[Durelin]

Panakeia seemed very intent on her driving. Indeed, her orcish form’s brow was furrowed to the point that her eyes seemed to have been forced back into her head. Valde had heard of looking into the mind of another, but he now had a newfound image to associate with that. He made no bother to break the silence for several minutes, bored of words for the moment. Staring broodingly out the window at the passing landscape was more than enough entertainment, and he would thus allow the kamuramen in the back seat to get a few close-ups of his strikingly gloomy profile. Every few moments he would adjust his cloak, ran a hand through his shaggy dark hair, or would adjust slightly the way he sat. Sadly, his poses were simply that limited in a moving vehicle. No wonder only orcs drive cars, he thought, sparing a disapproving glance for Panakeia the orc. He still had yet to decide whether or not it was an improvement or if it simply her appearance worse that her face still looked as plastic as ever. Valde was just thankful that she had not yet tried to do anything to his face. If he had bags under his eyes, it was because of all those sleepless nights when he lay awake pondering the meaning of his life, the matter of his death, or if anything was really a matter at all. Or it was due to when he cried himself to sleep over his lost love, who he never did and never would find.

Suddenly lightening flashed in his mind as he was imagining himself staring down from a high, dark tower, with the ran pouring down and the thunder rolling all around him, shaking the ground beneath his feet. He realized something, and his life’s deleted scenes flashed from before his eyes. He had no idea where they were going. That had not seemed to matter in the last challenge, but he was getting tired of feeling as if he were being dragged along simply as an additional handsome face. Though now that he thought about it…

“No no no! Simply, no! That is your worst angle yet. This is not MTV, Fear Factor, or the Blair Witch Project. We do not want the off-road racing camera effect, nor any rude close ups.”

Valde’s head shot around to stare at the kamuramen in the backseat, who seemed to be having a debate about their kamura angles. His eyes were slightly wide with shock, and his lips were slightly pursed. He was supposed to look indignant, but it might have been more an appearance of a fish out of water. Or a fish who had just heard something about ‘rude close ups’ when he knew he was being filmed. If a fish indeed had any kind of self-awareness when being filled for a documentary on mating in particular, I am sure that he would have looked just as bug eyed as Valde did, and of course he would always have fish lips, no matter what he did.

“Rude close ups? What on earth are you talking about?!”

Both kamuras were focused on him. Now that he thought about it, it was rather intimidating to be on film twice at the same time. Did that mean that there were two of him? No, because that would be suggesting that he was his image. But then again, he was a Lead Tragic Actor, a specie of his own, and it was all about the image. It took the kamuramen a minute or two respond, though. It was a kind of deer in the headlights moment, except that Valde would never have allowed a deer in the car with him. Well, unless it was an emergency. Simultaneously, each kamuraman pointed their fingers at Valde in a motion that made him furrow his brow and wish he had the kind of death-ray powers that he had heard some strange creatures such as ‘Póst-Mëno-Pausál’ women had. Apparently they were cueing him now, since they had finally gotten the shot right after a number of alterations. Valde rolled his eyes, and turned to Panakeia.

“I don’t mean to be rude, but…do you know where we’re going?”

“Well, generally,” Panakeia replied. Valde was not comforted. “I’ve been on the lookout for signs with ‘Lost Angles’ on it. You’d best do the same.”

Valde folded his arms around his chest and ‘hmphed’ slightly, but he did start paying attention to the signs. Suddenly he had an awful idea, which cued a ‘Grinch’ smile to spread across his face. “Exit 666a, Bloodshot Row, Turnaround Pike, Turnback Key Parkway 17 miles…” He started reading every word off of every sign they passed by. It did not take long before Panakeia threatened to ‘pull a lemming,’ but soon after Valde let out a shout. “Lost Angles! That exit. No, not that one. The one off the precarious cliff there. Of course it’s that one!” He turned to the kamuramen in the back, a sideways grin untidily pinned to his face and threatening to slide off. “You’ll have to be careful now, or you might lose your angles!”

His butchered pun was met with silence, and Valde heard a derogatory and of course purely metaphorical cricket chirping in his ear. The grin slid from his face, leaving it look even more skewed. Panakeia raised an eyebrow at him, and suddenly stepped on the break, and the car came to a sudden hault with a loud screech. Valde observed that they had come to the bottom of the exit ramp, and every orc driver had to stop there, to increase the chances of at least one good fender bender every five minutes. It kept the ratings up for the whole driving thing, and apparently made someone tons of money.

“Now, before we get into the city, we have to discuss some plans,” Panakeia said.

“Are you sure it’s alright to stop here?” Valde asked, shooting a glance behind the car. The screech of their own breaks had been followed by several more, and he had sworn he had heard some kind of thud.

“Pfft, of course!” Panakeia said with a careless wave of her hand. A horn blared from behind them, and a whole chorus followed. The woman simply raised her voice. “I have heard tale of a strange cultic gathering of peoples who worship this William Shatner as a god, and Spockú as a kind of demi-god, through ritual prayers, offerings, pleadings, and effigies meant to honor them. Sometimes the Shatner and his underling will grace the most fervent of followers with their presence. And this is Los Angles.” She gestured out, referencing the land around them.

“Fervent,” Valde said simply.

Then they were off again, merging onto the Debauchémain Street of Lost Angles. “What is it you're after?” he asked, slightly hesitantly because he feared that if she turned to look at him at all his life would be in danger. “I’ve been eyeing the very brow that crowns the demi-god Spockú’s frozen face.” He paused but for an amputated second, and suddenly spoke again, before she could answer. “Say, do you sell him makeup?” he asked, resting a hand of pondering upon his chin as he peeked at her from a side glance. He received only a glare back, and a sudden jolt as the car stopped again. She had pulled over to straddle the sidewalk by the side of the road.

“Are you sure it’s alright to park here?” Valde had grown to dislike cities. The drama there was superficial.

“Chances are this was a parking lot at some point.”

“Ahhh…” They were always paving over parking lots in Mordor.

The two hopped out of the car, followed by their probing electric eyes who scene by scene were capturing the shear reality of their mission of subterfuge-ation of a religious ceremony. Panakeia quickly turned back into normal Panakeia, and Valde decided that the overly synthetic look of her face had certainly been detrimental to her appearance as an orc. He was not sure it helped now, either, but he still politely offered her his arm, though he did it stiffly, with a choppy bow and his jaw set. He couldn’t look happy about it; she should know that. It was always about the image: whenever, wherever. And today he even considered a little help from Panakeia’s makeup might not be a bad idea. They were, after all, in Lost Angles.

“Off to the ‘Cultivation Center,’ then?”

“And so the two contestants, with a temporary and tender alliance agreed to, set off to cause a cultic catastrophe at the ‘Cultivation Center.’ (‘Cultivation Center’ is a trademark of Zeal and Borg Industries),” Valde’s kamuraman narrated.

“I hope he finds the Kûl Aíd,” Valde muttered.