The joy of Prunella's friends at her clever escape was short-lived. The picture on the TV screen blinked a few times, and then, without warning, both the audio and video ceased. The silence filled their hearts with dread.
"She's dead," exclaimed Muffy in horror. "Prunella's dead!"
"Calm down, children," said Frink. "She may be merely comatose."
His words did nothing to stop the sudden flow of tears. "It's my fault," said Sue miserably. "I could've stopped all this from happening, but I was selfish."
"It's my fault," moaned Arthur. "It was my idea that killed the unicorns."
"It's my fault," said D.W., her cheeks moistened as if by rain. "I thought unicorns were good, but they're bad--they're killers."
"I didn't even get a chance to say goodbye," Muffy lamented. "That was so rude of her."
Rubella, at the point of surrendering her life to the bitter cold, noticed that the angry chants of the mob had given way to confused murmurs. It's over, she told herself. My little sister saved New York! Emboldened, she marched directly into the crowd, pushing her way past innumerable men, women and children.
Her ears picked up many conversations, all of the same nature: "Why the (bleep) am I here?" "Who the (bleep) are the unicorns, and why would I (bleep)ing want to kill them?" "Forget the (bleep)ing unicorns, it's the (bleep)ing aliens who are the enemy!"
Minutes went by. The TV in Prunella's living room offered neither sight nor sound of hope, leaving her friends to mourn her apparent passing. Rubella hurried through the milling mass of New Yorkers, their collective warmth heating her blood. By the time she arrived at the walls of the Hilton, almost no one was left standing before them. The images of the piled dead made her stomach wince, but she walked on, determined to locate her sister.
Naught but Thrags and a few alien diplomats populated the lobby. "Excuse me, sir," said Rubella to the Thrag who paced nearest her.
The guard leaned over, its featureless helmet giving no indication of how it regarded the rat girl. "I am neither a sir nor a ma'am," it stated flatly. "Thrags are androgynous. How may I assist you?"
Rubella swallowed and spoke. "I'm looking for my younger sister. She looks a lot like me--same hair, same nose, everything--but she's smaller."
"A girl matching your description entered the hotel nearly an hour ago, looking for her father," the Thrag told her. "Her location is unknown. If we find her, we will notify you."
Okay, don't panic, Rubella urged herself. "Thank you," she said to the alien, and turned to leave.
"Wait," the Thrag called to her. "What is that chemical substance on your face?"
The question startled Rubella. Chemicals on my face...? "Oh," she said, a bit embarrassed. "You mean my makeup."
"What is the function of this...makeup?" the Thrag inquired innocently.
"Uh...it makes me more attractive?" said the rat girl.
The alien waved its helmet back and forth, as if ensuring nobody could overhear their exchange. "I wish to learn more about your Earth makeup," it uttered quietly.
"Er...certainly," said Rubella, fishing through her handbag for a business card.
Another hour passed. Frink and his young companions sat where they could, staring at the TV screen and waiting for a glimmer of life. George stood up abruptly, saying, "I need to use the bathroom. Let me know if anything changes."
"Nothing's gonna change," said Muffy, her glum face resting in her hands. "She's dead."
"Poor Prunella," said Fern dolefully. "I hoped I wouldn't have to use the elegy I wrote for her."
"You wrote an elegy for Prunella?" said Francine, astonished.
"I write elegies for all my friends," Fern told her.
Rubella waited nervously on a hard wooden chair in the Hilton Lobby. A Thrag soldier walked up to her, saying, "No sign of your sister yet. I'm sorry."
The girl sighed plaintively. Prunie, where the heck are you?
to be continued