xp_logs | The Games of Papa Ghede

Plans are made.

"Mind the panels. Do not let your apes touch anything. I mean anything. No flashing buttons, no shiny knobs. Do they speak English?" Lowenstein said as he walked along the panel of monitors and consoles. The command centre looked like a NASA control room, with complex computer systems and massive screens outlining every point of the complex that Arcade referred to as Murderworld.

Murderworld as an underworld myth. The stories circulated throughout terrorist cells and organized crime havens. Some said it was just a couple of rooms and a crude execution. Others spoke of a technological marvel, more advanced than any top secret lab could ever produce. The reality was that there were several, and Arcade lavished the newest and most devious technology he could in increasingly elegant methods of death. His clients were from around the world, people who could play the exorbitant costs to have their enemies delivered into the deadly place.

People like the Selene cult, represented by Heinrich Klar.

"They do," Heinrich responded, watching the screens as his men unloaded their hostages from the vans. "Your facilities are sufficient for our needs, and certainly for the amount we are paying, we appreciate your discretion."

"The important thing in any deal, sport, is that of agreement to the terms. That means you're going to get everything that you paid for. Ms Locke here has the details of the rooms, which have been adapted to the information you provided about your guests." Arcade said, tapping a few buttons which brought up a 3D map. "Used to be an old military bunker. The size of a World War 2 aircraft carrier. Oh, did I have fun filling this thing up."

"Ja..." Klar intoned, leaning in to look at the map. "Ah, this is spectacular, Herr Arcade. Many, hmm, how do you say, 'killing zones'. In my previous line of work, such a structure would have been... ah, but we are not here to be making the small talk. Terms, ja."

The large Teutonic cultist looked over at Arcade's assistant, unabashedly evaluating her in an almost predatory manner. "We can have very much fun, yes."

"Hey, Adolf. Eyes up here, alright. This is a lady." Arcade snapped his fingers twice and pointed at his own eyes. The little man was fidgeting as usually, waiting to see the mutants secure in his specially designed rooms. "As for them, after the rooms, they ones that survive, there's the usual maze sets. I put in some special modifications myself and even if they last that, there's a secondary maze that is all but certainly deadly. You need to give the at least a slim chance, otherwise, what's the fun? You might as well BAM, right behind the ear. But we're civilized people here."

"A slim chance, yes," Heinrich repeated, tracing the outline of the maze with one large finger. "I do not think there will be any worries about this slim chance, Herr Arcade. Ah, there are our 'guests' now," he nodded to a screen showing his men manhandling the drugged forms of their hostages from Xavier's.

"I remember the first Murderworld. What was his name?" Arcade snapped his fingers. "Lin Fun Kwok. Pissed off a rival Tong enough to have them kidnap him. Turned out Lin was obsessed with mahjong. So we rigged this huge board and each tile had a different torture on it. Immensely fat guy, like a minivan in a suit. He's huffing and puffing, trying to get the tiles ahead of the computer because if he doesn't, he gets the torture on the ones the computer eliminates. I'll never forget him, trying to run on his stumps and--"

Arcade paused and pointed at the monitors. "What is that? Stop! Stop! What the fuck is that! Kids? You never mentioned kids in the negotiations."

"I do not see any 'kids', Herr Arcade," Heinrich said with a small smile. "I see merely the subjects of our arrangement. Guests for your Murderworld, guests that you have been paid handsomely to accommodate. Come now, you remember the arrangement, yes?" He placed one large hand on the back of an expensive steel chair, casually squeezing hard enough to leave fingerprints in the metal. "You would not wish to renege on our negotiations at this stage, nein?"

"Oh, look at this. What is she? Twelve, maybe thirteen. Oh, big man. Kids were never mentioned as part of the arrangement!" Arcade said, his temper flaring. He didn't like not knowing, and Klar's smug response was exactly enough to piss him off.

"Herr Lowenstein," Heinrich's voice dropped into a low bass register, his thick accent vanishing momentarily, replaced by something else entirely. "Our arrangement was for the use of your facilities, for which you have been well compensated even considering your extravagant means. I assure you that should you wish to renege on our deal for... moral reasons, that it will be the absolute last show of morality you make." He stood up to his full height, towering over the diminutive businessman. "You understand power, Herr Lowenstein, in its many forms. Mine comes from my Mistress, yours from your reputation. And should you wish that reputation to be dashed utterly to cinders, by all means, withdraw from our arrangement!"

"Ms Locke, Mr Chambers." Arcade said, his voice venomous. The Asian woman merely flicked her fingers, but the steel tore the throat from the man to Heinrich's right before he could blink. To his left, Heinrich's other man suddenly clutched at the gurka that appeared to grow out of his neck. Blood welled between his fingers before he cast a final helpless look to Chambers and collapsed dead.

"Now you listen to me, you Nazi motherfucker. No one ever insults me in my place. You hear me? Because it makes me mad." Arcade's smile was manic as he slapped Heinrich hard on the side of the face, although the German didn't react at all. "And when I get mad, I do things that my therapist say are unhealthy expressions of that anger, such as your dead stormtroopers."

Lowenstein took a deep breath. Heinrich had him boxed into a trap of his own carelessness. "But you're right. We had an agreement. So you, and Himmler and the fun bunch can get your jollies torturing kids. But don't expect me to watch. The systems are automated, you'll be able to track everything." Arcade started to leave, his bodyguards in tow.

Heinrich's face split in a rictus grin as he nodded. "Very well, mein Herr, we understand each other perfectly. I would hate for anything to interfere with our arrangement. Because that would make me have, how do you say, unhealthy expressions of anger, yes? Guten Tag, Herr Arcade."

"Don't worry, Adolf. I'll live by my agreements." You slippery little fuck, he thought as they exited, leaving the control to the Selene cultists and an increasingly eager Heinrich Klar.

Awakenings seem to be the theme of the day.

The tomb was cast in a dark orange glow. It was quiet except for the sound of a continuous low-pitched drone. John swallowed, trying to get rid of the dryness in his throat. How long had he been unconscious for? An hour? More?

The last thing he remembered was lounging in the hotel's bar. And then, nothing. John briefly contemplated resuming sleep. It was all too cliché of a move for him to get up only to find that there wasn't a way out. The leather geeks were bound to make an appearance.

A loud buzzing sound drew his attention to a bright neon 'Curse of the Pharaohs' sign. The ground beneath him shook. It lifted up in a cloud of red smoke. John whirled onto his knees before scrambling off of the stone sarcophagus. Instinctively, he reached into the pocket of his jeans for his lighter only to come up empty-handed. He cursed.

The ceiling began to lower itself. The grind of metal against metal had the effect of making his teeth ache. His eyes darted around the room looking for an exit.

Goddamn cliché...

***

Cold. It was cold.

Again.

Yvette opened her eyes, only instead of crisp sheets and thin blankets and an infirmary bed, this awakening found her on a floor, tiled in red and black with strange metal plates at intervals along its entire length. Time had passed, but not as much as last time - she couldn't explain how she knew, just an innate sense of having not been lying in the same position for as long as the coma. Hours, maybe a day, possibly two. Slowly she sat up, blinking at the large, empty, rectangular room. The last thing she remembered was the elevator, Mr. Dayspring being... unwell, and then not being able to breathe properly. Was this one of the kidnappings that everyone spoke of?

She possibly was never leaving her room again after this.

Carefully she uncurled, got to her feet, peering around her. Where was this place? Not a cell - it was far too large. Then there was a whirring noise, and she jumped back as the metal plates suddenly flipped open, revealing three long tracks in the floor, about a metre apart. What on earth?

A clang, more whirring of machinery, and along each track rose a series of thin metal shapes, three rows of them, lurching along the tracks somewhat unsteadily but stabilising as they gradually picked up speed. Yvette blinked, and then made a small noise of incredulousness.

They were ducks. Metal cutouts of ducks. All about as tall as she.

Raising one finger, she poked at one experimentally, with a muffled 'ping'. Then she jumped as the room was suddenly filled with music, an obnoxiously cheerful carnival tune. "Roll up, roll up, take your chances, try your skill! Hit the target and win a prize!"

Another noise that she couldn't immediately identify, until she caught sight of movement in the corner of her vision, and looked up at one of the walls. A series of panels was opening, each revealing a short, squat black gun, with a round sort of cartridge.

This was not a good thing.

There was a sharp retort, and she squeaked, instinctively moving aside. A black projectile sailed past her, impacting on one of the ducks and knocking it over with a CLANG, and the row continued rumbling along, the fallen duck suspended just above the floor level. It swept along the floor, and Yvette had to leap over it to avoid being knocked over. Another retort, another CLANG and another duck fell over on her other side, another obstacle to be avoided.

Suddenly Yvette understood the concept of 'sitting duck'. She had to move, otherwise she'd be knocked over by the metal plates, and whilst they wouldn't hurt, being knocked from one side of the room to the other wasn't exactly appealing. And the metal was too tough for her to simply slice through - it'd need time, and time was something she didn't have.

Another retort, and this time the duck in front of her fell over. She jumped sideways to avoid being trapped between the plate and the floor, and then only barely avoided the two that had already been knocked over. Two retorts then, as two guns fired, and she twisted to avoid one of the pellets. It hit the wall behind her with a splat, and her eyes widened as it stuck there, the black tarry substance expanding to many times the size of the original pellet. Two more retorts, another clang, and another near-miss prompted her to start moving, using every inch of her body's balance and flexibility to try and protect herself. The thing was, how long could she keep it up? The ducks were protecting her somewhat, but what happened when they were all gone?

She didn't want to find out.

A duck collapsed in front of her, and she leapt again to avoid it, landing on the flat metal surface with a scrabbling of socked claws. For a moment she felt a certain pride - here was a way to keep moving and rest at the same time! - but then there were four simultaneous bangs and an impact on her shoulder. She stared in horror as the black blob stuck to her, expanding like some kind of mutated balloon, and she yanked off her glove before swiping at it with her claws.

Bad move - her claws stuck to the goo, and only the fact she'd used her fingertips enabled her to pull her hand away, black goo coming away in long strings. She tried to flick it away, but it clung stubbornly, and then there were more retorts from the guns and she was on the move again, twisting and leaping and ducking in an effort to keep from being hit. There wasn't time to think, just react, and for once Yvette found herself glad that this body of hers seemed built for this kind of thing.

The lack of training and fitness began to tell, however, and a slightly slow dodge left her with another blob, this time on her calf. It slowed her down even more, and she took another hit in the back, small whimpering noises beginning to escape from between clenched teeth. The entire back row of ducks was gone now, as was half the second, and she was having to move closer to the front row for cover and to avoid being knocked over by the fallen plates. Being knocked over would be fatal - she'd be stuck to the floor by the blobs, and who knew what would happen then? Another clang, another potential source of cover became an obstacle, and Yvette knew she had to come up with something different if she was going to survive this. Scanning the room even as she kept up her running dodging, looking for a weakness, she realised there was one single clear patch on the floor, unmarked by black goo from the pellets which seemed to fill the air now. A line of floor, just below the guns where she emerged from the wall, where they couldn't angle down enough to shoot without hitting the lip of the wall and gumming themselves up. The only problem was, to get there needed her to cross the clear space between the first row of ducks and the wall, where there would be no cover whatsoever.

Blue eyes glowed fiercely as Yvette considered her options. Another pellet struck her, this time behind the knee, and she realised she didn't have any options left as her mobility was cut by a quarter, the leg mostly useless as the blob expanded to join with the other on her calf already. One chance then, and she was going to have to run as she'd never run before. She was utterly terrified, but at the same time, oddly calm - this was something that curling into a ball wasn't going to help, and somehow, that realization was almost liberating.

"~Time to be brave. Like Piglet with the Heffalump,~," she told herself in her native language, steeling herself for the hits she was going to have to take. "~One, two, and THREE!~"

Nearly on all fours she bolted out from behind the sheltering row of ducks, running straight at the guns. Pellets filled the air as every gun trained on her, firing repeatedly, but she didn't waste speed on dodging them, concentrating just on getting to the wall. This close, the impacts were harder, and she almost stumbled as two hit her side. Another almost glued her hand to the floor, and she wrenched it desperately free. Just a little further...

Another blob hit her in the back as she was hunched over, followed by several more, sticking to her legs, her arms, the spikes of her hair. One knocked her off her feet entirely and she rolled helplessly, her remaining free hand flung up in front of her face as another blob came flying straight at her. It hit with the same squishy shock of the others and expanded, spreading over her hand and gluing it to her face. There was a sudden impact as she rolled into the wall and fetched up there, gasping as she tried to breathe past the tarry substance obscuring her face. Only the length of her fingers had saved her - long enough to stretch the limits of the blob, between her fingers were small holes, letting in precious air, and she concentrated on calming her breathing to avoid using it up too quickly.

Yvette lay in a small heap, completely immobilized by the blobs, listening to the clangs as the firing range continued without her. She was trapped, as effectively as she ever had been by her own mutation, and only the memory of rescue, of the X-Men coming in to save the day, stopped her panicking outright.

~What now? Well, now there is the waiting. Someone will come.~

Someone had to come.

***

She was small, she was naked, and she was flying for her life. The last thing Janet remembered was being in the elevator with the others, then everything went fuzzy, and then she'd woken up inside a Venus Flytrap! After carefully escaping without having it shut around her, a flyswatter had come after her!

Now , what seemed like hundreds of fly swatters were chasing her. Every time Jan moved, another one was there. There was no way to escape them all, and her wings were getting exhausted. She just wasn't used to flying this much, and especially not when evasive maneuvers were required.

Jan shrieked as she was nearly caught between two of the fly swatters. She barely managed to dodge them and zoomed down, but found a whole forest of flytraps waiting for her. She zoomed back up, narrowly avoiding a third flyswatter, and raced towards the ceiling.

Something sticky caught her. She couldn't move. What the hell? Jan stared ahead in confusion, her wings still buzzing rapidly behind her. "You have got to be fucking kidding me!" Jan cried out as she found her hands, arms, and legs stuck to incredibly sticky flypaper. "Who's idea of a sick joke is this?! Let me go now!" Her struggles continued for only a few seconds before one of the flyswatters hovered behind her, and a moment later she descended into oblivion.

***

He'd been awake for some time, but Kyle didn't know for how long. He'd woken already vomiting, on his hands and knees trying to get the smell and taste out. His first thought was that he was somehow back in the clutches of Ahab, but his first look at his surroundings eliminated that possibility from his mind. There was no way that Dr. Campbell would have done this. All of his machinations were based on controlling mutants or revenge on Dr. Moira.

The room was barely the size of the room he shared with Julio at the school, big enough that Kyle couldn't touch either wall from where he'd woken. The ceiling was high, and it's distance obscured by eye-wateringly bright spotlights set in the walls, pointing in all directions. He could see no doors or even cracks in the slick metal walls, they were smooth and unmarked from corner to corner.

None of these things were the cause for his nausea.

Underneath him, compacted together so tightly that Kyle could not tell where one ended and the other began were carcasses. Legs, rumps, ribs, chests, and had it not been for the one snouted, bristly head that had been tucked under his arm, he wouldn't have been able to identify them. Even so, Kyle hoped the bodies were -all- pigs and not anything else. He'd kicked the head away from his as soon as he realized what it was, but it didn't do anything for the almost sweet smell of rotting pork.

Just as he thought he had his rolling stomach under control, or at least, had vomited out everything he'd eaten -ever-, the noises started. Grinding, screeching metal against metal, screams, the buzz of a thousand cicadas, air horns, and broken maniacal laughter that started and stopped in no pattern that Kyle could figure out.

And then the spotlights began to move, shining down in his face until his eyes watered and he screwed them shut and he could still see the bright light as red behind his eyelids. The lights cut off as Kyle bellowed out his anger, and then began flashing, keeping him nearly blinded, or dark deep enough that he couldn't see his hands in front of his face.

He'd been handcuffed, but whoever had done it must not have been thinking ahead, since his hands were in front of him, not behind. A brief respite in the noises and lights, where the room was both silent and dark gave him the time to realize that if he was going to do anything, the first step was to get rid of the handcuffs. He didn't have keys, of course, or anything he could use as keys, and the cuffs were tight around his wrists.

His hands in front of him meant he could see what he was doing. No way to unlock the cuffs, and they were sturdy metal, he couldn't twist the chain apart or pull the cuffs off his wrists.

So if he couldn't break the cuffs, he had only one choice.

He couldn't stop to center himself, to try to slow his racing heart, or control the pounding in his head or churning in his stomach. And Kyle knew he didn't have the time to wait.

Taking his left thumb in his right hand, he pulled back, past the point of the joint straining, past the point where his eyes would have watered up, if they weren't already doing so from the lights that were currently strobing in his face. He twisted and pulled until his thumb made a loud crack, and he howled in pain.

***

She sneezed and pain exploded behind her eyes. Memory flooded back in a crash against her fragile senses. Tabitha swung her head up to find the others.

Instead she saw a rather large blond woman with blue eyes. It took her several long minutes to realize she stared at her own reflection. Tabitha brought a hand up to touch her face. She didn't remember looking that bad. She had avoided mirrors for nearly two years but...

Tabs staggered to her feet, eyes on her reflection. A telltale wobble in the reflection as she rose gave away the game.

Fun House mirrors. "That isn't funny!" She shouted, unsure. She slammed her fist into the glass. Every mirror in the room shattered beneath her blow, unexpectedly brittle.

"Damn." Tabitha nursed her bleeding hand close to her chest. Beyond the now broken mirrors were just more, same distortion. Everywhere she looked, more fat Tabitha's looked back. She pressed the heels of her hands to her eyes in frustration.

She heard a heavy thud followed by a wet plastic thud, then several small pings. She quickly opened her eyes to see a pistol, a bottle of water, and about a dozen little yellow pills on the floor. Tabs craned her neck toward the ceiling, only to see a mirrored panel slide swiftly closed.

"You're just hilarious."

She walked up to the new layer of mirrors. She pulled her foot back and kicked at the closest one, HARD.

"YOWCH!" Tabitha's foot hit solid polished steel with a loud clang. She hopped around on the uninjured foot, then lost her balance to fall on her butt.

She growled in frustration, experimentally tossed a small bomb across the room. The bomb blew back her hair and made her ears ring, but the steel wasn't even smudged. Fat Tabitha stared back at her with unwavering eyes as the first twangy notes of a country song echoed through the room.

"You are such a sadist."

***

"Come one, come all, and take a ride on the death-defying loop-de-loop World War I ace ride!" a voice cut into what felt to Sam like an obnoxiously large hangover. And he hadn't had anything to drink since arriving in Vegas, which left him with the slowly growing feeling that something was wrong. He blinked his eyes blearily and raised his head. The last thing he remembered, he'd tried a few of the tables, gone to catch some of the shows, and then he'd felt a minute prick at his neck. He remembered trying to swat at whatever bug had stung him, and then...nothing.

As he raised his head, discordant calliope music began to register in his ears. It was as though someone had taken the typical music of a carnival and then run it some kind of musical blender on high until it was barely recognizable as what it was supposed to be.

The next thing that he noticed was where he was. He was inside a small roller coaster car that was being dragged up a hill by a chain, with the normal accompanying clanks and clatters. He struggled to raise his arms, only to realize he'd been bound into the car extremely tightly, to the point where he could only bend his neck slightly to either side to see over the car's sides. The ride seemed to be in a large warehouse, and various decorations were scattered around it. These were not normal carnival decorations, though, but rather like the result if those decorations had been rendered by a resident of an insane asylum.

The car crested the first hill, and plunged downward like a fighter plane stooping toward the ground. Sam was normally something of an adrenaline junkie, and enjoyed roller coasters, but something felt off about this one, a suspicion that was confirmed when the Fokker trimotor mounted near the track opened up its guns on the coaster. Guns that were firing real bullets. The gunfire raked at the tail-end car of the train, shattering the fiberglass shell.

Just as Sam was preparing to ignite his blast field and break loose of the death trap, a hoarse shout from the front of the train stopped him. A man who looked rather like Medusa's bodyguard, though it was difficult to tell in the very dim lighting, shook his head at Sam. "They've got the place rigged to blow," he grunted. "Venting gasoline into the air." And as Sam took a whiff, he could indeed smell the fuel filling the room. As they passed another model of a plane, this one with a wing bent and looking like it was headed for a crash, he could see the fine mist spewing from it.

As the train surged through the station and back up the hill for another round, Sam wracked his brain for some sort of idea for how to escape. He couldn't let Medusa's bodyguard die when his blast field ignited the ethanol-laden air. But he was too far forward on the train to grab before the resultant explosion. The gunfire demolished another empty car, and as they passed the crashing plane, the reek in the air grew stronger.

Another pass, and another, and Sam was beginning to get light-headed. On this pass, the gunfire was constant as they approached the dive. Sam prayed hard for a solution as they dove closer.

***

Monet woke to a pounding headache and nausea. She rolled to one side and threw up noisily. It was only after that that she was able to look around. She was sprawled on a little platform in the centre of an empty room, unpainted plasterboard in 6x3 feet panels lining the walls and ceiling and floor, a spiraled pattern incongruously laid into the centre of each surface. Tinny music played somewhere and the platform began to slowly fold down to lie flat against the wall, forcing her to fly to avoid falling.

Laughter overlaid the music before a booming, amused voice spoke. "Hellooo, Miss St. Croix. We're going to have some fun. Lots of fun, in fact. You see, the walls are filled with explosives. Even you might not survive if you damage them. And, just wait. It gets better." The patterns opened, revealing little cannons although the one on the floor was a slot, instead. One shot out a little shoe and it drifted on a parachute, slowly falling toward the floor. It landed, exploding and the entire room shook. "See, you need to get the shoes, and bags, and compacts in the slot. Or else. Oh yes. I wouldn't go touching the floor if I were you. Oh, no. Isn't this a fun game?"

Monet stared and watched with horror as a Luis Vuitton handbag fell from the ceiling and dove to catch it, dropping it in the slot, even as another shoe shot from a wall. "You're completely fucked in the head, you know that, right?"

***

For a terrible few moments when Kurt first woke up, it seemed as if something had happened to his sight again. He lay still on the platform - he could feel it wasn't very wide, as his hand was dangling off one edge and his feet from another - trying to remember what had happened immediately before this.

The platform was painted a bright red, accented with yellow stripes and reminicent of something he knew. Tracking around the room, it was almost uniformly black, not enough light to see more than around his immediate area, and certainly not enough to see how far up the platform was from the ground. He could see the ceiling, barely, an arc of grey steel dimly reflecting the weak light. From it, on high tension wires hung other platforms, similar to the one he was on, and handbars at the end of long lines.

A trapeze?

...someone had kidnapped him and left him in a circus training area, it seemed. He got carefully to his feet and started to look at his surroundings more closely.

"Ladies and gentlemen! Boys and girls! Children of all ages!" The voice boomed out from the darkness all around Kurt, echoing off the walls and ceiling. "May I direct your attention to the Big Top! At the top of a staggering height, the Amazing Nightcrawler will perform the most death-defying acrobatics yet seen, all without a net!"

There was a humming noise; a buzz like a lawnmower, and suddenly five biplanes shot past Kurt. They were small, like those RC planes that you saw people playing with in Central Park, bright red with black iron crosses on the side. "But, what's that? It looks like the Nightcrawler will not only provide dizzying and dazzling feats of agility for the lucky audience, but will do it all while avoiding the planes of the Red Baron!"

The planes made another swoop, this time close enough to show the wicked scythe-like blades extending from the ends of the wings, and the foot long spike of tempered steel at the front.

The Amazing Nightcrawler would also be performing these feats with only one functioning arm. Still. He'd always said he relished a challenge. He stood his ground, watching the planes as they swung around.

The planes turned in tight formation and dove in on Kurt, who teleported to another platform just before they could strike. There were 'oohs' and 'aahs' from the darkness, the wave of approval from a crowd that the X-Man couldn't be sure wasn't really there. The planes broke formation, buzzing towards him in multiple directions, determined to overwhelm his agility.

If he had his powers, in addition to his natural agility, it would be... relatively... easy. He dodged between the two nearest planes, then jumped straight up with his good arm outstretched, reaching for the bar of the nearest trapeze.

Around him, the planes seemed to pick up speed, and to his mounting horror, five more appeared from the darkness. Ten seperate moving objects to try and keep track off, and a likely fatal fall or bladed death would be the result of any mistake. The planes swarmed around the suddenly concerned Nightcrawler.

He knew that eventually, he would fail to get out of the way of one of the blades fast enough, even if it was just because they'd been attacking long enough to wear him down. And he couldn't keep hanging there forever. Coming to a decision, he pulled himself up enough to grip the bar with hand and tail, and swung as hard as he could out over the space. This was what he knew, and he was up there with the best. If he could just keep evading the planes long enough, perhaps he'd think of something else.

***

White. Nothing but white. No sight, no sound, nothing but the cold floor beneath him and white. Half-conscious, Nathan curled instinctively into a fetal position, the breathing he couldn't hear gone shallow. Nothing came to him, none of the coping methods for sensory deprivation he'd once studied so doggedly.

Nothing.

Nothingnothingnothingnothing...

A smell. Rancid and sweet, and Nathan's whole body jerked as he gasped soundlessly. A smell, when he'd expected a voice, giving instructions. Despite the drugs still in his system, it started to dawn on him that this wasn't Mistra, wasn't the White Room.

No, this was somewhere else. It took a herculean effort to pull fraying thoughts together. Not Mistra. Where is here? Where was I before here? No coherence yet. Nothing...

The smell was getting stronger. Something hissed and slid over Nathan's hand, oily cold snake white snake invisible snake His mind lashed out instinctively - and met static. Static that burned, screaming along his nerve endings, static like psi-bafflers, those are psi-bafflers-

The moment of coherence slid away. Hands, long white hands reaching out of whiteness and tearing at him, gleaming pale claws, always knew, didn't you, bub, can't wait to see you bleed, and Nathan snarled soundlessly, pushing himself up off the floor and reeling backwards. Three steps, no more, before he smashed hard into a wall and fell, dazed by the self-inflicted blow to his head.

Screaming in his mind. Something was climbing on top of him, shifting sinuously. Flesh and skin, white on white, fascinating, find you fascinating, open you up and see all your secrets, see what you've seen... Nathan gave an inaudible cry, struggling, but a hand clamped down on his shoulder, and old pain flared there. I want the long view, Nathan, Gideon whispered, I want the long view, and the whiteness on the other side seethed, blank ghost-faces and blank white eyes and claws ripping down his arm, opening up old scars, but he couldn't see the blood, couldn't feel it...

Screaming. Still screaming. Nathan clung to the static, concentrated on the static. Patterns. Turn inwards, shut out everything around you. Find the patterns, find - chaos in his mind, too. Burning, Smichov was on fire, children were falling from the windows, little blond boys with wide blue dead eyes...

He screamed into the silence. Opened his eyes, and they were stinging, there was something in the air, the rancid sweetness so heavy now he could feel it, taste it.

Gas. The realization hit finally, penetrating the haze of panic and terror. Gasping eased to shallow, rapid breathing, which slowed even further as he forced himself to run through meditative pattern after meditative pattern in his mind, spinning spirals into existence, making sense out of chaos. The whiteness shifted around him, white shadows tearing at him, whispering in voices that he knew.

***

Medusa opened tired, bleary eyes, looking confusedly around the room she was in. It didn’t look like her suite at the hotel. It was too garish, with mirrors, lots of them, all reflecting way too much light into her sensitive eyes. She remembered going to the performance with Kurt and Monet…had she gone out drinking with the other girl after the show? It’d been a while since she’d ever felt this hungover, but that didn’t mean it hadn’t happened – in fact the slight black area where her memory should be pretty much screamed of it. Green eyes closed and Medusa took a deep breath before reopening her eyes and trying to rise.

Trying being the operative word.

Reaching up to rub her eyes, she struck resistance and it was only then that she realized she was tied to the chair she was sitting in. A switch clicked in her head and she worked to fight through the fog that was clouding her mind. Trying to send out a tendril of hair, it was only when she couldn’t that Medusa began to panic.

Her hair was gone. But that was impossible. It could only be cut when she let it be, except by a few rare substance, but staring at the shiny head in the mirror confirmed what her lack of power had told her. At about the same moment as her realization that she was bald, one of the mirrors flipped open and a mechanical monkey danced out carrying a barber’s razor. Several others, all lining up on the counter across from her, followed him.

***

Mondo dug his toes into the sand and let the warm tropical water wash over them before. He couldn't remember the last time he felt this much at peace. It was _perfect_ down here. Whoever it was who had thwomped him and carried him away was apparently trying to make up for their rudeness. The drink sitting on top of the sand next to his chair was pleasantly cold and tasted delicious. It was pineappley and cold and had shaved ice in it. It even had a very appealing crazy straw done up in Kermit green. All he could have really gone for at this point was a Spam sandwich, but he was going to make do without one. Stretching a bit, he shifted to get more comfortable in his beach chair. It was good to put his worries down for a while and relax.