Assigned to Mordor RPG

[the guy who be short]

Fléin woke with a start - of the table. He tried to look up at whoever had shook the table, but his face seemed stuck to it, and his eyelids to one another. Struggle as he might, and did for a few moments, he could free neither with ease, and didn't wish to appear as ridiculous as he knew he must. He stopped moving, hoping to give an air of being completely at ease stooped over the table with his eyes shut.

"Excuse me, old chap, are you quite alright there? You don't mind if I sit here, do you?" a constipated, or perhaps educated, voice floated down to Fléin.

"Go ahead" Fléin growled into his beard, a little more aggressively than he intended to.

"I do thank you... I say, are you quite alright?" the man persisted.

"Merely tired..." the Dwarf lied.

"My poor Man! Let me get you a coffee."

More vibrations, the table jogged a little more, and Fléin presumed the man was gone, giving him a little time to unstick himself if he could. He dug his finger into the corner of his right eye, scooping up as much conjunctival gunk as possible and flicking it onto the table for some poor unfortunate to fiddle with later. He noticed that there was perceivably less gunk than there had been last time he woke up.

The process was repeated with his left eye. He opened them, and was greeted by the sight of the eternally sticky table. Fortunately only a small portion of his beard, near the sideburns on his left cheek, was actually stuck to the table; the majority drooped over the edge.

"No! No, old chap, that's not at all what I meant!" the constipated voice, raised, interrupted his thoughts.

"Are you insinuating," a loud Orcish voice rose over the hubbub, "that I, as an Orc, can only serve black coffee? Is that it? Eh?"

Fléin smiled to himself. Political correctness... ridiculous, but ever so amusing when stuffy old upperclassmen were confronted by it.

He focused on his beard again, letting the raised voices of the Orc and the burbling responses of the stranger merge into the background. There was only one way out of the current situation, and he didn't much like the idea of it.

Placing a hand to the left and right of his head, he yanked his face off the table. There was a sound like velcro ripping, and pain shot through the left side of his face, but he was free! He rubbed his face a little.

"Sorry about that," the upperclassman reappeared and interrupted him again, causing him to quickly drop his hand to his side. "Those orcs... make a dreadful amount of trouble, much more than they're worth, but what can one do?"

Fléin smiled a little and took the proferred coffee. "Thank you," he replied, "those Rakhâs are a lot of trouble, aren't they? You're lucky, I got an oration on Language."

"Yes well... Did I introduced myself? Most rude. Aranwe Mullion at your service."

"Fléin son of Fréin at yours." He stood up and bowed, before resuming his seat and sipping his coffee. It was surprisingly good, for Mordor. "Thank you once again."

"Think nothing of it. I thank you for letting me share this table... all the others are taken, or full of undesirables." He scowled a little at the room in general before turning back to Fléin with a smile.

Draining his cup, Fléin stood up a second time, before seating himself again rapidly.

"You wouldn't happen to know where Edgingville is, by any chance, would you?"

A frown crossed the man's face. "Edgingville. No villes around here anymore... all have long since been swallowed up by Lûndûn, or Lûn-dun as I call it, ha-ha." Fléin resisted the temptation to roll his eyes at the poor joke. "You don't mean Edge-Where do you?"

"Yes! Yes, that was it! Edge-where!" the Dwarf beamed up at him. "Edge-Where... that's where I need to get to".

"Rather. Edgewhere, where-"

"Could you tell me where it is please?" the Dwarf interrupted before he could complete what was almost certainly going to be another ill attempt at humour.

"Only I'm in a little bit of a hurry"

"Why of could, my good chap. You're at Amon Haradow. You need only travel about five miles North East. You could get there in a few hours, though if I were you, I'd get a taxy."

"Taxy?"

"A Lûndûn phenomenon, I see you're new to the city. So called because they overcharge so, and the journeys are usually quite taxing - they're simply vehicles driven by Orcs that take you wherever you wish to go. Some call them cabs, because they're often even tighter a squeeze than cabins. Just hold out a hand to a black car on the road, it'll most likely be a taxy."

Fléin thanked Aranwe and left, finally feeling slightly in control of his quest.

[littlemanpoet]

Alli was sitting on her blackened stage, waiting for the foolish minions to do as she had ordered when the floor began to rumble beneath her. The rumble grew louder and louder, fiercer and fiercer, then there was great THUMP, and Alli found herself having been bumped into the air.

"Ow!"

She landed on her fanny about ten feet from where she had been sitting, and she was conveniently facing the place from where she had gotten bumped. What had it been what was going on?

The gyratable barely-clads all screamed and ran off.

The floor was rising, cracking, breaking apart, and an eerie red glow issued from the crack. The rumble and roar continued, the crack widened, and the red glow broadened, until with a great crash, the floor gave way. Alli shielded her face from the shrapnel, and peeked through her fingers.

"Oh. no," she said in a flat voice.

A Balrog stood before her. It was wingless. It opened its mouth. And pointed at her.

"You're late for work." Balrogs had not been speakers in the days before the Anakronism Dweomer, but things had changed since then. The wingless Balrog reached out and grabbed Alli about the waist in one hand; it was lucky she was still wearing her burn-proof work clothes. The Balrog jumped back into the hole and carried Alli into nameless nether regions deep beneath Lûndûn.
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The minute Wilhelmina turned the key in the ignition, a horrible tranformation occurred. Her elderly hands grew into rough, hard fingers with talons. Her petite old lady's nose grew into a blotchy orcish nose, which also increased her ability to smell the fume and stench of the city. Her slightly bent back grew until she had a hump with ridges.

"Oh dear! I knew there was a good reason that I had never driven before!"

She gamely decided that if she must be an orc, there was little that could be done about that, she began to drive like an orcish maniac, and for a while, the orcs behind the wheels of other cars dutifully got out of her way.

Then BOOM. Boom BOOM!!!

The car suddenly began to list to the right, and was riding on its axles. Three flat tires, all at once.

Wilhelmina shook her head, then looked behind her. There were four spares in the back seat. Which was good. They were all in varying states of baldness. Which was bad.

[Celuien]

Panakeia sat uncomfortably in her seat as the musicians hovered above her. For the moment, they had turned aside and were speaking among themselves. Panakeia caught only a few bits of their conversation. Phrases such as "nosy reporter" "no good snoop" and "any publicity is better than none" floated past her ears. They probably think I'm here to do a story on them, the self-absorbed egotists, she thought. Maybe I can use that to my advantage.

The man who had first addressed her again opened the conversation. "Sorry 'bout that, ma'am. We all was havin' ourselv' a little con-fer-ence. I'm Dwaine (named for Dwalin - my ma always did love tales of the Dwarf-folk but she nivver could spell worth a plug nickel) of the King's Own Trio. Him over yonder with the banjo is called Strummer (what his rightful name is, he's not sayin'). An' the feller what looks like he sat on a porcupine is called Isildil Payne." Payne glared. "Pleased t'meet you."

Panakeia replied "Likewise, I'm sure."

Dwaine beamed. "Well now. You sure put us in a mess. No one was supposed to come in here. And in you came. And what we want to know is why?"

"To be perfectly honest, I was looking for a seat. It's awfully crowded out there." Dwaine nodded in agreement. "And..." Panakeia paused, debating whether or not to play her card. "And, I was hoping to run into you. Your performance was most...inspiring, and I was hoping to write a story about you. I'm a free-lance reporter." She smiled, hoping no one noticed the writing on her sample case.

But Payne did see it. "'Panakeia's Cure-Alls?' A reporter? Come again." There was a sneer in his voice.

"It's a side-business." She frantically thought of a way to distract them. "Tell me about yourselves."

That did the trick. Dwaine went on and on about the trio in its early days, how they had been court musicians to the King himself in Minas Tirith before being banished (there followed a brief argument as to which of the three had been most careless about the use of Anakronisms), their beginnings in Mordor as a hit band, and their more recent fading from the public scene.

"Yes ma'am, those were the good ol' days. Near on 30 years ago it must be now. We was at the top, the very top. Maybe you remember?" he asked hopefully.

Panakeia stiffened. "I am but 29 years of age. Of course not."

Dwaine whistled. "You don't say?" He eyed her up and down skeptically, but didn't challenge her assertion.

He went on to explain the business of Willy and Eckaust Fûmës. "See now," he lowered his voice confidentially, "'T'aint no Mr. Eckaust Fûmës. This here is what we call a publicity stunt. Willy thought it up. He's our manager. And a right clever plan it was too. Got us some good 'tention. It's been hard, just being in the BU all these years, no big performances, lessin' it's one of them things where they pull out all the old has-beens. But now we got ourselves another chance at the bright lights. All this 'bout Willy got us out there agin with our public, and what do you think? RCA done give us a contract t'come in and make a new record!"

Payne had been sitting silently in a corner, glowering like a thunderstorm. At last he burst out, "There's just one little problem. You. You know that none of this was real. If they find out that this stunt has all been a put on, they might rescind their offer. We can't afford to take that chance. Which means that you are coming with us, at least until the session is safely underway."

Panakeia gasped. "But I can't! I have to be in Edge-Where tomorrow."

Payne smiled maliciously. "Did you not say that you are a reporter? How can we be certain that you won't release your 'scoop,' as you say, before the session ends? No, you had better come with us, unless you would prefer that I turn you in to the authorities for failing to report to your assigned Mordor duties. Strip-mining or quarrying or some such thing, wasn't it?"

Panakeia gazed uneasily at Payne. How could he have known that? She had told no one of the official summons to report to work at some strip-mining operation or other. The summons she had tossed into a heap of litter as soon as she received it. She hadn't given it a second thought since then, but somehow, she had a sinking feeling that if the proper bureaucrats were notified of her disobedience, she would have some difficult explaining to do. Panakeia realized that her only hope was to escape Mordor before the slowly turning wheels of the bureaucratic machine caught up to her. Her impatience to reach Edge-Where redoubled.

"Sir, are you blackmailing me?" Panakeia suddenly found herself falling into Payne's overly formal speaking style.

"Let's not call it blackmail. It is such an unpleasant word. Rather, let's say that we have reached a mutually agreeable solution to our common difficulties. Quid pro quo, if you like, Miss, Miss... You have the advantage of me."

"Panakeia of Harad. I still call it blackmail, but I suppose if we must go through with this, we'd best be hurrying along."

Dwaine cheered and slapped his knees, then Panakeia's back. "Now there ya go! Looks like we got us a travelin' compan-yon." He dropped his voice, sotto voce. "Don't let that Payne worry you none. He's got the disposition of an ornery hound-dog, but his bark is worse 'n his bite. Besides now," he added brightly, "You've still got to find your way through t'station at Potted Ham Court Road. An' we've been riding these here trains for years. Why, I'd say I know them like the back of my hand!"

Willy grinned. "Don't worry, our side trip won't delay you much. The Ridiculously Cacophonous Arsininity studio building isn't far from Edge-Where on the Northern Line. Just at Entish Town. We won't keep you from your appointment, whatever it may be. You only need to stay with us until it's too late for any story to stop our session. Besides, I'll bet that you've never seen a studio before." Panakeia could not say that she had. "Well then," said Willy, "It'll be interesting for you." Panakeia had her doubts about that, but said nothing.

The train screeched to a halt. "Potted Ham Court Road! Potted Ham Court Road! Everyone off this stop."

Well, here we go, thought Panakeia. What have you've gotten yourself into now? Payne grabbed her arm, and all five of them hurried out of the train to stand in the cavernous space of the station.

[the guy who be short]

"Taxy! Taxy! Taxy, Mahal curse you!"

One after another, the black cabs of Lûndûn passed Fléin by. It must have been half an hour, at least, since he had left Ma Cuddonelds and stuck his hand out in vain. Various orc-driven vehicles had not only failed to stop, they also hurled abuse at him.

"Get that bloody arm off the road, you menace!" an orc leant out of his vehicle to cry at the Dwarf. This involved swivelling his head at a degree perpendicular to the angle at which it should have been, desirably, for the purpose of driving. This led to 'an incident,' as some bureaucrats might put it. "Holy-" was the only word the Dwarf caught, followed by a short screech, a loud bang of metal upon metal, an eerie silence, and a lot of cussing in quick succession.

Fléin stood around a little longer, spectating the spectacle as a spectator, before decided it would probably be quicker to walk the five or so miles it apparently was to Edge-Where. He waited just long enough to hear the blame for the accident attributed to budget cuts in the production line, before strolling off in what, according to the Sun, was a North-Easterly direction.

[Feanor of the Peredhil]

Alli was not at all happy with this new problem. As soon as she thought she had things under control, deus ex machina gave had given her a hard kick in the posterior. She glared at Roggie of Morgoth. "You're burning me." she accused, "And I am NOT late for work." He looked at her with a maniacal and not at all guilty feeling grin as he ran through the nether regions with what could only be described as wingèd speed.

"You know," she added pensively, noting his unnatural winglessness, "I'm kind of amazed at how quickly you're able to fly from the wreckage of the studio if you haven't got wings. Rog', why aren't they there? I attached them myself. You paid for them by giving me disco lessons, remember? And we both know that I'm the best 'winger around. You couldn't just lose them... they're attached. And you wouldn't take them off yourself... your nickname used to be The Lord of the Wings! When you won your most recent battle, the world called the event The Return of the Wing. Roggie... what happened?"

As she talked, he began to slow and looked more and more upset. His eyeliner ran as his balrogic tears turned to steam upon generation. Now he stopped and set her down. She brushed ash off of her clothes and stood there stubbornly.

"Roggie... tell me what's the matter."

"It's that... that hobbit."

"What hobbit, Roggie?" All of the hobbits Alli knew began to march slowly through her thoughts. She couldn't think of a single one that could make someone such as Roggie of Morgoth cry. Bill, maybe... Bill was a wimp. He lazed around for hundreds of years until an old man could beat him up. But Roggie? No way.

"It was... it was... Màrîo."

Alli looked at the wingless balrog wide-eyed. She couldn't believe it. She wouldn't leave here until she heard the whole story.

[Celuien]

The arches of Potted Ham Court Station stretched above as far as Panakeia's eye could follow them. Rût’s Lip Garden, a relatively small stop on the line, was nothing in comparison. People and orcs scurried about everywhere, searching for their destinations. Adding to the confusion was the fact that there were numerous shops in this station, mostly devoted to the sale of (what else?) potted hams and something called spam, which appeared to stand for synthetic potted ham. If the ingredients list on the back of the can was to be trusted. There were numerous cafés in the station as well, all seemingly devoted to the sale of those particular items. A menu in the window of one of the shops read:

Egg and spam, 50 maggots
Egg, bacon and spam, 75 maggots
Egg, bacon, sausage and spam, 1 troll
Spam, bacon, sausage, and spam, 1 troll, 25 maggots
Spam, egg, spam, spam, bacon, and spam, 1 troll, 50 maggots
Spam, sausage, spam, spam, bacon, spam, tomato and spam, 2 trolls

Panakeia wondered aloud, "Don't they have anything without spam?"

Willy interrupted her musings. "Come on, we've got to keep moving. Our train leaves from the other end of the station."

As they hurried off to find their train, a mob rushed up to the group, celebrating Willy's release from the train and asking for autographs. They stopped. Willy beamed, being sure to thank the trio for their support. Camera flashes came from all directions, blinding Panakeia with a blur of green and purple spots. A moment later, they were moving again, Panakeia's arm still in Payne's grasp. They were taking no chances of her making an escape attempt. In truth, there was no need to worry, at least for the moment. Panakeia was glad of their guidance through the station, the complexity of which would have left her completely lost on her own. But once they reached the train, she fully intended to try and lose her new travel mates. In the meantime, she allowed them to lead her to the train while she gazed around the station. Piles of blue cans, marked in yellow with the word spam in capital letters were stacked everywhere. Yet more spam dropped intermittently through tubes between the ceiling arches. Just as quickly as they fell to the ground, a crew of workers grabbed the cans and either stacked them against the wall, to be sold to local merchants, or packed them into boxes to be shipped to distant parts. Potted Ham Court Road was the heart of Mordor's vast spam industry, and there was certainly no shortage.

As Panakeia wound through the station, up stairs and down stairs, left and right, she noticed that, unlike in the rest of Mordor, the walking paths here were smooth and even. Not one crack or hole was to be found. Even this could be explained by spam; mixed with Mordor's other abundant commodity of gravel, ash, and some water, it made an excellent substitute for concrete. Thus, the roving work crews in Potted Ham Court Road were able to keep the walkways in excellent condition, although their constant presence while patching them greatly worsened the flow of foot traffic through the station.

The little band came to a halt within sight of the platform, which was strangely vacant. They stood at the back of a long line of pedestrians waiting to go on to the platform. Panakeia soon spotted the reason for the delay. One of the crews was at work ahead, fixing a rather large hole in the walkway. They left only enough room to pass them in single file. The work crew's flagger stood in the space holding a sign. "Stop."

The train rolled up. "All aboard! Northern line to Edge-Where. All aboard!"

The company struggled to push ahead. But they couldn't move an inch. The sign was still turned to oppose them. Willy shouted, "Let us through! We'll miss our train." The flagger merely cursed at him.

"All aboard, last call."

Suddenly, a rumbling, mingled with the sound of voices raised in song, came from behind. Four riders on horseback, clad in long robes and horned caps, rushed up, bearing filled boxes of spam for the Northern line.

"Spam, spam, spam, wonderful spam. Lovely spam," they chanted.

The leader blew a blast on his horn. The work crew moved aside. The sign was turned around. "Go." Everyone rushed forward to avoid being trampled by the spam delivery. The horses brushed past. Panakeia boarded the train, pulled ahead by Payne.

Still chanting their song, the riders piled their boxes onto the train. As the last box was loaded and the riders turned to depart, the train pulled out of the station, bound for Edge-Where

***

The passengers stood and cheered as Willy and the musicians entered the car. The stunt certainly did seem to have earned the respect of the BliddyUnnergrind's patrons. Panakeia chuckled to herself at the knowledge that they had all been taken in by the group's scam. I only wish I'd thought of it myself. Brilliant, simply brilliant. She again gave thanks for their company as five passengers rose to offer their seats to the heroes and their "lovely companion." Panakeia's feet ached terribly and she was exhausted by the trip. Sandwiched between Willy and Payne, she fell into an uneasy sleep.

Troubled dreams filled her mind. She was in a dark tunnel, her feet trapped in a soggy floor of melting spam. A troop of police-orcs, bent on arresting and dragging her off to the mines, were in hot pursuit. "Failure to report," they shouted. "Unpardonable." Just as they were about to reach her, Panakeia came to the end of the tunnel. The orcs vanished. She stood outside in the night air.

The charred timbers of a ruined house were ahead of her. A realization dawned on Panakeia. "I'm home." She hurried forward. The ghostly figure of a young woman moved in the crumbling wreck. She wore the tattered remains of a long white gown, shot through with green leaves. Her long, light brown hair fell in wisps to her waist. The apparition turned. Panakeia screamed. "It's me. Dead!" The spectral image of the young Panakeia beckoned, a sad, surprised look on her face, her lips moving as if she were about to speak.

Panakeia awoke with a start. She was still on the train. Dwaine looked at her. "You look like you seen a ghost."

Panakeia nodded thoughtfully. "Perhaps I have." Then she shook off her mood. "No, it was just a bad dream."

The conductor entered the car. "Entish Town. Entish Town."

Payne grabbed her arm. "Come. This is our destination."

Panakeia hesitated. "Wait, can't you just let me keep going? You have my word that I won't reveal your secret."

"We don't have time for this. You are coming along." Payne sneered. "What good is your word? Panakeia's Cure-Alls. Reporter or not, you, my dear lady, are a charlatan. How can we trust you?"

Panakeia stood abashed. Her dream brought to mind her old ideals. Never join the family business? Look how that turned out. He's right. I'm nothing but a scammer. The very thing I once despised. She hung her head and followed Payne off of the train, lost in thought.

Up, up, up they went. At last, they returned to the street. Winding through traffic and pedestrians, they made their way to the RCA building. Panakeia noticed a PT Cruiser with flat tires at the side of the road. Its driver looked strangely familiar for an orc, but Panakeia couldn't quite place her.

The musicians proudly announced themselves to a guard. "The King's Own Trio, here for a recording session," cried Willy. The guard checked his list and opened the building's tall iron doors. They shut behind the group with a clang. And chaos greeted them.

Half-dressed dancers ran about screaming. There was frantic talk about some disaster on stage. "A Balrog, a balrog," they cried out in terror. "Brit sulking and the new girl gone. What will we do?"

Panakeia seized her opportunity. "Gentlemen, this is where I leave you. Best of luck." She raced off to where the commotion looked greatest and ran down a hallway looking for a back door. The corridor twisted back into the maze-like building. Rounding a corner, she was startled to see two familiar faces.

"Sai, Mardil! Fancy meeting you here. What a surprise." Both of them looked grim. What was going on?

[Encaitare]

It was not long before Wilhelmina (happily no longer an orc) was completely engulfed by the swarming crowd; however, she was now getting accustomed to the pace of the city, and managed to move quickly down the sidewalk. Those who walked too slowly received merciless prods from her walking stick. As she continued on, she noticed a crowd gathering on a corner; she got closer and saw a pileup of not three, not five, but seven cars, around which were standing seven irate orcs. There were also a number of police officers, but they appeared quite useless, as all they did was say, "What's all this, then?"

One of said police officers was performing a slightly more functional job: diverting the spectators away from the crash site. "Nothing to see here, folks!" he yelled above the din of the angry orcs. "Nothing that won't soon be cleared up! Down this street, please! Take the detour, please!" Of course, only about half the people heeded his pleas. Wilhelmina was about to do so as well, but suddenly a thought struck her.

"Excuse me, officer," she said, approaching him. "Would you be so good as to tell me the way to Edge-Where?"

"Certainly -- Let's move along! Ma'am, you'll have to -- nothing to see, I said! -- head several blocks north -- the detour, if you please! -- and then you should see some signs -- Oy!" A brawl had begun amongst the orkish drivers, and the officer dashed off to help his fellows break it up. Wilhelmina decided that his information would suffice, followed the detour street, and then turned north. She had walked about five blocks before she saw a sign. It was heavily graffitied, but she could make out 'Ed Wh e: 3.5 m es -->,' and the rest fell into place. She would be in Edge-Where in no time.

As she marched off in the direction the sign indicated, her hat squeaked in anticipation.

[Encaitare]

"Tarnation!" cried Wilhelmina. Rather, that was what she'd meant to say, but in her newly Orkish state, a stream of rude words burst out instead. She weighed her options. She could attempt to replace the tires, but she honestly had no idea how. Or, she could get out and walk -- but she didn't know how to get to Edge-Where at all! Many of the drivers behind her were honking and shouting. One pulled around in front of her, yelling, "Call a tow truck, lady!"

Now there was an idea! Wilhelmina turned off the car, found her new cell phone, and dialed Information. For a long while she heard nothing but some Mûzak melodies. Finally, there came a voice: "Information, how can I help you?"

"I need a tow truck," she told the operator.

The operator made a scoffing sound. "In this traffic? Are you kidding me? Look, ma'am, is it a five-car pileup?"

"No, but I've got three flat tires in the middle of the road."

"You're not native to Lûndûn, are you, ma'am?" the operator asked sympathetically.

"No," Wilhelmina admitted.

"Then let me be the first to tell you that the towing companies here only come under two circumstances: a pileup of at least five cars, or a parking violation."

"That's--"

"Have a nice day, ma'am, and enjoy your stay in Lûndûn!" the operator said brightly. Then there was a click, and a dial tone buzzed in the bewildered woman's ear.

"Well! If that's not the most ridiculous thing I've ever heard!" she huffed, hopping out of the PT Cruiser. "I suppose I'll have to check my map again, as convoluted as it is." She did so, and decided that she had to head down a particularly crowded street to her left in order to get in an Edge-Whereish direction.

[Kath]

Sai watched as first Alli was led away and then Mardil disappeared soon after. The lawyer she had not threatened, who was flipping through sheet after sheet of paper, was holding her in place so she couldn’t follow. Peering over his arm she could see nothing that made any sense, save the words Britney, Sai Onara and singer. She suddenly recalled that Mardil’s plan did actually require her to sing, and wondered whether she ought to have pointed out the fatal flaw of her inability to do so. Well, no, if you took the definition that singing was simply speaking words to music then yes she could sing, it was just the lack of pitch, tune and general talent that had anyone who heard her pressing their hands over their ears in consternation. Still, she needed to get inside and find her companions, so decided not to mention it for the moment.

Finally her captor seemed to find whatever it was he had been looking for, though Sai strongly suspected that he had in fact just wanted to show her that he was in charge here. The macho man impersonation was more amusing than effective though, and she was having a hard time keeping a straight face when he glared at her. He began to walk towards the obscenely large RCA building, throwing back an order to follow him. Scowling Sai complied, not wanting to be left alone in the middle of the street with all these orc drivers suffering from road rage. As she followed him though, she could have sworn she saw an orc that looked just like that Wilhelmina woman. Turning to get a second look she was nearly mown down by a group of incompetent nurses, who had been sent out to fetch the slightly dented lawyer.

Unfortunately he could not tell them how much he was hurting due to the unconscious state he had ended up in, while Sai was hopping up and down on one foot, holding the other and cursing under her breath at idiots who don’t look where they’re going. One of the nurses caught wind of her words and, apparently deciding that the stretcher they had with them needed to be put to good use, cried out in what felt to Sai like glee and wrestled her down onto the white board. Before she could move even a finger she was strapped down, a thermometer was stuck in her mouth and she was on her way into the building.

She was carried up what felt like hundreds of floors. The building either had no lifts or the nurses had a phobia of them, and Sai could feel the bump of every stair she was taken up. She was just beginning to think that by the time they were finished with her she would need a nurse when she was deposited in a very ungainly manner on a narrow bed. She tried to sit up but was pushed back down while the nurses searched for the injuries they had been told their casualty would have. Unable to find any they decided that it must be some kind of optical illusion, and that they would try to guess where the fragments of glass were likely to be embedded, and pull them out. Now thoroughly terrified, Sai distracted them with a quick “Oh my God, what’s that over there!?” and a point in the vague direction of the nearest window, thanking whoever created these awful creatures for blessing them with a gullibility and stupidity rivalled only by that of the contestants of shows such as Big Brother. While their backs were turned she leapt out of the bed and out the door with a display of agility that would have amazed her old physical education master and ran directly into a large man who let out an “oomph”, and in so doing, allowed Sai to discover the pleasure of being breathed on by a person with halitosis. She clamped a hand over her nose and mouth and didn’t dare remove it to speak as he led her down various corridors for fear of the stench emanating from his mouth.

He dragged her down the numerous flights of stairs she had just been carried up, and stopped in front of a door that seemed to have burn marks around the ages. Not noticing, her smelly breath’d friend pushed it open, shoved her inside and wandered off. Sai caught hold of the handle just before she fell into the chasm that stepping into the room had taken her to the edge of. Staring down in amazement her eye fell upon a familiar looking item. Tightening her hold on the door handle, Sai leaned forward a little more, and saw that it was one of Alli’s gloves – she must have gone down the hole! Yanking herself back through the door she set off running, little caring which direction she went in just so long as she could find someone to tell her where Mardil was.

Bursting through a door a little later she saw him just up ahead, coming out of a room. Slowing enough so that she wouldn’t knock him over in the same way she had done to countless people on her journey through the building, she took hold of his sleeve and tugged his head down so she could inform him of her suspicions without anyone else hearing. From what she had seen of the characters here so far, they were more likely to try and make some money out of it rather than try to help them find Alli.

Finishing her story she let go of Mardil and tried to get her breath back as he quickly weighed up their options and turned to talk to the contract personnel behind him.