"Thomas! Thomas, where are you?!"

"YO THOMAS! Get your fluffy butt over here before I-! Uh... Oh man, I can't sound tough if I add 'fluffy', it's just messed up, bro," Muscle Man said directing his attention from the goat in question to High Five Ghost.

"THOMAS!" Fives screamed half ignoring his friend.

Muscle Man finally admitted, "Okay, I'm sorry man but at this point Thomas is on his own. We've been searching for over an hour."

"Do you think he's actually serious and just made his way back to the coffee shop on his own?"

"No way; he's too stupid to tell his elbow from his butthole. He's probably hiding in a corner somewhere going, 'Oh, boo hoo, where the fuck is High Five Ghost and that totally hot stud Muscle Man, who's better than me in every single way?!'" Muscle Man poorly imitated.

"So what should we do then?" High Five Ghost asked concerningly.

"I don't know, but it's getting kinda late. I do not want to be stuck out here at night."

"What about Thomas? What if something happened?"

Muscle Man thought for a moment, "Then if he's so 'mature' then he can last the night. Or maybe like you said, he could possibly have with the slimmest chances maybe found his way back to the others, but it's a long shot. Let's just go back, tell Benson what's what, wait for his balls to finish dropping, and try again in the morning."

Fives agreed. It wasn't that good of a plan, but at this point his concern for his own well being at night was more severe than finding a goat in a ten square mile haystack. After walking several feet, Fives shouted, "THOOOMMMMAAASSS!"

The fatter of the two recoiled clutching his ear, "AH! What the heck, Fives?"

"What? We're still heading back. But, you never know. We might just run into him."

"Well not next to my ear, I don't want to go deaf at the age of forty. Save that shit for when I'm like a hundred or something."

"THOMAS!"

"IDIOT GOAT MAN!"

"TOE-MAN!"

"TO-MÁS!"

Simon and Marceline walked through the soon-to-be-fenced-off entry way into Benson's miniature fort. Even though Benson said to get back to work, all eyes trained on the two newcomers.

..."You're pretty clever," he chuckled lightly.

"Well if it's hurting you, why not get rid of it?"

"It's-uh, it's complicated. I wish I could Marcy." He broke her chain of questions, "Anyway, let's go meet everyone else."

Benson's demeanor was much less than friendly. Just as Starla and Skips made it back to the fencing materials, the gumball manager called out, "Skips. I need you for a second."

Mordecai still held Marceline's hand as he walked to Benson. He remembered only fragments of his and Simon's former lives. Hardly any involved Benson except for distant recalling of shouting and screaming. "Benson," he said stepping forward, "Is there anything you need me to do? hehheh, I don't know about lifting those big heavy things, but if there's anything else you need me to do, I'd be happy to-"

"Can I talk to you for a second, Mordecai?" Benson interrupted just as Skips reached his side.

"Um, sure, I guess," Simon replied feeling nervous. Benson continued to clutch his glock handgun. He felt his palms and forehead begin to sweat.

Benson and Skips turned to head towards the cafe basement. Simon and Marcy took two steps before Benson stopped them. "Alone," he implied forcefully.

"No, I think if you have something to say to me, Marceline should hear it too," Mordecai replied.

There would be no easy way to solve this approaching standoff. Jared approached, "Hey, uh, Marceline, right? Do you think you could help me load ammo?"

Marceline looked up at Simon for approval. The bearded man looked to Benson before nodding back at his newfound friend. Marceline released his hand and joined the older boy.

As Benson, Skips, and Simon entered the cafe basement, they faintly heard Jared say, "Alright, so we need to put the ammo in these cans by shape. See, heres this one-"

"What, these cans?" the seven year old girl replied.

"Yeah, so we-" THUD "MARCELINE!"

The three opened the heavy metal door and walked down the staircase. This led into a medium sized basement. At the far right side was a table on its side and scattered metal pieces and another table closer to the center. This one had a few kerosene lanterns on it. To the left, several sleeping bags lay on the ground. There were a few doors on the back wall and one on each side of the stairwell. With the food completely out of sight and there being not enough sleeping bags for everyone outside, it seemed that such rooms accommodated this.

Skips looked on as Benson flipped the table back onto its feet with a curiously puzzled expression. The gumball machine placed his glock on the surface. Then he motioned for Simon to take a seat on the bench of the other table.

Benson rubbed his forehead. He tried to wrap his mind around this magic bullshit. He finally asked, "So, you're really Mordecai?"

"I-I think so. I have bits and pieces of his memory, but all I can clearly remember is from waking up this morning."

"Are you?"

"I think, yes."

"Don't think; are you Mordecai?"

"Yes."

"Prove it," Benson plainly asked.

"I-... I don't know how! Every time I try to think back my brain feels like its going to burst. Whatever memories I get come at random and in waves. I'm not sure if-"

He was silenced as a fist slammed into his jaw from across the table. Benson walked quickly to the other side. He grabbed Mordecai and threw him from his bench to the ground. "What the hell is wrong with you?!" he demanded. His voice was lowered so the others could not hear. "You abandoned us yesterday! We needed you! I needed you! Pops needed you! Instead you ran off, again!"

Skips came to Mordecai's assistance. He helped him to his feet. "I didn't come here to watch you beat him over revenge," he said gravely. It was a sign for Benson to calm his temper.

"No," Benson said directing his attention to Skips, "Skips, You're the most trustworthy person I know. I need your judgement." He passively motioned to Mordecai, "Sorry."

Skips followed Benson back to the other side of the table. Benson stared at Mordecai for a moment. The opposing party sat in fear. Simon's palms sweated and his heart raced. Skips' gaze was transfixed on Benson. Anything he might say could lead to something terrible. The anxiety in the room grew with each passing second.

Benson sighed as he rubbed his eyes. He spoke, "I'm going to cut right to the point. I hate you. I can hardly stand you in my presence right now. I can never forgive you for anything you have done. You are responsible for so many people's deaths; especially Audrey's and Pops'. And the part that really fucking ticks me off: you can't remember a damn thing. This must not even register with you."

Mordecai minutely shook with fear. Pings of regret filled him. His memories exploded outward. Pops was the one laying dead on the street. As quickly as these pains came forth, they vanished. His brain felt like it was ripping apart as each one flashback retreated back into the void of his subconscious.

Skips seemed frustrated and concerned by this tantrum.

"If it were solely up to me," Benson continued, "You would be gone. Maybe not just from my group, but from the world of the living."

"What about Marceline?" Simon quietly pleaded, "She's just a girl. She's alone and scared-"

"Don't think parading her around in front of me is going to make it better. But... family is family, 'and you don't give up on family.' That's what Pops, the same man who saved your life the first time you crossed us, the same man who stuck his neck out for you everyday until the bombings hit, the same man you failed to save... taught me. With that, I don't know what to do with you."

Skips gave his opinion, "We can't throw Mordecai out, not after this. Mordecai broke down over Margaret. He doesn't even seem to remember it anymore. Maybe this is for the better."

"But do you think something should be done?" Benson implied without removing his gaze from Mordecai.

"We are not like Gene," Skips replied forcefully.

Benson made the final decision,"You can stay, but first: your Crown. Give it to me. Now. No more games and no more hiding it. I don't care what happens to you after we take it, it goes. I'll do it myself this time."

"W-wait! You can't!" Simon's fear now showed outwardly. He could not contain his emotions. "I need it to live!" he erupted.

Benson stopped. "What...?"

"I-... I remember one thing clearly. When I fought with Rigby... I lost. When I woke up this morning, it wasn't from sleeping. It was, well..."

Words could not describe what on earth happened to him. The only feasible way would be to show them. He unbuttoned his vest, then his bloody dress shirt underneath. He lifted his clothes back to reveal his chest.

"What. The. Hell?"

"This can't be good."

Where his heart should be, an icy patch bridged his skin. The power of the ice crown was the only thing keeping his heart beating. However, Rigby's shard still dug deep inside.

"Shit," Benson muttered. He was defeated. He had no choice but to accept the Crown. "Fucking shit, DAMNIT!" He slammed his fist hard against the table. "What the fuck?! Huh?!"

"Benson-"

"What the fuck do we do about this?!"

"Benson!" Skips ordered back the attention of his boss, "We don't have a choice."

Benson fumed. He grabbed his head as the worst migraine settled over. "Damnit..." he muttered. His face was beet red, "If you so much as touch that Crown and use it against us, I will kill you. This will not be like last time. I will not hesitate to end your life. I do not give a damn about that little girl or what she thinks of you. I will kill anyone who dares try to hurt my family, even if it's one of us." He wanted Skips to hear this. The yeti found no way to object. He reluctantly remained silent.

Simon gave the ever slightest of nods. He understood how grave this was. The Crown looped to his belt felt much heavier. It was also right within reach, yet now untouchable. He found no doubt or restraint in his new boss' demeanor. If he wasn't careful, he would be at the mercy of a gun.

"MITCH!" they heard Starla shout from upstairs. It seemed as though the others had returned.

Benson broke the tension, "Well, it looks like the others are back." He grabbed his glock off the table. He failed to break his seriousness or his transfixed glare at Simon.

He brushed past them. Skips rested a hand on Simon's shoulder.

The patting of feet on the stairwell stopped. From the door they heard Benson mutter, "No no no no no," before running off.

"THOMAS!"

"DUMB-AS!"

The shouts broke through the veil of seclusion. A finger on the trigger. Sweat in the palms. Body pressed against the corner of some god forsaken building in the shallow, empty remains of a life that once was.

The sound of heavy footsteps grew nearer. They would pass here soon.

The glock chambered a fresh round. Such a small fragment of metal could bring the end so quickly. The .40 bullet waited its turn, ready to see if it was its day to kill.

The stomach screamed. It yearned for the nourishment it failed to receive for the past day. Yet, its attention faded as that of these strangers grew monotonously.

If the events were to follow, these would be the first two to fall at these hands. A virgin to the battlefield, the will to be born by fire was all too present.

They were within a few feet.

It had to be now when they are off guard.

A spin of the heels around the corner led to-

"Muscle Man?!"

Benson ran from the cafe. Skips and Mordecai were close behind.

Outside, the entire group stood around the newly arrived. Muscle Man held his arms around Starla. She felt relieved. For a moment, the young woman feared for the worst.

Even more intriguing was the distantly familiar face. A robin stood in the center of the group. With Starla breaking her hug with Muscle Man, she and Margaret immediately divulged into ecstatic conversation. It had been far too long. Marceline also became introduced to the newcomer, whom Marceline seemed very pleased to meet.

Benson broke the circle. Not her. Anyone but her. He just finished with Mordecai. He thought the past was behind them. But with her here now... what the hell would Mordecai do? "What the hell?!" he directed towards Muscle Man.

Margaret stood her ground, "Excuse me?"

"We can't be bringing every survivor we see!"

"Benson, it's Margaret," Starla intervened for Muscle Man's behalf.

"We're good friends with her; it's not like we're bringing in a stranger," Fives defended.

"I know, but I don't care. We don't have enough food for this many people! We already took Mordecai and Marceline today, we can't keep taking people in!"

Margaret tuned him out. Her entire attention fixed itself upon that one phrase. Everything at once faded to the background.

Mordecai...

There's no way...

She turned behind the authoritative gumball. Behind him stood Simon. He no longer held any resemblance to the blue-jay that his body once was. But the beard was the same. The clothes were the same. The Crown was there.

Deep down, she knew.

Mordecai...

It was him.

Tears erupted immediately.

She broke from the group and wrapped him in his arms.

The rest turned, spectating from afar.

Her cries grew louder and louder.

Feelings of joy, relief, gratitude, everything culminated into each arduous sob.

She leaned back, a hand brushing his cheek in disbelief.

It had been so long.

She never even got to say good-bye.

"I thought you were gone," she said fumbled between cries.

Those were the only words that could escape her.

She continued to embrace him.

Simon stood in disbelief. He returned the hug. His princess was here. Betty...

The others looked onwards. "She's staying," Skips said to Benson.

The gumball manager could not help but accept it. He shook his head, his head growing bright red. He was furious at how out of hand things were becoming with him and his friends.

He turned to Muscle Man and said in private, "What on earth were you thinking when you let her come along?"

"Broson, I thought it was alright. We all know her and trust her."

"Well I don't. Fives and Thomas didn't say anything?"

Fives was listening intently on their conversation. "Uh," he awkwardly intervened, "Benson, there's something we've been meaning to tell you..."

It was at that point Benson noticed; where the hell is Thomas? "Fives..." Benson said, nervous about the answer.

"It's about Thomas..."

"What about Thomas...?" Benson stated.

"Uhhh, well... he-uhhh" Fives squirmed.

"He's not dead if that's what you're implying," spoke Muscle Man with a matter-of-fact voice. Thanks Muscle Man.

Skips finally joined this conversation, "Then where is he?" The rest were still focused on Margaret and Simon but were slowly becoming enveloped in this miniature feud.

"He, well... He kind-of sort of with no announcement or anything ran off on his own kind of sort of maybe," squealed High Five Ghost.

"What... The... FUCK?!" Benson stammered.

"Well, don't look at me, the fat dick over there let him run off!" Fives pleaded.

"Dude, who you calling a fa-"

"YOU TWO JUST LET HIM RUN OFF?!"

"Well, he's uh, kind of fast."

"YOU IDIOTS! Thomas cannot last out there on his own! What the fuck is wrong with you two?!" Benson screamed. His face grew bright red. He was seriously pissed over this, but things could not be happening in a worse way. And the worst part, all of this starting from fixing Pops' rifle occurred in less than fifteen minutes.

"What happened to Thomas?" Margaret asked, arms still around Mordecai.

Benson turned with a smile on his face. "Margaret, I know you're new. Oh by the way, welcome to the group. hehe I know this is a tad bit of an introduction, but if you don't mind; it seems that Muscle Man and High Five Ghost managed to Completely Lose The One Member Who Seems The Most Vulnerable And I ToldYouToTakeSpecialCareOf-WHAT THE FUCK IS WRONG WITH YOU TWO?!"

"Benson," Skips said trying to calm him down, "Thomas wanted to go off on his own before. I think he's mature enough to make it back here on his own."

"Mature? M-M-Mature...? You mean to tell me that kid, the same one who lied about Rigby, kept guns in the house and didn't trust to tell us, ran off on his own numerous times, and managed to get captured by Gene is mature enough... Let's not forget the fact that his left arm probably needs surgery done at this point..."

Benson stood there fuming for some time. All stood by waiting to see what would happen.

Roger silently leaned over to Muscle Man, "So the kid made like sheep and got the flock out there?"

"Pretty much," the green man calmly replied in a hushed tone.

"Hmm, you bring back anythan' nice?" Muscle Man reached into his bag and pulled out Mark's revolver. "Oooooh, that's nice," Roger said as he snatched it.

Benson finally said, "I'm not just mad, I am fucking furious..."

"Are we gonna open a can of whoopass on him?" Marceline said innocently. This was followed by a stark scolding from Simon not to use caca-potty mouth.

Benson said, "You know, I changed my mind. I like this kid. But you know, she's right..." The enraged gumball calmly left the circle. He went to the gun bag and grabbed the AR. "Skips," he said aloud to the yeti, "Is the truck still working?"

Skips saw where this was going. "I know what you're thinking. We're not going after him."

"Bullshit! Bullshit! Am I hearing this from you right?"

"All I'm saying is that we give him a chance. He's survived worse. He is probably on his way here right now."

"Yeah, Mhmm, Roger, what time is it?"

"Pfft," the mechanic replied, "I don' have a watch. But it looks kinda late."

"So you think he would have made it back by now? Maybe?"

Skips fumed this time. He stood his ground. "We'll wait for another hour. If he's not here by then, then I'll go looking with you."

Benson couldn't ask for anything more at this point. "Alright. Fine. We'll wait another hour. Everyone... before I completely lose my mind, I suggest finding something useful to do."

The group nervously dispersed. No one felt right about this situation. The notorious duo were sneaking away, thankful they got off easy.

"Uh-uhn! You two!" Benson said pointing at Fives and Muscle Man, "We only have half of a fence. You two are going to set the rest of it up. Tonight. Now!"

"Aw man!"

"NRRRGGRRGHHH!"

With the others on their own, Margaret pursued her former fiance. She motioned for him to follow her. Marceline came along while holding her new protector's hand. She led the two discreetly to one of the far corners of the coffee shop. The toppled walls provided them enough seclusion from the others.

One they were in this hiding spot, Margaret immediately wrapped her arms around Simon and kissed him passionately. Tears were forming down her face. "Oh God, oh God I can't believe its really you," she spoke with a lover's care. Her child won't have to grow up without a father anymore.

Simon was less than responsive. He knew not what to think or believe. It only seemed like yesterday since he made Margaret abandon him on his coming home party for his expedition. The last time he saw Betty, she felt nothing but torment.

Marceline looked puzzled. She inquired, "What's going on?"

Margaret was stunned by the sudden voice. She turned back to see the seven year old she met with the others just moments before. "Marceline, right? Hi. Sorry about not really getting to talk. I'm one of Mordecai's-"

"Simon's," Marceline corrected.

"What?"

"His name is Simon. Why is everyone saying Memordeka?"

The innocent sentence dug like thorns. This can't still be happening. She wiped her tears, "Y-yeah, I'm... I was S-S-Simon's... girlfriend. Yeah."

"So you, like, were in love and stuff?"

"Yeah. We were," Margaret said looking back to Mordecai.

"Eww, that sounds all gushy and gross!"

Margaret ignored the seven year old. "Please tell me you remember. Please, just tell me."

"Margaret. I don't know who I am anymore."

"What...?"

"Listen, I-"

"No, what does that mean?"

HE tenderly placed her hands upon her cheeks, "Listen. Nothing has changed. But, I-... I can't tell what's real and what's not." He slowly began to well up. His eyes were red. "This Crown is the only thing keeping me alive but it's tearing my mind apart and there's nothing I can do about it."

She resisted the urge to sob. She held in her emotions, yet the tears still came gushing out.

"Betty, I-"

"No, no, just-!"

It was too much.

He held her, "I'm still here. I may not be here, but I'm here. Right now. Nothing's changed. I'm still here for you and the baby."

She wiped her eyes. "Mordecai..." she continued, "I need you here, but I'm not sure about this.I don't know how I can take it. I thought... I thought you weren't coming back and now you're here and you have Marceline with you and I'm pregnant and- nnrrghh! It's too much, okay?! I need you here, but I don't know about what we're doing here."

She released him. "I'm sorry about that," she said apologizing for the kiss, "I guess I let my emotions get out of hand."

He sighed. Marceline grabbed his hand. She knew not what to say. She hardly understood what was happening or going on, but that single action seemed like the only course.

She then reached out for Margaret's hand. For some reason, it seemed to make everything okay inside. This sad stuff was boring and not fun. Marcy already cried for a day straight over her mom. She doesn't need to see any more of it.

Finally, she broke into their conversation, "Margaret, where do babies come from?"

The couple chuckled vigorously. Simon found this question the most awkwardly appealing way to end this. Margaret, however, her laugh seemed crossed with crying. She felt both ironic joy and chilling regret and worry at the same time.

Marceline was now a little angry that these two laughed at her comment. "Really, where do they come from?"

Rigby's wandering led him back to a familiar setting. He found himself back into the forest outside of Twin Peaks.

He felt relieved to be back; almost nostalgic. There was no Thomas, Margaret, or anything from his further life to dampen his vulnerable spirit. He was alone; joined only by the irresistible callings of the Lich and with his own guiltless actions.

It was, in its own way, peaceful. The lush green was much more appealing than the desolate gray of the ruined city. Rigby loved it compared to the aftermath, where he only encountered ruined friendships and dead ends.

But here... here he could be free to his actions.

So what can be done with this freedom?

There was only one thing on the little raccoon's mind.

He walked through the familiar setting only to smell something eerily even more familiar... blood.

The air reeked of it. This happened all too often when he was out here.

He followed his demonic instincts to the source.

It was about five or six. Dead.

Gunshot wounds.

Their blood painted the grass red.

"Nothing's changed," Rigby thought. Trade one enemy for the other.

He knew instantly who was to blame.

Rigby would wait. These scenarios happen all too often. It seems that whenever he finds these victims, his enemy just happens to drop by.

It won't be long now.

"What will you do to him?"

"I'm gonna take him on a romantic dinner date. You know what's gonna happen," Rigby sarcastically replied.

Just wait.

After the agonizing wait, his patience was rewarded.

Doug came through the brush. He seemed in a hurried state. Then he gazed around.

"Rigby..."

"Doug," Rigby plainly responded.

"What is going on here?"

"You tell me." Rigby was much more forceful this time. He refused to be as appeasing as their earlier encounters.

"Rigby, I saw what you did to the Syndicates. What-... what are you thinking?! You killed every one of them!"

"They got what they deserved."

"No they didn't! Rigby, those guys... Do you really think they were that important?! You just murdered every one! We had an agreement! I told you not to get involved!"

"He's only lying for his own interests."

Rigby's hunches flared to no extent. Every fiber of his body urged plunging a plasmid knife straight through Doug's skull.

"Doug, I did us all a favor. I saw the bodies and I know what they were doing. I don't care what drugs they were giving you, I did what I had to."

"R-Rigby... You think that's what this is about; why I'm angry? Rigby, people are dead!"

"Kill him."

The raccoon gazed around him, "I know. Would you like to tell me why?"

The otter was now confused, "Why what?" This conversation was descending at a rapid rate.

"Why you killed all these people."

"Rigby-"

"Kill him now."

"You're no different. We can't live together here."

Doug was truly fearful, "Rigby, I need you to listen-"

"Doug, I don't think you understand. You tried to steal my job, you killed so many, you helped the people making everything worse...You and I have unfinished business..." Rigby stated gravely. His hands slowly formed their demonic flames. He was consumed by anger. His face showed no remorse.

Everything screamed, kill. His hunches flared to no extent. The Lich's temptation proved far too great. Rigby was ready for blood.

Doug shook his head at the ground.

He chuckled.

What? Why the hell is he laughing about this?! Rigby is an unstoppable monstrosity. In moments, Doug's body will be nothing left but melted sludge splattered and slashed across a quarter mile of forest. His limbs will be severed and his torso ridden with stab wounds and bullet holes.

Why is he laughing?!

Doug's thick Chicagoan accent cut through the air, "I was afraid you were going to say that. But, you know, Rigby, you took the words right out of my mouth."

What?

What on earth is he-...

No...

Rigby felt it now. Those hunches never were for Doug. The bodies, they were in a spot completely concealed by trees and bushes. Rigby was out in the open.

They were waiting for him.

"Shit..."

At once, Rigby lifted a shield to his sides. The moment he did, the area was lit up with gunfire. Doug ran to the side, drawing his own pistol and firing as he ran.

Rigby felt the bullets bounce against his shield.

He needed to get out.

He launched demonic flames at both sides. He charged towards where Doug was. He dove through the bushes. A flash of orange. One of the prisoners stood with an MP5 set ablaze.

Rigby charged, slicing his rifle before stabbing the man clear through the chest.

More came.

They stuck to the trees for cover.

They fired, moving with precision like maneuvering. They were wearing him down.

Rigby's rage burned brighter inside of him. He screamed.

Then he charged.

He blocked the bullets as he sprinted. A fireball was sent to a near-by cluster.

A man stood by a tree firing. Rigby spun against the trunk around from the other side. The surprise knife stuck into the man's neck. Bullets ripped into his body that were aimed for Rigby. They exited his torso, strewing bloody chunks of raw flesh through the air. Rigby held tight against the trunk, bullets grazing inches in front of him.

A hunch to the left.

He drew his gun and extended his left arm, the right still holding the knife into the man's neck. He fired at an attacker's stomach. He clutched his chewed torso before another of Rigby's shot splattered his brains across the grass below.

His anger swelled.

He swung back around, sending massive engulfing jets at whoever he saw.

He cared not for himself, only that every one of Doug's men lay dead.

He was being worn down. His arms steamed ferociously. The pain was becoming too great.

The forest itself faced only the green deluge as death rained in.

Rigby's rage was delusional. All except two had escaped this reign of death. Yet Rigby continued to blast at the convicts. The over exhaustion was too much.

He backed away. The rest followed at a safe distance. No one could make the shot. Those that could had their bullets incinerated into nothing.

Rigby released the constant stream of fire. Now, fireball after fireball he lobbed. His arms began to slowly burn. He screamed with each toss.

Doug rolled to Rigby's side. He held an AK in hand.

Rigby turned to face him.

He tried to create a shield, only to find he no longer had the energy.

This is what Doug wanted.

BANG

A round dug straight into Rigby's right thigh, ripping the muscle to shreds and tossing blood carelessly through the air. He fell to his knee.

BANG

The next drove into his left shoulder, pushing him backwards.

In his haste, Rigby failed to realize his surroundings. He backed himself against a rather large hill, which Doug's bullets pushed him down. The whizzing of Doug's bullets went overhead as Rigby stumbled backwards.

Down he tumbled. His frail, small body flipped and tossed around violently as he descended down the incline. It was as monstrously long as it was steep.

Empty screams escaped his mouth as he fell.

Loose twigs and branches clawed at his skin.

Finally, he reached the climactic summit with a gory schlup against a resting log.

A sharp branch which stuck out from it now stabbed clean through the lower part of his right leg. The wood stuck straight through the other side.

He screamed violently. It was unlike any pain he every experienced before in his life.

He grasped his leg only to recoil violently. The sheer touch sent electrifying jolts through his entire body.

Blood was foul in the air as it smeared across the log and the raccoon's fur.

Gunshots were heard in the distance. Thankfully, he was too far away. The bullets arced downward into the ground further up the hill. But the would soon come for him.

He was crying. Tears cascaded down at unparalleled speeds. His screaming lowered.

"Get up, Rigby."

"I-I can't!"he screamed back.

"They'll come for you, Rigby."

The fear of death overwhelmed him.

He forced his torso upwards. The gunshot wound sat inches above the fresh stab wound. His left arm was but immobile.

He forced his right hand onto his leg. The pain was excruciating.

"AGGHHHHH!" he yelped as he tried to pry his leg from the wood. He was working his leg off, fractions of an inch per second. Blood spurted plentifully from the wound as it was re-opened.

At last, his leg was free.

He collapsed back to the ground.

His hunches exploded inside his brain. The log was riddled by three successive shots.

Rigby forced himself onto his left leg. He hobbled, hopping desperately.

He tried to apply pressure onto his right foot onto collapse to the ground. His own blood smeared his entire chest. It seeped into his fur. Though blood previously donned his chest, now the stench of his blood was nauseating.

The rounds were falling further and further behind. Rigby had distance on his side now.

The tears never stopped descending down his face.

"Have to... get away..." he managed to think amidst the damage.

He made his way further into the forest, a bloody trail following behind.

Upon the hill, Doug released the magazine on his AKM. He loaded a fresh one. His face was conflicted with guilt and of civic duty.

One of his men came up to him. Doug ordered, "We're going after him. That trail's not going anywhere. Even if we don't catch him, we how to stop him. It seems like his magic whatever gets tired. The angrier he gets, the more tired he gets. Simple."

He racked back the bolt on his rifle. He looked off down the hill. The raccoon was now blocked from sight by the trees. He muttered aloud, "Let's go bag a killer."

I told you this would be more intense. The next chapter will be just as exciting.

Just letting you know, I will not be available until late Saturday, the twelfth. I will be camping, which means I will not be able to answer PMs, respond to reviews, post new chapters, or any of that sort. However, this will give me plenty of time to think for chapter 5.

Thanks for the read and have a wonderful, hopefully not as bloody, day.