Chapter 5: A really stupid plan

Morgan hadn't hung around the bathroom for long. When she emerged, she did not immediately retreat to her hiding spot under the bench. Instead, she sat on top of the bench, kicking her legs back and forth like a child's, lost in thought. She had to get everything she now knew straight and she had to make a plan.

Okay, so, let's go over this. Apparently, these are Gale Force soldiers. Oz is at war, and they finally caught the prisoner they've been chasing after. They had to bring her here because people there kept helping her. They got here in a storm, like Dorothy in her freaking tornado. The Gale Force consists of gross assholes that like to torture prisoners and say rapey shit, aside from the one that I just met.

Morgan held her head in her hands.

All I wanted to do was get through the end of my shift, lock up, go home, and enjoy my weekend. Now I'm apparently in the middle of some nasty war business and I'm the only person who can save this prisoner. Soldier kid…oh, what was his name?...Sayer. That's it. Sayer has his heart in the right place, but I highly doubt he'll be of any help to me down there, especially with the others around. I'm stuck doing this on my own.

Morgan sat up, combing the hair out of her face.

Oz. They are apparently from Oz. I didn't lie, I have no idea what to believe anymore. These people are obviously real and here, but…ugh…this is so much to process. There is no way this fairy tale made-up bullshit can possibly be real. It can't be. But yet, they're here….and…

Morgan wrapped a few strands of hair around her fingers, tugging in frustration. She almost let out an angry groan, but held it in at the last second, realizing that she didn't want to alert anyone of her presence. She was incredibly confused, doubting her own sense of reality, the fire burning inside her still coming and going, leaving her with random bursts of energy. She was disoriented and frustrated and angry and scared and everything in between.

I don't even know who she is. Sayer says I'm not putting two and two together, but I really am trying to put all the pieces of this puzzle together. There has to be part of the picture I'm not understanding.

Morgan wrapped her pinkie around the small metal loop on the edge of her clippers, meant for hanging it on the wall, and flipped it up and down with a flick of her wrist. The blades flung forward and backward hazardously, but Morgan didn't feel unsafe. She used a pair like these every day. They were like an extension of her hand, an extension that could cause bodily harm. And, after her meeting with Sayer, she now knew that she was not afraid to use them.

Okay, self, Morgan flipped the clippers once more and grasped them tightly, closing the blades. Time to focus. You need a plan.

Morgan surveyed the room.

So, you've made it clear to yourself that you have to go downstairs. There is only one way downstairs, and that is, obviously, down the stairs. If you walk along the edges, they won't creak, but you'll be easy to spot. You have to find a way to get down the stairs without being seen. If you can make it down the steps, the sink area is literally right there. You'll be able to duck under the sink or hide behind the clean buckets. If the floral foam knife is still in the sink, you could even use that to help fight. Did you do the dishes? Oh shit, I can't remember...

Focus, Morgan.

Okay, anyways...

If I can make it down the stairs and find a good hiding spot, I'll have to find the prisoner. There really aren't a lot of options for them; there's the workroom, the front room, and the side room. The side room is almost all windows, so I doubt they'll want the rest of the block to see what they are up to. That leaves the front room and the workroom. If they are in the front room, I'll be able to duck through the side room or slide along the wall and surprise them. If they are in the workroom...well...I'm screwed.

Honestly, it really sounds like I'm screwed no matter what.

No, I can't doubt myself. If I do, then I'm in big trouble.

Reality though…

Oh gosh, Morgan, now you're talking to yourself. Get a grip already.

Morgan shook her head, annoyed at her scattered thoughts and her inability to come up with something useful. The shop was not set up well for stealth movement. Getting down there was going to be a challenge in of itself, let alone the actual rescue.

What if I have to fight someone? I know I threatened Sayer, but he's a kid. Could I go toe to toe with a well-trained soldier? Could I do it? If I even made it to the prisoner, could I really safely get us out?

The rage inside Morgan had fizzled, and was now being replaced with anxiety and fear. She felt the anxiety curl itself into a ball, settling into the pit of her stomach. She suddenly felt weak, shaky, the anxiety weighing her down, the fear crawling up her skin like ants. Her mind became a sea of doubt, every possible bad situation rolling through her mind. They mixed and replayed over and over until she found it impossible to think straight.

I can't do this. I can't fight. I can't save anyone. Why did I ever think this was a good idea? Since when am I a hero? I've never been brave, strong, or anything resembling that. I'm not a hero. I cannot believe that I seriously convinced myself that I could do this. What a joke. I'm just Morgan. I can't do this.

Morgan's eyes went to the door. She watched the small window in the door for some time, not registering any movement. She stood up, her feet guiding her back to her possible escape route. She ducked low, only the top of her head and her eyes coming over the glass. She looked from left to right, back and forth, again and again. There was nobody there. The porch was empty. Morgan did a tiny happy dance.

Yes. Freedom! Now is your chance. Now you can get out of here. Down the stairs, up the hill. Go towards the ballfields, or the McCartney's house. You can hide behind their pool. Maybe if you call the police or something, they can-

The escape plan was interrupting by an ear-shattering scream.

Morgan felt her blood run cold. A shiver raced across her skin, the sudden fright sending it's icy breath over her body. Her most basic instincts told her to grab the handle, bolt out the door, run, run as fast as she could, run and don't look back.

Go! Run! Get out of here!

But the fire, the rage she thought had been crushed down by the fear, returned, this time burning even hotter and brighter than it did before. She turned around, the thoughts of running gone, as if they had never been thought of at all. She walked with resolve towards the bench near the bathroom, grabbing the clippers from where she had left them. She took a few steps back, noting her reflection in the bathroom mirror. The anger in her face, the furrowed brow, the scowl, the spark in her eyes almost made her jump for a second. It was like she was not looking at herself, but a braver, darker twin. She stared into her own eyes for a moment, taking slow, deliberate breaths.

Running is not an option. You are not a coward. You are the only thing standing between this prisoner and a world of suffering. You have to fight. You have to help her. You have no choice now. Fight.

Morgan knew her plan was stupid. So stupid, in fact, that is was basically nonexistent. She had attempted to think it through, but to no avail. Her only idea was to get down stairs and hide again, and then it was all up to fate and chance. If she was spotted, she would have to fight. If she won, she would have blood on her hands, possibly being responsible for the death of another human being. If she lost, she would be captured, probably tortured like the prisoner, or maybe even killed.

This should have worried her more. Morgan was a chronic overthinker, not the type to just do something. She always needed all of the information, always needed to carefully plan everything in her life. She was the type that idolized the rebellious, the do-ers, the jump-in-head-first kinds of people, because she was exactly the opposite. When Morgan did something wild, it was still usually preceded by months of planning. The watercolor fox tattooed just underneath her elbow had been agonized over for almost a year before she got it inked. The teal hair color was a split-second decision, followed by two days of "oh-my-gosh-what-did-I-just-do" panic.

Cautious, nervous, worry-wart, obsessive, anxiety-prone Morgan was charging into something that she could not comprehend. This was very unlike her, and she was oddly comfortable with that.

Another scream broke Morgan's train of thought. She watched her face harden in the mirror, the adrenaline coursing through her body like a drug. She hurried out of the bathroom, passed the bench, and paused, her hand resting on the doorknob to the staircase.

Once you open this door, there is no going back.

Morgan took a deep breath and turned the knob.