vast amount of water and then gasped heavily for air, with Ferrik doing the same, except with less intensity. All the fish flopped randomly as the last drops of water were drained through the hole.

“You know, this is a great jab at animal rights’ groups,” said Mackwell after successfully catching his breath.

“Let’s just keep moving,” said Ferrik, who had started walking in the direction they were swimming.
------------------Gwen
“Alice, old buddy, I’m not gonna lie. If it weren’t for you, I probably would have died back there,” said Gwen, with treated bite marks on random parts of her body.

“Well, I’m certain that if we faced something that had more surface area, you would have been more useful with your guns,” remarked Alice.

“Those piranha are pretty small,” agreed Gwen.

“If only those alligators didn’t pose a threat,” said Alice, with tears beginning to form in her eyes.

“I know you like alligators, Alice, but they were crazy, and would have tried to kill us if I didn’t shoot them. You don’t have to get all emotional.”

“I know, but still…”

The bridge was now long behind them, and they still had not managed to encounter the people they were looking for, despite having been walking for approximately an hour now, though the underground labyrinth was quite complex. Their clothes were all torn and scratched, and would probably require replacement when they returned to their dorms after they accomplished their current objective. The road beneath them was no longer stony or metallic, but instead consisted primarily of sand, which made walking somewhat difficult, and the temperature had increased slightly, most likely a result of the heaters that were stapled to the ceiling.

Scorpions made their residence in this environment, as did a wide assortment of cacti and other small creatures that typically inhabited desert climates. Small kangaroo rats scampered and hopped to and fro, feasting upon the beetles and spiders they encountered, and an eagle sat perched on the arm of a cactus, carrying a snake with its claws. A desert rose had apparently bloomed and was actually quite a lovely sight. Stones were placed randomly, providing shelter from the invariable flow of heat and light that came from above, forcing Gwen to constantly shield her eyes with her hands, as the light was just too much for her to handle.

“This is quite strange,” commented Alice.

“Yes. It is. First there was that bridge, and now this. Alice, activate your coolant system, I have a feeling that this may take a while.”

“Very well,” said Alice, with a gust of cool air permeating the space around her.

“Which way do you think we should go next?” asked Gwen, as they approached a fork in the path.

“At this point, Gwen, I believe the best course of action is to simply guess, as these pathways seem to twist and turn randomly, making it difficult to make an accurate prediction of where one passageway might take us,” admitted Alice.

“Very well then. We shall go left this time,” announced Gwen, who began to turn left as she was speaking.
------------------------------------Geoffrey
“I wonder how long it will take those two to reach the others,” said Geoffrey, still swiftly pressing keys on the keyboard.

“How should I know? That area down there seems to be random, like a woman’s mood swings,” said Thomas, who had been playing tic-tac-toe with himself for the past ten minutes.

Growing bored with that, he decided to pace around the room, finding it to be much more entertaining and bearable to losing to himself in tic-tac-toe. Geoffrey decided to ignore him, instead forcing all his attention on improving his computer’s firewall through his own programming talent. Aside from Thomas’ footsteps and the soft of the computers and other technology in the room, there was nothing but silence. The two didn’t particularly like each other, and each preferred being alone to being with each other, with the only reason they agreed to stay together being the fact that they would be slightly safer, and that Ferrik, a mutual friend, asked them to.

Every once in a while, the ham radio would awaken from its slumber and Flonne or Chao would speak to them, usually to ask them if Ferrik and Thomas were getting closer or to keep them company. Geoffrey, having placed a tracking device on both Ferrik and Mackwell, brought up a map of the school every time to answer their question, which was usually a yes, but once turned out to be a no, and then he would return to what he had been working on previously, after which, Thomas would talk to Chao about what was happening around the school, and if she had seen any of the others, to which the response was always a no.

The two of them would then return to the silence which they had now grown accustomed to.
-------------------------------Miles
Miles continued to sit in the corner, hiding what he had been doing from the guards that kept watch over him. Fortunately, there were no cameras present in the cell, enabling him to work in secrecy without fear of punishment of any kind. What he had been working on for the past few hours since his imprisonment was a gun that he had managed to sneak past the law enforcement before he was placed in the uncomfortable cell he was in now. He was attempting to get it to eject a flammable liquid that burned with great intensity so he could destroy the bars that held him in and escape, though it was taking him more time than he initially thought.

Now it was completed, and he would have to act fast if he wanted to escape, so he quickly pointed at a spot behind the guards and yelled, “Someone’s escaping!”

The guards turned their heads and Miles quickly aimed the gun at them and burned them to death. A little much perhaps, but that was going to be his fate if he did nothing. He then turned his attention to the metal bars, quickly melting them and leapt through the opening he had created, and more guards came running in the room. Miles turned away and ran towards the window, using the miniature flamethrower on it as well, and jumped through that hole as well, taking off his robe and using it as a parachute as he landed on the roof of the other part of the school. He burned that too, and swiftly jumped into the hole he made, landing on top of Ferrik in the process.
-------------------------More than usual, but yeah. Lot's of action. It should get less hectic soon.

All yous pee-poles whose are reedings this, I'm thinking of separating Ferrik's and Stevenson's parts and treating them as individual novels. It already is like that, in a way, but I mean completely split them up, as in, they make no references to each other and the like.

This is mostly because Stevenson's story isn't going as I had originally planned, and it's turning out to be even more of a satire than Ferrik's story. Also, I get more money that way. <Insert Haha Here>

I'd just like to get your opinions on this matter before I do something too drastic. Do you think it would be a good idea?

I like it because the flipping back and forth is confusing me

_________________
You... you really don't get it... do you? I... I love him... I'd die with him. Or for him. That's what you do... how you feel when you love someone. - Impulse

Doc also had the same problem before I added the character's names before the chapters. I suppose I'll go through with it, as it will get even more confusing as things are developed further for both stories, but I'll need to come up with a new title for Stevenson's story.

----------------------------------I'm going to be editing my previous post to reflect the name change later. I will no longer be adding the character's names, except in Ferrik's part. Instead, I'll be posting the title of the story when posting a new part.
-----------------------------------------------------------Which Way Is Left?
Ch. 7- For Whom The Bell Tolls
-----------------------------------------------------------
“Dude,” began the first person, placing an excessive amount of emphasis on the single word, “You know that movie’s going to have a sequel.”

“No way brah. That is the most awesome thing I have ever heard in all of my twenty years of being alive on this planet.”

“I know dude. I mean, that movie was super awesome,” began the first one.

“So imagine how high on the awesome scale the sequel will be. It’ll be like the sun fusing with the apocalypse… times twelve.”

Mr. Stevenson still decided to ignore the conversation of the two vague and obsessive fanboys who were probably incapable of speaking a single coherent sentence that actually described anything with specificity. The bell rung as he passed through the door, alerting the people already in the store to his presence, though they didn’t pay very much attention to him, and did nothing more than glance in his direction to see if it was anybody that they happened to know, and when they discovered that he wasn’t, they all returned to what they had been doing previously.

Rows and columns of bags lined up the painted silver shelved that were hung via a metallic cord that strung around the thin, metal bars in the back. A man was browsing through a large variety of what was essentially the same product, with at least thirty-two varieties of cheese crackers, all of which were exactly the same flavor, but with a different face on the cover. The man picked one up off the counter and turned the bag on its side, checking for the ingredients that listed exactly the same things as the one that sat beside it, with the image of a drug-obsessed tiger being displayed that was much larger than the actual product, as if they were selling the image and not the contents of the aluminum packaging. It was essentially the same for all food and drink based items that had been arranged on the paper thin shelves.

Lottery tickets were up front, carefully place within a glass container that appeared as if it could withstand an assault from a gun, which was more protection than the cashier was allowed to have, as only a knife was visible, and it was in plain sight, guaranteeing his death, should some random criminal wander into the store with a strong desire to steal approximately fifty dollars from a gas station store cash register when he could have gone to the bank. The tickets varied greatly in price, with the rewards being exponentially greater than the risk, though the only person who ever won the lottery at this particular store tripped and was mauled by a car that stopped by to be refueled, a car that was driven by the girl’s long lost father. A morbid event really, but that didn’t stop the local news station from pestering the man, asking questions about his questionable hairstyle and regarding his regards to the girl’s adoptive parents.

The rotating oven was currently in the process of grilling some hot dogs, and a few bundles of grass in the shape of hot dogs, as the owner wanted to entice the more “green” people to enter the establishment and purchase some provisions to wherever their destination happened to lead them. They were actually surprisingly delicious, and were probably laced with some sort of flavor enhancer, though where they acquired them has been debated by many visitors to the quaint little store. The actual hot dogs were less than delectable, being excessively oily and generally unappetizing, as the meat that had produced the hot dogs had been known to house living, breathing rats, as well as a CD from the band Ratt.

“I have never seen a more awesome movie,” said the first one, who had apparently been talking louder than Mr. Stevenson had thought.

“Neither have I dude.”

“Remember the open scenes, when it was all like, “Kapachooom,” and they were playing that rad music?”

“Totally, dude,” said the second one, high fiving the first.

The two of them were beginning to annoy Mr. Stevenson, and he began to wonder why they couldn’t simply refer to the film by name, but then he remembered: copyright issues, and decided to let it slide this one time.

A random assortment of people had made the store their regular abode, not necessarily to the point of sleeping there, but a good number of them spent a little too much time searching for overpriced snacks and drinks, and they often conversed with one another for more than an hour. The regulars at the store stopped by so frequently that the cashier knew some by name, and recognized others by face or voice alone, and he also felt that they wasted too much of their lives lifting light weights and scanning through poor selections. None of the people seemed to pay him any mind when he told them what he thought, however, and they just continued in their pursuit of frivolous foodstuffs and meaningless conversations that amounted to nothing but gossip.

The restrooms were in decent condition, but oddly enough, there was a shower in the corner of each restroom, with the men’s having a curtain to block it off while the women’s offered no such protection. Clearly, the owner of the store was a pervert, as there were cameras in the restroom, with a majority of the ones in the women’s bathroom being aimed at the area with the shower at all conceivable angles. The security cameras were constantly being monitored by one man in a dark room in a building that was several miles, or several kilometers, removed from the region, by a creepy man with a cold sore on his like and a video camera in hand, so he could record the day’s events himself, as the law required the information that was filmed for the restroom to be deleted the moment it was seen to avoid invasion of privacy laws that forbade such practices.

Mr. Stevenson placed his foot on the white tiling that lined the floor diagonally, with the pieces around the edge having been cut off with a chainsaw in order to get them to fit, though they probably would have fit perfectly had they been lined up perfectly parallel, or perpendicular, depending how one looked at it, to the wall. The pieces of tiling that had been chopped off were dumped in a pile outside, with a sign that read, “Free chunks of tiling,” in blue. Nobody ever grabbed a piece, but then again, who would. The pieces had long been covered in dirt and dust, as well as the occasional dead insect or small creature that had mistakenly crawled upon the pile, believing it to be a suitable place of residence for their future children.

Mr. Stevenson approached the counter, where the cashier was listening to music by some band from Texas, and a customer was waiting patiently as he added up the total using the cash register, which used overly complex calculus equations to derive the exact amount of change that was required for the purchase, and it typically rounded up when the price was slightly over one Canadian penny. The man finished up quickly and leaned on the counter as the girl thanked him with a kiss and then walked out the store, laughing quietly to herself.

“At first, I thought this was one of the worst jobs I could have gotten, but as time progressed, I understood the folly of my logic. Anyways, what can I help you with, stranger?” asked the man in a cheerful manner.

“D-directions. Directions a-are what I’d like,” said Mr. Stevenson, who was unused to the atmosphere that had suffused into the atmosphere around him like the smell from a scented candle.

“To where, my hesitant new friend who’s dressed in nothing but a robe and a towel?” inquired the man, who was bringing up a map on the computer sitting next to the cash register.

“To 1138, Road Rd, of this city.”

“All right, let’s see,” he said, pausing to check the location of Stevenson’s destination. “It looks like it’s just a straight line until you reach the entrance to your neighborhood. Don’t know what you’re doing all the way out here without a car or a bicycle, though. Anyways, just go that way until you reach a statue of a statue, and then take a left. After that, just keep going straight, past all the gay men, and you should be back home.”

“Th-thank you,” murmured Mr. Stevenson, who had already turned towards the exit.

The man was going to say something as he left, but decided against it, believing his words would have little to no effect on Mr. Stevenson, who was already out the door, walking in the direction that the man had pointed out for him. Instead, he simply chuckled and shook his head as he watched an actual customer walk through the doors, causing the bells to ring, saying nothing but, "Don't panic."
--------------------------------------------------------------

As you guys can tell, the title of Mr. Stevenson's story is now called Which Way Is Left? What do you guys think of the title, considering the fact that it is an absurdist/satirical social commentary?

I hate myself so much for putting myself through so much work for Stevenson's next part. It has been very annoying to write, and requires a lot of effort and searching on my part. My head hurts so much from writing it.

On another note, QEFFAL probably isn't going to be updated for a few days, as I'm temporarily focusing my attention on Which Way Is Left? as it's more commercially viable. <Insert Haha Here> JK. I'm just feeling uninspired with that story right now. Just though I'd give you 2-3 people a heads up.

Okie doke thanks

_________________
You... you really don't get it... do you? I... I love him... I'd die with him. Or for him. That's what you do... how you feel when you love someone. - Impulse

--------------------------------------------------Which Way Is Left?
Ch. 8: The Distance (The Cake Is A Lie)
--------------------------------------------------
Birds flew by, singing as they soared, and beneath Mr. Stevenson’s feet, lay a board, wretched and decaying, the trees and the grass were swaying impatiently and without a care, almost as restless as the air, though in truth, it was caused by a fan, blowing hard from a large metallic can. The lights turned green and allowed him passage and on the way, he could envisage the look on the face of his wife, and thought about the outcome of his life, which hadn’t gone as he intended, but was much too late to be mended. He quickly put it out of his mind, instead thinking thoughts of a different kind, thoughts of his children, who were only three, thoughts of the future, of what could be, but sadly he would not have time for his kids, and on their childhoods would be placed lids that would forever distance both parties, and in regards to that he was not so hearty. Much like that one song by Harry Chapin, about the busy father and the young man, though that was something Mr. Stevenson would hope to avoid, because of pleasure his life would certainly be devoid.

A man drove by on his yellow bike, though he’d prefer to be on a hike, and he let out a heavy sigh, and on his bike, he rode fairly high, with his back completely lifted off the seat, acting as if it were an amazing feat, though other people tended to just ignore him, instead thinking that he needed to get a trim. The bike itself was made of a strange kind of metal, all bumpy and looking similar to the left pedal, but it was otherwise considered in good shape, with only one scratch that was more of a scrape, but the paint around it was fairly scratched, but still to the pipe it was seemingly attached. The man on the bike sped off in a hurry, as his vision was beginning to grow blurry, though he was still able to steer fairly well, which he honestly found to be quite swell.

The road was very bumpy and purple now, and the only animal in sight was a cow, that seemed to be ignoring the people she saw, instead choosing to conform to the land’s law, not that she really had an alternative, as, in legal terms, she had no representative. The cow knew that her fate was to die, and she had a method that was most sly for getting back at the people who would consume her, for the wrath of the cow they had unknowingly incurred. She was unusually intelligent and bitter, and when it came to revenge, she was certainly no quitter, biding her time, waiting for the perfect moment, and concerning her talent none could comment, because she was the best there ever was; she even evaded the notice of the fuzz. In the end, however, taken to the house with the hammer, she would have preferred being taken to the slammer, as the hammer struck midnight, she could no longer see the light, she never even had the chance to fight, in which case her escape was a might, instead of just an impossible sight.

A man walked along, his hair blew so freely. He seemed to be a hippie, except not so touchy-feely. “Salutations my good sir, from a distance you’re quite a blur.”

“Why are you talking like that, hippie, though to be honest I’m feeling kind of tippy,” said Stevenson, feeling a tad trippy.

“Why, my friend, you are speaking the same, and to be honest, it is quite lame,” said Zack, as a cat walked by that was tame.

“I can’t seem to help it, for some reason. I guess it must have to do with the season,” said Stevenson, committing English treason.

“Or perhaps you are simply high,” said Zack, who walked as if he could fly.

“It certainly can’t be that, but I might’ve been last night,” reasoned Stevenson, reconsidering his present plight.

“So you are a party fellow, for a second I thought you mellow,” said Zack, who was eating some jello.

“No, not really. I just can’t recall what I did the day before,” said Stevenson, who was beginning to be a bit of a bore.

“I’m certain you’ll find what you’re looking for, and maybe then your feelings won’t be so poor,” said the hippie, now eating some spores.

“Maybe, but I wouldn’t count on finding anything, no matter how hard I try, nothing seems to ring,” said Stevenson, who did not know it was already spring. “If only I knew the way home, I would just lie in bed, waiting for the toaster to finish with the bread, and then talk with my wife about the troubles of my life, then be off to sleep sweetly, with my pillows all neatly lined up and fluffed until they felt absolutely nice, and the blanket to keep away the air that is like ice.”

“Don’t worry, man, the sun will go down and the moon will come up, and then of the finest drinks we can have eleven cups. It will be the cure for what happens to ail you, revealing all of life’s musings to be true, and you’ll be sitting on a cloud in heaven, forget cloud nine you’ll be on eleven, and the feeling will be just so divine, you’ll wish you had another drink of such refine, and then perhaps you will be able to see, that in life we are rooted, just like the trees, taking in sunshine and the beautiful rays, hoping that eternally we are able to stay, but it’s all for naught for soon he will come, with that scythe of his that’s painted all chrome, and he takes us to our own personal nirvana, no matter where you want to go or whatcha wanna do for the rest of your days, when it won’t matter what you say.”

Then the hippie fell down a deep hole and broke all of his bones, and he would of much preferred words to the stick and stones that crushed him callously and without remorse, just like a farmer would shoot a horse that could no longer run in the races, bringing smiles to all the children’s faces as it rushed by, as fast as a car, making a noise as it trampled the tar, because he’s racing and pacing and plotting the course, fighting and biting and riding and he was a horse. In truth the horse’s story is unimportant, and in shooting the horse, the farmer was reluctant, as they’d grown up together, they’d been friends since youth, and he found his actions to be uncouth, but regardless he did it, the deed was done, and the only thing heard was a shot from a gun.

Stevenson still walked, ignoring the man, not even bothering to give him a hand, but in his opinion, it was better that way, as then perhaps the annoying rhymes would no longer stay, and either way, someone had already called for an ambulance, and personally, he rather enjoyed the ambiance that was present without the hippie and his smoke, and his terrible rhyming that was like a bad joke. Now with a smile, he held his head high, no longer questioning the reason for why he was in the predicament he was presently in, with his clothes having vanished, and his memory tossed to the bin. He would still be searching for what had occurred, finding all that happened to be quite absurd, but for the time being his attention would still be on how he was going to get over the hill.
--------------------------------------It took me quite a bit of time, but I managed to finish it before I got tired and scrapped the whole chapter.

----------------------------------------Which Way Is Left?
Ch.9: Over The Hills And Far Away
----------------------------------------
The rocks before him seemed to climb into the clouds above, and Mr. Stevenson did not recall such large mountains in the Sherbrooke area, but then he turned to his side and noticed a sign dictating that a construction crew was in the process of constructing a mountain to increase tourism of the area and to get back at the people of Quebec, who lived fairly close, for having a French name, which the residents of that city weren’t too happy about either, assuming they weren’t French. For some purpose unbeknownst to Mr. Stevenson, a fence was built around the mountain, and stretched out for quite some distance, preventing people from simply walking around the mountain, and Mr. Stevenson began wondering why he never saw the massive stack of rocks before, and also why nobody bothered to inform him of the development of such a pointless project.

Mr. Stevenson walked around the pile of rocks that were in the process of being melted together in order to make it more realistic, and attempted to climb the fence, but halted once he noticed the electric generator buzzing beside the fence, feeding a steady stream of electricity to the fence, with sparks clearly visible throughout the entirety of the fence, with the remains of a few small creatures lying beside it, charred and with all their legs pointed upwards. Some creatures were smarter than their deceased friends, and merely jumped through the holes in the fence, that could easily be cut with a chainsaw that had a rubber handle, but many other creatures realized the futility of attempting to cross the fence, and altered their life patterns and their territories to match the new, limiting wall that towered above them, holding them back from the wonders of the other side that were likely to never be seen again. The forbidding wall simply laughed at their discomfort, displaying its enormous power of those on either side, and those small creatures shrewd or lucky enough to make it to the other side were likely to never return to their old habitats, instead making use of their new environment, which was essentially the same, except better suited for certain circumstances.

Mr. Stevenson stepped back, and aimed his gaze upwards, taking note of the lone eagle circling the halfway point of the new mountain, and since there was no fence blocking passage to the rocky road, Mr. Stevenson reluctantly decided to take it, as he had already been walking four hours in this direction, and seeing the hole where the Zack the hippie fell through might make him feel guilty for not calling an ambulance for him, though to be fair, he didn’t know his location in the first place, so he wouldn’t be able to dial the number regardless. Stevenson began to scale the mountain, nearly tripping on a pebble as he made his first steps on the rocky terrain, and fortunately for him, he wouldn’t have to scale the entire mountain to cross to the other side, as approximately halfway, where the eagle was flying for no apparent reason, there was a pathway that led around the gravelly spiral, though that would probably be gone once the construction crew was done melting the rocks together.

“You do know that there’s a bridge if you just walk to the left a little,” said a man wearing a black fedora with red and green striped tie, holding an unlit cigar in his right hand and a blue melodic in the other.

“Wh-Who are you?” asked Mr. Stevenson, surprised and somewhat confused by the fact that he didn’t hear the man approach him.

“You certainly are surprised a lot, my friend,” said the man, putting the cigar in his mouth and flipping the switch on the lighter, letting out a short burst of heat and flame that forced a similar behavior in the tip of the cigar.

“What makes you say that?” asked Mr. Stevenson.

“There you go again. Haven’t you been reading? Quite a few of your responses have the words “confused” or “surprised” after you’re finished speaking. You should grow a back bone.”

“W-What are you t-talking about? What do y-you mean by “read?” I see no words before me that could be read.”

“Doesn’t really matter, just thought I’d give my opinion,” said the man, blowing out a puff of air as he cleared his lungs.

“How far are we talking about anyways?” inquired Mr. Stevenson.

“It’s less than a kilometer away, though there’s no water in the area. I believe they’re going to create a man-made river, but as for what purpose this serves, I wouldn’t be able to say,” responded the man, shaking his head with his hands stretched out and with two fingers on his right hand keeping the cigar in place.

“I wonder which way would be the shorter path.”

“It’s really a matter of whether you’d rather walk a while longer to reach a bridge, or be mauled by a psychotic bird that has an odd fascination with an unnecessarily large jumble of rocks,” said the man, brushing dust and dirt off of his black suit.

“Well, only a madman would want to take the mountainous path, assuming you’re telling the truth about the mentally disturbed eagle.”

“I really have no reason to lie to a colleague, now do I?” asked the man, blowing out another cloud of smoke.

“Colleague?” asked Mr. Stevenson, not recognizing the person before him.

“Yes. You can call me Mr. Nights. I’m the man who never talks at the numerous and generally annoying board meetings.”

“Ah. You’re that guy with the mask,” recalled Mr. Stevenson.

“But I’m so much more than just a man with a mask. I’m the head of public affairs for our little coalition.”

“I’ve always wondered what purpose you served with our organization, but you always left to early for me to ask.”

“Doesn’t matter. Come, let’s walk this way. I’m certain you’ll find it a better alternative to being scratched and pecked by a delusional creature of the avian variety.”

The two of them began walking along the metal wiring that seemed to stretch out for miles, taking caution not to disturb the carcasses of the recently deceased or long dead animals and people that were lined up like people waiting for a store to open on black Friday, except slightly more organized, and significantly more tranquil and silent. A snake of smoke trailed behind Mr. Nights, curling and pausing briefly at carefully coordinated intervals, though one would have to photograph the trail to notice this observation, as Mr. Nights only breathed in smoke only once after exactly one minute.

The sun was beginning to set, and the shadows behind the mountain stood tall and proud on the grassy, flattened ground behind it, with only a single prairie dog hole in the entire field to ruin the image, but the prairie dog didn’t care, as it had paid it’s dues during America’s Second War on terror, performing the voices of its own kind, and received quite a hefty sum of money, but since it possessed no owner, its finances were just being held in permanent reserve, being continually compounded and increasing at an alarming rate. It was presently practicing memorizing its PIN code so it could retrieve its riches from the bank system, and in the unfortunate event that it was unable learn before it met its demise to either time or fate, it named a successor to whom all Zev the prairie dogs financial capital would go, and that person was an environmentalist, who would hopefully use the money to benefit all the creatures of the region.

Mr. Nights walked along casually, occasionally raising his hand to place the cigar between his lips and breathe in a bundle of tied up smoke, stepping over the random pineapples that happened to be lying on the side of the fence, though why those pineapples were there people could only guess, as pineapples were quite expensive, and the nearest grocery store was at least a mile away, and this was a substantial waste of money, but there could have been as many as one thousand, one hundred and thirty-eight of them in that line of fruit. Mr. Stevenson picked up a pineapple as he walked alongside Mr. Nights, as he loved them greatly, and presently had the strong desire to feast upon one, as all the pineapples placed next to the fence were fairly plump and appeared to be especially ripe and yellow.

“What’s with these pineapples?” asked Mr. Stevenson, carrying three pineapples and struggling to pick up a third pineapple.

“Beats me? I’d say there was just something wrong with the tuck transporting them, but they’re spaced too evenly for that to be a reasonable explanation. Maybe it’s their way of promoting this new “tourist attraction” of theirs.”

“It’s certainly a strange way to advertise,” said Mr. Stevenson, lifting up a fourth pineapple.

“You do realize that you’re going to have to carry that all of the way, right?” asked Mr. Nights, unsure of whether or not Mr. Stevenson realized this fact.

Mr. Stevenson paused momentarily, allowing the thought to enter his head, and then his facial expression changed to that of despair and hopelessness, as apparently the pineapples he was carrying were very important to him. Then he dropped all of them in shock as his mouth dropped open, signaling his realization of this fact, and after noticing the fact that he had dropped the pineapples, he quickly rearranged them in his arms, accepting the fact that he might have to carry them for quite a ways before realizing another fact.

“Hey, Mr. Nights, how did you get here anyways? Didn’t you bring a car?” asked Mr. Stevenson.

“No, I just happened to be going on my weekly walk,” Mr. Nights responded.

“Where am I anyways?”

“You’re just in the new part of town. You live on the other side of the bridge, in the older side of town, where the capital building and our local headquarters is.”

“Dammit. I guess I am going to have to carry these pineapples for a while. Oh well, it’s worth it, I suppose,” said Mr. Stevenson, with reluctant resignation present.
------------------------------------I almost got writer's block while writing this part, but fortunately my sister said the word pineapples, enabling me to continue the story.

----------------------------------------Which Way Is Left?
Ch.10: Gimme Shelter
----------------------------------------
The bridge was approximately about the length of fifty-seven people, and the width was about seventeen average-sized people, and it was made entirely of marble, with a few pillars on either side of the bridge having been plated in gold, with each of those gold plating being coated in silver, making it seem as if it were worth less than it actually was. Mr. Stevenson and Mr. Nights had managed to walk to the midpoint of the bridge when a horde of cars stopped on both exits from the bridge, and Mr. Nights instantly took a defensive position while Mr. Stevenson reached into his pockets only to realize he was still only wearing his robe and a towel. Mr. Nights turned his head towards Mr. Stevenson, and, noticing his panic, let out a sigh of annoyance and grabbed Stevenson by the arm, rushing towards the edge of the bridge and leaping off, with Stevenson stumbling at first before getting a proper footing on his own, managing to tumble when landing to avoid injury.

The people who disembarked from the vehicles attempted to chase after them, but stopped at the edge of the bridge and pulled out their guns, aiming at the two people running as fast as their feet could possibly take them. Fortunately for the two of them, several massive boulders stood in the path of the bullets that began to fly, and they used them as cover as they made their exit along the empty river. The men in orange suits immediately returned to their cars, and every car drove off the bridge, landing in the incomplete river and starting to drive in the direction of Mr. Stevenson and Mr. Nights, but one of them drove over a pineapple, causing it to skid and it tumbled over the edge and began tumbling until it landed on the hard rock below, top-down, causing significant damage to that vehicle. The others ignored the death of a coworker and continued in their pursuit of Stevenson and Nights.

Mr. Stevenson and Mr. Nights, discovering that their pursuers had joined them in the dry trench, began scrambling for the trench’s wall, grabbing onto rocks and scaling the walls in a panic as the cars rammed into the stony walls, crumbling the walls as they did so, but the two of them had already successfully arrived at the top, with the electric fences less than a foot away from their faces. The men exited their vehicles, taking hold of their weapons again, and began shooting at the duo, who were frantically along the thin walkway, attempting to dodge bullets and distance themselves from the fence simultaneously. One of the gunmen slipped on one of the pineapples Stevenson had dropped and accidentally shot his partner through the neck, with blood gushing out both sides of the newly formed hole. The man grabbed his throat, covering the hole in his throat fruitlessly, as blood continued to drip through his hands, until finally the man fell to the floor as pool of blood formed around the puncture wound, his hands red and marking the ground he touched. His partner quickly resumed his previous stance before he slipped on the pineapple, choosing to ignore what had just occurred, as was probably safer for him.

Mr. Stevenson and Mr. Nights had managed to get a good distance away before they found a break in the fence that seemed to have been made through use of a chainsaw with a rubber handle, and the two of them slipped through, glancing back to ascertain the locations of the gunmen and to determine how quickly they should run. Deciding that it was relatively safe, the two of them slowed down to more of a jog, still turning their heads back frequently to determine whether or not they were still safe.

“W-Why the hell were those people shooting at us?” asked Mr. Stevenson, still in shock at having been shot at without provocation, not that he would ever do anything to provoke such an action in the first place.

“I honestly have no idea. The local gangs don’t typically wear that style of dress. They prefer to wear something less formal. These are hired professionals, Mr. Stevenson, and they’re obviously out to get us,” concluded Mr. Nights, putting out his cigarette and dropping it on the floor, watching it as it became smaller and smaller as he walked farther and farther away from them.

“But why would they want to kill us? Aren’t we supposed to be a secret organization under the guise of a law firm?”

“That’s what worries me. Why do they want to eliminate us? It’s not like the two of us have anything in common other than our place of work. Could it be someone from the organization who’d like to increase their stance within the company?” posed Nights aloud.

“But nobody at the organization has ever seen your face; shouldn’t the contractor at least be able to describe your face?”

“Perhaps they looked into my personal file. At first I thought they were after you, but they shot too far ahead of me to be aiming solely at you. There is a slim chance that it could be a new criminal organization that simply decided to assert its power by a committing a few random murders,” Nights reasoned.

“They seemed too intent on killing us to just be random thugs, also they didn’t seem to care when their friends were killed. It’s like they’re unfeeling robots, or something,” Stevenson commented, with the image of the man holding his throat still fresh in his memory.

“So then who were they?” wondered Nights.

“That’s a good question, but when we return to headquarters, we should probably pretend like it never happened,” Stevenson suggested. “If they don’t know that we know, then maybe we can have a bit of additional time to discover the identity of the person who put a hit out on us."

“The only way that would work is if we eliminate everyone who just attacked us, and I only have two pistols with me. We’d be severely outnumbered,” said Nights, who stopped running and looked back the way they had come, reaching in his pockets for his two handhelds.

A thunderous explosion roared across the field, and the two of them witnessed a massive explosion that blew boulders and rocks all over the place, as well as a severed arm into the arms of Mr. Stevenson, who was no longer carrying pineapples. Mr. Stevenson slowly lowered his gaze until his eyes met the center of the palm, all gory and burnt, with portions of the flesh either missing or peeling off, and Mr. Stevenson let out a high-pitched shriek as he dropped the hand onto the ground below, leaving a little blood on his fingers and his palm from where he made contact with the severed hand. Mr. Nights stared in awe at the spectacle of the random combustions that were occurring in the ditch for no apparent reason, though if the two of them had been closer, they would have realized that the explosions were a result of a delayed reaction cause by the overturned car that began leaking gasoline that was lit ablaze by a stray spark from a loose wire from the generator.

“Damn,” muttered Mr. Nights, taking out another cigar from his shirt pocket, fairly apathetic about the manner in which the hunting ended.
-------------------------------------------I think I might take a break from writing...maybe.

--------------------------------Which Way Is Left?
Ch.11: Like A Rolling Stone
--------------------------------
“Is it a famous person?” asked Mr. Stevenson.

“No,” answered Mr. Nights.

“Is it a person?”

“No.”

“Is it an appliance?”

“No, and isn’t that a little vague?”

“Being vague is allowed,” Mr. Stevenson responded. “Umm… Is it some sort of tool?”

“No.”

“Is it metallic in any way?”

“Yes.”

“Really? Okay, umm… Is it the Large Hadron Collider?”

“What the fuck? How the hell could you possibly get that from metallic?”

Mr. Stevenson shrugged, “Beats me, but it was the first thing I thought of. Is it right?”

Mr. Nights continued walking and his mouth formed a slight frown, at first relaying no message to Mr. Stevenson, then he opened his mouth, “Yeah.”

“What?” Mr. Stevenson replied with surprise, “Are you being serious?”

“Just be quiet. I’m not playing this game anymore,” said Mr. Nights despondently.

“No reason to be upset, Mr. Nights. Just because you lost a game of twenty questions doesn’t mean you have to go and get all depressed.”

“We were just shot at by some lunatics in suits, if we were seen, we could be arrested for questioning concerning their deaths, and someone within our organization might be trying to kill us. There’s more than enough reason to not be jumping blissfully, and aren’t you supposed to be introverted? What’s with the chummy attitude all of a sudden?”

“You said it yourself: those people are after us, not just me, which means we’re in this thing together, and there’s a distinct possibility that we could be killed at any moment by deranged snipers. I don’t want to die sad.”

“I’d rather die sane, the way I usually am. Just because you could die at any moment doesn’t mean you should act any differently than you would if you weren’t going to die. It’s too much of an insult to yourself to behave any differently.”

“It’s when you know you’re going to die that you should act differently. You’re supposed to get everything done that you wanted to do in your lifetime. Spend more time with the kids, tell people what they mean to you, be a better person, you know, that kind of thing.”

“Then the person your loved ones will be remembering won’t be you. It’ll be what you could have been, and that only makes the loss more depressing,” said Mr. Nights, stepping over a shattered watermelon, with its mushy innards spilled out all over the floor, much like one of the people down below.

Nights stopped at the foot of the bridge as Stevenson scampered away to retrieve another bundle of watermelons for the road, stopping for a moment to look at the horrid scene before, then smiling when he noticed a fairly large plastic bag that constituted some of the mess below. Stevenson slid down the side of the cliff and walked towards the wreckage, first ensuring that the people were no longer among the living, and then grabbed the plastic bag from the car that had not yet been destroyed. When he returned to ground level, he walked along the fence for a little while opposite the direction of the explosion, and grabbed a few of the watermelons in that area, reasoning that they would be less dirty if they were further from the accident, even though they all may have been on the floor for several hours before he arrived at the bridge. As he reached for one of the watermelons, he accidentally slipped on a pebble and pushed one of the watermelons off of the cliff, watching it roll down the hill like a rolling stone, splattering on the floor below when it hit the ground.

A car drove by slowly, stopping next to Mr. Nights, and a woman stepped out of the car, with a long, blonde ponytail and sunglasses, wearing the same suit that Mr. Nights was wearing, which is what Mr. Stevenson would have been wearing if he could find his clothes. She leaned against her car and folded her arms, watching Mr. Stevenson as he continued to place watermelons in the clear plastic bag that unusually large and resistant to tear. After a few seconds of waiting, she gave up on being noticed and decided to get his attention the old fashioned way, so as to avoid wasting more time, and to prevent Mr. Stevenson from getting so many watermelons that the bag is either too heavy to carry, or causes structural damage to Stevenson.

“Hey, Steve,” she yelled, waving at Mr. Stevenson. “What are you doing all the way out here, and what was that explosion I heard a little while ago?”

“Oh, hello Kate,” said Mr. Stevenson, lugging the sack of heavy watermelons towards the woman, evidently having much difficulty carrying the excessive number of unnecessary, ripe, and dirty watermelons.

“Hey! That’s Mizz Take to you,” reminded Mizz Take.

“Oh, yeah. I forgot. Sorry,” said Mr. Stevenson, his voice trailing off.

“What’s with the watermelons?” she asked, tilting her head slightly to the left with her right eyebrow being raised.

“I like watermelons, and they were just lying there, so I thought, “no point letting them go to waste,” right?”

“Whatever. Who’s this?” she asked, turning her head towards Mr. Nights, with her head still tilted in the same manner as before, except her eyebrows had returned to their normal positions.

“Oh that’s… just a friend,” said Mr. Stevenson, remembering that Mr. Nights preferred to have his identity remain secretive.

“Well, I’d feel guilty if I just left the two of you here in the middle of the night to carry those watermelons by yourself. What say you put those watermelons in the trunk and I give you two a ride home?”

“Thanks,” said Mr. Stevenson, dragging the bag to the back of Mizz Take’s car.

Mr. Stevenson pulled open the front door on the passenger’s side and sat down, adjusting the seat to make himself more comfortable, which Mizz Take allowed because few people ever rode in the car with her, and she usually used a different car, which she would have done, but it was being repaired. Mr. Nights sat in the back seat, behind Mizz Take, which made her feel slightly uncomfortable, but she immediately ceased caring when she shoved the key into the ignition and activated the vehicle, which was a refurbished and upgraded version of a car from the seventies.

“I guess I can retrace my steps tomorrow,” said Mr. Stevenson, staring out the black tinted windows at the pile of wreckage and the number of nonmoving bodies that were attempting to kill him less than an hour ago.

“Sorry, but we’ve got work tomorrow,” said Mizz Take, beginning to adjust the wheel so she could turn around and drive back to the historical district of town.

--------------------------------- Which Way Is Left?
Ch.12: Nothin' But A G Thang
---------------------------------
“Indifference is a mentality we cannot afford to retain within the recesses of our mind, I’m afraid, for circumstance does not allow it at this moment, and perhaps shall forbid for the rest of our days, until we eliminate this new threat to our comfort, to our livelihoods, to our persons. These transgressions that these people seem intent on carrying out against us, nay against all of civilized society must be halted without delay, lest we fall to them, leaving our once humble municipality to be occupied by those hooligans that carry those metallic slingshots, with their horrid taste in the musical arts, if their preferences can so be called, and their ill-designed methods of transportation, as well as their unusual obsession with gold and chains. Clearly, it goes without saying that our coalition is the only organization capable and intelligent enough to devise a viable solution for significantly decreasing their numbers, if not eliminating them entirely.”

No response.

“Clearly the gravity of the situation is having an effect on the lot of you, and I know that many of you would rather be elsewhere, perhaps somewhere safe and comforting, or in your case, Mr. Nights, the strip club, but this is an issue that must be dealt with posthaste. If we sit and do nothing, then we stand no chance of ever grasping the reigns of this dragon called Sherbrooke, and without those handles, we will never rise above that which we are presently, which is why it must be said again. Something must be done about this predicament, and we are the only people who can do it.”

Still no response.

The Committee Head got to his feet, his hands behind his back, and he turned away from the table to gaze out the window, contemplating the appearance of the town once the threat vanished, but the others remained uncertain as to how to accomplish this task barely assigned to them, thought they recognized the truth of his words. So long as those gangsters lived within the boundaries of the city, people would be less likely to attend their institution due to fear of being murdered or having other things done to them by the local gang, which would prove problematic when the utilities needed to be paid.

The conference room changed somewhat from the last time the organization coalesced, as the multicolored table had been painted white, though the color clearly shone through, as evidently they did not use multiple coats, instead choosing to be parsimonious and petulant about the entire matter, and as a result, the indiscriminately changing colors could still be perceived quite easily through the single coating of egg white paint. The ice sculpture had been long replaced with one of a fox and a penguin, standing side by side for no apparent reason, and the lights that caused the previous sculpture to melt had been replaced with glow sticks, which were even less efficient at producing light than having no light source would have been. The window, previously shielded with bricks, now allowed light passage through its semi-permeable barrier, though bricks were still lined up in a manner so that the light did not reach the questionably frozen masterpiece. Drapes hung on either side of the window, and could both be pulled towards the middle to reflect the light and to insulate the room during the winter months, despite the fact that the entire complex utilized an industrial-style air conditioner to ensure it remained that way regardless of the effectiveness of the drapery and the other various insulators that made their residence within the walls of the building.

Mr. Stevenson noticed these changes when he entered the room, and it made him feel slightly more comfortable, especially since his risk of seizure was severely reduced with the tables painted over. Mr. Nights was again wearing his mask, and Mizz Take not knowing his true identity, though Mr. Nights suspected her of knowing his true name and face, as she was one of the possible candidates for the hiring of the attempted assassins. His mask faced Mr. Gregory’s direction, but his attention was clearly elsewhere, as he bobbed his head as if music played in his head, which it may as well been. Mizz Take also appeared generally apathetic towards the present topic, as she didn’t even attempt to look in Mr. Gregory’s direction, instead gazing blankly out the window, watching the birds as the fluttered by, returning her wonder by ignoring her.

Mrs. Bleach focused all of her attention on the Committee Head, not wanting to anger him through ignorance or due to not having heard what he said and making a fool of herself in a similar manner to the way Mr. Stevenson frequently does. Mr. Cue seemed to be largely uninterested about the entire discussion, or rather speech, and was occupying his time at the meeting by playing a game on his handheld system, considering it a much better use of his time than debating the consequences of allowing juvenile delinquents and professional gangsters to remain within the city, which he believed was probably going to happen regardless of the actions they took to prevent it. Mr. Rumsley was busy writing down a transcript of what was being said, so any ideas could be repeated or brought up again later if needed, which it frequently was, and the clicks and the clacks of his typing were essentially the only sound present aside from Mr. Gregory’s booming voice, which remained loud despite his age. Mr. Phobbes, unlike his fellow senior members, chose to ignore the topic, though he decided not to be as obvious about it as Mr. Cue, instead preferred to occupy his thoughts with more entertaining affairs, though his lack of enthusiasm could be deduced based on his facial expression, which he had difficulty managing.

“I swear, if this is what I have to look forward to when I am no longer among the living, then I hope I remain standing forever,” said Mr. Gregory, scanning the array of useless individuals who made their residence within the warm black chairs.

“If you’re done talking about these trivial matters that seem to be so imperative to you, then let me know,” said Mr. Cue, who closed the device and leaned back in his chair, resting his feet on the table as he did so, also dirtying his own papers in the process, but he didn’t seem to concern himself with that. “I have better uses of my time than listening to some crotchety old grandpa talking about how the youth are corrupting the society and whatnot.”

“You will sit, Cue. So long as the crown is on my head, my will shall be done, and I won’t have some petty mechanic be saying otherwise.”

“You’d do best not to insult my profession, old man. I’m the only person who knows how to repair a lot of the machinery here, so unless you want to be driving a horse to work, I’d suggest you hold your tongue. Now if you’ll excuse me, I have devices to construct and specific people to ignore. Good day, ladies and gentlemen,” Mr. Cue said, bowing towards the table and walking out of the room with a grimace on his face.

“I’m afraid I have to concur with Mr. Cue,” announced Mr. Nights, who seemed somewhat distraught by the fact that he presently did not possess a cigar, and the withdrawal effects were beginning to take effect. “While I mean you no disrespect, we shouldn’t waste time merely discussing this issue. After all, the more time we waste, the more difficult it will be to get rid of them.”

“Very well,” muttered Mr. Gregory, clearly disappointed and saddened by the fact that he could not continue his speech. “Mr. Stevenson, I’m going to need you, Mr. Nights, and Ms. Ztake to devise a solution for this problem. Let me know when you’ve come up with a reasonable one.”

“Why us?” wondered Mr. Stevenson aloud.

“Because you handle finances, Ms. Ztake is in charge of weaponry, and Mr. Nights’ specialty is on the political sector, all of which shall be necessary for this mission. Now this meeting is adjourned.”

Good grief Fie. You write so fast I can't keep up D:
I just wanted to write this so that you know I am still reading your work, I'm just miles behind your latest update (I'm still reading 'Knights of the Round', which is about 1/3 from the top of this page).

What I'm reading so far is impressive. The world you've created for your characters is really coming alive now. I'm just wondering (if you haven't already in one of your chapters I've yet to read), whether the bizarre 'alice in wonderland' nature of your stories' worlds will ever be explained? It might be better remaining a mystery, I don't know, but I wondered if you will explain/hint torwards why things are the way they are or not?
But anyway, keep writing, and I'll keep reading and trying desperately to catch up

_________________

Hiryu: Doc's bag is a portal. She's actually from another dimension and when she jumped into it, she ended up at a desk with a browser open on this site. That's how she found it.
We have a Doctor Who thread now. Doctor Who threads are cool.

Decent so far, Fie. Looking forward to more.

_________________
Tuor: Stuff is our resident, hot mess, alcoholic.
Senel: Stuff is the patron saint of getting shitfaced. You replaced your organs with an engine that runs solely on alcohol.
RIP Lucky. I love you so much.

To answer your question Doc:

I aspire to be an absurdist author, so I like to add things that don't make sense.

For QEFFAL, the construction and corruption of the school will be explained by various characters, mostly Prescott, but it won't be for a while, and even then, not all shall be answered, some will be implied, and others can only be guessed.

For WWIL?, it's a satire.

---------------------------------WWIL?
Ch.13: Tom Sawyer
---------------------------------
Stillness and solitude roamed the corridors, bland, though they managed to emit a comforting, yet sober, aura, calming the mind and decreasing blood pressure, though nobody on site ever suffered from any sort of ailment pertaining to relatively elevated levels of blood pressure. The light fixtures that lined the hallways, radiating their light gladly, hung proudly in the wrong direction, with their heads facing up rather than down, though the lights annoyed people much positioned in such a way, otherwise the light would pierce directly through people corneas, being roughly at eye level, and would cause slight, brief pain to the unlucky passerby that happened to glance in the wrong direction. The other members of the organization left several hours ago, save for a few random interns and other employees who performed the more “menial” jobs, leaving Mr. Stevenson, Ms. Ztake, and Mr. Nights alone in the unnecessarily expansive concrete complex that composed the edifice they presently resided in.

“What do you think?” asked Mr. Nights, his mask still shielding his face from view and his manner suggesting an increase in restlessness.

“We could try shooting them,” suggested Ms. Ztake, scratching her head with her face flat on the table, as she struggled to remain among the conscious, though the same tables that stood in the conference room made a reappearance here as well, making her task significantly simpler.

“And what? Go to jail? Because I think it will be fairly obvious who committed it if we walk out all willy-nilly. Murder is always murder, regardless of who was murdered and for whatever reason they are murdered.”

“Deedle-deedle-deedle-deeeeedle-deedle-deedle.”

“And just what the bloody fuck are you doing, Stevenson?” shouted Mr. Nights, banging his fist on the table, giving Ms. Ztake a light shock before she resumed her previous position. “If you’re going to stay at work, at least participate seriously in the discussion.” He began rubbing his fingers against his temples to assuage his frustration towards the other two in the miniature version of the conference room, with only minimal effect.

“W-What’s there to talk about?” inquired Mr. Stevenson. “I’ve never even h-heard of this supposed “gang” that M-Mr. Gregory was referring to a-at the meeting. I’ve never heard of any c-crimes that they’ve been committing. Hell, he d-didn’t even name the gang.”

“I have it written down on this piece of paper. It says that they are called, the “Haxorz,” or something like that, and that their signature color is black, with their tags typically featuring various video game characters.”

“So… they’re basically a gang of kids who enjoy playing games a little too much?” asked Ms. Ztake, her voice muffled by the table and her arms. “That doesn’t really sound like much of a threat to me, to be honest. What did they do to incite the wrath of Mr. Gregory?”

“It’s not what they’ve done so much as what they could do, if given the opportunity. They are presently increasing at a rate of six members a day, and they don’t consist exclusively of gamers, despite what their name implies.”

The three of them sat in a circle around the square table, and the flies that seemed to congest in the corner of the table had all lost their wings long ago, presumably pulled off by bored little children or jaded littler adults, long deposed from their little fantasies and flights of fancy by the society and the massive influx of lethargy, preventing them from even attempting to reach for the crowns now lost to them. Unfortunately, the three of them never received the letter decreeing that they, being members of the general public, should simply resign themselves to a life of pleasant placidity and green grass that seemed largely underwhelming no matter where one’s eyes focused; there was no metal grass to be found on either side of the fence.

“I’m bored,” announced Ms. Ztake quite plainly.

“Ugh,” let out Mr. Nights, contemptuous of his coworkers who barely seemed fit for their respective jobs, though in truth, the others cared little merely because it affected their divisions very slightly, with Mr. Stevenson being involved simply because of the drug cartels involved with the gang, and Ms. Ztake’s assistance required so they could be eliminated.

“I-I would also like to a-acknowledge my boredom.”

“Ugh.” Mr. Nights rubbed his temples even harder, and blood began pouring down the side of his face, as apparently he did not feel his flesh peeling off when he did so.

“No reason to get angry,” said Ms. Ztake, handing Mr. Nights a handkerchief from her pocket that happened to be the same color as blood, except for the image of a stack of pancakes on one side, with the caption “Keep on truckin’” written beneath it in chiller font.

The sun’s rays entered in such a way that the a cool warmness permeated the air within the walls, increasing their overall sluggishness, and Ms. Ztake lost her battle with her strong desire to rest her eyelids, resulting in light breathing interrupted every once in a while by a shrill snore. Mr. Stevenson found it difficult to concentrate on the matter at hand, but noticing that Ms. Ztake had already drifted into dreamland, Mr. Stevenson felt it safe to rest momentarily, or until his interest and ability to think clearly returned to him, whichever time and circumstance happened to dictate. Mr. Nights, evidently disturbed by his colleagues’ lack of enthusiasm and work ethic, retrieved a sheet of paper from his suitcase and began writing a few notes that he thought would help the discussion they would be forced to have later, though they consisted mostly of random scribblings and doodles he drew as they came to mind.

“Whatcha writing?” inquired Ms. Ztake, who had stood up from her sleep, having woken up a moment earlier from her quick nap, and now leaned over Mr. Nights shoulder, lenses focusing directly on the etchings and pencil markings he had made.

“All right! Fuck this!” yelled Mr. Nights, jumping up from his seat and pushing Ms. Ztake back in the process. “Let’s just dress up like them and shoot the crap out of them, that way the only ones who they can blame for the deaths of their fellow hoodies are themselves.”

“Works for me,” concurred Ms. Ztake, beginning to motion herself towards the door.

“Agreed,” agreed Mr. Stevenson, who was no longer making random noises.
-------------------------------------------------------
I'm going to be working on QEFFAL next. Just a heads up.

Guess what. QEFFAL is up again.

--------------------------------------QEFFAL
Ch. 7: The Hunt Begins
--------------------------------------Ferrik
“Is he okay?” asked Miles, poking Ferrik with a sturdy stick he discovered on the floor just a few steps away.

“Beats me. You fell on him pretty hard,” answered Mackwell, who stood beside Ferrik’s unconscious body, playing with a coin that he found in his left pocket.

Ferrik remained lying on the ground for several minutes before displaying symptoms of wakefulness, though his head ached quite a bit, and he continued to linger in his current position to avoid exacerbating his headache, as well as any other, more severe injuries that he believed he may have gotten from being crushed by Miles. Miles and Mackwell stared at his open, listless eyes that revealed nothing about his state of mind or his condition.

“Umm… Ferrik, I’m deeply and sincerely sorry for crushing you with those rocks and then kicking you flat in the face. If I had known that you two were down there, I would have… Well, actually I probably would have been captured if I lingered there any longer than I did, so I would still do the same, but I’m still going to apologize.”

“It’s okay,” muttered Ferrik, who was now aware enough to comprehend what occurred and respond to the various stimuli surrounding him, “Just don’t do it again. Where are we, anyways?”

“Well, those prison guards were still hunting after me, so we had to hide in the nearest area,” said Miles, glancing quickly at the door leading to the dimly lit room they were using for shelter.

“Are we still underground?”

“Yes, we seem to have stumbled upon a horticultural area that seems to have a large number of plant seeds in storage, but for what, I can only guess,” said Mackwell, helping Ferrik get back to his feet.

“Hmm,” uttered Ferrik, who began contemplating the significance of the seed storage facility of the underground labyrinth. “That explains why there’s grass thirty feet below ground level. Actually, that only explains how the seeds got there; we still don’t know how it has managed to grow after all these years, unless it was recently placed there, though to be honest, we don’t even know how long or recently this underground facility was been utilized, This could have been done ages ago for all we know.”

Ferrik walked towards the door, having fully regained his composure, and slowly pulled it open, taking caution in avoiding being seen by any guards, but there didn’t seem to be any signs of life, other than the wide assortment of seeds that had not yet been germinated. Sack of seeds were neatly aligned and labeled on the metal shelves that divided the next room that appeared similar to the storage rooms that could be found in warehouses. Ferrik stepped out into the empty hallways, with Miles and Mackwell following close behind, and stood next to one of the bags, examining it for dates or any sign of the time it was placed there, but he found nothing other than Envidi’s signature, which only suggested that it couldn’t have been there for more than eleven years, which still constituted a decent amount of time, but Ferrik realized that it could have been placed there long before Envidi signed them, as for all he knew, he could have simply been inspecting them to check whether or not the seeds were still in decent shape. Ferrik concluded that the bags were probably made of some material that prolonged the survival of the seeds, as some of the bags that showed tears seemed to be filled only with black, shriveled seeds that shrunk significantly after time.

“For now, this isn’t something we should concern ourselves with,” began Ferrik, dropping the seed he picked up before onto the beige tiling below. “Right now, we have to focus on making our way back to the dorms.”

“Why?” asked Miles.

“Four of our friends are there right now, and we’re going to lead them back to Geoffrey’s hideout, where we’ll be staying from now on,” said Mackwell, standing by the massive doors that led back to the stone maze.

“Have either of you two seen Alice yet?”

“No, we’ve been underground for quite a bit of time, and I don’t think that either of those two know about this place,” said Ferrik.

“Oh,” uttered Miles, slightly disappointed by the bad news.

“Don’t worry. We’ll look for them after we get the others,” said Ferrik, with the other two following him back into the chaos.

Ferrik pushed the doors open slowly to prevent them from making too much noise as they scraped against the stone paneling on the other side, and the layout appeared structurally similar to that found on the other side, where they came from, except instead of the “torches” that could be found on the other side, there were lights in the shape of grand pianos, with a thousand dollar bill sitting on all of them. After they noticed the money, a panic followed, with the three of them scrambling to grab as much paper as was physically possible, and the grand pianos were no longer so grand.

------------------------------------Angelica
“So, does anybody have any immediate business before we move on to new business?” asked Angelica, scanning the faces of her subordinates.

“Actually, I possess some information that the lot of you should find interesting and possibly beneficial to us,” said Kain, holding several sheets of paper in his right hand.

“Proceed,” allowed Angelica.

“Well, EARL, my computer program, though I’m certain that the lot of you are already acquainted with its function, recently made a discovery when entering the school’s electronic mainframe, accessing an area that had previously been heavily guarded by various firewalls and safety programs, which I managed to destroy quite skillfully.”

“And exactly what did EARL find?” asked Earnest.

“He discovered an underground network of intricate facilities, with several different areas deal specifically with one thing, such as an aquarium, an area composed entirely of steam based technology, and another area that seems to consist mostly of musical instruments.”

“An entire underground facility? How come we’ve never found it before?” wondered Jacklyn.

“Silly girl, children don’t waste their time with digging these days,” mocked Baxter.

“I wonder if Vice Principal Envidi and Principal Prescott know about this,” said Lucky.

“They have no reason to lie to us about this. Surely something else must be amiss,” said Stephanie.

“I concur. I don’t think they stand anything to gain from withholding this information from us,” said Devon.

“Should we investigate this further, or has EARL compiled enough data for us to avoid such a possibly tedious prospect?” Angelica directed at Kain.

“Unfortunately the only cameras that EARL found down there didn’t get to observe much of the layout. In order to gain a better understanding of the underground facilities, we’ll need to go down there.”

“We shall save it for later then.”

Suddenly, a girl dressed in the hall monitor’s uniform broke into the room, gasping for air and emitting a feeling of urgency. The Celestial Monitors all turned their heads towards the unexpected intruder and Angelica stood up and acknowledged the girl.

“What do you come here for? You know this room is forbidden to people of lesser ranks.”

“I mean no disrespect ma’am, but I have a message of critical importance, sent directly from the prison ward.”

“Someone escaped?” asked Devon.

“Impossible. One would require a powerful weapon or an insider in order to escape, and even then, they would have to avoid the guards in the area,” said Earnest.

“Not only did someone escape, but he seemed to have gone underground, and there were others with him down there,” said the girl, finally catching her breath.

“Who was it, anyways?” asked Lucky.

“A prisoner who was recently admitted. I believe his name was Miles Linus Hawthorne.”

“Miles, was it? Well then I can probably guess seven possible identities of the accomplices,” said Devon.

“Indeed,” said Earnest. “I think now would probably be a good time to eliminate two birds using a single stone.”

“Agreed. Devon, Jacklyn, I’ll leave this to the two of you. Jacklyn, I want you to take note of everything you see down there. And Devon,” Angelica said, turning directly at Devon, “kill them.”

“Yes ma’am,” said the two of them, making way for the door.

“This meeting is now convened until the two of them return so we may discuss Jacklyn’s other findings, but in the meantime, I’m going to need to see that report you have, Kain,” commanded Angelica, extending her hands.

Kain stood up from his seat, leaving the paper on the table, with the others doing the same, and left the room, with Angelica disturbed by the disobedience and disrespect, though she was used to that sort of treatment from him. She approached the stack of papers and began reading through them, searching for any information that could benefit both the school and the organization.

-------------------------Gwen
The two of them entered a heavily forested area, with a large diversity of flora occupying much of the space they saw, with the rest being consumed by tiny creatures whose purpose was presumably to keep the expansion of the various forms of plant life in check. Alice used her chainsaw hands, which barely made a noise aside from the actual cutting, to make a clear pathway that the two of them could use without accidentally stumbling over tree roots and into spider’s nest, which transpired multiple times to Gwen before Alice thought of the solution.

Out of the bark of every tree in sight, the message “Somebody and somebody else forever” had been carved, with a heart surrounding the area around the message, in addition to several smaller hearts that seemed to be placed randomly. The pointlessness of the message and the effort required to perform such a seemingly meaningless task confused Gwen, but she decided to ignore it, believing that keeping an eye out for booby traps was a better use of her time. From the branches of a few trees hung ropes, whose ends formed strangely inviting nooses, and small stools were perched directly beneath them, as if suggesting it wanted them to select such a strange option for solving their problems.

“What’s with all these ropes? Was this place intended to be used for a mass suicide for some cult, like the People’s Temple, or something?” asked Gwen, who could no longer retain the confusion within herself.

“That seems like a reasonable assumption, and the markings on the trees do support your thesis somewhat,” said Alice, still marching forward, but slowing down to allow Gwen to keep up.

“Honestly, what the hell was this place used for? Is it just for kicks? Is there some sort of secret treasure? Is there some unspeakable evil hidden somewhere in this ludicrous labyrinth?” asked Gwen, attempting to find reason in everything she saw since she first went underground.

“Enough with your hypothetical questions, Gwen. If there is some sort of creature down here, your frequent complaining may attract its attention, and I’d rather conserve as much energy as is physically possible,” said Alice, who now increased her speed again.

“Fine, but those are all possibilities,” said Gwen, defeated.

“Yes, they are, but that doesn’t warrant your announcement of the obvious. I reasoned such possibilities long ago, and I know you did as well.”

“Come on, we need to find where we are. I barely even know which way is left right now,” said Gwen, checking the walls for any sort of indicator as to their position.

“We have been here for quite some time now.”

“Are the others still down here?” asked Gwen.

“Yes, and it seems as if another one has joined the two, but this person is different from the one that was with them earlier, and they’re considerably closer than they were before.”

“Oh. That’s good. Maybe we can find a map to navigate our way back once we meet up with them,” said Gwen, who recommenced her hunt for the map.

She gave up after a few minutes of hopelessly distraught searching, though she continued to check every once in a while in the hopes that someone stapled or taped one to the wall for reference. Alice’s path became more haphazard as she progressed further, as the tall grasses and the thinner trees had been replaced with thicker, taller trees that would probably be unwise to cut. Gwen, not paying attention, slammed her face into a tree, and Alice stopped and returned to her side to help her up, then the two of them resumed their journey towards the other side of the seemingly endless, horticultural room.

Yo. Pee-poles. After searching on my computer for... stuff... I discovered quite a few stories that I started but just never completed. Based on the rate that I type the stories so far, I don't think that I will have any problems updating regularly, but I'd like to get your opinions.

I have at least fifteen different story ideas on my computer, but I'm only going to add one, two at most, or none, depending on your reaction. Before I post the concepts, I just want to know, do you think I should add another story, or do I have enough already?

Or before you decide, should I post the ideas? F that. I'd rather keep the ideas to myself, in case I ever do get anything published.

I think to save further confusion, you should stick to what you've got. Unless you get really stuck, in which case it might be better to post some new material.
That's what I'm doing with my thread, anyway. I'll stick to the story I've got until I literally run out of ideas/motivation for it, then I might consider posting new stories.
It's not that I don't want to hear your other stories - I'd love to see some new stuff from you. But I think it's just better to stick to what you have for the moment - I find it interesting and besides, it would be too confusing to add yet another story.

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Hiryu: Doc's bag is a portal. She's actually from another dimension and when she jumped into it, she ended up at a desk with a browser open on this site. That's how she found it.
We have a Doctor Who thread now. Doctor Who threads are cool.