A/N: Ahahaha... Five chapters... This must be some sort of record for me. My thanks to MiscellaneousSoup for reviewing (and two other people, too? My computer says three people have reviewed but only one is showing up so... ?) In any case, thanks to you guys, and I hope everyone's had a happy new year. :D

CHAPTER FIVE

Neige got too hungry waiting for Eragon to come back, so he fished one of his last packet of chips from his bag and ate it as slowly as his growling stomach would allow. He stuffed the empty packet into the fire with the poking stick before heading for the bathroom, looking for the shower. He was surprised when the water came out of the pipes sputtering, but warm. He didn't have any clean clothes to change into afterwards, so he returned to the bedroom in his jeans, his dirty shirt and sneakers balled against his chest. He dug through his bag for his sweater and Pikachu hat and climbed into bed, fully clothed and shivering.

The wind was picking up substantially outside, and through time-worn gaps in the framework chilly drafts made their way inside, setting the flames flickering. He propped the pillow up against the wall and leant back on it, determined not to fall asleep until Eragon returned with food.

From here, he could see a sliver of the twilight sky outside the window. Black clouds pressed heavily over California, pelting the glass with rain. The roof echoed with its drumming, and Neige could only think how he wouldn't be able to hear Eragon approach until he was at the door.

Delibird wasn't in the room; he'd wandered out some time after Eragon had left to explore the house. Or find supplies. Or maybe even use the bathroom, for all Neige could understand his 'SQUAWK!' of departure. Neige was alone once again, in a strange bed in a stranger's house, with only his bag and sword propped against the wall at his side. For months it had been like this while he lived on the run. Every so often, his hiding place would be shared by other escapees of the Great Insanity, but they'd always leave him when they learned of his identity. His picture was most places in this desolate wasteland that was previously known as California. Crosshatched onto parchment and pinned with arrows onto trees and signposts; black-and-white moving photographs stuck with magic onto brick walls that winked at him as he passed them; hovering in the sky some nights like a giant bat signal with his name and age beneath it. Eventually he stopped sharing his name with them, but that only made them fear him more if they didn't by some miracle recognise him already, hastening their departure. Nobody wanted to be near the guy who was being hunted by fiction's evillest bad guys.

He shifted deeper under the Buzz Lightyear bedspread, curling up on his side, his head resting at an awkward angle against the upright pillow. No, he thought miserably, it had been a lonely punishment for starting the apocalypse. It hadn't got much better when the signs asking for his capture started displaying prices beneath them. They were in gold pieces and food, not dollars, but even so, anything at all went a long way in the end-of-the-world's broken economy. Now not only were people avoiding him, but some even went out of their way to try and capture him for the reward.

Neige could only figure that some sort of rudimentary villainous gang had started in real!Earth to begin offering money. They must've been doing well; the incident at the Burger King with Profion wasn't the first time a villain on the fringes had chased him down to improve their lot in this new world. Neige just wished he knew exactly what he was fighting to get the world back into its original non-invaded state.

His chin nodded towards his chest. Sleepily, he registered the light tapping of branches against the window, the dimming of the firelight as time slipped in rapid swirls through his fingers…

What felt like a second later, amidst a cacophony of sound, something tore sharply at his face. His ears were ringing with the noise and the pain of it and he shot up, flinging something small and red and feathery at the opposite wall where it bounced and lay still. The fire was dead, now, and sunlight was trickling in through the window— the open window, Neige noticed, through which Eragon was climbing. His game bag swung heavily at his side as he scrambled up over the ledge, reaching wildly around for his bow and quiver.

"Protect the doors!" he shouted at Neige who, half-drunk with sleep and still wearing his woollen Pikachu cap, stumbled out of bed and tripped over the corner of the blanket.

"What's goin' on?" he asked blearily, picking himself up and slamming the bedroom door closed on the empty hallway. He salvaged a piece of wood to jamb between the handle and the dresser next to it, using his body weight to lever it shut against an enemy that clearly hadn't got that far yet.

At the window, Eragon was already firing arrows outside. He seemed to have three hands as he retrieved arrows, nocked them and fired them all in one rapid movement. An odd few sent off a firey blue flare of light upon hitting the ground outside.

"We're under attack," Eragon said grimly.

The words were barely out of his mouth before loud shots rang out against the side of the house. Neige yelled and ducked as the light bulb was blasted into a thousand shattered pieces, scattering frosted glass onto their heads.

"Who the hell's attacking us?" Neige shouted over the whistling ringing of gunfire. Eragon shrugged and kept shooting. He didn't look very scared at all. Was he used to this? Or was he usually just so secure in his safety around his dragon that he'd forgotten he was a little less invulnerable without her?

"Come out, little ones," came a voice from outside. The gunfire stopped momentarily, and Eragon lowered his bow a little. "We won't hurt you, we promise."

Neige frowned, leant away from the door slightly. "Is that…?"

"Don't make me come up there, fellas," the voice came again, but this time the end was cut off by the sounds of the door being slammed against. Neige swallowed a cry of panic and threw himself against the door, forcing it shut with his shoulder.

"What is your purpose in harassing us?" Eragon shouted down. He was standing in full view in the window, his bow clutched tightly in his hands. Neige wanted to shout to him to move out of shooting range whilst negotiating at least, but the voice started talking again.

"Our purpose, young man, is that we want to leave here with your friend. You can remain unharmed if you only do as we ask."

"And how did you know where he was?" Eragon asked, not missing a beat. "Do you know him?"

"Not personally, no," the voice said. "But he knows us."

Eragon glanced up at Neige, looking unnervingly more curious than frightened. "Old friends of yours?"

"Not in the least," Neige said. "But… that sounds creepily like Christopher Walken."

"It's Sal, actually," the voice replied cheerfully. "I'm a new crime boss here in… well, I've been told it's California, but it don't look exactly as I remember it from my holidays back in my Brooklyn days. I hear you're to thank for that? And for this golden opportunity presented to me and my cohorts in bringing you in for an exorbitant amount?"

"Bringing me in to who?" Neige called back. The voice, of course, belonged to Christopher Walken in his role as Sal, the crime-boss step-dad from Kangaroo Jack, but now was not the time to be amused by anything about the situation.

"Our boss," Sal replied cryptically. "Now are you coming with us nicely, or do we have to force you?"

There was a split second's pause before the crack of gunfire split the early morning. The glass in the open window shattered, and the ceiling above Neige rained down charred little bits of plaster that crumbled away from the bullet-sized hole.

The door swung hard against Neige's shoulder and he backed away, seized with a sudden desire to do more than just hole up and wait for the ambush. He dashed back to the bed where he'd left his bag and sword and snatched them both up. Moving to the window, he pushed Eragon aside and took in the scene below him. On the damp front yard was a group of five or so men in suits. Christopher Walken was at the head of the group; his suit was the sharpest, greyest one of the lot, and his deep-set eyes were smiling pleasantly beneath his greying gelled-back hair. A cigar rolled casually between his lips. Neige could almost be forgiven for thinking he was just dropping by to return a casserole dish for his socialite wife on the way to work in an advertising agency. One from the sixties.

Neige swallowed, forcing more bravery into his voice than he felt. "Where is your boss? I'll go to him myself."

Sal's grin widened. "Oh no. We're taking you in, and we're getting paid for the trouble. Boys, take aim at the other one, the one with the pathetic excuse for a gun. Nice hat, by the way," he added to Neige. Neige scowled and whipped the beanie off his head, stuffing it into his bag.

"Tell me where your boss is, or I'll hit you with a blast from this." He raised his sword. The gangsters took one look at it and started chuckling. Eragon took the opportunity and backed away from the window.

"What do you plan on doing with that, kid?" Sal asked with a grin. "Throw it at us?"

"Shoot me and see what happens."

Sal raised an eyebrow, and Neige tried desperately to quell the shaking of his hands, the feeling that he was going to throw up over the windowsill. What was he thinking? He thought back to the Burger King incident, tried reassuring himself that it had worked once. Still, if this went wrong…

Behind them, the door reverberated with another slam of a mobster's shoulder. Eragon glanced askance at Neige.

"I pray your plans are true," he said, disappearing out of his vision to deal with the door.

"So do I," Neige muttered.

Sal cocked his head to the side, puffing on his cigar. "So what's it to be, kid? Come with us alive… or full of holes?"

"The holier the better," Neige heard himself say. He barely had time to react when Sal nodded to his men and their guns whistled up, aiming straight at his face. A barrage of explosions nearly blinded him and he ducked, chopping madly through the air, feeling the blade connect with two or three little pings! of metal. Screams of pain echoed through the still morning air, and Neige glanced down in hopeful surprise. Three of the five mobsters were on the ground, either not moving or cradling bleeding limbs. Sal and the remaining man were staring at them, wide-eyed. The cigar fell noiselessly to the grass.

"Ha ha!" Neige cried. "Thank you, Legend of Zelda tactics!"

The men whipped their faces up to him, scowling. Neige knew now was the best time to get out. He ran to where Delibird was slumped dazedly against the wall and scooped him up before turning to the door.

"Come on, Eragon, it's time to—"

The door was open, and Eragon – as well as the mobster – were nowhere to be seen.

"Ah… great."

Two shots blasted holes in the roof above his head and he ducked, cringing. Delibird squawked piteously in his arms.

"Hold on, Delibird, we're getting out of here."

And so saying, he took a deep breath, hoped wildly that nobody was on the other side of the door, and charged through with his head bowed.