Phoebe

A fellow named Ethan Schanzenbach once observed, "That which does not kill you is only saving you for later." Or in my case that which does not kill you will drive you insane. To say that I was currently up the river Styx without anything remotely resembling a paddle would be an accurate way to describe the situation I found myself in now.

After much careful consideration I had come to the conclusion that I did not like these evil butterfly people. In fact I could say with all honesty that I really, truly disliked them. And I like practically everybody.

Here I was back in the white corridor again. The kind of white that glows and hurts the eyes. I think they are trying to brainwash me. Are they ever in for a surprise. I looked down at myself and see that I'm now wearing the white jumpsuit again. I match the walls. How unspeakably delightful.

Well, at least they didn't have me in the Alice get-up again. The whole Wonderland scenario was getting old. Then of course there was that freaky Oz thing. My irritation and disgust at the efforts of the E.B.P to warp and mutilate classic literature has pretty much overcome my terror at being kidnapped and subjected to mental torment.

I started running. If they planned on torturing me again they'd have to catch me first. And with any luck a broken ankle or a pulled hamstring would be the result of their efforts. I rounded a corner and nearly ran over someone.

I slowed to a stop and stared. The hair was the first thing that got my attention. It was hair with attitude, hair that shouted "finger in the light socket." The next thing that I noticed were the eyes. Dark honey with flecks of gold and green. Intense eyes that knew lots about pain, eyes that didn't trust all that often. Those remarkable eyes belonged to a sharply featured, extremely handsome face.

I approached him warily. He looked shaken, confused. I could relate.

"Are you all right? You're not dressed like one of them." He really wasn't. For the last (how many?) days everybody either wore boring hospital clothing or something related to some disturbing distortion of some book or movie. He was wearing black slacks, tennies, and a dark green T-shirt that read "spy games" that clung to his lean muscular frame.

"I--yes, I think so." He said hesitantly. He was looking at me like I was the Holy Grail. It was nice in a disconcerting sort of way. . "I'm--Darien Fawkes." He continued.

Fox? Well, yes that much was obvious. Whoa! Not going there.

I held out my hand and smiled as cheerily as I could under the circumstances. "I'm Phoebe Hobbes. Pleased to meet you." I pulled him up off the floor. His hand was firm, strong and very warm to the touch.

"Phoebe Roberta Hobbes?" A huge happy little boy smile lit up his face. It was like my name made everything make sense to him. Wait, how did he know my middle name?

"I've come to rescue you!"

I just looked at him.

"Did I just say...?" He looked terribly embarrassed.

"Aren't you a little short for a storm trooper?" I said breaking the moment of awkward silence.

"What?" he said. Then he just rolled his eyes.

"Sorry, It just seemed so appropriate somehow."

As he softly chuckled, it abruptly occurred to me that he, Darien Fox....

"Could you please spell your last name?"

"Huh. Um... F. A. W. K. E. S."

That he, Darien Fawkes, could be a plant from the EBF to gain my trust. So I looked at him the other way.

Oh, but did that man shine.

"Well, proceed already." I said, "The bad guys are sure to notice I'm not where they put me."

He nodded and we began to walk quickly down the long white corridor.

"No doors. No 'freaken' doors anywhere." Darien said disgustedly. We turned yet another corner and there was a door. I moaned softly.

"Not again."

"Not what, again?" My knight in scuffed athletic shoes asked.

"This. I know - I just know that this will lead into yet another perversion of classical literature. These EBPs have found the perfect way to torment a English/Lit teacher." I kicked the door. Hard. "Oh drat!" I squealed as I started to hop up and down. How very undignified. The door swung open.

I looked inside and rapidly forgot that my foot hurt. I peered into the room. I could feel Darien's breath on the back of my neck as we looked.

Cautiously, we walked in. It was that famous drawing by Escher. The one with all the crazy stairs going all over.

"This is familiar." I said my voice hushed.

Darien skirted around me, the look on his face one of disbelief as he viewed the clock that hung in midair announcing to one and all that it was almost 13:00. "You've got to be kidding," he muttered. "What the hell is going on?"

I shrugged. "How am I supposed to know?"

I heard a click behind me and knew that the door was gone as if it never existed. A sound rung in the air; it sounded like the cry of a baby, followed by the soft rustling of feathers. I turned and my clothes changed; the bright white jumpsuit was replaced by blue jeans and a white peasant blouse. It was The Labyrinth; when I was a teenager I had loved the movie. I wondered if I still had the . Well, no time like the present to find out.

"It's show-time," I said, striding forward. I came to a stop when my arm was caught. Ah, my rescuer. I'd forgotten.

"Care to fill me in?" Darien hissed.

"In a moment." I said distractedly. "I have a hunch."

A tall thin figure dressed in feathers emerged from the shadows. Predatory, inhuman and extremely hot. I choked on a laugh. It was Jareth the Goblin King. I shook myself free of Darien's hand and went forward.

"Give me the child." I demanded.

And he replied, "Sarah I have been generous till now and I can be cruel."

"Generous? What have you done that is generous?" I asked in puzzlement.

"EVERYTHING! Everything that you wanted I have done. You asked that child be taken. I took him. You cowered before me and I was frightening. I have reordered time. I have turned the world upside down. AND I HAVE DONE IT ALL FOR YOU! I am exhausted from living up to your expectations. Isn't that generous?" Jareth asked softly, hope warming his voice.

But I continued without pity. "Give me the child. Through dangers untold and hardships unnumbered--"

" I ask for so little. Just fear me, love me, do as I say and I will be your slave." The dark lord pleaded,

But I continued. "--I have fought my way here to the castle beyond the Goblin City to take back the child that you have stolen, for my will is as strong as yours, and my kingdom is as great. You have no power over me!" I shouted triumphantly.

Jareth looked at me with sorrowful eyes as he tossed up a crystal sphere into the air. "What a pity."

There was a rush of light and sound and we weren't in the labyrinth any more but in what looked like a pillared temple.

"Now will you tell me what's going on?" Darien raised an inquisitive eyebrow.

"I'm not sure. I mean I have a clue-no not actually a clue, more like a hunch. You see they keep putting me in these situations, simulations and at first they were kind of cheesy, parodies of books and movies. And they were more annoying than anything else. I've been Dorothy Gail and Alice in Wonderland and you know what?"

"What?" Darien asked, clearly wanting to know what I was getting at.

"I don't think any of this is real."

"VR. That's what Chrysalis was working on. Eberts said that they were working on some kind of mind control using VR."

I couldn't help it. I hugged him. His arms were strong and warm and safe. Almost as soon as I entered his embrace I pulled away and pretended that nothing had happened.

"That would explain everything. In every scenario I have been in, the recurring theme has been temptation. It's like they want to break down my moral center. That must be the door into my head. Geez, if they could do that...anybody could be turned...made into what they want." I started to pace about excitedly. "So the way out would be to go through the story and do the right thing. Each level we beat is possibly a level closer to consciousness. Before I refused to play at all."

I did not mention what they did to me when I refused.

"Okay, if playing out the story the right way is out--but what if you don't know the story, 'cause I don't have any idea what that was back there."

"If you don't know the story then I guess that you should follow your best and noblest impulses." I strode toward the opening. "Coming?"

A door stood in the middle of the temple and as we went through I heard Darien mutter to himself, "What best and noblest impulses?"

~~~~~~*

I opened my eyes with a moan. It was like I hadn't moved my limbs for days on end. I ached all over. I could only dimly remember where I'd been. What was my name?

A man with intense, concerned dark eyes was pulling me up. I know him. His name--what is his name?

My name is Phoebe Roberta Hobbes. His name is Darien Fawkes. Welcome back reality. I have had an unreasonable number of really weird experiences in my day but this incident is way up there on my strange'o'meter. There is an old story about a poet who dreamed that he was a butterfly dreaming that he was a poet. When he awoke he couldn't decide what he was. That was the situation I was just faced with. I can see it now; my therapist jumping off of a very tall building or quite possibly getting a book deal.

As I couldn't walk he picked me up and hurried to the door. I clung to him, my face smushed close to his neck as he pushed the door open. Did he ever smell wonderful. Not going there.

The EBP in attendance looked up in shock. Apparently they hadn't expected us to beat the machine. They did not look happy about it.

I felt a chill running up my arm, a spring rain kind of chill. I gasped as we were soon covered with what seemed to be cold liquid mercury.

"Put down the girl." Said thug #1 as he put on a pair of sunglasses and pointed a gun at us.

"Aww crap." Darien muttered.

"Put down the gun." Replied a voice that could have belonged to "She Who Must Be Obeyed."

In a shower of glitter the two of us were visible once again. "It's about time, Monroe." My hero said in annoyance.

The voice belonged to an exotically beautiful woman who could have easily been cast as an Amazon extra on Xena. Apparently this was Monroe. Monroe rolled her greenish eyes. "I got lost. No markings anywhere. In there." She said to the Igors-In-Training with a wave of her gun. They filed in with obvious reluctance.

"I think I can walk now." I mentioned softly.

"You sure?" His eyes went even darker with concern.

"Very." He lowered me to the floor. "I don't mean to be pushy or anything, but who's the pretty Klingon and what's with the H.G.Wells impersonation?"

Darien let out a snort of laughter while he helped Monroe push the desk against the door, locking in the bad guys. "The pretty Klingon is Alex Monroe and the H.G. Wells impersonation is just something I pull out for birthdays, bar mitzvahs and the rescuing of fair damsels."

"Ah, that would explain the overwhelming humility." I returned. This time Monroe laughed.

"Fawkes, we better go. Hobbes has totally lost it." Alex said.

"No I haven't." I looked at her indignantly.

"You didn't tell her?"

"Didn't have time. There were kingdoms to save and quests and--" he trailed off at Alex's expression. "No, I didn't tell her."

"Tell me what? No, it can wait. I can hear feet. Unhappy feet. Hey look, window and great big honkin' tree. I have a wonderful idea. Let's not be here when they come."

The next few minutes were a blur what with the smashing of the window, the climbing and the running. Moments later we were zooming away in a highly unattractive van.

"Phoebe meet Claire and...." Darien began.

"Daddy?"