An orange sun sitting halfway in the silky expanse of great ocean. Dawn. A warm glow spread outward, rippling watercolor panoramas across the surface. Warm grains of sand sifting beneath feet, and between toes.
Then, down, down, down.
Richie's eyes opened, and he was floating, naked, in warm, omnipresent liquid, as though an unborn child within a womb. His dragon runes were detached from his body, swirling and orbiting around him like the circling electrons of an atom. He was curled in the fetal position, furthering the resemblance to an atomic nucleus. He was at the center of being, one with it, intertwined with the building blocks of reality.
What do you know? Richie thought to his dragons.
He heard them measure their response.
As you suspect, when you were swept away in the sewer, you passed through a world border by way of the Backyards. This feat was accomplished by virtue of our connection to you. We perceived a wandering corridor, and entered it, dragging you along. We emerged in another world, dubbed Tide Town. they answered.
Why don't I remember everything? Why is it so unclear? Richie asked.
That was the price of your return. In order to reunite with Cuppy and assess his safety, you resolved to cross over, back into Station Bay. As Chikita said, unconscious whim, iconography, and loose association, are the blueprints the Backyards' rules map to. As with a dream, you must understand the fabric of that dream to gain lucid control. Things like distance and causal chains are mere notions within dreams. The means to travel dreamscapes are a grasp of dream logic, of symbolism, and insight. Different worlds are infinitely far from each other, mutually inaccessible by physical means. But the collective unconscious is timeless, and acts as a bridge between all possibilities. In order to pinpoint and return to the world from whence you came, a toll had to be paid. Failing to navigate yourself, by way of epiphanies you had yet to realize, you had to sacrifice your memory to cross the bridge. However, we retain a record of our own, shared by, but independent from the memory encoded in your human brain. And so, we held onto the memory of your journey, even as you traded it for a return trip home.
Richie mulled it all over. And what Chikita said, about us choosing to forget? Freyja, and me? Cuppy?
The dragons hummed. Though you may not have been conscious of it, psychological repression and selective memory are themselves choices. Your minds could not cope with the weight of loss. You let go of memories that were painful to you, as you did with the murder of your mother, until the Faceless Man restored that memory to you. Data cannot truly be destroyed. Only lost, or rerouted.
Richie sighed.
So you guys are my flashdrive. You remember it all, don't you?
He felt them nod in affirmation.
We deemed your mind too fragile to cope with the truth at that time.
Richie gave a mirthless laugh.
And now, seeing as I touched on that memory on my own? The jig is up now, is that it?
They answered bluntly. Yes.
Richie thought.
We are One. What does that mean?
-
Then he was punching a tree again, his knuckles numb to pain. He found himself thinking of the coming show tonight, of Leon Valentine's prominence in it. Leon - he had been one of the people he encountered in this Tide Town place, he was sure of it. He felt himself at the computer desk with Holly, even while he continued to pummel the bark-stripped tree trunk. The 'right nows' were spinning through his mind.
"Leon Valentine is the prodigal son of the Valentine Family Circus troupe, a nomadic family of performers from Poland. In addition to his role as an acrobat and beast handler in these shows, he has a prominent professional wrestling career, under the moniker of 'The Lion Tamer'." Holly had read.
She had furrowed her brow.
"What's up?" Richie asked her.
"Didn't you say O'Gravy beat you with a clothesline attack?" she said.
"Yeah." Richie clutched his ribs, glaring at the memory of that brutal impact. "Why?"
Holly clicked a link, and led them down a rabbit hole of online articles.
"Pro wrestling, while staged, began as a legitimate sport with its roots in catch wrestling. During exhibitions, they began scripting the matches to minimize risk of injury, while maximizing the appearance of a dramatic battle. Additionally, some carnivals showed off wrestlers as part of a con, hoping to sucker audience members into trying to beat their wrestlers for a cash prize. Among the audience were plants, who, after acting out a struggle for some time, would fold, while giving the impression that they had been close to victory. This incentivised audience members, who now had the misguided impression that they actually stood a chance. Cue the carnival raking in an avalanche of entry fees." Holly said.
Richie chuckled. "Wish I thought of that."
"Over time, wrestling became essentially violent theater, with pre-scripted series' of moves, dialogue, story arcs, etc, give or take a folding chair or two. The industry is all about spectacle, while maintaining suspension of disbelief. It's taboo to acknowledge that the fights aren't real. They call this kayfabe."
Richie scratched his head. "And the relevance?"
"A few things. While the outcomes are predetermined, the athletic ability required to execute spectacular moves and stunts is still extraordinary. And while risk of serious injury is minimized, there's no way to fake, say, falling from the top of a twenty four steel cage." Holly said. "Apparently there was an incident involving Leon Valentine putting an opponent in critical condition with a powerbomb." Holly said.
"So?" Richie asked.
"A powerbomb, like many wrestling throws and slams, requires the 'victim's cooperation to assist in the lift. The opponent had forgotten the script partway through the match. Leon powerbombed him anyway. When's the last time you lifted a struggling opponent over your head like a barbell?" Holly asked.
Richie's eyes went wide. "Oh."
"Indeed." Holly pushed up her glasses. "His background in circus work - acrobatics, trapeze stunts, feats of strength - makes him perfectly suited to the job, along with his flashy persona. But above all else, this Leon you apparently encountered in Tide Town must be monstrously powerful."
Richie rubbed the back of his head, which was suddenly sore.
"When the manticore invaded this complex, you called it Sparta, did you not?" Holly asked.
"Yeah." Richie nodded.
Holly clicked another link.
"Sparta is Leon's pet lion, and the basis of his moniker as Lion Tamer."
Richie looked at the picture of Leon, his majestic mane flowing, his thorny whip rolled into a tight coil held in his gloved hand, sitting astride a freakishly huge lion wearing an oddly bored expression.
His dragons shifted, sniffing the air - another worthy rival.
"Another point to consider," Holly elaborated, "pro wrestling exploded into popularity in the likes of Mexico and Japan. In the case of the latter, scripted battles often appear on the same card slots alongside legitimate MMA matches at public venues, and there's significant overlap between them. Leon has entered a few martial arts competitions here and there. Which means there's a non-zero chance that he met-"
"Kokumo." Richie finished Holly's sentence.
Richie's dragons threw him a bone, and a few images flashed through Richie's mind - him and Leon facing down the shades, Kokumo carrying him over her shoulder to outrun said shades, Sparta crashing in through the ceiling to tackle the giant sewer gator -
Richie grit his teeth and clenched his fists. "That scaly piece of shit followed me to another world?"
Holly narrowed her eyes. "Racist."
She took a long drink from her coffee mug. "And, finally, back to your leprechaun incident. The clothesline. As I said, wrestling moves are designed to look spectacular, and few have any actual practical application in a life or death fight. To execute a clothesline, the attacker charges or sprints at their opponent, holding their arm out straight, and catches them, typically in the face or under the neck, with the broad side of their arm. The name is an analogy, likening the attack to what happens when you run into an unseen clothesline. Your feet keep going out from under you, and you're thrown onto your back. The problem is that the momentum you build running at someone, not helped by a stiff limb sticking out and compromising your aerodynamic form, is nothing compared to the force you could generate by just punching or kicking instead. Momentum, torque, and channeling your lower body strength are all things that go into a hard strike. A clothesline looks impressive, but it's easily telegraphed and impractical. For O'Gravy to have actually broken your ribs with one, there seem to be two distinct possibilities."
"And those are?" Richie asked.
"Option one is that, upon transforming, he took his new mass into account, and leveraged that to hit you with an attack that otherwise would have fallen flat, exploiting the fact that you, or Cuppy, his original target, were airborne and couldn't dodge, even if you saw the attack coming." Holly said.
"And option two?" Richie raised an eyebrow, not sure he wanted to hear the answer.
"He was an amateur, just flailing around wildly and hoping things stuck. The damage he inflicted would be attributed to the strength boost he got from the black rain. Had he chosen to simply just punch or kick you," Holly pushed her glasses up, and adopted a grim expression, "you'd probably be dead."
Richie gulped.
"You see the problem?" Holly asked.
"Huh?" Richie tilted his head.
"By your account, O'Gravy absorbed maybe a cup or two of the black rain. That alone transformed him from a, how'd you put it? A green munchkin? Into a towering, musclebound hulk capable of bringing down a sewer tunnel, and it was only by luck that he killed himself before killing either of you. A smidge of black rain did that. The manticore we ultimately had to throw down Chikita's backyard, and the bunyip Cuppy and Freyja brought down - they were both beaten mid-drink, before they could finish absorbing the black rain. Before they could evolve. All five of us working together were barely able to stop the manticore before he tried to drink the rain. Given what happened when an inexperienced tiny fae got a taste of it, what do you think would have happened if something like the manticore had their fill of black rain?" Holly said.
Richie felt his stomach drop. "Oh. Oh shitballs."
"My thoughts exactly." Holly nodded gravely.
-
Richie's fists continued sinking into the tree trunk. Was he still tripping? What intervals of time were between these instances of his life? Was Holly going over the wrestling articles with him while he was still hallucinating, or was that itself a hallucination? Was he even now rotating realities, as he had described to Chikita earlier? He had described them to her, hadn't he?
A drop of sweat rolled down his chin and fell. He pictured it, like a raindrop, landing in a lake, and the ensuing ripple echoed as if through a great acoustic chamber. He pictured a downpour of rain, as if to nourish a tropical rainforest, falling down from the heavens.
Heavens.
天
天
"To surpass the Heavens. To go beyond this azure sky. What does it mean? And could it be connected to that cryptic message? We are One?" Richie wondered. He could hear music notes in every drop of rain. They all had an aura, dark, vibrant blue like the highlights of the Abyss. Like the sky. Like his dragons. Like himself.
That azure light among the twelve, back in Freyja's awakening. That was me, wasn't it?
Richie felt the drops land on his body and condense there. They didn't feel cold. He held an internal warmth, radiating outward from within his core.
Steam rose off of his body, and his eyes narrowed on the tree.
What am I missing?
He pummeled the trunk.
What do I lack?
He unleashed a resounding war cry. His knuckles left only shallow dents in the tree.
Your fists stop at what you see in front of you. something echoed into his mind. Your goal lies behind what you can see. To push through, you must aim behind the barriers you mean to break.
Stolen story; please report.
Richie had a thousand memories flash through his mind. Poverty, hunger, exposure. Have to eat to live, have to steal to eat, tell you about it never. He saw a jewelry store display window. Smash and grabs were akin to breaking open a coconut or a crab leg - a barrier to survival, to be overcome, violently if need be. Such was the claim on this complex - scraping out survival.
Don't let such small obstacles block your path.
Within the living room, Holly saw Richie, his arms crossed, sitting in a low crouch, eyes closed in intense focus. His dragons were writhing and hissing, pulsing azure, rippling along and off of his skin like reptilian swells. They were glowing bright like the Sapphire in Silk.
Yukihana echoed that same blue glow, and the curtains of Chikita's timeout cage fluttered and flew back, as if thrown by an invisible wind.
I perceive… Yukihana thought into Chikita's mind, and Richie heard it.
The Backyards. Richie's dragons concluded.
Chikita perked up. "Huh? What was that voice just now?"
Tucked away in a locked chest in her closet, the sailor schoolgirl uniform that Cuppy had sewn Holly's power suit back together as was breathing and clawing at the walls of its enclosure, the phantom noses of the ferals embroidered within catching the same ephemeral scent as Richie's dragons, and Chikita's katana.
The dragons enlarged and constricted around Richie like huge anacondas, swallowing him up in a blinding flash of light. Then, Richie and his runes both were gone.
Holly gaped. "R-Richie?"
-
Richie stood on a giant lily pad, one among many, spread out over a cool blue pond. The pool was in the shape of a cul de sac, a long stone channel cut into the soil of a lush garden and terminating in a rounded dead end. The aquatic leaves were like stepping stones from one end to the other, where the waters joined an expense of forested lake, the boughs swaying like overhanging willows and tressled with ivy and mistletoe. Cherry blossom trees trailed falling petals caught in a whispering breeze. Stone steps and marble fountains sank into the ground, the soil flooded and muddied. Wind chimes and incense were omnipresent, and the outer wall of a greenhouse was hidden behind a bare gazebo.
Richie saw his twin dragon runes, intertwining like a rotating double helix, soar across the watercolor sky away from him like a lost kite. Richie took off, hopping across the lily pads. The ripples that spread out from beneath the pads with each impact gave musical notes like struck xylophone keys. The leaves sunk under his tread a bit, wetting his ankles and pant cuffs, and he stumbled, nearly sprawling into the pond. He came to a long picket fence running across the garden. The dragons cut a sharp right angle over the fence, and began gliding along atop it.
Richie turned sharply and ran alongside the wall.
"Wait up!"
He lost their light in the glow of the sun he was suddenly facing. The glare swallowed his vision, and he shielded his eyes. When he opened them again, he was standing in his childhood living room. He saw himself as a toddler in his footie pajamas, opening Christmas presents with his mother. He felt a Yule log smoldering in his heart as he watched his younger self tear the colorful wrapping paper apart and pull out the box to some brand new toy. His young eyes lit up, and Ella ruffled his hair, grinning. Light passing in front of the window cast a reflection over a glass cabinet of fine china. As the light passed, so too did the years. Richie saw himself, a bit older, practicing his punches, Ella instructing him.
He felt his fist bury itself in the bare trunk again. He continued pounding away at the tree.
Wrong. He felt his knuckles sting.
He jabbed hard, his fist stopping abruptly where it had landed the last time.
Wrong!
Another flash, and he was in his living room again. The doorbell rang, and Ella moved to answer it.
"Don't go!" Richie shouted, but neither Ella nor his past self could hear him. He watched in slow motion as Ella looked through the peephole, shouted to her child to run, and then hiss as the saber pierced the door and her shoulder in one swift thrust. Blood splashed across the carpet, and then Richie was in Ella's point of view, standing with his feet planted in the carpet. He clutched his shoulder as the fencing blade withdrew, retreating through the hole in the door like a spear trap retracting itself into an inconspicuous stone wall.
The door flew off its hinges, becoming an open archway pulsing with a dizzying strobe light, as the living room was plunged into darkness. Within the flashing shadows, Richie saw the point of the saber become the tip of the manticore's stinger. The huge man-faced lion bellowed a thunderous roar that shook the house and Richie to their foundations.
The manticore's outline flickered and was overlain with that of Sparta, the two profiles rotating faster and faster until Sparta took up the whole frame, Leon astride his back. Then, it was only Leon, standing there with his coil of whip, smirking. Another flash, and it was Kokumo.
The flash faded to the empty forest, where Richie continued to pummel the tree. Phantom outlines of people and creatures he had met across his life continued to wrestle for the top layer of reality, overlaying the trunk. It was as if the tree were having a hard time deciding whose face to wear as a personalized punching bag.
Richie pistoned his fist into the trunk again and felt his wrist sprain. He clutched it, head hung down, hissing.
What do I lack? What is it that I'm missing? What do I still need?!
The lake, draped in cherry blossom petals, began rumbling as though an earthquake had triggered beneath it. Huge columns of water exploded out of the lake like geysers, and the roar was like a volcanic eruption.
Richie's vision cut to an empty lot at the end of a picket fence, where the boards collapsed to rotted planks buried in the tawny weeds. Beyond the lot were rolling green fields, and he again caught the sight of his swirling dragons drifting farther and farther away from him. He gave chase once more, and felt his sides stitch, his breath becoming clipped and pained. The harder he tried to run, the more distance seemed to generate between him and the horizon, where his dragons shadowed under the clouds.
Richie was forced to come to a stop between the distant horizon, and the past at his back. He looked behind him and saw snapshot frames of himself at ascending ages, with each iteration of himself from age twelve onward stumbling through gutters, dirty, unkempt, and haggard.
What does it mean?
A hand closed like a vice around his shoulder, and he turned around. He looked into the merciless face of the bad man in the hat and trench coat who had murdered his mother and hunted him down.
"I'll tell you what it means, boy!" the cultist said, throwing Richie across the grass.
Richie rolled helplessly down hill, flipping head over heel, and landed in a circle of jagged stones. Sprawled out on the ground, limbs cramping, he forced himself to stand and looked around himself. Spotlights shone on him as if he were on a stage, and he realized he was being circled.
The fencer, the ninja, and the Columbian man with the crowbar and the sash of knives had him surrounded, measured him with their cold hard stares, and circled him. They gave the impression of sharks who had smelled blood in the water.
The trench coat man stood on a high stone pillar and looked down at Richie, hat tilted and keeping his face in shadow, arms folded.
"You haven't changed anything yet, Richie!" the man boomed. "No matter how hard you run, your legs are mired in fear and guilt! You are fated to face a miserable doom, a doom you can never escape!"
The man's three underlings advanced on Richie, attacking from all angles. He felt so slowed, as if moving through quicksand, and his clumsy fists and feet couldn't catch any of the three assassins. A crowbar slammed into the back of his head, and he felt stars explode into his vision. He swayed to the side, and his thigh was slashed open by the fencer's flashing saber. The ninja flew into Richie, death from above, nailing and unhinging his jaw with a dropping sidekick. He was pummeled and brutalized within a circle of blows, and felt as though he were a schoolyard child being pushed around within a ring of bullies.
His dragons swirled above him, flying away, so far away, beyond his reach. His arm stretched out, bruised and bleeding, fingers twitching, trying to take back power, trying to claw his strength to him, like a drowning man trying to clutch a life raft from below.
-
Holly and Chikita searched the grounds, combing the forest beyond the fence. Snaggles traipsed up and down the forest floor, sniffing. His ears perked up, and he chuffed. Holly joined the big cat and looked out to the clearing encircled by the fairy ring of mushrooms where Chikita had led Cuppy to discover his Backyard.
"There!" Holly pointed.
Chikita dropped down from a bough, landing in a deep crouch, and looked up. They could see Richie, like a transparent mirage, fading in and out of being. He alternated the appearance of boxing the tree, and of being swarmed by swift dark figures. Chikita heard the swish of the fencer's sword, and the chilling bursts of evil laughter swelling inside Richie's mind. Two possibilities were clashing, each trying to overtake the other.
"He's losing himself. You have to keep your fears and doubts in check, or the yard becomes your nightmare!" Chikita said, drawing her blade.
She rushed the circle, aiming to cut down the illusions and break Richie out of his self-imposed Hell.
Her blade stopped dead in its tracks above the perimeter of mushrooms, as though hitting an invisible solid wall. Holly's microwave beam similarly stopped dead in midair, as if completely nullified by lead.
This is the boy's fight. Yukihana said into Chikita's mind.
She swallowed dryly, and bit her lip.
Something's wrong. I should be able to slip in and help him no problem. Why can't I relax my mind enough to find the door?
Yukihana held his mental tongue. He would have told her that she was worried.
That this was no longer an impersonal arrangement.
You aren't above attachment, Chikita. Yukihana kept to himself.
-
Richie clutched at the powerful hand squeezing his neck. The trench coat man had him by the throat, lifting him like a rag doll dangling over the ground. The brim of the man's hat was still pulled down over his face, hiding his eyes.
"Your heart is heavy with guilt, isn't it, little boy?" the man said in a low, sinister tone. His grip tightened, and Richie gagged, stars beginning to dance in front of his eyes. "It weighs you down. The guilt of living until now, while others died in your place. That's why you hardened your heart. You are the most fragile of them all, a little gutter mutt barking and nipping ankles to hype itself up. The weaker the dog, the louder they bark."
The man dangled Richie over a sheer cliff, bits of stone breaking off the edge and falling - into the Void. The whispers of the lost and the damned floated up to Richie, hissing at him to join them. The memory of his confinement in that dark, cramped cage, one in rows upon rows of cages holding rune-marked children, darted through his mind again. He saw their small hands pass between the bars, grasping for freedom. The image overlaid how Richie had reached for his departing dragons.
His arms went limp as he felt his body begin to get heavier and heavier. The gravitational pull of the infinite darkness under him was pulling his body down, driving his closing windpipe deeper and deeper into the trench coat man's iron grip.
"Son of Seiryu, you whose sacrifice would lead the way to the heavens. Don't you see, you fool? You cannot bridge the gap between Heaven and Earth except in death. The shell that binds your primal spirit to the illusionary world is weak, fragile, and fleeting. The bonds of desire that tether you to it will lead you astray, away from the all-knowing light. You are but an egg, one that was meant to hatch the Azure Dragon. Upon your hatching, we would follow your spirit in its ascension, as it painted the way to the domain of gods. But that window has closed, and the egg has spoiled. You are too entrenched in earthly desires and woes, and tainted. Perhaps had you offered up your life then and there, the others may have died for something. It was a lot of work combing through all of those brats, rooting out the real sons and daughters of Seiryu from those with false markings, like those of your mother."
Richie forced open an enraged eye at the mention of his mother.
"Yes. Feel the weight of your sins. Suffer for the crime of living to this day! Worthless botched sacrifice, fall into oblivion!" the man roared.
He released Richie's neck, and the boy plummeted down toward the Void. The azure sky fell up and away from him.
You are nothing without your runes. Little brat, you think you're special because you're scrappy? What good are you if you can't even save yourself? How can you protect anyone else? How can you avenge your mother, and all those who died in your place? Don't make me laugh!
Richie's entire body began to grow pale and freezing as he fell closer and closer to the event horizon. He felt countless small hands upon him, pulling him down, hooked into the rings of his guilt and shame.
But that didn't matter.
"You son of a bitch." Richie growled.
His hand gripped the ledge, which was suddenly in front of him, as the space had reconfigured itself and the cliff lowered to him.
He thought of Freyja, and of their meeting in the past; of her seeming ill fate, cursed soul, and rage against the heavens. Of the fatal blow to Hraesvelgr - to an angel.
They already surpassed the heavens once before. And he could do so again.
Freyja didn't deserve the hand she was dealt. In that transcendent moment that linked her to Richie, he realized the bond they shared had been one of mutual exile and self-loathing, of guilt for their very existence. But Freyja deserved a chance to live. Richie helped her defend that right. And if she had that right, so did he. It wasn't his fault. It was never his fault. His mother wanted only one thing of him - to survive. To live his life. What was the point of living for that alone if he was to go on blaming himself forever? It was time to let go. It was time to forgive himself.
He knew he deserved a chance to live too. He saw it reflected in Cuppy's eyes, in Freyja's.
Faith and free will are two sides of the same coin.
Your unconscious impulses were still decisions.
We are One.
Fragments of things he had been told, things he was still mulling over and trying to piece together.
Cause you're cool! Duh!
Stupid Cuppy logic.
Running home across Coral Road - that had been a walk (well, a sprint) of faith.
So had been siding with Freyja. He had faith she would win. And that faith became power, shaping the battered hellhound into the reborn Garm.
You already peer into the wellspring every time you hope or dream, to scry the tomorrow you want to reach.
I have faith in my will. Intent is the tool that tempers the dreams we forge. Just like the intent Cuppy placed on our talismans. To hit your target, aim beyond. Don't stop your expectations at the boundary of what's possible. Have faith in my will! Believe in the impossible! Dream! Dream, damn you!
-
Chikita, Holly, and Snaggles saw Richie's outline, and within, the image of him as a young, wide-eyed child. The exterior had ringed eyes that spoke of fatigue, but never despair. The downturned bitter glare was like the theater mask Luchesi wore, hiding what was really inside. As the inner child smiled, he began to pulse blue, and unfurl from the fetal position. The outer shell began to crack.
-
You want to see me hatch? I'll fucking show you! Richie grinned as he pulled himself back up the cliff and stood abreast it, staring down the ghost from his past.
He punched his fist into his palm.
"I have faith in myself." he said. "Intent becomes strength. Nothing's going to break my will. Ever. Again!"
The trio of the fencer, the ninja, and the man with the crowbar leaped at Richie. A blue bubble of energy pulsed out from Richie's epicenter, and shattered the phantoms to glass.
He advanced on the trench coat man.
"Nothing huh? Think yourself invincible?" the man asked.
"Yep." Richie said, winding his arm up.
"And on what grounds do you make such a baseless claim?" the man sneered.
Richie planted his lead leg in the ground and chambered a punch.
"Cause I'm fucking cool. Duh."
He slammed his fist into the man's face, and he scattered apart like mist blown away by a bomb.
-
Richie's fist struck the blood-stained trunk. A resounding crack spread through the forest. His sudden return to definite earth from the Backyards was announced by a shockwave of air displaced from his sudden materialization. The image of his embittered, angry self shattered apart in its wake, a cocky smile stretched across his face. His eyes were delighted, those of a child unwrapping their Christmas presents. An indent caved itself into the trunk, in the shape of Richie's knuckles. Leaves at the top boughs were blown off, as if by a huge surge of energy that traveled up the trunk.
Richie lowered his fist, turned his back on the tree, and began walking toward Holly, Chikita, and Snaggles, crossing the threshold of the fairy ring of mushrooms. He looked exceedingly and endearingly proud of himself, knowing that the tree was going to topple even without his watching.
The three observers had their mouths agape.
"Pretty cool, huh?" Richie smiled, eyes closed. He chuckled happily.
His eyes slowly opened. "What's wrong?" he asked. A shadow loomed over him as the others distanced themselves from Richie.
"Huh?" he looked up.
The tree was falling alright. It landed on his foot.
"FUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUU-"
and so on, rang throughout the forest, louder than the crash.