A hawk screeches close by and the whoosh of wings comes within inches above his head, but it only partially draws his attention as three little… humans exit the forest. They couldn’t be more different from each other except that all are short. One is as round and to get into how much she looks like a pig would take all day; the one with the hawk gear is thin as a twig with dark clothes hanging from his bony body doing little to conceal his weirdly angled shape; and the third looks like a sick mouse shaking and rubbing its face with its pink hands that could be human… maybe? The hawk screeches from above, Rick tries to crane his neck to look but he is wrapped up too tight.
Rat is in for it worse, pinned under Rick’s left arm, face right in the armpit. He says “hmmmpprpfdfff?” in complaint.
Rick feels bad for the twitchy dude, and if he could do something about the situation, he would. Instead of finding the hawk, the hawk finds Rick’s field of vision as it lands on Stick Man’s outstretched arm, wrapped in what looks like very dirty, very used blankets.
“Martha’s a very good girl,” says the hawker in a thick accent that Rick can’t place. Is it Eastern European? Is it Indian? Maybe both. From his vantage point, he watches the bird take food from its master’s mouth and reacts in disgust at how deep he makes the bird go as a face suddenly appears in his vision. A fat round face with tiny eyes and short greasy hair that looks gelled into a permanent curly crust. She wears a stained pink dress that at one point might have been bigger on her. Then her hand grabs him roughly, lifting him up and opening his shoulder into a fresh wave of agony. He screams in anger and pain. And as the world goes from normal to red and black, it is then that Rick finds the self inside his head taking a step back. This has happened before. It is like looking at his life through a door in a dark room. This time the door is very, very far away. In fact, he doubts he has ever been as far from it as he is now. Distance is key because it takes that long to even get into position to be in control again. With no promises that he can even wrest control from the monster he is about to become.
First, Rick’s self thinks, shit, I’m going back to prison. Second, they deserve what’s about to happen to them.
Third, he decided this is going to be fun.
Rick’s body drops its feet, and, like an anchor, all effort by his captors is negated. Still with their little fingers entangled in the net, Rick strains.
The owners of both sets of hands scream in pain, as they lose the fingers they were not able to get free as the net pops. Bolo balls go flying as if fired from a canon. The sounds of bones and skulls cracking is audible as Rick and Rat find themselves again free.
Rat has his .25 out. But Rick’s self is still free, separated from his physical form. If he could have added his two cents to the whole situation, he’d say, “Run!” But he doesn’t and even doubts if not raging that he would be able to do much of anything at all. Separated, he can still feel the sickness working in his shoulder like icy hotness. Growing, consuming him. Here in the dark room, desperately trying to get to the tiny lit rectangle that is his escape, he knows he needs treatment soon if he is going to survive. And he doesn’t have long before the rage falls away and he is left injured and useless again. Probably even more so because of what he just did to the net.
Rat is already using his pistol and fires two shots. At what Rick has no clue. As he approaches the lit door, all three of their assistants seem to be down. The fight is over.
But artificially.
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Rat falls. One moment he is taking careful aim and the next he has a stupid look on his twitchy face, stiffens and falls nose-first into the ground.
Rick’s self feels his body’s rage slipping. But he needs it to stay aware and stop his progress to the door. He demands his body fight through a rising dizziness. His body tries to comply but he finds himself again on his knees. He commands himself, “Do not black out! Regain your feet, maggot!” But his body does neither. He can’t fight hard enough to make himself obey the order, not with the drowsy warmth seeping all through him. The peaceful warmth is taking over. With darkness playing at the corners of his vision, growing, threatening to take over, a young woman around the age of his granddaughter appears in his line of sight. She is normal-sized with a glowing dark brown complexion. Her hair is bleached cornrows. As the world dims and the lit door is fast approaching he is desperate to avoid being back in his body, almost by pure force he manages to stop himself right at the door. Hands and feet braced, shaking. How long he can maintain this is unknown, but as long as she doesn’t keep shooting him with darts he might can.
She smiles at him, teeth white and sparkly, face friendly, until the blow gun is brought back to her lips and she fires a second dart into his neck.
He doesn’t go out.
But the darkness grows to where his only awareness is the fight not to go out completely.
The poor man. Considered by some the unluckiest man alive, he does not lose consciousness, however, he can not move at all either.
“Get him prepped, Mookie, I don’t want the tiny shits to catch us on the ledge. We can’t afford to spend another second in their freak show jail again.”
The person named Mookie emerges from the forest. She ambles on one leg, bouncing just as quickly as a whole person can walk. She has a crutch pressed under one arm, but she isn't using it for much as she moves. She has metal plates riveted into the place for a face. A slit for a mouth. Menacing pinchers for hands. Her one leg is an articulated pogo stick. It goes boing boing boing as she moves. When she gets to Rick, it turns out prepping him is strapping an odd contraption that she pulls from a cavity in her chest onto his face. The contraption seems part fire-below and part bread maker with a do-hickey on the side. She twists the do-hickey and the thing begins to smoke and chug and feed cold oxygen into Ricks's prone body. Rat gets one also.
Mookie grabs a fistful of Rick's field jacket and Rat’s trenchcoat and effortlessly drags them from the rocky ledge into to the pine and spruce forest.
As the drugs wane slightly, he is able to regain more control over his situation, and passenger Rick is very grateful for this. He is still pissed as hell and as soon as they allow him to be able to, he plans on ripping their limbs from their still-breathing bodies and twisting them into a sculpture of pain and death.
But first Mookie undertakes only a short journey through the trees and soon she enters a clearing which at the center has a giant red balloon strapped to a galley. A giant fire roars under a giant brass teakettle that sits smack dab under the giant balloon. A short stocky man wearing what looks like a navy uniform from the 19th century, a utility coat made from rich blue wool, under his coat is a brass bib with a green patina, and on his head is even a tricorner hat, pumps a bellows into the fire.
There was a full crew of creatures running around the boat. Men that looked like rodents, pigs, and even a few reptile-looking folks, about ten various-looking aeronauts work the riggings and feed the fire.
Mookie first puts Rick, then Rat, onto her shoulder, hunches down real low on her pogo-stick leg, and bounds up to the deck of the galley. Just after she gets on board, the bleached blonde climbs aboard.
“Capy, set sail.”
In what could be mistaken for a thick brogue, the uniformed bellower turns and says, "Aye aye mistress. Where be the others?”
“Dead, but with the price these two will fetch, we will easily be able to replace them.”
“Dead?” Capy replies. “Then these two are dangerous?”
“Very. But we won’t have them aboard long. I’ve sent Algernon ahead with word strapped to her talon of what we caught coming through The Gap. Our Lord should be satisfied. Very pleased with his new toys.”