The Long Way Home
By
E. S. Young
Chapter Ten: Questioning People, Questioning Dreams
(harsh sigh) All right. -.- Since is being less than kind, what with not allowing my italics, bold, spacing, slashes, or pretty much any other kind of fonts or marks to work, I'm going to have to use substitutes in order to avoid confusing. (deep breath) SO . . . whenever a scene changes, where you would usually see: wavy line, star thingy, wavy line (I forget what they're called, sorry), instead you will see the words 'Scene One, Two, Three, etc.' And whenever Lyn or Sands is hearing the voice in their heads, instead of the usual double slash marks, there will be double quotation marks: ""something, something."" If you guys find it annoying, then you have no idea how irked I am at this sudden change. Why FFN suddenly decided to deprive me (as well as several other people) of italics and stuff like that I do not know. It's been like this since I came to this site and only now have my punctuation marks disappeared on me. Oh, and just as a warning, you guys have a dream sequence coming. D Can ya dig it?
NOTE: This was written before fixed their problem with the italics, bold, etc. After that little problem was repaired, I went back and edited this story complete with bold, underlined, and italic lettering. I just wanted to keep that intro the same cuz I liked it. (shrug)
- - -
This was strange . . . even when he was lacking in sight, Sands could still see. Not with his eyes, of course, but there were substitutes. Sound, scent, and touch worked efficiently enough. Though they wouldn't work forever. Something was bound to happen sooner or later. Ohhh, that's right. Something HAD happened. That's why he had another hole to add to his ever-growing collection of injuries. He had six in all, however, he shouldn't have had any of those injuries in the first place. Well, one of them, anyway. Part of him couldn't help but admit that.
'Fucking bastard, Miller . . .' Sands thought bitterly, before turning over on the bed and gradually falling back to sleep.
That was another strange thing. When he was asleep, when he dreamed, he could still see. Sands remembered shrugging it off whenever he thought about this later. He supposed it was because . . . he wasn't literally SEEING the images before him but . . . they were being placed in his head. He could still picture things in his mind; the cartel hadn't deprived him of his vivid, if rather twisted, imagination. The mind was a very dangerous thing at times, and yet it could also be very useful. Sands knew that. He had known it for as long as he could remember, which was a very . . . very . . . long . . . time . . .
Sheldon Jeffery Sands had grown up in central Colorado with his loving family of four. Scratch that. He had grown up in Colorado, but the words 'loving' and 'family' were never used when talking about S. Jeffery Sands. He had been robbed of the only person he could have ever called true family when he was only eight. And, for the longest time, he had blamed Lynné for that.
For the first few years of his life, Sands had lived with his father and mother in a large house in a nice neighborhood. Things had been all right, well, why wouldn't they be if your family was rich? True, they didn't live in a mansion but their home was rather spacious nonetheless, and they weren't so poor that his father couldn't afford to pay for lessons in tennis and horseback riding. Yes, horseback riding, but Sands couldn't say it wasn't a useful skill to know. He had gotten out of more that one situation by using the aid of a horse.
Sure, his life was okay. He had nice possessions and, for a child, he was very bright. He even had several other children he could consider friends, but he was younger at the time, more trusting when it came to people. But none of those things made up for how things were at home. Sands father was decent to him, in the beginning, at least, but he was never incredibly close with the man. He always preferred his mother to his father. That was obvious.
His mother was very pretty from what Sands could remember of her. She had long, dark hair, fair skin, and light blue eyes, unlike his father who had light brown hair, a normal skin color, and deep brown eyes. Like his. Like his used to be.
The forlorn thoughts left as quickly as they came, and Sands was spared for the time being.
Things had been going fairly well up until the time he was four. He was getting along very well with his mom, and, though they had a few rows here and there, Sands and his father were civil towards each other. But then, things . . . changed . . . and Beatrice Lynné Sands entered his life.
Sands didn't like the little girl from the start. He wasn't sure what it was, but something told him that the child was an enemy. Admittedly, when Beatrice was born she was showered with attention and he hadn't cared for that in the least, but it was more than jealousy that drove him towards hatred. Perhaps it was the certain date of her birth that did it. Beatrice Lynné Sands was born on February 26 . . . . . Sheldon Jeffery Sands had been born five years earlier on February 29. Needless to say, with Beatrice being born, Sands' birthday was forgotten that year.
'Fucking leap year,' Sands thought as he tried to fall asleep. 'I still don't care for THAT little arrangement.'
But his loathing for his sister had increased three years later.
They had been in the car, his mom and his hated sibling, heading towards the nursery school where Beatrice stayed while their mother went to work at her law firm and their father did his things with the government. They had been driving down the freeway, but they hadn't been the only ones. There had been several other drivers . . . one of whom was, though the police could never find evidence against him, drunk.
Sands could remember everything about that day. His father receiving the phone call, the call that had informed them that his mother and sister had been involved in a car accident. His father almost drove off without him, but Sands had beaten him to the BMW and was already sitting in the car when his father finally came out of the house.
He could remember the doctors saying that his mother, the driver, would not live through the night, but that his sister would, but only because she had been in the back seat. She was still badly injured and would need a blood transfusion, and quickly for she didn't have a high blood count to begin with, but they were out of the type of blood she needed. His father had hurriedly informed them that his son, Sheldon, had the same blood as Beatrice.
The little girl lay unconscious on the hospital bed, bruised and cut, as Sands watched the doctors inject his blood into her. As he took all of this in, scorn ate away at his insides. If she hadn't been born, his mother wouldn't have had to drive her to school, if she hadn't been born, there wouldn't have been a car wreck, if she hadn't been born, two pints of blood would still be inside of him.
But there was someone else to blame: the driver of the other vehicle. Of course he had gotten off scot-free. He was fine, save for a few scrapes. Hell, he wasn't even thrown in jail for DUI because this was the nineteen eighties, before it was against the law to be driving drunk.
'Yeah, I had at least twelve shots before I got on the road . . .' the bastard admitted it! They had all heard him. But nooo, no. . . .that wasn't 'enough evidence' according to the police. Fuckmooks. That's why Sands despised all kinds of law enforcement. Funny that he became a CIA agent many years later.
Sands tossed uneasily on the bed. He was still a little cold, but not as cold as he had been a few hours ago. Sleep still evaded him, however, and thoughts of the past continued to enter his mind. Sighing wearily, Sands turned over once more.
His mother had died. He remembered her lying on the hospital bed in a room that was white and bare (color seemed to be illegal in hospitals), her dark brown hair splayed out on the pillows beneath her, her cool blue eyes closed. He would never see her eyes again . . . .
But she didn't look like she was that badly hurt. But she was bleeding internally, and there was nothing the doctors could do. Sands hadn't been allowed in the room as his mother lay dying, instead, two doctors had ushered him out into the hallway while his father stayed with his mother.
Sands shifted again, wishing the bed he was laying on was warmer. Wait, that wasn't right. He wasn't THAT cold, and there were how many blankets covering him? Suddenly, a part of him understood that the warmth he was seeking wasn't heat.
Aww . . . isn't that sweeeet? the voice in his head cooed mockingly. You're more human than you thought.
'Shut up. If I'm NOT human, then what the fuck am I?'
Beats the shit outta me. I'm just a voice in your head, remember?
'All too well,' Sands replied coldly. 'Wait a minute . . .what the fuck is laying next to me?'
What? Oh. Lyn. I think she passed out or something . . .
"What!?!"
Sands shot straight up in bed and regretted it two seconds later. The wound in his side immediately fired shots of pain through his torso, but he hissed through his teeth and did his best to ignore it.
"Mmm...what?" he heard Lynné mumble next to him.
"What the hell happened?" Sands demanded furiously.
". . . . . nothing – wait a minute, why am I sleeping in your bed?" Lyn wondered aloud.
"Why are you . . . yeah."
Though neither of them knew it, at the same time, both of the voices in their minds cackled insanely at how dense their torment-ees could be.
"Ohhh," Lyn sighed with realization, "Oh, oh, oh. . . Okay. I know what happened."
"Really," said Sands sarcastically, "Do tell."
"Wellll," she said casually, "after you passed out, I drained a pint of my blood, gave it to you, and then collapsed."
"On this bed?" Sands asked incredulously.
Lynné looked down at the sheets below her.
"Yep."
Sands exhaled dramatically as Lyn crossed her arms and leaned back against the wall the bed was pushed up against.
"So you drained your blood --" he said disbelievingly.
"-- only a pint--" Lyn corrected.
"-- when you knew that was a dumbassed move?" he continued, acting as though he hadn't heard her.
"It would've been dumber if I'd've just let you die, but, hey, can't chance the past. Not yet."
"Crazy bitch . . ." Sands muttered tiredly, suddenly feeling extremely lightheaded now that that dilemma was out of the way.
Lynné's expression changed from casual to concerned in an instant. Sure, Sands was sitting up, but he wouldn't be for long. His upper body was already swaying dizzily and his head hung slightly as if he hadn't enough strength to hold it up anymore. His skin had become pale and clammy and, as she once again placed her hand on his head, she detected a fever.
Gently, Lynné took Sands by the shoulders and started to ease him down onto the bed.
"Lyn, what are you –"
"C'mon, lay down," she instructed, her voice orderly yet comforting. That was something new.
"Why? I'm –"
"Say fine and I'll add another hole to your mounting collection. Now. . . down, boy."
"No, Lyn, I'm fine," Sands tried to protest. "After what you did, you probably need more sleep than –"
"Oh, gosh, don't get me started on sleep, mister. And I don't need any. YOU on the other hand are sick and suffering from blood loss, not to mention the fact that you went into shock last night. . ."
"I went into shock?" Sands wondered out loud.
"Too right you did, now down."
At last, Sands came into contact with the bed, and when he did, he didn't bother to get back up.
'God, why am I so tired?' Sands thought. One moment ago he had been at full attention, but now he was groggy, his mind was clouded. He needed sleep desperately.
Oh, gosh, let's think about this. You were shot how many times?
'Only four. That's one less than when I was stationed in France.'
Only by one fucking shot.
Sands obliged to his sister's orders, but only by leaning back to rest his head on Lyn's lap. For some reason, he felt that his sister would exit the scene, maybe not entirely, but just long enough to leave him alone with his thoughts. He wanted to make certain she stayed.
Why, though? the voice wondered curiously. Why do you want her to stay?
'Need somebody to annoy,' was Sands' stiff response.
Oh, fuck that, snorted the voice. That's what I'M here for, fuckmook.
'Damnit, I wish he'd stop doing that,' Lyn thought, annoyed.
Catchin' ya off guard, isn't he?
'No.'
Yes.
'No.'
YES.
'Fuck you.'
That was weak.
- - -
Lynné Sands opened her dark brown eyes with a start. She had always been a light sleeper, always ready to spring into action at a moment's notice. And in order to sleep, she had to have complete darkness. The slightest glimmer of light would keep her awake.
But there wasn't any light right now. Her bedroom was completely dark. So what had woken her up . . . ?
She sat up abruptly in her bed, her straight, shoulder-length hair swinging around her head as she did so. There it was again, the thing that had interrupted her sleep. It was a long, drawn-out, gasping sort of sound, like someone who was trying desperately to calm themselves. Somewhere, someone was distressed or even terrified.
As quietly as she could, Lynné swung her feet over the edge of the bed. They dangled about a foot or two above the floor. Lynné frowned down at them. She didn't like being tiny, but that's the way she was.
Carefully, she slid off of her bed. Her feet hit the floor making no noise. She remained silent as she slipped out of her bedroom. Stealthily, she went down the shadowy hallway, her bare feet inaudible on the cool, hardwood floors. Placing a hand on the door next to hers, Lynné turned the knob, and poked her head inside the room.
Her older brother had his knees drawn up to his chest tightly as he sat up on his bed shaking uncontrollably. Long, dark, hair that fell to his chin curtained his face, but his eyes were still visible. His eyes, identical to hers, were livid with fear. They kept darting around the room as if terrified that something was going to jump out of the dark corners.
Cautiously, Lynné approached him. He couldn't hear her, her feet never made a sound, but his bedroom door had undoubtedly moved. Sitting up abruptly, her brother narrowed his eyes and focused all of his concentration on detecting movement or sound. He knew he wasn't imagining things. The darkness that surrounded him wasn't toying with his mind as it had been. That door had moved, he was sure of it.
Four-year-old Beatrice Lynné Sands, in her light pink nightgown made of soft satin, crept into his room. Hatred banished fear as he took in the girl's small form. He hated everything about her, and why shouldn't he? She had taken everything that was his: his hair, his eyes, his blood, his mother. He had every right to despise the little girl.
"What do you want?" demanded eight-year-old Sheldon, glaring at her furiously.
"Are you okay?" she asked curiously. Her sentence was simple but perfect. At the age of four it was clear that the child was smart. Her grammar was hardly ever wrong, her sentences never held any errors, and she probably knew more words than the rest of the kids in their neighborhood combined. Well, except for HIM, of course. Sheldon was a bright child as well, his parents had determined that years ago. He remembered, briefly, when his parents had praised him for his achievements. But those days were over. Now it was all about darling little Beatrice.
"I'm fine," he spat furiously. "Get lost."
Beatrice rolled her eyes at him. "That's a lie."
"No, it's not."
"Yeah, it is." She put her small hands on her hips and narrowed her dark eyes at him. "What's wrong?"
"If there was anything wrong, I wouldn't tell YOU," her brother sneered.
Her eyebrows rose at this remark.
"Why?"
Sheldon paused. Didn't she know? He looked at the little girl in front of him, considering her intently for a few seconds. She really didn't know?? Was she THAT stupid? Here he had thought she was smart, guess that was a mistake if she didn't even know he hated her. Maybe she didn't know WHY, but surely she knew at least THAT much. Yes, that must be it. But then again . . . . he had never really shown any scorn towards her. Sheldon merely pretended Beatrice didn't exist, and whenever he had to talk to her, he kept things brief. Maybe she thought he was quiet. If she did . . .
"Don't you know?" he asked incredulously.
"I know lots of things," Beatrice replied simply.
Now it was time for Sheldon to roll his eyes. "I mean, don't you know that I . . . y'know, don't like you?"
"Yeah, kinda," she said, hoisting herself up on his bed. He glared down at her. Beatrice . . . was sitting . . .on HIS . . . bed. "But you were keeping me awake. SO," she continued, looking up at him expectantly. "What's wrong?"
Her brother scowled down at her. There was no way he was about to spill his guts to HER. Besides, she was four, what could she do? What COULD she do . . . ? She was just a little girl, after all, it wasn't like she'd remember any of this the next morning. Little kids had short-term memories.
Not her, a small voice reminded him. She was talking when she was nine months old. Yeah, her memory's reeeeal short.
He couldn't remember when he had first heard the voice, it was so long ago. It seemed like it had started speaking to him when Beatrice was born. Yes, that made sense. He felt neglected after his little sister arrived and he needed someone to talk to. Unfortunately, Sheldon had never asked for the voice. It had shown up on its own will.
"Nightmare?"
"What?" Sheldon asked, turning his attention back to his sister.
"Did – you – have – a – nightmare?" she asked slowly and deliberately.
"What – yeah . . ." He trailed off, stunned that that little girl had gotten an answer out of him so quickly.
"About . . . ." Beatrice held out her hand as if waiting for him to put the answer there. Nothing happened; her brother continued to stare at the carpeting. She rolled her eyes again. This was getting irritating. If she wanted to get in a decent amount of sleep, she'd have to get some answers now.
"Sheldon?" she asked intently.
Her brother's head snapped up. His dark hair swung around as he turned sharply to face her. No . . . she hadn't . . . she hadn't . . .
"Don't – call me – that," he ordered through gritted teeth. "I HATE that name."
To his surprise, Beatrice smiled.
"Me neither. You don't really look like a Sheldon," she said eyeing him critically.
He winced at the sound of the name, but said nothing.
"If it makes you feel any better," she continued, "I hate MY name, too."
Sheldon considered the small girl beside him for a moment. No, Beatrice didn't fit her any better than Sheldon fit him.
"What about your middle name?" he asked her. "Lynné isn't that bad."
"Yeah," she agreed, nodding slightly. "Yeah, that's okay. What about you?"
Her brother wrinkled his nose in disgust.
"Jeffery makes me sound like a little kid," he told her.
Once again, Lynné rolled her eyes, giving him a 'duh' expression.
"Yeah, but it's better than Sheldon," she informed him.
"I still don't like it," he stated firmly.
"Well what about just calling you by your LAST name?" Lynné suggested thoughtfully.
Gazing down at her, Sheldon pondered what his sister had been saying. Why was she doing all of this? Did she expect something in return? Because she wasn't going to get anything out of him if that's what she thought. But then he took something into consideration: Lynné was his sister, and from what he had noticed in the short time they'd been 'bonding,' she was very much like him.
Realization sinking in, Sheldon turned to Lynné and gave her a rare smile.
"Yeah, Sands'll work."
- - -
Lynné's eyelashes fluttered as she slowly drifted out of sleep. As she lifted her head off the wall, she glanced around the room. Instantly, memories of the past twenty-four hours began to flood her mind. The Day of the Dead, taking out a few nobodies, kicking Ajedrez hard like she had always wanted to, Sands leaning against the rough wall of a building, blood trailing down his limbs and face . . .
She blinked rapidly to clear her head, but it didn't help. New, more recent events came into focus. Lynné thought of how she had asked her brother to remove his sunglasses when he told her what had happened, how they had talked a bit while she was stitching him up. Then she thought of the two black cars she had seen pull up in front of her house, seen four people step out of the vehicles, and realized that they were no people, they were a quartet of her fellow agents – the agents!
Lynné shot up abruptly, not disturbing Sands in the least. He was still asleep and using her as a cushion. Shaking her head and remembering that her brother had always been a deep sleeper, Lynné took in her situation. There were three dead and one possibly alive CIA agents in her house, and she couldn't think of how she was going to get up. Lynné was just about to let her irritability get the best of her and simply shove Sands over to the other side of the bed, when Liam strolled through the door.
"Hello," she said, giving him a tired smirk that didn't quite meet her eyes.
"Hi," he replied cautiously. "I, um, tied Baronn up and, uh, did what I could with the others."
"Which was?" prompted Lynné.
"Well, I dragged them all into the living room as best I could and cleaned up the blood."
Lynné nodded in approval.
"Baronn still unconscious?"
Her partner shook his head.
"She was coming to after I tied her up. You hit her pretty hard," he explained, smiling slightly. "How's your hand?"
"Fine, fine." Lynné waved him off with her unharmed hand purposely. If he saw the bruising that was forming on the other . . . she didn't need him feinting on her again.
Biting her lower lip, Lynné reached across her for a pillow. Once she had one in her grasp, she began the tedious task of replacing her legs with it without waking Sands. Finally, after several long minutes, she succeeded and Sands had a pillow under his head instead of her lap. Lynné looked up and smirked when she saw Liam watching her with a politely confused expression on his face.
"If I didn't know better," he said, "I'd swear you've done that before."
Lynné's smile widened a bit.
"For some reason . . ." she drawled lazily, "most men I come into contact with find ME a better cushion than the real thing."
- - -
Agent Baronn was exactly where Liam had left her: tied to a chair at the kitchen table. Her dark, nearly black hair framed her face, shielding her pale green-blue eyes from view. The heavy eye makeup she always wore had been smudged, leaving dark circles under her eyes and, with her short black hair, making her look more gothic than usual. Her bright red lips had been punctured by Lynné's fist and blood was slowly trickling down them, past the yellowish-purple bruising that had formed on her pale chin, and onto the dark blue blazer she wore.
Pulling out a second chair, Lynné sat down directly across from her and flashed her a sardonic smile.
"Hi."
Baronn only response was to narrow her eyes at the woman in front of her. In return, Lynné sighed with disdain.
"Merie . . . I thought we'd outgrown the silent treatment." She sighed again. "Apparently not."
"And I, as well as everyone else at the Company, thought YOU were dead," snapped Baronn.
"Once again, apparently not," said Lynné, smiling once again. "Now, down to business –"
"It's no business of YOURS," Baronn informed her in a haughty tone that was met with a raised eyebrow. There was silence for a few moments, but then a smirk crossed Lynné's face.
"You're right," she said, "It IS no business of mine; it is that of my brother's. However, since he is unable to join us at the moment, I am acting as his official spokeswoman. So kindly answer the questions I ask . . . and I can guarantee you that --"
"Guarantee what?" the agent spat. "That I won't go into cardiac arrest?" She snorted. "Yeah, tell that to the last person you interrogated."
Lynné's eyes narrowed, enhancing her dangerous image even more.
"I wasn't informed that that suspect had a heart condition, a fact that you and I both know. Just because my questions made him a little excited and it had a tiny effect on his nerves, doesn't mean that'll happen to everyone I interrogate."
She smiled mirthlessly again, and this time, Baronn was unnerved, but she held her ground and glared back.
"Prod all you want, you fucking bitch, but I'm not telling you anything."
"And what a good little agent you are for doing that," Lynné complimented in a high, falsely cheery voice, resisting the urge to pat Baronn on the head like a dog that had just preformed a cute trick. Dropping the act, Lynné continued.
"But you need to stop screwing around." She waited for a few seconds, half-expecting Baronn to start talking. No dice. Time to try a new tactic.
"Okay," Lynné said, standing up and beginning to walk back and forth in front of the table, "even if you won't give me any information, I still think I have a decent idea of what's going on."
She paused staring intently at the agent before her. Said agent's icy gaze didn't waver in the slightest.
"Sands told me he had called the Company yesterday because it looked as though his cover had been blown –"
"By who?" Baronn interrupted.
"Ajedrez," Lynné replied shortly.
"Ajedrez. . . ?" she repeated slowly. "But wasn't she an AFN agent -- ?"
"She also happened to be Barillo's daughter," Lynné cut in. "Anyway, after Sands called the agency and they hung up on him, he ran into the cartel and things got a little . . . ugly, but I won't go into details." She waved her hand dismissively. "Needless to say, he escaped the cartel, I found him, and then you guys dropped by.
"Now this is where it gets a little hazy, you see, after Sands told me that the CIA hadn't bothered to help him, I got to thinking –"
"Always a dangerous thing for you to do," muttered Baronn.
Lynné gave her a swift, warning look and she shut her mouth.
"I got to thinking and wondered if he had been burned. It seemed possible, and why not? That's what happened to me."
She heard a small, startled gasp escape Baronn and smirked down at her.
"Oh, come now. You couldn't have thought that I didn't know? But then again, I'm supposed to be dead, so I guess you must've.
"Moving along, I then wondered, if the CIA had indeed thrown Sands away, what their reason was. . . . ."
Suddenly, she sat down again, her eyes perfectly level with Baronn's, and said out of the blue:
"Sometimes, things can be too good, did you know that?" Lynné didn't wait for an answer. "Lots of things are good, but every once in a while you'll find something that's TOO good . . . and that tends to throw things off balance. And do you know what has to be done whenever that happens?" Once again, she didn't wait for Baronn to respond before continuing. "You get rid of it, and by doing that you restore the balance.
"Lots of things have been eliminated because they were too good: Presidents, CIA agents, cooks—"
"Cooks?" Baronn interrupted.
"Oh yeah," said Lynné, nodding. "You'd be surprised how many cooks have been killed because they were good at their job. But by doing so . . .the balance was restored. And that is what I think the CIA tried to do. Sands was too good at his job, the Company realized that that simply wouldn't do, so they tried to get rid of him without . . . actually . . . getting rid of him."
Baronn continued to stare into Lynné's eyes, but now she looked somewhat uncomfortable. Hoping that Lynné wouldn't notice her sudden nervousness would be useless. That bitch saw everything; she had already figured out the CIA's plans, and she hadn't even been in contact with the Company for three years.
"I'm assuming the CIA caught word that Sands was still alive, so that's why they sent you four out here to investigate. I'm also assuming that your first lead was this place because of a certain phone call you received last night –"Lynné saw Baronn's pale eyes widen through the massive amount of makeup around them. "Yes, that WAS me," she said, smiling slightly.
Lynné strolled calmly over to the table and once again took her seat across from Baronn.
"So tell me, Merie," she said, grinning maliciously, "are my skills still in tack or has Mexico rusted them a bit?"
Biting her lip and tasting blood in her mouth, Baronn swallowed, and Lynné knew that her gifts of intuitiveness and manipulation hadn't wavered in the least. Her lips pulled into a small smirk of triumph that Baronn noticed right away and didn't like at all.
"What are you going to do with me?" demanded Baronn, her tone low and growling.
"Do you remember what I said about you being a good little agent?" Lynné asked calmly.
Baronn gave her a questioning look. What did that have to do with -- her eyes suddenly widened with realization and shock as Lynné's words sunk in. She didn't seem to be able to move, not that she could have. She was still tied to the kitchen chair. Finally, after several silent minutes, Baronn managed a jerky nod.
"Then you should already know," Lynné said casually.
Without another word, she pulled a small silver gun out of her pocket, and aimed.
- - -
(reads list of pages) O.O Meep, I can't believe how long this chapter is!! . Eleven pages may not seem like much to some, but for someone (namely me) whose chapters only last about eight pages or so, that's a lot. And, gerrh, I didn't even get to fit everything in this chapter! Only one of the three things I promised in the last chapter happened in this one. Well, ya got your dream sequence, at least, and in the NEXT installment, expect bargaining and escape! Promise!
.