Author's Note: Heh, heh, heh. No new reviews, people. I am getting frustrated. And feel as though I have once again been slacking off in the torture-my-characters department. I'm tired of being so NICE all the time. Maybe I should leave them out in the rain. Why am I saying 'maybe,' you ask? Well, do you think I PLAN what is going to happen! No, I swear, the story writes itself. I am just the medium through which it expresses itself. It is quite an honor bows to Story Gods I have been blessed. Now...who wants some characters to be in pain? waits for uproar but hears none Ok then...who wants me to continue being terribly nice to them? still hears nothing Urgh, what's the use of being blessed by the Story Gods if nobody reads the stories? I guess I do have some control over what happens. I get to come up with all the bad things that happen to them. cackles Maybe I was blessed by the Story Satan instead. ONWARDS!

I hate rain, it makes everything so gray and dismal. I don't play outside much, so you can wonder why it really matters, it won't ruin my day, right? Wrong. It just casts this heavy atmosphere over me, like the overcast sky. It simply sucks out my energy. That is, unless I am out in it.

Which in this case, here and now, I am. As I leapt out of the boxcar, my boots landed on the muddy ground with a squelch, sending mud up on my pants legs. I was glad I hadn't taken my pants off, it would be hell if mud flew up my skirt. Ugh, not something I want to think about right now.

Every time I put my foot down, mud splattered my pants even more. I wished I had brought a rain jacket.

I had initially been worried I wouldn't be able to keep up with Brand, as I am no marathon runner, but my worries faded as I remembered that Chunk was a good deal slower than I was. Since the fence limited our area, we had to stay in single file. I was somewhere in the middle of the line, with Chunk and Data behind me (but only because Data had tripped over his long trenchcoat at some point and had mud all up the front of his clothes, and specks of it on his face). Ok, so I was in the back of the middle of the line. Don't bother me with technicalities.

The forest gave way to town after about a quarter mile. "This is...Main Street," Chunk huffed. "This is...the street...the tavern's on...I think..." he stopped and took a few breaths, bending over. I'm not saying I'm in the best shape in the world, but his face was terribly red despite the cool air and the rain. That's what he got for eating all those Baby Ruth's and Twinkie's.

Breath, breath, "Ok, let's...go!" and we took off again, down a hill on the right. I didn't know if we were going the right way, and by the looks of it Brand didn't either, but he just kept running like he knew exactly where he was going. For all I know he may have been right, though, because Chunk didn't complain. Then again, he could barely talk. He didn't stop running, though. No sign of protest. I hoped we were in the right direction, because I was getting really tired.

After another eighth of a mile or so, Mouth and Mikey began to slow down. Then Data, then Andy. Brand got the idea and slowed down to a smooth jog, which was easier for me to keep up. Eventually Mikey fell down and didn't get back up, so we had to stop.

Brand crouched over his brother. "Mikey, you idiot, get up! You're going to get sick if you lay down in the rain!"

Andy tapped him on the shoulder. "I think he's already sick, listen."

A buzz started in our little group. "LISTEN!" Brand bellowed. "Everyone shut up for a minute."

In the quiet, I could still only hear the rain and the buzz of the occasional car a few streets over. But in a second I could hear Mikey's breathing, it was ragged. It sounded like he had something caught in his chest.

"Oh, god," Brand said, looking worried.

"What?" I asked, my eyes growing wide. "What is it?" I am quick to jump to conclusions, and I could feel my heart rate speeding up. Panic is the enemy, panic is the enemy, panic is something I am VERY good at.

"He's having an asthma attack," Brand said frantically. "Listen!"

"Did he bring his inhaler? Someone get his inhaler out of his backpack!" Andy screamed, wiping rain off of her face. It was beginning to rain harder. This was a very, very bad time for Mikey's asthma to begin acting up.

Mouth turned Mikey on his side and took off his backpack. He rummaged around in it. "It has got to be in here somewhere..." he pulled out a stuffed pig. "What the hell is this?"

Brand narrowed his eyes. "Give me that," he snapped, and stuffed it in his own backpack. I couldn't help laughing at this. I shut up quickly, though, when Andy gave me a death glare.

Panic set in again inside of me, and I squeezed my eyes shut. I felt like I was in pain, simply because my friend was here suffering and there was nothing I could do about it, I was so helpless and insignificant...a little voice in the back of my head said, "Chill, dude. It's an bloody asthma attack, he's not gonna i die /i , for crying out loud." But I am well known for ignoring the little voices in the back of my head, which are usually more sensible than I am.

p i "She's not gonna make it." /i /p

I looked up. "What? Who said that? Who's not gonna make it?"

Brand looked at me like I was crazy. "What the hell are you going on about? Nobody said anything!"

I know I had heard something, but my mind was pulled out of this little wisp of thought by a tiny moan from Mikey, and a frustrated grunt from Mouth, who was still rummaging around in the backpack.

I moved closer to Mikey. "Can you say anything?"

"Can't...breathe...help..."

I brushed his wet hair out of his face. "Mouth is looking for your inhaler as we speak, just hang on a minute."

"THAT'S IT!"

The outburst came from Chunk, who had obviously by now regained his ability to speak. He was jumping up and down, pointing excitedly to a stone building on the other side of the street. "That's the tavern, guys! Come on! Get Mikey and come on!"

I stood up and shook the hair out of my eyes. I could make out some words over the door, the Something Tavern. Close enough. I turned back around, and Brand had already taken Mikey into his arms and started running towards the tavern. Everyone else followed, except for Mouth, who was putting things back into the backpack. "Go, Mouth!" I shouted. "I'll pick up the stuff, just go!"

He nodded without question (!) and ran after them. I knelt down and picked up some tins and cans and a deck of cards, then a pocket map of Oregon. Once I collected all the dropped items, I carried them in my arms and rushed down the street, through the rain, and into the tavern, even passing Mouth. I did, however, get a look at the name of the tavern. "Hey Chunk!" I yelled when I got inside. "You said it was called Ye Olde Lighthouse tavern."

He looked up. "Actually it might be called the Pentacle Pub."

"It's called Chestnut Tavern and Pub!" I yelled.

I looked around me. It was quite...wooden. Everything in here was polished oak wood. Wooden tables and chairs and floor and walls and counters. Everything but the glasses and beer. Even the people seemed to be wooden, as they were all old and wore common expressions of amusement and confusion as they looked at us over their drinks. The actual bar was in the middle of the room, and there was a passage to the right that looked like it led a long way back, possibly to the rooms. The pub was well-lit by randomly placed lanterns on the ceiling, which was quite useful, because even though it couldn't be past one or two o'clock, it was fairly dark outside.

There was a kind of bench-cot thing near the door, where I found everyone else. All except Chunk, who had sat at a table as if he was waiting for someone to come and take his order. Which he probably was.

By this time Brand was fed up and said, "Data, help Mouth find Mikey's inhaler!"

"You got it!" said Data, glad to be given a task, and he scampered over to Mouth, who had taken a seat on the floor a couple meters away from the bench.

I wiped the rain off of my face and kneeled down next to the bench-cot. "Mikey! Can you say anything?"

He just moaned a little bit and said, "N...no."

"Stop asking him if he can talk, you idiot!" Brand yelled, making everyone else in the bar turn to look at us. "Don't make him talk!"

My temper flared at this. "How dare you insult my intelligence. You don't seem to know much about what you're doing."

"At least I don't panic in the face of danger, unlike SOME people," he muttered.

"Say that again."

"What?"

"Say that again, I dare you."

Andy rushed between us. "You guys, be quiet!"

"Found it!" Data yelled triumphantly, pulling out a rounded, L-shaped object from Mikey's pack.

"Damn, I thought that was a vibrator," said Mouth thoughtfully. "Boy was I wrong..."

"Remind me to smack you once this is over," Brand said angrily. He opened Mikey's mouth and pushed a button on the top of the inhaler, and the result was instantaneous. His breathing became deeper and the garbled noise coming from his chest got quieter and quieter until it disappeared altogether, and Mikey's coloring was getting back to normal. I didn't notice what an odd shade of magenta he had become until he started recovering from his ordeal.

He was breathing deeper and more heavily now, sucking in breaths as if each were precious. I sat down on the bench near his head, and he scooted upward with a small grunt and laid his head on my leg. A waiter brought me a blanket, and I spread it over him. I hoped he wouldn't fall asleep here. Fat chance, it was too wet. The bench was covered in rainwater, as was the ground around us. Everyone was looking at us, so Brand found it fairly safe to say, "Can I get a couple of rooms for tonight?"