Kingdom Crossovers

by HVK

A reformed Invader Zim has been chosen by the Keyblade and travels the multiverse alongside Calvin the magical alchemist and Hobbes the tiger knight, while in the shadows, a hidden conspiracy seeks to conquer the multiverse with monsters born from a dark titan with a hollow heart.

6. The Unexpected Rudeness of Mister Lyle

Sorry; this took longer than I thought it would. I've also got a bit of a problem: does anyone think I should change this story's category from X-Overs to Kingdom Hearts, just for the sake of clarity? I think that this is a Kingdom Hearts story proper, discounting the different characters, that is. Still, your input would be helpful. That's what reviews are for...that, and making me feel like people actually care about what I'm doing. I've also come to the conclusion that, for me at least, the difference between serious writing and wacky writing is this: wacky writing is the kind that I just breeze through, whereas serious writing feels gives me the impression that I'm beating my head against a brick wall. Sad to say, I can claim that as a metaphor drawn from actual experience.

In good ol' Calla Bryn Strugis fashion, I say thankya to Ri2, RoseofPhilly410, BloodSkye, GuessWho and Evil Riggs! To paraphrase Black Mage; only a madman who spends his time writing this stuff would enjoy receiving the words of those who read it and send their words of commentary to him, whether it's critism or mentioning things he missed or sending praise-oh mighty archangels above, THE PRAISE! IT'S THE ONLY TIME I FEEL ALLLIIIIIVE!

Well, now that I'm done being completely insane, I abjure ye all to this: never ask what hotdogs are made of. I'm serious. Don't do it, man! Ever. Not if you know what'd good for you. And if you do, please tell me, 'cause I sure don't.

Disclaimer: I own nothing except for Zim's consciences. Characters and concepts in thsi chapter belong to Craig McCraken, Joss Whedon, Square-Enix, Disney, Masashi Kishimoto, Jhonen Vasquez, Bill Watterson, Twentieth Century Fox and anyone I forgot to mention.

-------

So many things seem faraway now, cast away and gone forever.

But the one thing that I can't forget is the absence of your presence.

And to think I once thought you'd always be by my side.

But the fact remains, and it does hurt, worse then anything yet and I fear the worst may come.

I want you back, to see you once more, but the worry still tears at me, and this pain won't stop.

It steals my attention and turns my worried mind to thoughts of you, and that frightens me so.

I fear that I'll never find you, and that thought fills me with such misery.

And the worst thing of all: your light has been taken from me, and I'm fear that it's left me dark.

I see many things to distract me, and for that I am grateful.

In those rare moments of peace, my mind invaribly comes back to you and your absence.

I don't hear the words you should speak, I can't sense your presence and all the other evidences

of the senses that you exist and that the universe is worth something aren't there.

Yet, the despair this fosters is supplanted by a greater need:

To find you, no matter where you have drifted.

And this mission is as a radiant light in this dark place, guiding me to you.

Nothing shall impede me or delay me and I shall find you, no matter the cost.

-------

The wall exploding, Zim thought some time later as he sat cross-legged style on a bed not unlike the one he'd awoken in earlier, was when things gotstressful.

Thankfully, that part of the too-long day was long gone, and one of his worries had been resolved, as he and his party were finally in a room. Zim considered the thought that they'd be gone tomorrow morning and probably never see this room again, making him wonder what the point really was.

He growled some of his native Irken at himself. Zim knew full-well that he was just trying to distract himself from the real issue at hand.

The night had been busy, and all the things going on around him had distracted him from that very issue, but now, with nothing happening, he couldn't simply sit back and try to ignore it. He just didn't know where Gir was or if he was okay and that distressed him terribly; even going through the O.O.P.S. again would have been preferable, at least compared to this new pain.

There was no point in skating around the issue: he missed Gir terribly, and not knowing what had become of him made him feel like his squeedily-splooch was eating itself. He wondered if Gir was as scared for his master as Zim was scared for his robot sidekick, lost somewhere in an unfamiliar world, surrounded by hostile figures and fleeing from abyss-born nightmares hungering for his light, running, running, searching desperately for his absent master as what must seem like Hell itself descending upon him-

Zim stopped that thought right there. He shuddered uncontrollably, unwilling to think of Gir in that situation. Try as he might though, now that he had thought of it, the idea wouldn't leave his mind. His fist tightened until it hurt, echoing the pain he felt deep within, gnawing at him and burrowing deeper and just not leaving him alone.

"Why does it hurt so much to care?" Zim wondered to himself, huddled up against headboard he'd thrown his jacket over, grasping his knees while his bare toes intertwined. He frowned and wiggled his toes. He was certain that his toes hadn't been opposable before.

Across the room, Hobbes rolled over in his sleep, muttering to himself. He rolled over again, growling fairly loudly.

Zim's eyes narrowed, feeling indignation that Hobbes could have the effrontry to be so easily asleep when he, Zim, was so distressed and horribly afraid. A slightly saner thought flitted across his mind: it was stupid to get angry at someone for not being as miserable as you are.

Zim didn't care. The hot flash of anger he felt took the edge off of his...what was the word for it? Good as they sounded, misery and sorrow didn't quite cover what he felt.

Zim looked out the window, at the radiant full moon. He groaned, wondering if perhaps there was something to that karma thing, whether this chain of events was a punishment for the myriad sins committed during what he collectively referred to as 'The Stupid Years'. He'd done so many stupid and terrible things during that time that he certainly deserved to suffer in one form or another.

No, he thought. One thing he'd learned during his pilgrimage was that people weren't necessarily punished in this life for their misdeeds or rewarded for their good works. Punishments or crimes, he thought, came after. The only times you suffered or paid for your misdeeds was when other beings reacted to them and paid you as fit their idiom. Or perhaps that was karma?

That still didn't make him feel any better.

His eyes narrowed to slits over the low noise coming from the table. His annoyance over Calvin and Hobbes' bizarre sleeping habits lessened his despair very slightly; enough to alleviate it, but not enough to keep his mind from getting angry at them for not be irritating enough to forget his troubles.

Hobbes was sound asleep in a bed across the room; he had simply fallen into the bed. Zim had expected him to at least remove his vest or something, considering his somewhat feral mindset and his apparent disregard for unnecessary clothing; he supposed that Hobbes was less wild then his appearance let on. Odd as it seemed, he was probably the most civilized among them.

Calvin, on the other hand...

The boy was sitting at the lone desk separating his and Hobbes' beds, slightly hunched over some arcane semi-spherical thing Zim had gotten a few glances at, but otherwise was as mysterious to him as a ham radio would have been to an Aborigine Bushman prior to the colonial period. Calvin's hands were blurs as they moved over the object, grabbing tools and using them and switching them with other tools with lightning fast speed, showing no delay as they went about their work. Even stranger, the boy's eyes were shut and his mouth was slightly slack, a slight trail of drool at the corner of his mouth. He made some sleep-noise from time to time, frequently a slightly modulated mumble that would go on for about half a minute every so often. Zim also heard the sleepworking boy laugh nonstop for about five minutes before breaking off to yell about communism being the tool of the rodeo clown-hammer head shark-and dime cent store stuffed animal production conglomerate; through it all, his hands continually worked, inserting, replacing, setting and building up the mysterious device.

Zim himself was awake now, not because of insomnia or his disturbed emotional state, but because Irkens didn't sleep as much as humans, requiring only six hours on average every few days. He had slept about three hours since he'd arrived, his sleep interrupted by both his increasingly numerous nightmares and the sounds of the boy at work. Zim glanced at Hobbes. Funny, he thought. Hobbes was the alert one. You'd expect the tiger to be wakened by the boy's work just as Zim was being set on edge by it. Either the slightly feral knight was a deeper sleeper than Zim realized, or he was already used to nights like this.

Zim looked back out the window, leaning back onto the bed, his hands behind his head, thinking. He didn't feel like going to sleep again, doubting that he'd be able to for a few hours more, given his current pace of mind. He let his mind wander as he stared at the ceiling.

It eventually settled on thoughts about what had happened after the wall exploded. His slight frown became a grin.

Heh, he thought. The Dib-beast would find this all veeeeery amusing.

-------

Some three hours earlier...

The dust gradually faded away, revealing to the exasperation of Zim's party and the surprise of everyone else, the mob glaring menacingly at them all, without regard for the fact that at least five of those there had done nothing to them this night. Why they shared enmity for the hapless priest, the ensouled vampire, the two adventurers and their naked mole rat made no sense, but Zim supposed that a band of people bound together into a nearly mindless coalition by blind hatred and senseless vendettas was a band of people bound together into a nearly mindless coalition by blind hatred and a senseless revenge trip, and therefore stupid.

It occurred to Zim that he could probably have phrased more sensibly.

He took a look at the mob, noticing that they seem to have shrunk in number. He thought they'd probably lost a few people in their mad search, or the missing people had just gotten bored and left. The thing about angry mobs, he'd learned, was that they were basically multi-celled organisms, and none too bright ones either; if fact, if you thought about it, pretty much any society was just a proto-mob, and one that caught a lot of flack for that matter. Most mobs, he knew, generally owed all their strength, drive and confidence from their leader; a strong leader was the difference between overthrowing a tyrant and being beaten to pulps by a bunch of poorly paid watchmen. Unfortunately, this mob was one of the ones whose closest cousin to a leader was their collective wrath.

Ron looked at Zim's group. "Okay, in case Abel doesn't know what's going on...?"

"Hey!" Abel squawked indignantly. He put a finger to his chin, his brow slightly furrowed. "Wait, I don't know what's going on. Do tell."

"You know," Zim told them. "Random victims. Things were done and said that won't be taken back. Angry mob results."

"It's his fault!" Calvin said, pointing at Zim. "So if you get beaten up, you know who to blame!"

"Hey!"

The mob rumbled that rumble that was the unintelligible end result of a large amount of people saying things sourly at the same time. Kim knew that that was an incredibly bad sign and nudged Hobbes. "Mind giving a sitch report?"

Raising an eyestripe at her senseless massacre of the word 'situation', Hobbes quickly complied. "Remember the mob Zim was rambling about when you guys came in?"

"Yeah?"

Hobbes pointed at the offending mob. "That's the one."

"Hmm," Spike said. "Eight of us against an entire mob ranking in the dozens." He grinned, cracking his knuckles with a loud popping sound. "I like those odds!"

Abel's eyes narrowed. Summoning up all the charisma he'd accumulated over his long life, he stepped up, flung his arms out and commandingly said, "Stop this! We don't need to make fools of our-"

"Hey," an angry blob monster yelled. "I heard of you, Nightroad! You killed my brother!"

Abel crossed his arms defensively. "I did not kill him! All I did was cut him in half."

A long pause followed his statement.

"He got better." Abel amended. "He's a Gelatian, you'd need a sunlamp and a magnifying glass to kill him."

"...Yeah," the blob admitted, scuffling the floor with an extended psuedopod for a moment before looking back at Abel hatefully. "But I still don't like you!"

Abel sighed. "Everyone has it in for warrior priests. Is it the white hair and my slightly effeminate good looks? There's no need to be bigoted, you know. Sometimes I hate being man-pretty."

"Hate to break your run of chrismatic banter," Spike said, "But you're not man-pretty so much as you're just pretty."

Abel's eye twitched. "That's not true! I do not look feminine!" He whirled upon Hobbes suddenly. "We're friends here! Come on, help me! Tell him I look masculine!"

Hobbes looked startled at being dragged into the matter. Being perfectly honest, he replied, "Sorry, but I have to agree with Spike on this one."

"Eeeeeegh!" Abel squealed. He rounded on Kim. "HELP ME!"

She shook her head. "Jarod is man-pretty.Ron is man-pretty." Morte snorted extremely loudly at that, apparently none too convinced with the old thought about reality being largely a matter of personal perception. "You...you're just pretty. You're prettier then most girls I know, actually."

Abel backed up against the wall, starting to twitch violently. "Urge to dump myself in tar, cover myself in pillow feathers and run through town naked while proclaiming that I am bacon...rising...rising..."

"Hey, you!" A two headed humanlike alien yelled, pointing at Ron with the third arm protruding from under his left arm. "You blew up my starship!"

"Yeah, there were a lot of buttons on that thing and sooner or later, someone was going to trip and hit the self-destruct button on accident." Ron said, scratching the back of his neck nervously.

Zaphod Beeblebrox looked unconvinced. "I'm still going to hurt you."

Ron shrugged. "Join the club, they got jackets." He pointed to several other members of the mob, who were wearing bright red jacket with a logo that looked like someone whacking a miniature Ron emblazoned on them.

"YOU!" A large number of people howled at Zim.

"Pssh," said Zim dismissively. "That's the best you can do?"

A small rat popped out from the crowd, shaking it's fist angrily at Rufus, chattering furiously.

Rufus looked shocked for a moment, then returned the guy, chattering just as angrily.

Kim had had enough. "Look," she said plantatively. "We can argue all night about who wronged who-"

"Pssh," A brown-haired tanned girl around Kim's age said dismissively. "You're hanging with those guys and that makes you guilty by association, K."

Kim stopped in the middle of her nice-making speech, her eyes twitching in an expression that was decidedly less then sane. "YOU!" She yelled, pointing at the girl malevolently.

"Me," Bonnie said sarcastically.

"What are you doing here!?" Kim demanded.

Bonnie glared at Zim. He grinned madly at her, the look making her retreat a few steps, her expression faltering. Zim chose to explain. "I set her wallpaper on fire, drew amusing faces on the stupid posters in her room and rearranged her music CDs in alphabetical order. Oh, and I poured itching powder on all her clothes." He frowned, unnerved by the slightly manic look Kim had at the thought of Zim's random acts. It was a look similar to the one he had when contemplating horrible, horrible revenge. Revenge involving flesh-eating land piranhas that breathed plasma.

The girl glared at him. "Why'd you do all that?! Do you know how much those-"

"Oh, stuff it, Bon-Bon. No one cares," Ron said lazily, yawning profusely and turning to Zim. "Hey, why did you do all that crazy stuff back there?"

"I am easily bored." Zim replied, suddenly grinning like an insanity gremlin had just tipped the scales in his increasingly unstable mind.

"Oh, okay then," Ron said, grinning back at Zim.

"Hey! You killed my great-great-great-great grandfather's uncle!" A rather husky human yelled at Spike.

"I did?" Said Spike, looking thoughtful. "You're going to have to narrow the list a bit. Killed a lot in my day, I have."

"He was that vampire you staked last Tuesday!"

"Help a Brit out here; 5'5, a few hundred pounds, real husky, jackass on a for-hire basis, didn't know how to take 'no'?"

"Yes! Hey, wait-"

Spike shrugged. "Staked that sucker like it was Vigilante World Tour."

The complainer looked at the heroes plaintively. "Come on, you're heroes! Help me out!"

Abel looked at him disapprovingly. "I'm a warrior priest. That's the kind of thing I do."

Calvin looked thoughtful. "Hey, Hobbes? Got any room for vampire teeth on any of your necklaces? Might be more of those types around."

Hobbes considered it. His current necklace was one one of many he had; he was considering switching to one of his more varied ones tomorrow. "Nah, already got vampire teeth from at least..." he calculated. "Twenty-two distinct sub-types. Haven't seen a new one in this world yet."

Zim cackled menacingly. "Vigilante justice? Heh heh heh heh...I like this town already!"

Ron cocked an eyebrow at the guy. "If I had a relative like that, I'd have pulled a Stephen Townsend."

He frowned. "Of course, be nice if I had relatives at all..." Kim sidled over to him and hugged him comfortingly.

The speaker twitched. "You guys are nuts!"

"Runs with adventurers, y'know!" Morte said knowingly. "Live it up today, run into the nearest dungeon of ill-repute and hack all the nameless horrors to little bits tomorrow! Ah, those were the days...finding the truth 'bout the Chief, grabbing our rewards and women like there was no tomorrow!"

The mob looked at each unsteadily, like a blob with a lot of eyestalks and a self-consciousness problem. Reaffirming themselves to the task at hand, they started approaching the heroes warily, with unmistakable menace.

Zim examined the situation. The heroes were outnumbered nearly ten-to-two, in a small room with little room to maneuver and no visible way out. Therefore, by the laws of action-adventure narrative, they had a sort of metaphorical tactical nuclear device in their odds. Being used to scenarios like this, the Traverse Towners got into a fighting position, ready to stun and disable while Rufus looked around and paused. "Hrk, where little guy go?"

His question was answered when yellow alchemical energy flowed into the ground around the mob, flowing within the very molecular structure of the stone. The energy rushed up, the ground transmuting into a large metal cage trapping the mob.

Needless to say, the mob was not pleased with this. "Come on!" someone howled. "That's not fair!"

Hobbes snarled at them, baring his impressive teeth. "All's fair when the alternative is your skin on someone's mantle piece."

Zim narrowed his eyes as the mob started banging away at the bars, which were ominously bending under the repeated blows. "That won't hold them for long."

"Course it won't," Calvin said, walking over to a wall. "Too bad I blocked off the way they came in...oh well. Can't find a door, make your own."

Calvin stopped in front of the wall and closed his eyes, making an odd gesture with his hands; the two front fingers of both hands interlocked in a rough knuckle-to-knuckle shape, the ungloved fingers resting atop his Pyro Glove. He held it for a minute, focusing his power; the circle on his glove lit up again, followed by several more previously unseen ones going all the way to the tips of his fingers. They were roughly similar to the ones on his palm, hard to see but clearly more intricate, with smaller circles on the tips of his fingers. The pinky of his gloved hand rose up, his other pinky meeting it at a loose angle. His ungloved ring finger slid down to his palm-circle while the other ring finger covered the knuckle in front of it; the red-orange energy flickered, becoming more intense, suddenly wrapping around his hands, swirling ethereally, the nearly invisible circles on his sleeves brightening and becoming clearly visible, the archaic looking circles going around his arms, the light tinting his skin a ruddy color, the circles on his gloved hand went all the way to his shoulder, while the circles on his other arm only came down to his elbow.

Calvin brought his hands together with a sharp clapping sound, drawing his gloved hand away. The fiery energy went with it, focused around that arm and brightening as he raised it high, hand slightly clenched. The energy on his left arm had disappeared, apparently focused on the right arm; this was supported by the fact that the red-orange energy had brightened significantly, rendering the complex circles around his sleeve almost invisible, his arm looking like it was sheathed in flame. His eyes opened and focused on the wall, his tightly pressed lips opening into a broad grin.

Calvin slammed his glowing hand onto the wall; the red-orange glow flowed from his hand into the wall, spreading into an irregular circle about the size of a large round table. The glow sunk deeper into the wall, the metalwork underneath becoming visible by the shifting of the energy, waves of power pulsing away from it and rippling around the room; loose dust blew around the room, longer articles of clothing fluttered, hair waved around and light bulbs brightened suddenly, their fuses so lose to burning out that they were nearly white-yellow. The glow brightened under Calvin's hand, the wall underneath changing subtly.

The glow suddenly flared and the wall exploded, sending up a small smoke cloud around the room.

The smoke quickly cleared around the heroes as they blinked in surprise. Calvin gave a mock-bow. "Lady and gentlemen, I give you...your getaway." The exploded part of the wall was a hole only slightly smaller then the glow had been, it's scorched edges severely fragmented and chipped in some places. The explosion appeared to have gone inwards, providing an escape hole for them; through the hole was an upwards going stone staircase, no one insight. The steps were a little burnt and broken in some places, but there was surprisingly little damage.

They quickly ran through the hole in short order, Calvin pausing to seal it behind him. The mob's more sensitive constituents coughed and sputtered as the gray smoke passed over and blinded them for the moment. By the time it faded, they were unsurprisingly annoyed when they realized that their intended victims had disappeared, though their was a notable discolored patch of wall.

They quickly got to work attacking the bars keeping them back. True to Calvin's words, they wouldn't be held back for long.

However, they were unaware that Calvin was counting on them to get away so that the traps he'd laid down would do some damage.

-------

Dojo, currently wearing a small light blue pilot's uniform specially fitted for his smallish frame, stuck his head out from the pilot's seat as he heard the hiss of a door opening. He looked over and saw Jarod walk in and silently stroll into the co-pilot's seat. The human slumped back, showing no intention of any piloting work as he looked blankly out the windshield.

The small mystical dragon observed that Jarod had a notable resemblance to someone who'd been hit with a number of bats on the head in the same exact location over twenty dozen times but had still retained consciousness somehow. "Hey, what's the matter?"

The Pretender stirred. "Just...thinking," Jarod muttered distractedly, not looking at the dragon. The small group of the Keybearer and the King's chosen warriors had been weighing on his mind for a while and try as he might to embroil himself in his friend's random attempts to pass the time, he couldn't manage to chase the troubled thoughts on his mind; his windblown hair from Naruto and Raimundo's contest over whether Naruto's Spiraling Sphere or Raimundo's Crashing Hurricane Palm was more destructive, the dust on him from Clay and Gaara's argument over which of them was the more powerful sand manipulator and his wet singed clothes from Omi and Kimiko's attempts to resolve both of those instances when they got out of hand spoke volumes about Jarod's ability to focus on a single issue regardless of distractions.

Dojo raised an eyebrow. "Uh huh. You've been doing that a lot lately. Ya need a friendly mystical dragon to talk to or is this one of those sit around and mope cases?"

"Neither," Jarod replied. "Just trying to get some perspective on the whole thing."

"Uh huh." Dojo looked at Jarod for a moment. "Is it the whole team-up thing that's bothering you? They did seem kinda ticked at each other, but I can't really see them at each other's throats. Course, you're the psychological mastermind, not me."

"It's just...I'm worried that they might have gotten into trouble by now." Jarod frowned faintly.

Dojo rolled his eyes. "Oh, come on; you sent Spike and Bloo with them to Foster's! You sent an egomaniac and a punch-happy punker to guide three tense newbies to one of the craziest places in town! Of course they've gotten into trouble!"

Jarod winced. "You think I made a bad decision?"

Dojo scratched his chin and gave Jarod a pointed look. Given the shape of his face, it was hard to picture him giving any other kind, but the little dragon had a surprising range of expression. "It's been a long day for everyone; the jerks've been more active lately, Heartless have been popping up like crazy, we've been stretched to the limit and then the Keybearer finally shows up, but we don't know if he wants to help seal the Keyholes or not. Anyone'd get stressed out."

Jarod smiled. "Yeah. You're right. It's just...it's been hard to plan it out. I have to consider everything and put it together...there's so many variables...I just worry, that's all."

"Well, that ain't good," Dojo said reprovingly. "You gotta just unwind and relax, buddy. Like, try some of that herbal tea or beat some of the idiots up. That always makes you feel better."

Jarod tensely pressed his forefinger and thumb against his temples, tweaking the tension away. "I wish I knew where Abel was. He's someone I can really talk to about everything. Nothing personal, it's just...some things you're better off not knowing. But Abel's a guy who spends his worktime finding things that go bump in the night and bumping back. He knows what I'm going through."

Dojo waved a hand, not insulted. In troubled times, people did a number of things, three of them including starting riots, falling to pieces, and seeking out their religious leaders. The third seemed healthier then the other two. "Besides the slight insult, don't worry, I already got someone on that case."

"Really? Who?" Jarod was worried about the eccentric warrior priest. Abel was one of his better friends, but he had no sense of direction and there was his laid-back attitude that often worked against him. It never exactly lended confidence in the paramilitary strike force Section Thirteen Mattias, populated by warrior priests with grudges against the armies of darkness, when it was lead by a man who was as known for his habit of tripping on the street and crashing into the sewer system when he wore the cross on his back(possibly inspired by Father Nicholas D. Wolfwood, another priest in Section 13). Then again, there was always the possibility that Abel did it all on purpose. Make yourself a joke and people regard you as a subject of fun and amusement, never as a threat.

Dojo scratched his chin. "Hmm...let's see, I asked Kimiko to look up one of the people on the Heroes For Hire webring, find someone cheap but good at rescuing. She got back to me this morning, said something about finding one of the teams that worked pro bono. Team Impossible or something, personal friends of hers, she said. Kind of weird, she said, but with the people we know, who aren't? Heck, in this town, who isn't weird?"

Jarod frowned. He hated not knowing every part of a situation. He was also getting a very strong suspicion that something weird was occuring right now. He stood up and walked over to the doorway; the door, looking like a part of the wall with a simple window in it, slid away with a pressurized squeak, rolling into the wall.

"Hey, big guy! Where ya going?" Dojo called after him.

"Do me a favor: take everyone home without me."

"Huh?"

Jarod shuffled around in his increasingly uncomfortable clothing. "I'm going to change into something less annoying, then I'm taking one of the Butterflies. My pez senses are tingling."

"You do not have pez senses." Dojo said snidely.

"You don't know that."

Dojo rolled his eyes. "Seriously, what makes you say that?"

Jarod smiled knowingly, stepping over the door's threshold. "Let's just say, I'm pretending to be a busybody."

-------

After they had temporarily escaped the mob, the randomly assembled band of heroes had thought themselves free until they had literally ran into the malevolent mob once again (though considerably more singed from Calvin's traps). There had ensued some frantic running, an unpleasant encounter with a sack of carnivorous bacon and a brief argument over their various military ranks, honorary and otherwise (which ended when Spike wondered if the time he ate a Nazi and stole his victim's uniform counted).

After more running and a temporary escape from their rampaging pursuers, they found themselves in another hallway, by a pair of double doors, pausing for a few moments of rest.

Ron leaned against the wall, tensed for a sudden burst of speed. Rufus popped out of the pocket and scampered up his boy's side, coming to a stop on his shoulder and looking around. His weak vision noticed the familiar-looking pair of double doors, planting the seed of an idea in his mind that quickly germinated and bloomed.

Thinking quickly, he loudly squeaked. Calvin half-turned, looking at the naked mole rat quizzically. "What'd he say?"

Hobbes translated as best he could. "He wants us to wait. I think,"

Rufus shook his head quickly, squeaking out a stream of speech-like sounds that Calvin couldn't quite catch. "He's got a plan to get us out of this mess!" Ron translated.

Rufus nodded furiously. "Hnk, uh huh!"

Morte bobbed around anxiously. "C'mon, out with it!"

Rufus chattered away in his odd manner, Ron and Hobbes alternating between translating, the tiger somewhat bemused by the rodent's overuse of Massively Multiplayer On-Line RPG metaphors(Hobbes reflected that perhaps Rufus was, in fact, the Tunnel Lord he sometimes partied with on Everlot from time to time as the Wild Knight). It effectively came out to a diversion plan: Rufus and one other member of their group would split off while the rest of them hid away and waited for them. Rufus knew this particular floor well, owing to a brief feud between him and a band of highly intelligent laboratory rats that lived on this floor; he was certain that he'd be able to navigate better than a furious mob, espically one without a real leader: a mob with no leader was a like a headless chicken with blades strapped on it's body.

"Okay," Abel said, looking furtively at the turn corner where the mob was going to come from. "But who'll go with Rufus?"

Ron cocked an eyebrow. "That a question? It's obviously gotta be-"

"Spike," Zim said flatly, interrupting Ron's attempt to declare himself the distraction.

Spike looked surprised. "Why do I have to be the diversion?"

Ron looked surprised. "Yeah, why is he the distraction? That's my job! You're seriously messing with our group dynamic."

"What group dynamic?" Calvin demanded. "We barely know you people!"

Spike tensed up, his ears ringing with the approaching footsteps of the mob. "Ah, hells, I don't have time for this! Come on, you little...whatever you are. Nude albino midget meerkat, right?"

"Hey!" Rufus said indignantly, hopping from shoulder to shoulder until he made it to Spike's. Getting the vampire's attention, the naked mole rat frantically pointed at the large double doors directly behind the remainder of the party.

Realization dawned on Spike. Smirking as the stampeding footsteps increased in volume, he sauntered past them, throwing the doors open with sudden force, nearly knocking the others down if not for their being smart enough to move out of the way. As they huddled around the doorway, Spike then backflipped up to the ceiling and kicking off, landing right behind them. Their momentary pause at his acrobatics was enough time for him to forcefully push their collective mass through the doorway and slam it behind them.

Spike grinned in satisfaction at the sounds of discomfort from what was probably a pile-up. Rufus peered up at him and said things that were probably rude in nature.

Spike gave the mole rat an irritated look. "Oh, come off it. What was I 'sposed to do, ask the stubborn lot of them to back up all nice and neat?" Spike received a voltric helping of angry noise that was spoken too fast for him to entirely understand, but he knew defensive insults when he heard them. "Back off, ya little-wait, I can see getting all riled up 'bout your 'pets', but what you getting concerned about the others for?"

Rufus decided to articulate how he felt he had a duty of sorts to help the Keybearer, his glee at knowing another being that understood him as easily as Ron did or that he found Calvin amusing. He added a bit about Abel.

"Nightroad gave you a nacho cheese dispenser? 'Spose that qualifies as a clerical favor-"

"SPIKE!" The mob roared, having unexpectedly snuck up on the two of them.

Spike whirled around, not bothering to face any specific member: as far as he was concerned, it was just another faceless mass.

"Oh, it's just Spike," One person said disinterestedly.

"'Just Spike'?" Spike said indignantly. "Hate to sound like some trumped-up show person, but have you any idea who I am?!"

The crowd collectively shrugged. "One of the guys at Angel Investigations?" Bingo ventured.

"Hold on," an orange, winged female version of Bloo said slowly. "Doesn't the Guide say something about him being one of the worst serial killers across the worlds?"

Spike took a mocking half-bow. "There you go."

The crowd murmured. "Didn't he massacre an entire orphanage once?"

"Just once!" Spike said. He frowned. "Wait, I think." Rufus said something that came out to how slaughtering orphanages was the sort of thing you should remember.

"Didn't he torture people to death with railroad spikes?" Said Bonnie again, looking fearful.

Spike's eyes turned bright yellow as he assumed his 'game face'. "Why'd you think they call me Spike?" He asked with a malevolent grin that showed off his sharpened teeth, his eyes glowing slightly in the hallway. "Got a better ring that William the Bloody, don't you think?"The girl's eyes widened and she involuntarily recoiled, recalling all the tales she'd heard of Spike's legendary capacity for violence.

Spike then realized that it was vital that the mob be moved away before someone pieced it together. Rufus saw the sudden gleeful grin Spike gave, realized as the vampire hit on a solution. "Uh oh."

Moving with supernatural speed that reduced him to a blur, Spike violently thrust his boot directly into someone's stomach. It wasn't much of a kick, but it still knocked the unlucky victim into the air, flailing away into some of the others.

Spike immediately started running, fully aware that the mob was now chasing after him, howling for revenge.

------

Having already extricated themselves from their brief pile-up, the party stood against the wall in one manner or another, waiting impatiently for the sound of footsteps to fade. Hobbes braced himself against the wall, a nervous growl passing through his teeth every now and then, his bared claws gouging dents into the stone. Calvin strategically hid behind a wall, partly to hit the mob with something destructive if they came through but also so that if they did come through, he wouldn't be in any immediate danger. The corner of Abel's jacket had been caught on the door when Spike slammed it and he was busily crouched against it, working it free. Kim was bent low to the ground, her ear near to the door, a serious look on her face as she listened for the footsteps to fade away to a dull roar. Ron slumped against the wall, his face tense as he worried for his small pink friend. Zim, losing interest in the whole thing, walked off from the others, taking a brief look around the room.

It was a spacious and elaborately decorated circular room, the ground was laden with interlocking square tiles colored a light yellow color that reflected the light pleasingly and three levels to it: the ground floor they were at and two upper stories in the form of the circular balconies lining the room in rings, accessible by a winding staircase just to the left of the lone doorway. The balconies themselves were made of the same substance as the floor, with large floral-style guardrails and supported by many large stone Greco-Roman style pillars going through the floor all the way to the ceiling, as finely polished everything else in the room.

In fact, Zim noted with some appreciation, the whole room was elaborately decorated, like the rest of the house, but with more of a feel for what Almighty Tallest Purple called Post-Utilitarianism or what he himself called 'pretty for the sake of pretty'. The ceiling, a beautiful stained glass dome surrounded by the pillars around them, was a prime example of this: it appeared to be a take on the Sistine Chapel's famous dome ceiling, decorated with images of imaginary friends, humans and the various other species they'd seen in Traverse Town so far, and quite a few he hadn't seen before. He recognized a few species here and there, but most of the creatures there were completely alien to him. At the center of the painting was a relatively small disc that supported the chain holding up the obligatory oversized Gothic chandiler.

It looked a lot like a ballroom to Zim before he thought that it might have had a less obvious military application: it was easily the most defensible room he'd seen yet. The balconies seemed to be arranged in such a way that long-range fighters could hide in the depths while picking off the enemy at their leisure, ducking behind the pillars to escape return fire. There was only one way in or out, excluding any potential secret entryways he wasn't aware of yet. The floor was wide open, making it perfect for a melee or to gather the enemy together and wipe them out in one fell swoop. The chandelier looked like it could handle that part quite nicely. And there was the way everything looked built not merely to last, but to withstand tremendous damage.

Making sure that the people behind him were occupied, Zim activated his communications device; his Pak morphed slightly, producing a long beige limb similar to one of his spiderlegs, only ending in a small magenta ball. The limb extended down, the ball stopped just in front of Zim's face. The ball split apart into four equal halves, long metal rods extending and keeping them connected; they spread out until the empty square was about the size of a large computer monitor, the ball pieces forming the corners.

The empty square flashed blue; a blue-tinted screen appeared, though what it displayed was impossible to tell under all the static.

"Minimoose!" Zim proclaimed. "Minimoose, come in! Minimoose!"

The screen cleared; Minimoose appeared on-screen, squeaking a greeting as he saw Zim, a thin rod extending from his back, leading up to the communication screen he was speaking to Zim on.

"Ah, good!" Zim tried to keep his relief that something was finally working hidden from Minimoose. "Give me a status report, Minimoose!"

"Squeak!" Minimoose quickly described his situation to Zim; Coco was giving him a tour of the district and explaining to him a number of interesting details. Zim stopped him before he could go into detail on anything.

"Listen closely." Minimoose assured with an affirmative squeak!. Zim quickly outlined his current situation to him: he was currently within the bowels of Foster's, evading the attention of a mob while traveling with six others, two of which claimed to be responsible for helping him find Dib and Gir. Realzing that Minimoose wasn't at all up-to-date on anything, he then informed him of his meeting with Calvin and Hobbes and how they were to supply him with a mode of transportation. He detailed his plan to Minimoose: search the surronding worlds for Gaz, Dib and Gir, followed by settling on this world permanently and taking things from there.

"Squeak?" Minimoose wanted to know what Zim wanted him to do.

Zim paused a moment before answering. He still wasn't entirely comfortable with Minimoose forming a relationship, but he still knew what the safest thing to do was for his other sidekick. "I want you to remain in this town, Minimoose, while I am gone. Establish allies, keep an eye out for any familiar faces and make yourself comfortable. That is your mission: adjust to things in town and compile data archives that may be useful to us! Apart from that, do as your better judgement suggests."

Minimoose looked surprised momentarily. He squeaked again: Zim was fully aware of the uneasy and slightly disappointed tone in it, but he pretended not to notice. Going into the worlds was dangerous enough for just him; he wanted Minimoose to stay safe among friendly people, not in danger with him. "Squeak?"

"Don't worry, Minimoose," Zim said confidently, doing his best not to let on his worry. "I'll bring Gir back, as safe and unsound as ever!"

"Squeak!" Minimoose squeaked again, clearly relieved.

"One more thing, my loyal sidekick!"

"Squeak?"

"I will contact you again tomorrow. I know not if I'll be able to contact you tonight or even where I shall be staying. In the meantime, do not worry about me. Tend to your mission!"

"Squeak!"

"Good! Zim out!" The communication screen went blank again and folded away into his Pak, the biomechanical device shifting back into it's default configuration.

Zim felt better, now that he knew that Minimoose was doing fine and doing something productive as well as enjoying himself. He vowed to advise him in the matter of appropiate mates, however; he found himself eager to investigate Coco further and decide whether or not she was an appropiate partner for Minimoose.

He then wondered how to get out this current situation. He had already decided what to do; once the threat of the mob was gone, he and his part of the group would depart for a floor more likely to have available rooms, after questioning the others here. He felt inexplicably reluctant to break the group up, which he put down to a need for solidarity from the shock of the world's disappearance finally hitting him. Until then, he decided to investigate the room he was in further.

Back at the door, Hobbes let out a breath in a loud whoof and stood up, stretching himself. "Ease up, they're gone."

Abel looked up at him for a moment. "At least that's over, then." He jerked away from the door, his jacket free at last. He stood up, dusting himself off and walked away, trying and failing not to look embarrassed.

"Are you sure?" Morte asked dubiously. "This Spike guy, he reliable?"

"Spike, reliable?" Kim said, laughing suddenly. "Is the sun cold? Is the ocean wet? Is Ron normal?"

Morte rolled his eyes completely up into his head once, an action that Kim took to imply a blink. "Take that as a 'no', then."

"Buuut," Ron said importantly. "He's really good at art-of-distraction! If it was Rufus' idea to get him away, then that mob ain't coming back!"

"If you say so," Calvin said doubtfully. He turned around, looking for Zim. He didn't see the Irken anywhere, and figured he'd probably gone looking around the room. "Come on, Hobbes. We need to confer with the Keybearer." He got no response; irked, he turned around, not seeing the tiger in sight. "Hobbes? Hobbes? Come on, not now!"

Calvin leaned back against the pillar grumpily, crossing his arms. "I hate when he does this." He didn't notice Hobbes stealthily emerge from the shadows, tightly clinging to the pillar above him and silently approaching him, crawling downwards. He stopped, just a few inches from Calvin's spiky hair.

Abel nudged Kim. "He's good!" He said in a stage whisper.

Getting a sinking sensation, Calvin sharply looked up; seeing the minute signs of this, Hobbes agilely rolled sideways across the pillar before he could see him. Frowning again, Calvin looked back down, unaware of Hobbes quietly descending onto the ground just to his left. Getting the feeling that he was getting stalked again, Calvin looked to the left just as Hobbes jumped over his head and behind him, avoiding getting seen. Calvin then looked the other way, the tiger doing the same thing again. A few moments passed in this fashion as Calvin looked around for Hobbes, the tiger agilely moving around just out of his sight with a number of athletic feats.

Ron whistled. "He is good."

Calvin groaned, leaning against the wall and crossing his arms. "What are you whistling at?" he said angrily.

Hobbes, standing to Calvin's side, leaned over the boy, his presence still unnoticed. "BOO!" He suddenly yelled in the boy's ear.

Calvin stumbled down out of sheer fright, screaming in terror while the tiger pointed at him and laughed. Realizing Hobbes' trick, he sat up, propping himself up with his hand and glared up at the tiger. "How do you do that!?"

"Shh," Hobbes said, bounding to a crouch just in front of him, gently flicking his forehead and knocking him back a few more paces. "Top secret."

Abel looked at them, shaking his head while smiling oddly. "Brothers."

Kim and Ron exchanged a mutual look, wondering exactly what Abel meant by that. Mulling it over momentarily, they both shrugged.

"Zim!" Hobbes called out. "Where are you?"

"Right behind you," Zim said from right behind Hobbes, hanging upside down in midair, suspended by the four spiderlike appendages clinging to the bottom of the second floor.

Hobbes jerked back a few steps, saving his dignity by not falling on the floor. Zim presented him with an amused grin.

Calvin walked over and gently kicked Hobbes in the side. "Now you know how it feels."

Hobbes rolled his eyes and stood back up.

"It's time we were leaving," Zim said abruptly, his spiderlegs retracting to his Pak and letting him drop to the floor.

"Leaving?" Abel repeated with some concern. "Why?"

"We have buisness to attend to tomorrow," Zim said, "And it's vitally important we find somewhere to stay as soon as possible."

"Oh," The priest said, looking unaccountably disappointed.

A thought occured to Zim. "Hold a moment. Do any of you know of the floors around here?"

Ron shook his head. "Sorry, none of us live here. Rufus knows the layout, though, and Spike knows it really well, so he'd probably be able to show you where to go?"

Zim mulled over it for a few moments. Morte summurized the situation for him. "So let me get this straight; we're going to have to wait around for your pet...whatever it is and that vampire with a rockabilly theme before we can do anything?"

"Pretty much," Abel said, trying to call attention away from Ron's uncharacteristically sharp look.

Zim gave it more thought. On the one hand, they could simply leave now and avoiding wasting time for Spike and Rufus to get back. But then they'd still be back at square one: lost in unfamiliar territory and clueless once more, with the added threat of that mob running into them again. On the other hand, they could stay here for them to get back. It would undoubtedly take a great deal of time he'd rather not lose, but then they'd have a nearly certain chance of getting to their destination with no more ill occurences.

The Irken decided that it really wasn't much of a choice. "We'll remain here for the duration," he said to Calvin and Hobbes.

The boy and tiger duo glanced at each other and shrugged. "Fine by us," Calvin said. Hobbes nodded in assent.

Zim looked at Morte sharply. "Do you have any objections?" He said this in the precise tone of voice used to imply that answering in the incorrect way would result in a large object being shoved up a very uncomfortable place.

Morte gave a half-bob that conveyed a motion somewhere between a shrug and a nod. "Hey, this is your show, Boss. I'm just here for the ride."

Zim smirked. "Don't forget that."

Calvin looked around the room. "Where are we, anyway? This looks like a place for practicing combat."

"Or a danceroom," Hobbes said pointedly.

"Psh!" Calvin said dismissively, sticking his hands in his pant's-pockets. "That's boring."

"Actually," Abel said. "It is a danceroom."

Calvin sagged. "Oh."

Abel looked around the room again with interest. "I like this room; I think it's the same one they had that one dance party at." He gave Kim and Ron a significant nod."It kind of reminds of the way they built things in the Vatican from my world. The ceiling's even like the Old Sistine Chapel."

Zim paused. Given some of Abel's remarks over the past hour, he suspected that he was far from an ordinary priest. Some of what he was saying was starting to sound vaguely familiar, too. But he was certain he'd never met Abel before; he was the kind of person that was impossible to forget.

Abel began to get lost in his own thoughts, remembering the soaring heights of the advanced Vatican City he had known before his world fell into the darkness almost fifty years ago. It's beautiful architecture, the deep belief he had that it was something that would last even through another of mankind's Armageddon.

Abel's mouth faintly turned downwards, his mind trenched in the bleak certainty that sooner or later, this last refuge of the lost would disappear as well. The refugee's lives would end as they lay dying in this world, cast far away from the homes they should've had by right. He considered how long this town had been here; Kim and Ron had actually grown up in the town since they were twelve, their old world only a vague memory for them. On the other hand, he'd wandered all over the worlds and stranger places before he came here a year and a half ago. And he considered Zim and those who had called his world home; they were surely newly acquainted with the terrible reality of the heart's darkness made manifest.

All flesh is as grass, and all the glory of man as the flower of the grass, Abel mused sadly. Because the grass withers and the flower falls. It wasn't right that it should be this way; dozens, hundreds, thousands maybe of worlds lost upon the tides of darkness, their inhabitants cast adrift among the cosmos, some few drifting through the dark to this world and others. Abel didn't know what was worse: that such a place as Traverse Town had to come to exist, or that their new friendships and bonds existed only because they'd lost almost everything dear to them.

"Is there a problem?" Abel heard from behind him; he turned his head to see Zim with a look that might well have been concern. Abel realized to his chagrin that some of what he was feeling must of shown up on his face, despite his best efforts to conceal it.

"It's nothing," the priest said quietly. "Just the past, that's all."

Zim got an overwhelming sense of age from the priest; he looked to be young, at most in his early twenties if even that, but the priest's demeanor suggested that he was older than that, far older than his somewhat random personality suggested.

Feeling sympathetic, Zim said, "Yeah, I know what that's like."

Abel smiled sadly. "You sound like someone who's experienced with this."

Zim shifted around. "More than once," he said quietly.

Abel looked surprised at the alien's admission momentarily. He half-closed his eyes, giving him a paternal look. "I'm sorry to hear that."

Zim shook his head dismissively, his mouth a firm line. "Never mind, it was a long time ago."

Abel gave Zim a long look. "But time isn't really the best medicine for emotional wounds."

Zim was startled; not just because of the profundity coming from Abel, but the words themselves. "Wait a minute...someone told me that before."

Abel looked puzzled; underneath the puzzlement, though, was a swell of excitement. "Really? When?"

"A few years ago. After some...unpleasantness, I left with my sidekicks to get some perspective. I took a wrong turn at Albuquerque and wound up in the American Southwest and-"

"Hold it!" Abel said. Zim was taken aback by this sudden outburst, thinking he'd done something offensive, then realized that Abel didn't sound upset but almost excited. "The American Southwest? A few years ago!? You must tell me, what world did you come from?"

"Eh..." Zim was confused. "Nicktown?"

"Nicktown...Nicktown...has an orange sky from orbit because of the defensive shell in the outermost atmosphere?"

"Yes," Zim said slowly, bewildered and unsure how Abel knew about that.

Abel slapped his face, laughing loudly. "I don't know why I didn't recognize you! I mean, you're not easy to forget, not that I'd want to! I have to say, you've improved some since then, but, you know, that's not to say that you were a bad person then! People change over time, it's stupid to expect you not to, so-"

"Wait!" Zim said, interrupting Abel's babbling. "We've met before? Impossible! I've never seen you before tonight!"

"Technically, that's true..." Abel untied his ponytail and wildly shook his head, causing his long hair to spill over his shoulders, down to his elbows. Abel adjusted his jacket so that it bunched up over his head, given the impression that he was wearing a cowl. Finally, he took the cloth he had used to tie his hair up and wrapped it over his eyes, giving the impression that he was wearing a blindfold. "Because we never exchanged our names."

Zim's jaw nearly dropped. He babbled a stream of alien-sounding words. An image came to mind: a tall priest wearing a full-body black robe secured with a number of straps, his flyaway white hair gleaming in the desert sunlight, his eyes covered by a thick black bandage and most of his face obscured by the shadows of the hood he wore. "You're that blind priest I met then!"

"Welll," Abel drawled, removing the blindfold, setting his jacket right and shaking his hair back before retying his hair back into a ponytail. "I was never blind...I just wanted to see what it was like to be blind."

The others had gotten wind of the conversation. Ron scooted right by them. "Hold it! Hooooold everything! Are you telling me that you two know each other!?"

"...Yes!" Zim snapped, rather irked. "Were you not listening!?"

"Yeah, but not very well?"

"Mind filling us in, Boss?" Morte inquired. "You and this goofball cleric, tromping 'round the desert all buddy-buddy? Doesn't click."

"Tell us, tell us, tell us!" Calvin whined.

"Come on!" Kim joined in.

Hobbes pointed at Kim. "What she said."

"Oh, fine!" Zim said resignedly, still pleased to have so many people's attention without first giving them reason to label him criminally insane. "It was a few years ago, like I said. After some...things I don't feel like telling you people about, I went off on a voyage of self-discovery across the North American continent."

"Like a pilgrimmage," Abel said.

Zim glanced back at Abel, wondering how he'd hit on the exact term he'd used for it. "Well, yes. At one point, I was separated from a band of elemental martial artists from another world I was traveling with and ran into Abel."

"Imagine!" Abel said brightly. "Five days we wandered together in the wilderness and we never bothered to find each other's name out! Of course, I can see how we didn't recognize each other: Zim wore a disguise in those days and I dressed differently, this during my wandering days, you understand." He smiled lopsidedly. "Back when I was in a transition of my own, much like Zim is now."

"Riiight," Zim said with an obvious note of dubiousness. "I remember getting lost and almost getting killed in a sandstorm. Abel saved me then, helped me escape from the desert heat and told me how to find a way out.. During our five day trek out, me and him spoke a great deal. It...gave me much to think about."

"And act upon, I hope." Abel said conscientiously, crossing his arms in such a way as to make his hands disappear into his sleeves.

"Yeah, that too," Zim said, wondering what Abel meant by that. It could have been the usual priestly advice, but knowing Abel, it could have been something else entirely. "I...suppose we became quite accustomed to each other. Then, on the fifth day, we reached the border and I saw the group I had been traveling with, looked aside and he had gone." Zim looked disgruntled. "I assumed that you felt you made your point and had made a dramatic getaway."

Abel looked embarrassed again. "Actually, when you weren't looking, I was hit by a runaway hover train that carried me some dozen miles away."

There was a short stunned silence.

"I'm very durable," Abel said, as if that explained anything.

Hobbes walked over to Zim, looking rather tense as he did. "Not that I'm casting any aspirations on your ability to discern things around you, but..." Hobbes suddenly leaned over Zim and bellowed, "HOW DO YOU MISS A HOVER TRAIN RIGHT BEHIND YOU!?"

Zim, a little windblown from the force of Hobbes' roar, shook his antennae and clothes back to normal. How do I tell him I have notoriously poor powers of perceptions without looking a fool?

The answer: I do not! "None of your business, beast of fluff and questionable choice in partner!"

"That was a shot at me, wasn't it?" Calvin complained.

Ron gave the whole thing a moment's thought. "Then this worked out pretty well for you guys!"

"It did?" Zim asked, nonplussed.

"Yeah! Two long-lost semi-friends, seemingly seen the last of each other forever, suddenly thrust right back into each other's faces!"

"I wouldn't be that dramatic," Abel said sheepishly, scratching the back of his neck.

"And," Ron went on, waving his arms wide. "It just goes to show at the vast, vast, vast...complicated-thingy of the universe...multiverse...whatever it is that we exist in! It's almost like destiny or amazingly interesting coincidence that works out like narrative!"

"Wait," Zim said, hours of completely random philosophic musing on the nature of the universe coming to the forefront. "Is there really a difference?"

Ignoring him, Ron continued to rant. "It's just so cool that stuff like that happens, right out of the blue-"

Morte made a few grunts of effort, then gave up. "Look, would you just shut the hells up before you embarrass yourself again?"

Ron stopped. "Heeey, what's that supposed to mean?"

"You want a repeat of that whole 'I'm adopted' thing?" Morte asked.

Ron's compusure abrputly deflated and he sank to the floor, surrounded by his own little cloud of gloom while his tail wrapped tightly around him. "I rue the day misery started dogging my every step, hounding me wherever I went and hunting me down like a fox after a clockwork mice..."

Kim sidled over to him, saying comforting things in his ear and shooting Morte looks that would have made a sane person want to run very far away and hide somewhere for about sixteen years. Morte felt his job was done, fortunately, and merely floated in the air, watching Kim comfort Ron and steadily rouse him from his gloom, either due to an honest curiousity in interpersonal relationships or out of some prurient interest. Moments later, the tension went out of Ron's body and his legs and tail flopped down. Kim wrapped an arm around his side and stood up, pulling him to his feet.

"Feel better?" Kim asked, gently letting him go. Ron stumbled a bit, shrugging slightly. "I'll take that as a yes."

Ron smiled weakly.

"Well, isn't this nice?" an unfamiliar voice said from somewhere above them.

Zim looked up sharply. "Who's there?"

"Up here!" The voice said again, coming from the second story.

Abel frowned and moved to the center of the room; the others followed him quickly. Kim came over to Abel's right, Ron following her lead and standing behind her, his depression at Morte's obnoxiousness forgotten. Calvin walked to Abel's other side, trying to look serious while Hobbes took up a spot a little behind the rest. Zim, with Morte in tow, walked a little in front of Abel, glaring up defiantly.

All their gazes were directed at the second floor balcony at the opposite side of the room where, standing in the shadows, was an fairly pale human, evidently in his early thirties and of average height. He was fairly good looking, with pleasant boyish features, a slim athletic build and neatly styled brown hair, but his smile didn't reach his blue eyes: the look in those eyes belied his easy smile and seemed eerily reptilian, like a good-humored lizard. His clothes were a professional looking version of a Traverse Town business suit; he wore a bright red shirt under a buttoned-up black coat, seams around the sides and shoulders and large decorative cuffs around his wrists. He wore a prominent red tie, long black dress pants and a pair of seamless black loafers. His hands, encased in tough-looking red leather gloves, were deep in his pockets.

The human grinned personably. "Pleased to meet you, hope you guess my name."

"Who are you?" Zim asked, settling into a combat position. He didn't know why, but he disliked this human intensely, loathing everything about him from his neat suit to his almost obsessively groomed appearance to his insincere smile. And there was his statement just now; he recognized it as the first line from Sympathy For The Devil.

The person chuckled. "You get right to the point. I like that." He raised his left hand out of a pocket; to their surprise, the hand was missing it's thumb. He was holding a small white card between his index and middle fingers. With exaggerated care, he raised it and threw it at them; the card flew faster then it should have, cutting a whistling path through the air. Abel snatched it out of the air, holding it in the same manner that the stranger had. He brought his hand down and everyone turned to see it, without actually leaving their positions.

"My business card," the human said by way of explanation.

Abel looked at it quizzically. "This card is blank."

Hobbes frowned, thinking that there was something not quite right about the situation. He was sure that no matter what, he would have heard anyone come in and he hadn't, yet he hadn't been aware of this guy's entrance until he showed up just now.

"Try the other side." The guy suggested, twirling his thumbless hand around in a circle.

Abel did as he advised, revealing more white marred by two small words in black ink. "Mr. Lyle?" Morte finally said.

"Now that we're on equal terms," Mr. Lyle said and jumped out of the shadows, moving so fast he was nearly a blur, smashing into the ground in front of them with a loud crash. The dust quickly cleared, revealing him to be untouched by any of it. "Why don't we get to know each other a little better?"

Mr. Lyle walked to them, smiling the whole way. He brushed past Hobbes, brushing his left hand against the tiger's cheek. Hobbes' nostrils flared and he frowned, revolted at the overpowering smell of the cologne Mr. Lyle was wearing. Mr. Lyle just smiled and kept on walking, well aware of everyone turning to face his back.

He stopped, well away from them. He folded both his hands behind his back, his thumbless hand cradled in his whole right hand. "So!" He said brightly, turning to face them, still smiling. "This is a bit out of the way for you guys, isn't it?"

Abel frowned, dropping the card. "Do you...know us?"

"Not personally, no," Mr. Lyle answered, giving a half-shrug. "I'm not friends with your friends, nor do I actually know any of you except peripherally. At best, I know some acquaintances of yours. Heck, I don't even live in this town like you guys."

Kim quirked an eyebrow. Mr. Lyle was polite and friendly enough (if anything, too friendly for a total stranger), but there was something about him that seemed wrong. "Then what are you doing here?"

"Buisiness." Mr. Lyle smiled, spreading his arms wide. "That's all."

Hobbes scowled faintly. "You'll have to forgive me for being blunt, but in my experience, people who talk about something being all buisness are very rarely interested in anyone else's good fortune."

Mr. Lyle shrugged. "Like they say, every rule has an exception, and I'm an ever-constant exemption." He looked pleased at this wordplay. "Besides, this house is neutral territory. There's no call for suspicion."

"You'll have to forgive us," Abel said, turning his hands out palms-up. "But this is rather suspicious."

Mr. Lyle smirked in a way that rubbed on Zim as being incredibly irritating. "Most things are, in the wrong light."

Hobbes growled softly. "Hobbes?" Calvin asked loudly. Hobbes ignored him, narrowing his eyes at Mr. Lyle. He slowly advanced upon him, his teeth bared slightly and his tail brushed pasts legs as he left the others, approaching Mr. Lyle, who moved half a step back as Hobbes kept coming, the tiger's tail now whipping around violently, his fingers flexing, his claws continually retracting and extruding. Hobbes suddenly stopped, his face a few inches away from the human's: he was so close to Mr. Lyle that the human could identify every varying shade on the tiger's mostly white muzzle.

Hobbes smelled him. It wasn't the protracted snuffling of a dog, but the more tentative nose-whiffs unique to cats. His whiskers briefly danced around the human's face, whose composure was being worn away by the second if his slightly twitchy hands and faint scowl were any indication. This went on for a few more tense moments before the tiger broke away, growling musingly for a moment. Hobbes frowned at the sudden look of brief disgust on Mr. Lyle's face before the man's usual insolent geniality reasserted itself. It was like watching a lid slide away from an old dish, revealing something moldy, rancid and crawling with insect life before someone hurredly pushed the lid back on. Hobbes paced away, his fur still fluffed out.

That look of disgust hadn't escaped the notice of the others, and it disturbed them. Kim, in particular, watched Hobbes skulk past her, noticing the tenseness in the tiger and felt taken aback. For the short time she'd known him, Hobbes had been almost alarmingly laid-back given the circumstances and had possessed enough cool that, if it was parceled out to the entire town, would be enough to make an entire population of Ron-imitators. The moodiness he was in seemed uncharacteristic to her, and she couldn't keep back a faint frown as Hobbes assumed his original position.

Ron looked at Mr. Lyle for a good long moment, taking in his good looks, his clearly well kept suit and his relentless smile and he concluded that this man was trouble. Chancing a whisper, he quietly said, "This guy is nothing but bad road." Kim narrowed her eyes at Mr. Lyle suspiciously; she'd learned to trust Ron's seemingly random hunches in events like these, because he'd never yet been wrong.

"Explain yourself," Zim said tensely, his eyes narrowing.

Mr. Lyle looked highly disconcerted for a minute, then he simply looked smug, but with a blatantly dark undertone. Without a word, Mr. Lyle brazenly walked right by Zim, pushing Morte aside and not noticing how Morte snapped at where his fingers had been. He stopped in front of Abel and leaned very slightly to the left, disappearing with a whooshing sound.

They heard a sigh, reminding them of a teacher dealing with particularly annoying toddlers. "Too bad for you guys. You really have no conception of what's going on, do you?" They followed the sound of his voice, seeing him standing to their left, but in an odd way; he was somehow standing on the underside of the second-story balcony, just next to the party. What made it really strange was the way his clothes were blatantly denying gravity; not single hair was out of place and his coat was falling down towards the ceiling, making them feel like they were the ones that were defying gravity.

"How are you doing that?" Calvin asked, feeling more suspicious by the second.

"Wouldn't you like to know." Mr. Lyle said, smirking cruelly. "You know, you're kind of paranoid."

Calvin snorted. "What do you know?"

Mr. Lyle smirked. His thumbless hand, the same one he had raised in a 'ah ah ah' gesture now moved in to a slowly moving forward crook, the index finger loosely pointing. "Interesting detail. I know everythingabout you people, you overrated pyromaniac. Everything."

Kim bristled, not liking where this was going. "What's that supposed to mean?"

Mr. Lyle smirked and pointed at her. "You tell me, Subject zero-five-three-five." Kim jerked, her mouth slightly agape as she took a step back, staring up at the human with incredulous shock. Clearly alarmed, Ron stepped next to her, supporting her from the side and glaring disbelievingly at Mr. Lyle, who found his stare incredibly unnerving.

"How...how do you know that?" Kim said, her eye narrowed angrily.

Mr. Lyle didn't answer her. "They say the thing that really makes a person what they are is their scars. Extensive psychological research worlds-wide have indicated that the most powerful experience a person can undergo is the kind that scars them for life." His smile tighted slightly, becoming a dark expression of bitterness and sadism. "I hear you're always going on about how you can do anything, that nothing is impossible for you. So tell me, have you moved on beyond the memories of your cell in the fortress of gray nothingness? Have you really forgotten what happened there? What you saw there? What was done to you there? And who did it?"

"Stop it right now!" Ron snarled, his eyes flashing ice blue for a moment. Kim bit her lip softly, not looking at Mr. Lyle or answering his accusations.

"Some-one's a little bit sensitive," Mr. Lyle said, grinning wickedly. "What's the matter, don't want Kimmie's dirty little secret getting out?"

"I'm warning you..." Ron said dangerously as the blue glow intensified, his tail lashing around. Kim leaning into him, a disturbed look on her face as she scowled at Mr. Lyle.

"Oh, you're warning me?" Mr. Lyle mocked. "If I know you, and I do, you're not much good at protecting the people close to you, are you? You can help all the faceless masses you want, put your life on the line for them even if they can't remember your damn name, but that doesn't mean anything if you couldn't save the ones that were actually related to you." Mr. Lyle paused thoughtfully. "Or maybe you wouldn'tsave them. Not exactly close to your family, now were you? Hmm, your little sister, though...I guess she's important to you."

Ron stared at Mr. Lyle, his look of rage vanishing behind an expression of pure incredulity, as if he couldn't believe what Mr. Lyle was saying.

"But!" Mr. Lyle held a finger up. "It's not like you did the stupid thing and got yourself killed over a father that was too wishy-washy to pay attention to you and a mother that just didn't care. Not when the alternative was getting torn apart by Cain Nightroad, alright." Zim recognized the surname and look aside, seeing Ron's and Abel's eyes widening at the name Abel's eyes narrowing in purest loathing. "Yeah, Abel's crazy brother didn't just kill what the Heartless left of your family, he slaughtered them. Ripped them apart like limp little ragdolls-"

"Stop it!" Kim said sharply, her eyes flashing dangerously.

Mr. Lyle went on, ignoring her. "He completely tore them apart before he took your little sister away before you tried to do something about it." He smirked. "Heh, not many can say they've gone amano-a-mano with Cain Nightroad and only got every single bone in their body broken three times for it, but you just set records everywhere you go, kid! Couldn't save your sister, but hey, who cares?"

Zim's eyes narrowed at this flagrant display of callousness. "Be quiet!" Zim yelled, the Keyblade flashing into his hand. Ron's attention snapped to Zim, as did Kim's, and they both regarded him gratefully for speaking in their defense, their opinion of him rapidly shooting up. Abel's attention remained focused on Mr. Lyle, his eyes narrowed in hateful fury, a thin red dot at the center of his eyes.

"Reee-lax," Mr. Lyle said, quite unconcerned. "You'll get your turn." He smirked at Abel. "You know, there might be something to that whole 'good and evil' twin thing after all. I mean, Cain is your fraternal twin, right? And you really hate him. Hate hate hate hate. Can't blame you, though; he's the reason you two are damned to play out the story of the two you were named after forever. Cain and Abel. The first murderer and his victim, brothers destined to hate each other forever. Okay, maybe it's just you doing the hating. Who knows what goes through Cain's head?"

"I wouldn't expect you to understand what goes through my brother's mind," Abel said tightly, longing to let the darkness out, to tear Mr. Lyle off the wall and smash him down, to let the black daggers of his hand grow out and plunge them into this disgusting man's body and twist, twist until he screamed like a stuck pig.

"You know, you really are a pair of brothers," Mr. Lyle said. "One of you a being of destruction, the other a model priest But you know something, Father? Cain's not entirely to blame for his acts of destruction before he saw fit to kill your precious Lilith and make you and little sister Seth shove him out an airlock. I mean, your chosen nickname says it all, doesn't it? 'Angel of Darkness'. Let's not forget that it's Cain's real form that looks like the angel; white wings and glowing with light, the whole feel-good thing. But the way you look...it's almost..." Mr. Lyle paused, savoring the words. "Like a fallen angel. Fiendish, really. But then again, let's not forget something, you glorified alter boy." Mr. Lyle shook his head knowingly. "Once upon a time, you were a monster, too"

Abel stared at Mr. Lyle mutely, his eyes emitting a red radiance and the rage on his face doing nothing to contradict Mr. Lyle's statement.

Hobbes snarled ferociously. "Enough already!" He bellowed. "What sick game are you playing!?"

Mr. Lyle ignored him, looking at Calvin. "What about you? Does your little trauma keep you up at night? Mind if I tell?"

Calvin looked slightly bored at the prospect. "Go ahead," he said, trying to sound indifferent. "Everyone from back home knows that whole sordid story. What's a few more details?"

"So, we got us a tough guy!" Mr. Lyle said with a humorless chuckle. "Okay, I can go with that. Or maybe you really don't care about anyone but yourself. Maybe anything that happens to anyone else doesn't bother you at all?"

"That's a lie," Calvin said. "I care about Hobbes! I care about a lot of things!"

"Really?" Mr. Lyle smirked again. "Then why no detail? You're the guy that makes all kinds of lists. So why can't you make a list of the things you care about?" Calvin said nothing, glaring at Mr. Lyle furiously.

Mr. Lyle raised an eyebrow. "What about your friend and..." He paused for a moment, looking like he was chewing on something unpleasant. "'Brother'?"

"What about me?" Hobbes challenged, wondering what Mr. Lyle knew about him.

Mr. Lyle smirked again. "Oh, not much, just a little cross-culture trivia. It's interesting, really. Not many people in this town would, if they had the idiocy to go back to their people again, would be branded race traitors."

Hobbes' fur stood on end and his ears flattened back. He gulped, unable to stop his shaking hands or his violently thrashing tail. "How do you know about that!?" He demanded, his fists balling up. "No one outside the Kotirrim Nation knows about that!"

"Simple," Mr. Lyle said. "But the details of how I know are none of your business."

"Where you get the temerity to call me a race traitor-" Hobbes started to sharply retort before Mr. Lyle cut him off.

"Easy; it's what you are." Mr. Lyle cast a knowing glance at the others. "See, Hobbes' people, the Striped People of the Kotirrim Nation, have a strict policy about not messing around with, well, everyone else. They'd consider you, a cat of their own flesh and blood, one who willingly went into a family of humans and thought of their child as his own litterbrother, one who regularly employs his people's martial secrets for them, as nothing more than the scum you scrape off your claws. So go ahead and lie. Tell everybody that when you tried to reconcile with your clan, they didn't brand you as a pariah and outcast, they didn't exile you from your homeland forever. Or maybe it still stings."

Hobbes said nothing, looking down at the ground, his face fixed in a frustrated grimace.

"Is this a thing people like you do?" Morte said loudly. "Or is it just a bit of free-spirited sadism?"

"Ah, Morte Rictusgrin." Mr. Lyle looked askance at the skull. "You are inconsequential. I'd tell you to go to Hell, but you've been there, done that, had your flesh rot away until only the bone was left. Have you told them about the Nine Hells of Baator? Have you told them about that giant tower of rotting living heads, each one a liar, cheat or sage who told a lie that got someone dead? Have you told them why you stink of the realm of the devils?"

"That," Zim snarled, his thin string of patience frayed to a single frail thread. "is enough!"

Mr. Lyle turned to him, almost speculatively. "And now, lest you feel left out, I come to you. Zim...no, Invader Zim." Zim raised an eyeridge at mention of the now defunct rank. "You used to be famous. Or should I say infamous? Infamous because you were the biggest disaster Irk ever knew. From day one, you were nothing but trouble; taking out the power to your entire planet into darkness because you weren't smart enough to figure out what was going on!" He shook his head sadly, then turned to the others. "See, ol' Zim's culture has a habit of attaching biomechanical devices to the newborn infants as a means of fullfilling a long-lost biological need." The others found their attention wandering to the device on Zim's back, wondering if that was the thing Mr. Lyle was referring to. "But sometimes, the data is corrupted and as the Irken grows, you get the kind of Irken that Zim is: a Defective. An Irken that wasn't ever supposed to exist, and one that shouldn't even exist at all." He raised an eyebrow. "In your case, it blew your normal personality traits out of proportion, making you into a self-centered narcisstic megalomaniac."

Zim said nothing, mutely staring at this appalling specimen of how twisted a human could be. He'd mulled over ideas much like this before, during his darker days, but to think of this human speaking them so blandly, to people he wasn't even sure he could trust yet, was a profoundly disquieting one.

Surprisingly, the others came to his defense. "What makes you think you have the right to say things like that?!" Ron demanded hotly, his eyes blazing with blue-white light for a moment.

"'Defective'?" Kim said dismissively, glaring at Mr. Lyle, who seemed less certain then he did before. "What is that supposed to mean, anyway? It's just another word people like you use to justify what you do. If there's any such thing as a defective person, it's people like you!" Zim knew perfectly well that what Mr. Lyle said was technically correct, but he didn't bother to inform her of that fact.

Hobbes' hunched posture, wild eyes and loud growl said everything about his feeling about this matter, in a way that mere words couldn't suffice for what he, and everyone, felt.

"You know," Calvin said, pointing at Mr. Lyle, the air heating around his finger. "If there's one thing I really hate, it's people like you. Always using excuses for everything they do, using everyone like they have a right to do say, always causing pain and misery wherever they go because they think that no one can do anything about it." His eyes flashed. "Y'wanna test that?"

"Stop now, Mr. Lyle," Abel said warningly, his face twisting in an uncertain but very definite way. It was like something was pulling his facial features outwards. "Or you will know what wrath really means." His jacket flapped back suddenly; a single black feather drifted out from under, dissolving into mist as it hit the floor.

Mr Lyle mockingly replied, "Touchy bunch, aren't you? You'd think you were ashamed of what happened." As he said this, Ron and Calvin exchanged an annoyed look. "But I believe I've made my point."

"And what point is that?" Kim said, her eyes glaring.

Mr. Lyle smirked. "There's this old story about the Keyblade...it says the Keybearer is destined to attract others who are tormented. Like iron to a lodestone, but instead of metal, people just like him...in one fashion or another."

"You could have just said that when you got here," Morte said icily.

"True, I could have." Mr. Lyle shrugged. "But where's the fun in that?"

"I see..." Calvin said quietly. "And that was the point of this? Telling things that don't need to be told, just to prove this pointless theory?" He unslung his hammer, pointing it at the human. "And because of everything you said, had no right to ever say, all to get to this point...what makes you think you're going to get out of here without a trip to the emergency ward, huh?"

Mr. Lyle closed his eyes; he blurred once more, reappearing some distance from them on the ground floor, his back turned to them. "You guys can complain all you want, but the thing is, you're shout-and-pouters. You won't do anything about me." He regarded them with a slight turn of the eyes. "Abel's the only one of you who's got the guts to take out his problems on the guy responsible. Like, I don't see Possible hunting down the doctor, or Hobbes proving his worth to his people like the old traditions say. Heck, I can't even see Stoppable having the guts to kill Cain. Sure, he'd be wiped out in an instant, but a little solidarity might be nice is all I'm saying."

Ron rolled his eyes at him."What would you know about solidarity?"

Mr. Lyle raised an eyebrow. "Not that it's any of your business, but it's a fool's game. One that morons like you go for." Ron gave him a look that suggested that he personally though Mr. Lyle to be a complete idiot.

"You aren't in the best place to be making insults," Zim reminded Mr. Lyle, pointing the Keyblade at him. The air in front of him flickered slightly.

"Oh, I know!" Mr. Lyle said brightly. "Fortunately for me and unfortunately for you guys, I have no interest in getting this taken out on me. See, I wasn't sure how you'd react. I was wondering what would happen if I did, and I gotta say, you've surprised me, at least a little. But, that's not the real point. Y'see, this is the real point." He snapped his fingers: the card Hobbes had tossed aside stirred, flapping around and landing back on the ground, the name on it standing out.

The edges of the name 'Mr. Lyle' shifted; thin hairlines of ink spread out to the edges, disappearing from sight as they spread out over the unseen side. The ink changed in depth, turning from black marks to a deeper darkness, various other hues mixed into it, like the card was a seal covering the entrance to a realm of malignancy, and one that was breaking. The hairlines widened, spreading across the cards surface, though the name on it remained intact: it was clear from the way they spread that they weren't overtaking the white of the card, but that the card itself was changing substance somehow, the darkness it was radiating spreading away from it's surface and spilling onto the ground around it, the card a raised rectangle on the center of a three foot wide puddle.

The darkness thickened and the name on the card finally disappeared from sight. A wild, black-purple tangle shot away from the card, whirling over their heads and landing on a pillar, creating a similar pool like the one it had come from. Another tangle spread away to the ceiling, making a comparatively minuscule pool, as did at least three others, seemingly vanishing in the shadows. More such tangles spun away from the pool, landing at completely random areas in the room, one after another until about twenty such pools that they could see were spread around the room.

The pool they were positioned around stirred. A number of sharp points broke the surface, rising up, their metal surface shining as the darkness swirled away from them, revealing a metal claw-hand. Another hand broke the surface near the other side of the pool, rising out as an arm appeared under them. They braced against the ground, pushing against the ground and pulling it away from the pool, showing the darkness shrouded form of a Soldier. It shook the darkness off, leaping over their heads and dancing into the shadows. Behind it, the pool dissolved, leaving no trace of the card or pool. Around them, Heartless were coming out of the pools everywhere: generally Air Soldiers, Soldiers with a few Red Nocturnes here and there, many of the pools becoming several Shadows. Strangely, all of them seemed reluctant to fight and jumped into the shadows.

Mr. Lyle smirked, a blue-black aura engulfing his form. "And now, what will you do, what will you do? Run away from my dark friends, or fight a battle you'll probably lose?" He laughed loudly. "That's the problem with people like you. I don't have to deal with questions like 'damned if you do, damned if you don't'. See, if you run away, you'll be leaving all the people here at the mercy of the Heartless. And if you fight them, you'll all die and be reborn as Heartless." He faded away from sight, his voice still echoing from around them. "Have fun!"

The Heartless around looked at them and slowly started to move at them; the ones at the ground stayed where they were while the ones above them crawled down the pillars, flew down or simply jumped to their level. There was about thirty or so in the room, but more still could portal into the room.

However, there was a further concern on Abel's mind. "How could he even summon them here? Foster's is protected from the Heartless!"

"I dunno," Ron said, eying the Heartless, his mind already drifting away from what Mr. Lyle had said and focusing at the problem at hand. "Maybe he figured out how to get past it?"

"I hate not knowing what's going on," Calvin whined. "I have no idea what any of you guys are talking about?"

"Okay," Morte said brightly. "Bunch of freakish shadow monsters all around! How's this for a battle plan; You guys take the fifteen crawling down from the ceiling, my guys can take the fifteen right around us and I'll handle whatever's left."

Zim suddenly broke into excited laughter, twirling the Keyblade in a few circles before balancing it behind his head, his free hand resting near the prongs. "Now this looks like fun!"He grinned maniacally, clearly looking forward to the coming fight.

Morte looked at Abel appraisingly. "Are all you guys this nuts?"

Abel shrugged. "Pretty much, yeah."

Hobbes heard a shuffling noise from above; he sharply turned to the left as over half a dozen small pairs of glowing yellows eyes appeared in the unnaturally thick shadows near him. He quickly hopped back three times, each small jump carrying him five feet, coasting on the ground on the last jump, his claws scoring marks in the tile floor.

Morte hovered by Zim nervously. "So, uh, want do you want me to do, Boss? Don't know if I'll be any good against things like this."

Abel came up to him. "Relax, I have a plan!"

"Oh, goodie." Morte said blandly, doubting that Abel could do anything effectively.

Abel suddenly unstrapped the buckles binding the cross to his back with amazing speed; most of it's support gone, the cross leaned back ominously, taking most of Abel's considerable strength to keep himself from falling over. With sudden lightning-fast celerity, Abel opened the remainder of the buckles, causing the straps to slip out through the tiny slits in his jacket, fanning out over the mummified cross before retracting into the folds of the wrapping. The cross started to fall off his back before Abel swiftly caught it with one arm, nestling it in the crook of his arm.

Abel dropped it. A dustcloud blasted around Abel, completely concealing him from sight. When the dust cleared, it was evident that the ground under it had shattered and cracked, no less then if he had dropped a wrecking ball there.

Calvin's jaw dropped. "How heavy is that thing?!"

"Really heavy," Abel said evasively. The wrappings around the top section slithered into a loose bundle, revealed an incredibly complicated system of arcane-looking metalwork. Abel placed his hands into two exposed, pushing them aside and revealing an impossibly deep dark space. He gestured at Morte. "If you would..."

Morte's jaw dropped to the ground. He took a moment to snap it back on before turning to Abel and saying in his driest tone possible, "You can't be serious."

"Can and am!" Abel said hurriedly, grabbing Morte and shoving him into the open hole; as he did, Morte's loud yells suddenly became echoing and distant. Abel quickly closed it, shutting it with a loud slamming noise. He then pulled at some other grooves, moved a few panels and pushed some disguised buttons, causing two corresponding slats to slid out of the sides of the top section, a number of odd-looking weapons resting on them. Abel quickly chose two slightly oversized white handguns with glowing energy capsules for ammunition, attached their holsters to his belt, and upon a few moments thought, grabbed two odd swords encased in sheaths that he quickly strapped to the the sides of his jacket: they appeared to be either socket bayonets designed for personal combat or oversized straight razors.

Closer inspection would reveal that they were closer to the former: they had thick rounded black handles, some form of Aramaic or Latin inscribed around them in gold lettering, a thick piece of crooked metal connecting to the thick single-edged blades some four feet long and four inches wide, mostly straight except for the angled tips at their ends.

Abel gently set the cross aside; as he did, the cross' shadow moved, encircling the T-shaped artifact at it's base, swirling hypnotically. The cross silently sank into the ground, disappearing from sight as the shadows writhed around it.

There was a brief moment of stunned silence. "That was incredibly strange," Zim stated, speaking everyone's mind on the subject.

Sensing their lapse in focus, the Heartless moved faster, dropping down with alarming suddenness, staying in the gaps between the pillars, staring at them with an alien intent that was more terrifying than any demonic roar could have been.

Everyone tensed, loosening up slightly when the Heartless made no move, simply remaining where they were.

"Why aren't they attacking?" Calvin wondering, strapping on his Blizzard Bracer and unslinging his hammer.

"I don't know," Kim confessed. "This is weird."

"It's like they're...waiting. For something." Abel said slowly, waiting for the slightest flicker of movement. As far as he could tell, the Heartless army consisted mostly of Air Soldiers and Soldier, Shadows falling just behind them and a smaller number of Red Nocturnes. He counted himself lucky that he saw none of the stronger kinds of Heartless, but this many at once could be a difficult matter.

"They might not react quick enough to stop us from making a getaway," Hobbes said, his mind marking off tactical ideas.

"You run away," Zim said with a grin, "If you're scared."

"Oh, no, I'm not scared. I'm only facing down a small army of monsters spawned from the very essence of darkness that want to eat my heart. What's to be scared of?"

"Is this that 'sarcasm' thing you people do?" Zim asked. He'd always had trouble with that sort of thing.

"Yeah," Hobbes said drily. "Yeah, that's that sarcasm thing we do."

"We can't run!" Kim said in response to Hobbes' earlier statement. "We'd leave all these Heartless running loose." Her fists tightened. "We'd be putting the people here in danger."

"I know it's not an option, mignonette." Kim tried not to blush or anything embarrasing in reaction to the term, which she understood to be French slang for a pretty girl, much like 'darling' or 'miss'. She wondered why Hobbes was calling her that and simply took it as a term of affection. She then thought that was odd in itself, as they barely knew each other, then thought she might be overanalyzing again. Hobbes continued talking, well aware of her feelings but choosing to say nothing. "But a knight should always examine every aspect of a battlefield before acting. These guy's refusal to act yet could be a sign of something."

Zim laughed. "So, you know the basics of war! That might make my job easier. All of you," he called out to the others. "Get ready."

Kim smirked. "I'd say I was born ready, but I'm not sure that I could have roundhoused an incarnation of darkness as a toddler."

Ron laughed. "Good call!" He almost lazily swung one of his arms out, the hand loosely cupped, a radiant blue light forming around it. The blue light grew stronger and longer, lengthening out past his knee, solidifying into the form of a finely crafted katana. The blade was about two and a half feet long, gleaming a translucent blue except for the beautifully forged single-edge on it. The katana was unusual in that it wasn't ornate at all; it was utilitarian in it's looks, giving it an artistic elegance from it's lack of unnecessary ornamentation. The square bit of metal between handle and blade was made of some form of brass, with no evident carving on it. The handle itself was black, with a grip that seemed molded for Ron's fingers, down to the brass on the pommel.

Ron grasped the Lotus Blade in both hands, holding it before him defensively. As this happened, a similar blue glow spread around his right shoulder, creating the form of a long squarish blue sheath for the katana. It was considerably more modern looking then the sword it was to carry, with a number of deep squarish grooves in it's sides, and had a large strap looping over his right shoulder.

Calvin whistled. "Neat trick. What do you do for an encore? Pull a tank out of your shoe?"

"Har har har," Ron said sarcastically.

Abel said nothing, watching the Heartless. At the summoning of the Lotus Blade, a wave of movement went through the Heartless army, but none of them attacked.

"Well," Calvin said, "Time to show you guys a professional at work." He threw his arms out, the arrays on his bracer and glove glowing blue-white and red-orange respectively; a brief burst of cold and flame flared up around him briefly, an electrical current flickering around him in it's wake from the energy of the two opposing elements. Frost formed around the ground around him, melting away as heat washed over it. His hair also stood on end, but no one noticed because it normally looked that way.

"'Professional'?" Kim and Ron questioned at the same time. They looked at each other. "You owe me a soda!" Kim said just as Ron opened his mouth.

"Come on!" Zim called out to the Heartless hordes, moving around restlessly, anxious to get started. "I thought you were supposed to fight me wherever I go! Why are you standing there!? Come on, I'm standing right here, clear as the Pak on my back! Come on and FACE ME!"

Hobbes rolled his eyes. "Come on, you don't really expect them to-" The Heartless stirred again and Hobbes stopped talking. A Soldier suddenly broke ranks and charged, one of it's arms held back, claws glinting in the artificial light. "Oh, okay then."

Abel swung his right arm out, his gun pointing at it, and squeezed the trigger. There was a small discharging sound and a round burst of energy shot out from the barrel, crossing the room and burying itself into the Soldier's head, tearing through it like an anvil falling on an overipe watermelon. The headless Soldier stumbled, crashing into the ground and collapsing into thick black-blue smoke a moment later.

Evidentally emboldened by the example of the destroyed Soldier, the other Heartless abruptly rushed at the small group, separating into small troops as they did.

In what seemed like a shockingly short time, the ground floor was covered with Heartless, a large number of them rushing at the heroes. "Scatter!" Calvin called out, pulling a yellow grooved capsule out of one of his pockets, twisting the top of it and throwing it to the ground.

Everyone jumped out of the way just as a mass of Heartless slammed into the ground where they'd been standing. The Heartless struggled to get up, watching their would-be victims running off and tearing into their fellow Heartless. On the ground below the Heartless, the capsule glowed bright yellow, runic sigils glowing all over it's surface, a rapidly series of beeps sounding from it's vicinity.

A small dome of yellow-white energy blossomed out, swallowing the Heartless pile-up as it expanded in a spiralling burst, illuminating the room brightly. It quickly faded away, vanished from sight. At it's epicenter, where the capsule had been, there was a rounded burn mark and melted ground making a half-inch indentation in the ground. Of the Heartless that had been there, the only trace remaining was some fading wisps of smoke.

Calvin looked at his mess he'd made with pleasure and a trace of disappointment. "There goes my last Bomb-In-A-Can. Don't even know how I'm going to make more with the stuff I have on hand."

Across the room, ignoring Calvin's theatrics, Zim rapidly back-pedaled, suddenly sticking his Keyblade behind him, impaling a Shadow that was pouncing at him. Grinning excitedly, he jumped in the air as a Soldier dove at him from a balcony; he flipped in the air, narrowly avoiding it, landed a foot on it's head and jumped up into the air, kicking it to the ground. A moment later, a fireball streaked down from above and incinerated the Heartless. Zim laughed, his spiderlegs extended and holding him between two pillars.

Standing a comfortable and safe distance from Calvin, Hobbes scooted back a bit, standing in a near-crouch and claws extended, growling menacingly at the Heartless surronding him. A Soldier rushed at him, swinging it's claws; Hobbes swung his shield, the claws of his attacker bouncing off harmlessly. He ducked under it's follow-up overhead swung, thrusting his free hand directly into the Soldier's midsection, brutally ripping free a large hole as he pulled his hand out. The Soldier stumbled back, leaving Hobbes free to swipe his shield right under it's shoulder and under it's neck: the blow was so clean, the Soldier didn't even register it until it moved and the struck area toppled off, the rest of it disapating into smoke.

As a Soldier Heartless ambled in their direction, Kim looked at Ron, jerking her head over his shoulder; he hopped in the direction she indicated in a manner similar to Hobbes, with an odd grace he hadn't possessed before, spinning around to face her, grinning at her. Kim nodded, then whirled around to face the Soldier swinging a clawed hand at her, violently kicking it in the knee. As it stumbled, she jabbed two fingers into it's wrist, knocking it off-balance as it continued on and crashed into the ground behind her. It turned around jerkily, facing her just as she kicked it in the face, denting it's metal helmet and launching it at Ron; he roundhouse-kicked as it flew at him, knocking it to the ground. Ron quickly dashed forward and swung his sword through it; several large gashes appeared in it, some dark fluid gushing from it before it disintegrated.

Abel came to a stop, surronded by Heartless at all sides, two Red Nocturnes slowly coming to him. He twirled his guns, slammed them into their holsters, pulled his bayonets from their sheaths and brandished them in front of him in a single fluid movement. A Red Nocturne flew at him, fire flaring around it; Abel dashed forward fearlessly, swinging an overhead cut. The blade went right through the flames, cutting right through the Nocturne; the fire went out, darkness billowing out from beneath. Abel turned around to face the other, the darkness on his bayonet boiling away into sickly-looking mist. The Red Nocturne generated a ball of fire, whirling it around it's body before firing it at the priest. Abel agilely flipped out of the way, throwing the surprisingly aerodynamic bayonet at the Nocturne while still in the air. The bayonet impacted the Nocturne right between it's eyes and the Heartless dropped to the ground, exploding into smoke. Abel quickly retrieved his blade, twirling it around in his fingers, a calm and cool look on his face while his glasses flashed.

Zim took off at a run and shot a fireball off at a Soldier, unpleasantly surprised when a Red Nocturne redirected it back at him. He jumped backwards, covering more ground then he thought he should have been able to. Shaking off the thought, he jumped onto a Soldier and jumped off, bounding from Heartless to Heartless, his leaps taking him directly over the Red Nocturne. It slowly turned up at him, fire shimmering around it. Zim descended, the Red Nocturne throwing a fireball at him. He swung the Keyblade through the fireball, blowing it out and then jabbed his weapon into the Red Nocturne; he pushed his feet against the Heartless and twisted the weapon, bounding away as the Heartless imploded in a blast of darkness and fire.

He hit the ground fairly hard, unbalanced by the unexpected implosion. Zim quickly flipped back to his feet, knocking back a Shadow that came to close. Destroying it with a fireball, he looked around and noticed a Soldier coming at him, a number of Heartless surrounding it. Grinning madly, he broke into a run and jumped, landing his boot right into it's chest, knocking it down and sending it sliding while he stood on it. He was aware of the others staring at him in astonishment as he rode a flailing Soldier like a surfboard across the ballroom floor, going right into a group of Heartless: black mist quickly surrounded the area as he broke into a series of rapid slashes, jabs and thrusts, all while avoiding their various attacks with a series of flips, air rolls and other such tactics while still riding the Soldier.

He came out of the cloud, blasting a fireball to take care of any remaining Heartless; the recoil of the blast sped them up, straight at a pillar. Thinking fast, Zim jumped off the Soldier, letting it skid directly into the pillar in a blast of dark mist.

Zim took a quick look around and laughed loudly. "Bwahahahahaha! This is even more fun then it normally is!"

At the other side of the room, Calvin took a few tentative steps back as Shadows advanced upon him; he wasn't afraid, just curious to see how they'd react. They kept coming after him, using that odd half-hop they seemed to favor for movement. He raised his hand, quickly forming a fireball. He thrusted the hand at a Shadow, the fireball spiraling into a small red-orange beam, obliterating the Shadow.

He confidently blew the smoke from his palm, pausing when he noticed some more Shadows materialize from the ground. "More keep coming, no matter how many I kill! I swear, it's like I'm stuck in some RPG or something! And not even the main character!"

Grumbling inaudibly to himself, he touched the alchemist circle at the front of his bracer; blue-white light shone from the various circles on it, the air around him looking curiously heavy. He slammed his hand onto the ground just as the Shadows pounced. White mist billowed around him, hiding him from sight. It congealed into large icicles nearly twice his height, spearing the inattentive Heartless. The mist clearly, showing a ring of the icicle around a hollow area, where Calvin had been stand. The icicles glowed blue-white again, dissolving into mist under Calvin's feet and bearing him into the air, suddenly reforming into a rather craggy pillar of ice. It moved suddenly; Calvin collected ambient air moisture and froze it directly beneath him, causing an ice slide to appear beneath him, providing him a mode of transport similar enough to flight. From time to time, spikes would sprout to impale any flying Heartless that got too close for comfort, but overall, Calvin felt he'd hit upon a good battle plan.

Still keeping an eye on Calvin, Hobbes backflipped a few times, avoiding the fireballs flung at him by a Red Nocturne. His last flip carried him halfway up a pillar, where he clung tightly for a moment. He jumped off just as a fireball exploded at where he'd been resting and let the momentum carry him to the Nocturne, getting him close enough to smash his shield right through the Heartless, killing it in a single blow. He landed on an unaware Soldier, thrust his claws into it's shoulder in a handstand, spun around and smashed his feet into several other Soldiers around him, and flipped in the air, ripping his claws through it's head and dispatching it, landing on the ground smoothly. Seeing Calvin surrounded by enemies, he flung his shield, the discus cutting an arc around the boy and slice through several of the Heartless in question, flying back to him and caught with a quick movement.

Abel stood atop the second balcony, his weapons sheathed as he took a quick look at everyone's progress and concluded that the battle was going quite well. He heard a clicking sound behind him and swiftly turned around, drawing his bayonets and thrusting them into the neck of an Air Soldier that had been sneaking up on him. Around his blades, the Heartless' body began to boil and twist; he slashed out, tearing the Air Soldier apart in the process.

Abel frowned; the Heartless weren't usually this weak. Having another suspicion, he looked out and noticed that Heartless were warping in, but almost randomly. Normally, they attacked in waves of two or three, more showing up as all the nearby Heartless were defeated. Yet, the numbers he saw in the room outstripped what he normally saw. He frowned. Something suspicious was going on here.

"...And that's why everything the government says to you is nothing but a bucket of fiiiilthy lies! Filthy like the thousands of horrible germs infesting the Earth fast food industry!" Zim said to Ron, their weapons temporarily stowed away as the two stood atop one of Calvin's ice slides, enjoying a temporary respite from the battle. Hobbes and Kim briefly stared up at the two of them, wondering when they'd got there and what they were doing there at all.

Zim started laughing madly. Ron joined in after a moment with a loud "Booyahahahahahaha!". Hobbes and Kim looked at each other, quirking an eyebrow at the same time. Ron said broke off his mad laugheter in order to write everything Zim said down on a notepad he'd apparently been carrying on the belt hidden under his jacket. He paused with a discontent frown, looking up at Zim. "Hey, don't diss the Tex-Mex, alright?"

Zim stared at Ron blankly, unaware that his lack of experience with Earth fast food was showing. "What is this...'tech-mech' you speak of? Is it some form of battle robot?"

"No!" Ron yelled, throwing his arms in the air and accidentally losing his notebook. "You don't know what it is? You don't know what it is!? Oh, the...what are you again?"

"Irken." The notebook fell on his head and bounced off. "Ow!"

"Sorry." Ron resumed his rant. "Oh, the Irkenity of it all! That is how you say it, right? How can you not know the glory that is Tex-Mex?! What is Tex-Mex? What is Tex-Mex?! It's only the greatest from of eating known to mankind!"

"It is?" Zim said with the air of someone who'd just been told that two plus two equaled eight hundred and sixty-nine, and had no frame of reference to disbelieve it.

Ron gasped. "You can't be serious! Oh, my loud green man, you don't know what real eating is until you have tasted the transplanted joy of Tex-Mex! Words can't describe what this manna truly IS!"

Zim could have sworn that that was exactly what Ron was doing. "It can't?"

"Of course it can't!" Ron yelled, flailing his arms around, either because he was having a sudden seizure or was trying to accentuate a point. "So how about it? You, me, some friends? We hit a place sometime?"

"Okay?" Zim said, completely confused and having absolutely no idea of what he'd just gotten himself into.

"Ah boo-YAH!" Ron yelled, making Zim accidentally jump off the ice slide. "You will not regret this! You know what? You will..." He paused a few moments, noticing Zim had disappeared. "Hey, where'd you go?" He looked down, noticing Zim dazedly staggering about on the floor below, not to mention a Zim-shaped impression in the ground. He winced. "Ouch."

Zim felt a sudden pain in his arm. Snapping out of it, he realized that a Soldier was attacking him. Wiping away the blood under his torn sleeve, he pulled the Keyblade off his Pak, jumped at it and violently struck at it, grinning malevolently as some more Soldiers portaled around him.

-------

"Persistent buggers, ain't they!" Spike yelled over the stampede of feet.

"Uh huh!" Rufus said back, tightly holding to Spike's collar, wishing that the vampire'd had bigger pockets or been a little warmer; Spike's clinically dead body produced no body heat, making him uncomfortably cold to the touch, at least to Rufus' sensitive skin and instinctive need to huddle up against another for comfort.

"WE HEARD THAT!" The mob yelled from behind them.

"Was banking on that!" Spike yelled back, pushing himself to run faster and silently cursing Zim as vehemently as possible; given that he'd been 'alive' for two-hundred plus years, most of them in the company of his grandsire, a vampire that was even more vicious and savage then him, he had quite a repretoire of insults to use.

He sharply turned a corner and ran off as the mob skidded to a stop, a large number of them crashing into each other and lying on the floor. Ignoring their moaning and groaning others, the remainder of the mob continued chasing Spike.

Spike grinned as he glanced back, pleased to have at least trimmed their numbers a little. Looking ahead, he kept running, noticing that this area of the house seemed slightly familiar.

He turned another corner, nearly running directly into what looked like a red pair of stilts; Spike dove inbetween them, rolling off the floor and bouncing off once. He sat up, realizing a small weight wasn't there. "Rufus? Damn it, that Zeppo's going to stake me if I lose you here. Where'd you get-"

The single friendliest voice he'd heard all day said, "I'm sorry, are you okay?"

Spike raised a hand in greeting, getting to his feet. "Oh, hullo, Wilt."

The red imaginary friend he was speaking to was an perfectly even ten feet tall, most of that height being in his long stiltlike legs, his small rounded body accounting for three feet of that, while his wide head, the three slightly curved growths on his cheeks and his eyestalks made two additional feet. His right arm was extremely long, drooping down past his knees like a flexible red tube, ending in a large three-fingered hand with suction cups for fingertips. The only clothes he wore was a pair of retro basketball shoes, though the large blue number one on his front looked rather decorative. He looked rather beaten up given the way one of his eyestalks was bent, it's contracted pupil eye staring up sightlessly, his left arm ended in a ragged stump barely a foot past his shoulder and a number of crudely stitched scars went around the shapes on the sides of his face. Despite this, he looked rather cheerful and pleasant, though concerned for Spike.

Spike noticed Rufus sitting on Wilt's hand, looking as though he much preferred it there. Wilt's one functional eye blinked politely. "I'm sorry, but what are you doing here? You aren't usually here at this time of night."

Spike started to answer but froze at what he saw behind Wilt. "Never mind it, and run!" He immediately took off down the hallway.

Wilt's eye swiveled towards the direction Spike had indicated. "What the-WHOA!" Wilt yelled alarmedly as he saw the mob turning the corner behind him, shouting furiously. Rufus chittered frantically as Wilt took off, his long legs helping to put some distance between him and the mob.

Wilt quickly caught up with Spike despite the vampire's inhuman speed. "SPIKE! I'm sorry, but what's going on here!?" Wilt demanded, keeping step with Spike.

"Long story! Tell you later!" Spike said hurriedly.

"Okay!" Rufus climbed up Wilt's long arm, coming to a tense rest aboard his small but surprisingly strong shoulder. "You okay there, little buddy?"

"Yuh huh!" Rufus said agreeably, trying to hold on without hurting Wilt.

"You can dig your claws in if it makes you feel better!" Wilt assured him. "I don't mind as long as you feel comfortable!"

"Nuh uh!" Rufus said, shaking his head.

"Okay!" Wilt said, continuing to run but careful not to upset the little rodent's balance.

"Will you give the whole 'good Samaritan' thing a rest for five seconds?!" Spike yelled.

The three of them kept running until they came to a dead end. Immeasurably frustrated, Spike said a synonym for copulation.

"I'm sorry," Wilt said, looking down at Spike, his eyes narrowed, Rufus' arms crossed as he looked down at Spike sternly. "But that's not very appropriate, Spike."

"Bleh!" Rufus squeaked, sticking his toungue out.

"Stuff it," Spike said savagely. "This ain't the time."

"But it is time for your beating!" The speaker was someone in the mob, speaking just as they turned the corner.

Wilt's eye widened. "Beating? Isn't that a little mean?"

The mob considered this, mumbling to each other. "We don't care!" Zaphod Beeblebrox finally said.

"I'm sorry, but that's really not very nice."

"I said we don't care!" The mob started menacingly coming towards them.

Wilt's eye darted between the vampire at his side and the naked mole rat perched on his shoulder. "Do you guys have any idea what to do? Because I don't even know what's going on!"

Rufus glowed bright blue, chattering angrily.

"I'm sorry, but I'd really rather avoid that kind of thing."

"Relax," Spike said assuring, stepping in front of him. "Got it all handled."

"I hope so," Wilt said despondently. Rufus stopped glowing, nodding glumly. They both knew what Spike's idea of handling a situation was.

"You lot!" Spike said loudly; the mob came to a stop near an oddly colored patch of carpet. "Lemme tell you somethin' about..." Spike made a convincing pretense of someone thinking hard for a moment.

"Love!"

The mob stared at him in blantant surprise. "What?"

Spike shook a finger. "Listen close, mates! I'm only sayin' this once! Those of you with paper, start writing. If you don't think it's good enough, feel free to cut my hands off." He brandished his wrists up, the thin scars lining his wrists thrown into clear relief. "Already been there. Ahem: 'Without love, what worth have a man? When he has not the loving administrations under the moon's eldrich light, shall he be of value? With not a loved one's fav'ring smile, is he anything but a beast laboring under the day's beating pathway? Without the know of love's eternal mark, dare he soldier on in uncertain Fate's road? If he knows not the Truth of love, does he really bear truth at all in the face of a cold world's condemnations? Without love, is not pain all he knows and brings?'"

A short stunned silence followed.

Wilt started to get a little teary eyed. "I'm sorry, but that was beautiful, man!"

Rufus shrugged. "Hnnnk, s'okay."

Spike growled. "If your owner wasn't liable to squash me if I did, I'd beat the crap out of you."

Rufus stuck his tongue out at Spike.

The mob stared at Spike, still stunned by his poetry. "What the hell was that!?" Someone finally yelled.

"A distraction?" Someone else suggested.

The mob yelled angrily at this, not liking the idea of being played for fools. "You think you can't fool us that easily!?" Someone yelled.

"Oh no," Spike said dryly. "They've figured me out. Oh no, heavens forbid that I shouldn't be able to outwit a bunch of crazed gits."

As he expected, this incensed the mob. "Why, you-"

"A little to the left," Spike instructed, stepping next to a bust of the much loved imaginary friend, Levery, long since lost in the Heartless attacks. To Spike, he just looked like a lever with a pair of eyes near the top of the handle.

The mob stepped to the left, putting them in perfect alignment with the oddly colored patch of carpet. "Now, we're going to-"

"Go away," Spike said, pulling the lever cunningly disguised as a statue; the ground swung open underneath the mob, sending them screaming to somewhere below. Spike moved the lever back up and the floor swung back up.

"I've seen some clever ideas, but that was really good!" Wilt said admiringly. Rufus nodded, giving his own somewhat unintelligible commentary on the subject.

Spike made a half-bow. "Go on, get out here. Seriously, get out. I've got work to tend to."

Wilt blinked, as did Rufus. "What?"

"Come on, Redless," Spike said, walking past Rufus. The mole rat looked up at Wilt and squeaked a farewell, hopping on Spike's shoulder.

Wilt sighed. "I'm sorry, but I'm confused. What happened just now? Why were you running from an angry mob? What are you doing here? Why is Rufus with you? And..." He frowned. "Why is your hand burnt?"

"Plenty of questions, all of 'em will have to wait," Spike said, turning around and going back in what he hoped was the right direction. "Hopefully, by the time we get back, the knight and mageling won't have set the room on fire."

Wilt scratched his head as the two of them disappeared around the corner. "I'm sorry, but now I'm really confused!"

-------

"Where could they be?" Jarod said to himself, his eyebrows knitted together in an expression of supreme frustration.

He stood alone in a small cockpit that was barely big enough to hold him, even sitting; except for the windshield in front of him and the airlock-styled door behind him, all of it's space was taken up by technology of varying levels.

In his search for the Keybearer and his companions, Jarod had gone over a considerable distance of the district; he doubted that Bloo would have taken Zim out of the district, even for a 'shortcut', but given that he hadn't seen a trace of them anywhere, he was considering expanding his search area.

In the windshield before him, which may or may not have been a holographic representation of his surroundings, he saw the gray-red-brown in front of him slow down to the buildings they were. Feeling discouraged, Jarod tapped a display screen near him; the green disc it shone from shimmered slightly and the display became a three-dimensional scale-model of the district.

Jarod looked it over, his discouragement growing by the moment.

After taking the small ship he had termed the Butterfly-Model for their slightly unwieldy qualities, he'd flown through the town unseen and undetected, passing through the air and solid object with equal facility, in search of Zim and his companions. Thus far, he'd had no luck in finding him, his companions, or any trace of them whatsoever.

"Where are you?" He asked softly, looking the map over as his ship came to a stop in the air. Since it was matter-negative at the moment, he had no fear of anyone crashing into him; crashing through him was more likely. Sighing expansively, he pressed at a few buttons randomly, no real ideas left.

It was probably accident, but the model of Foster's came up, the map focusing on it. The model of the house became transparent, and zoomed in on a danceroom he knew of.

Jarod frowned, looking closely at it. He couldn't see much, but he could clearly see a large pool-like collection of energy around the general area.

"That's odd." He pressed a few more buttons on the display; the image of the house disappeared entirely. The energy-shape came into sharper relief and what looked like long coils of colorless energy came into sight on the map screen. They were all flowing into the pool there, and it didn't look like a natural progression either; the lines looked like they'd been pulling into it, producing the pool-shape. "A pooling in the leylines..." Jarod frowned, looking closer at it. "What would cause something like that-"

An idea hit him. "Ishbalan alchemy!"

He remembered Calvin had used alchemy during the fight with the Guard Armor. It was possible that he was drawing energy from the leylines for it, dispersing as soon as he used it. Doing something like that would cause the pooling effect on the screen, invisible to everything except those attuned to mystical energies and his own rareified devices.

Jarod pressed a few more buttons and the screen zoomed out onto Foster's again. He placed his hands on a wide panel-like device in front of him and his ship took off.

It wasn't much of a lead, but at least it was something.

-------

Back at the battleground formerly known as the unnamed danceroom...

A Soldier fell to the ground, a large smoking hole in it's shoulder. It's detached arm hit the floor and burst on contact. The Soldier stared at the Irken pointing the Keyblade at the Heartless, the tip of the weapon still smoking from the fireball it'd just fired.

The Soldier slowly got up, shadow matter bubbling up from the interior of the hole in it, gradually filling it up. Several thick black strands emerged from it's stump of a shoulder, stretching outwards to around it's waist. They snapped out to the left, twisting together in a thick braid and flowing together, forming a joint in the midddle. At the knobbly end of the braid, five metal points poked out, growing outwards and forcing themselves into the pattern of fingers as the spikes grew longer and larger. The spikes creaked several times as they flexed, revealing proper joints and bending into true claws, the rest of the braid forming musclelike bulges and armorplates. It's arm regenerated, the Soldier flung it's arms back and ran at Zim, leaping into the air at an incredible speed.

Zim sidestepped it as it landed on the ground, quickly swinging the Keyblade around and neatly tearing through the Soldier's midsection, cutting it in half. It's lower half stumbled to the ground, quickly unraveling into threads of darkness while it's upper half flew farther, it's two bounces off the ground announced with wet thuds. It maneuvered itself around with it's claws, clumsily pulling itself around to face Zim, small tendrils starting to trail away from the ragged tear in it's midsection. The Soldier's limbs blurred as it pulled itself at Zim, it's eyes glowing with some alien need.

Zim simply blasted it with another fireball; the fireball burned it to ashes and kept going, rolling through the floor and impacted with a pillar, leaving a sizable imprint in the pillar and a burn track along the ground. Zim grimaced. "I think my control needs work." He'd only intended to put enough power into it to incinerate the weakened Soldier.

Alone by himself but feeling confident in his abilities, Ron brandished the Lotus Blade, staring down a few Soldiers. They charged at him, one of them flying into the air, dark energy swirling around it like a discus. Acting instinctively, he jumped back into the air, the Soldier's Cyclone attack meeting the defensibly held Lotus Blade, dark energy smashing into the katana with a shower of sparks until Ron slashed out, cutting through the Heartless' attack and knocking it off-balance. Ron quickly swung the Lotus Blade four times; the Heartless' limbs fell to the ground and Ron knocked it to the ground with an overhead kick, the limbless Heartless disappearing in a puff of darkness as it hit the ground.

Ron stepped back, the sapphire glow of the Lotus Blade matched by the blue aura pulsing around his body. Seeing the Air Soldiers slowly advance on him, he held his sword arm out, Lotus Blade pointing into the air. The Lotus Blade's blue glow deepened, obscuring it's form as it grew out, becoming wider and considerably larger. The glow faded away to reveal that it had changed into the form of a nearly six foot long single-edged blade, supported by a two foot long segmented hilt. Ron balanced the Lotus Zanbato against his shoulder, showing no strain from the oversized sword.

One of the Air Soldiers started to flutter back; Ron was suddenly on the move, savagely swinging the Lotus Zanbato into the Heartless, the massive size of the sword meaning that the swings were considerably slower then normal, but the fact that he was cleaving through them making up for it. He twirled it up to block more than a few diving Air Soldiers, then dashed and executed a spinning swing into the air, finishing the circle around the ground, leaving a trail of black mist to mark where his enemies had been. Still airborne, he pulled the zanbato up in front of him, bringing it down through the head of an unwary Soldier, swinging freely on the hilt as it sliced through the Heartless and gouged into the ground. He dropped to the ground, his weight pulling the Lotus Zanbato out of the ground.

Ron frowned as the battle raged around him, balancing the sword against the ground. It seemed weird, the way the Heartless kept rushing at them, even the Soldier-types; they were among the most cautious of Heartless and usually preferred to attack in a flurry of attacks and them run like there was no tomorrow. And then there was the fact that they weren't using their sheer numbers as they usually did; they were gathering in groups and homing in on each one of them, rather then scattering and attacking the weakest among them, occasionally retreating for no apparent reason. It showed group tactics, if not very good ones, and Ron had seen many time that Heartless were basically creatures of destruction; they didn't think very well, or as far as anyone had seen, at all. Attacking with forethought wasn't something they ever displayed on their own, only when being commanded by someone else.

He saw Abel, facing off against an Soldier; the priest was holding both his guns, and the Soldier's claws were obscured by transformed Red Nocturnes. They stared at each other for a moment, forcibly reminding Ron of the old 'Mexican stand-off' in many a classic Western. Both of them jumped into action, jumping backwards as they fired; Abel's guns blazed white as the bullets streaked into the small fireballs spat by the Red Nocturnes on the Soldier's hand. The fireballs disintegrated and a further bullet found it's mark, slamming right into the Soldier's shoulder, knocking it back into the air. The round entry wound glowed white as the Soldier flew back, it's shoulder and arm blasting off with a sudden explosion. It hit the ground hard, but had the presence of mind to aim with it's remaining arm and shoot Abel in the leg with a weakened fireball.

The priest rolled to the ground, ignoring the hot pain in his leg and jumping; he landed in a crouch just in front of the Heartless, it's arm already regenerated. The Red Nocturne on it's hand opened it's glowing jaws while the Soldier brought it's free hand back; Abel swung one gun up just below the Soldier's head and brought the other up, it's barrel resting against between the Red Nocturne's eyes and fired both guns. A large portion of the Soldier's blew away, black dust staining the ground behind it while the Red Nocturne disintegrated in puffs of roiling ash. Abel stood up abd walked away, the Soldier's body envoluped in white fire and withering away.

Ron frowned again. And now the Heartless were working together? He looked up at the top of the building, wondering if that obnoxious guy without a thumb was still around, maybe controlling them fomr out of sight. As he did, he noticed Kim fighting in midair, bounding from Heartless to Heartless, dispatching one and using it as a springboard to another, repeating the process over and over again. As he watched, she flipped backwards away from a clawing Air Soldier, landing atop one of the chandelier's chainlinks, sliding down gracefully. Determined to assume his role as her partner in all things, Ron hunched over on the ground, his eyes flashing blue-white again as blue energy swelled up around him, encasing his body in a flaming blue aura and throwing his hair back.

He suddenly took off at a bounding run, his speed easily outstripping anything he'd displayed earlier, making large dents in the tiles as he hit the ground and took off again; any Heartless that had the bad luck to be in the way of his beeline was swiftly obliterated, whether it was a flying first to the face that smashed right through it, a spinning kick that tore through it and how many fellows were around it or being cleaved through by the sword he carried, his methods of dealing with them were swift and brutal, using them to further his momentum and eliminate at the same time.

Abel dispassionately observed Ron as he moved, considering the notion that some people believed that there was no meaning in anything, that what happened was just what happened, that there was no destiny or fate or anyone remotely approaching narrative forethought. Watching Ron Stoppable tear through the Heartless, moving in a straight line and plowing through any obstacle in his way like it was wet tissue paper before the path of a rampaging bulldozer and resembling more a force of nature than the laid-back, good-humored and somewhat random boy he usually was seemed to suggest otherwise. Given that his name sounded quite a bit like the word 'unstoppable', Abel thought that sometimes, destiny really did land upon you like a sack of bricks. Zim, for his part, thought that Ron was doing was eerie; not because he was glowing bright blue and charging through the room like a human juggernaut, but because Ron's blue-white eyes were inexplicably similar to the way Aang's eyes looked during the Avatar State.

Ron springboarded off a downed Air Soldier and slammed his glowing hand into the chest of a Soldier as he flew through the air, carrying it along with him as he went. He landed on a pillar, the force of his impact dissipating the Soldier instantly. He didn't pause for even a moment, jumping right through the dark cloud and scaling the pillar like a monkey would a tree, not even thinking about handholds or weight dispersement; his hands flew to where they needed to be and his feet propelled him upwards, his sword held by his tail. He came to a brief stop as he saw Kim take notice of what he was doing; emboldened, he suddenly hurled himself the rest of the way, the force of his jump cracking the pillar. Flying through the air like a human bullet trailing a blue spiral, he came to the chandilier and caughting one of the structure's outlying spurs, his remaining momentum turning him around in a circle; he tucked one leg in and stuck the other straight out, tearing right through an unwary Red Nocturne as he did. He rotated completely around again, letting go as he reached the apex of his swing and swinging himself high into the air, landing next to Kim in a simian crouch before he stood up fully, the blue glow receding slightly.

"So," he said, sounding remarkably unwinded. "Gotta give me credit, I know how to make an entrance!"

Kim nodded, a hint of a smile crossing her face. "Yeah, yeah, that was cool." She had initially found the times when he had used the Power unnerving until they both became accustomed to it, though she was always at a loss to entire define the blue aura that covered him when he accessed the Power: people tended to describe it as being flamelike, but that didn't quite capture the visceral reality of the transparent aura. She'd always thought the blue energy was eerily beautiful, flowing across him like a Ron-shaped field of blue light, catching light and turning it into scintillating patterns across it's surface, mesmerizing the eye. Unlike most displays of this sort, it didn't hang lazily around him like a shroud, but had an almost forceful quality to it's flow, giving the impression that it was continually pulsing outward from his body.

Ron pumped his fist into the air victoriously. "Ah-booyah! The Ron-man shoots, he scores!"

Kim turned aside, noticing several more flight-capable Heartless flying up to them. "Heartless at two o' clock!"

Ron took an exaggerated look at the brushed-chrome wristwatch under his sleeve. "Thought it was ten-ish. What do we do 'till then?"

Across the room, Zim stared down a Soldier. Or at least, he thought he might just be staring at it; the Heartless might be so stupid that it was just waiting for him to move and prove he wasn't a statue or something. He held the Keyblade up two-handed, light glinting off it's silvery shaft and it's golden handguard. At the noise of the links of the Keychain clinking together, the Soldier jumped at him, as did two Air Soldiers from above and a Shadow from below, materializing out of the ground.

Zim pivoted around and kicked the Shadow at the Soldier, knocking them both to the floor. Zim then jumped straight up, shoving the Keyblade through an Air Soldier's midsection, using his own body weight to spin around at a three-sixty degree angle, slicing it in half; he spun up and away as it fell apart, coming up at the other Air Soldier, slamming the Keyblade right down on it's head, the mystical key-shaped sword going right through it's body down to between the middle of it's legs, spraying Zim in shadow matter. Still airborne, Zim flipped in the direction of the Soldier and Shadow, bringing the Keyblade to bear: he focused his burgeoning magical abilities, fire flickering around the Keyblade's hilt and running up to the tip, the wavering fire collecting into a ball. It fired, the recoil flinging Zim away into the air as the concussive fireball struck the two Heartless dead-center, blasting them apart and leaving a slightly scorched indentation in the ground.

Zim's spider-legs unfolded, slamming into the ground and catching him, the momentum still carrying away until the spider-leg's firm grip ripped into the ground, gouging the floor tiles. He dropped down with a grunt, the mechanical appendages still arched around him.

He was still having trouble with his abilities; though he'd figured out how to at least use them, he still had little control over them: for one thing, he couldn't control the fire's strength the same way Calvin had, or manipulate their shape. From what he'd seen, the fireballs he was using seemed to be mostly concussive force with an obvious combustion element, but he was having little control over his ability to actually control the fireball's strength, nor was he sure how to manipulate fire like Calvin could. That little... Zim growled under his breath. He was not going to be outdone by an immature loudmouthed human worm-baby.

Hobbes yawned, easily evading the barrage of slashes from the Air Soldier he was facing off against kept throwing at him. For him, it was incredibly easy; the visual cues he was getting from it were like signposts warning him of what it was going to do next, making it a simple matter to dodge it, block and evade it's weak attacks. To anyone watching, he looked like he was lazily weaving away from it's frenzied strikes, making only the most minute movements possible, occasionally raising his shield when he didn't see it worth the effort of moving away. Hobbes was merely enjoying making a show of it, even if no one was watching him, but he was also just plain curious; he'd always been like that, ever since he was a small kitten watching a smaller child with the attentiveness that later became his quiet sense of duty. More specifically, he was curious to see what would happen if he did this, to see if the Heartless would react with some kind of fury or anger at it's ability to so much as scratch him.

He wasn't annoyed, surprised, shocked or anything except faintly interested to see that he saw no signs of emotion from it, at least none that he could see. It had increased it's efforts to break through his seemingly impenetrable defenses, but that could just have been an attempt to match his skills and one that was failing miserably. He wasn't entirely sure what these Heartless really were; he'd heard that they were incarnations of the heart's darkness, but he wasn't quite sure what that meant exactly, and he was certain that knowing more about them could be helpful in their mission.

Hobbes easily evaded more of it's attacks, thinking that something was a bit odd; the Heartless he'd fought earlier had been tougher than these, particularily that Guard Armor. There were more of them here, but they seemed a lot weaker, which struck him as extremely strange. Tiring of his 'fight' with the Air Soldier, Hobbes leaned back, letting it's slash go wide. Taking the opening he'd created, he reached out with one hand and grabbed it by the throat, pulling it in and punching it straight in the face while letting go; his punch carried it to the ground, his fist going deep into it's face. The Air Soldier bulged grotesquely, it's limp jerking around weakly as strange discolored lumps swelled all over it's body until, in a final body-wide swell, it burst into ashen smoke.

Back at the chandelier, Kim sensed that it was time to rejoin the fracas on the floor. "Ron! Think it's time to hit the floor!"

"Huh?" Ron looked up, having crouched at the edge of the chandilier and busily watching the others fight with all the obsessive glee of someone who regularily watched the stadium battles on that one nearby world. He stood up and nodded. "Yeah, got ya!" He glowed blue again and jumped to the other side of the chandelier, kicking it hard. It lurched, laboriously swinging the other way. Kim and Ron used the momentum it made as it swung back as they jumped off, bounded off a number of nearby Heartless and jumped back on the third-story balcony. They ran down the staircase, back on the ground floor in short order.

Kim paused, her eyes narrowing slightly as she examined the oversized sword Ron was balancing on his shoulder. Ron was definitely the creative person she just wasn't, though from time to time she wondered if his creative ability was a side-effect of the strange ways his mind worked; one of those ways might well explain why he had chosen to morph the sword he was destined to wield into a sword that no normal human could have even been able to pick up. "Isn't a sword like that kind of unwieldy?"

Ron shrugged, not having put much thought into it. He looked with interest behind her; Kim turned around, noticing a large number of Heartless approaching her. "Need any help with this one?" Ron asked, already knowing the answer.

"Nah," she said confidently, stepping up to them. "I got this one." Ron watched, planting the sword into the ground for balance as Kim fought. She jumped over an attacking Soldier, grabbing the ground in a handstand and kicking the Soldier in the back as she flipped to her feet, using the momentum to throw herself off the ground and plant a foot into an Air Soldier, jumping away again as it grabbed at her.

She spun around in the air, landing on the pointed hat of a Red Nocturne, jumping off and spinning away just as the fireball it shot hit an incoming Shadow. She flipped in the air, smashing the heel of her boot through an Air Soldier's head, falling down; as she did, she grabbed a nearby Red Nocturne and grabbed it as it charged up, pointing it in the direction of some others; it released it's fireball, blasting it's fellows apart. Kim threw it into the path of a Cycloning Soldier, both disposing of the Nocturne and temporarily blinding the Soldier; it fell to the ground helplessly, it's fall interrupted when Kim slammed her foot into it's stomach, grabbed it's shoulder, flipped herself onto it's back and jumped off, leaving it to plummet to it's doom. Kim struck the Heartless again and again, though not lethally; she maneuvered them below her, tangling them against each other hopelessly. After a long time of near-constant dodging, attacking and counterattacking, they were almost to the ground. Kim struck out, flipping in the air and smashing her boot heel against the Heartless pile-up, simultaneously cushioning her fall and killing most of the Heartless there.

She flipped away from the resultant shadow matter cloud, landing to her feet. Kim huffed a little, not due to being out of breath, but out of exhilaration from both what she'd just done and the adrenaline rush she was feeling.

Ron clapped a few times, grinning broadly. "Niiice, K.P., niiice!" Kim smiled a little sheepishly, flicking her hair around in a practiced brush garreunted to catch Ron's attention. Ron watched her, his eyes slightly glazed and propping his head up with one hand.

Noticing that his tail was flicking about from side to side, Kim smiled evilly and moved to his side; still 'hypnotized by the flippy', Ron took no notice, still smiling slightly. Kim reached down and gently flicked his tail a few times, forcefully enough to get his attention. Ron didn't jerk up in fright as he might have if someone else had, but he did turn around, looking slightly embarrased. "Kiiim!"

"Oh, come on, Ron!" Kim said playfully. "It's just so...flippy."

Ron gave her mass of auburn hair a longing look. "I knew that'd come back to haunt me, I knew it would. One innocent little comment during the time we switched bodies, just one! And I can't help it if it's true."

"Me neither." Kim smiled in the precise manner necessary to make Ron feel incredibly nervous, standing closer to him and leaning in.

"Uh, uh, uh, uh!" Desperately trying to think of something to distract Kim from her sudden romantic mood swing(which seemed improbable, given her usual single-minded focus when on a mission, not to mention the swarm of darkness all around them, even if they were currently avoiding them), Ron focused on the sword he was using as balance. He willed it to change; the Lotus Zanbato's glowed blue again, it's shape fluidily changing again. Kim abruptly forgot her playful intentions at what she saw the sword become, her eyes widening as the glow faded away to reveal that Ron was now clutching a wider-bladed version of the Lotus Blade's default form, a chain going from it's pommel to the pommel of another sword embedded in the ground, this one's thinner blade curving out in a flamboyant swoosh and ending in a hooked tip.

Kim gaped at the chained swords, her vauge romantic ideas completely vanishing from her mind. "You...I...that's not...I mean..." she broke off, staring at Ron helplessly. "You can't be serious."

"Can and am, K.P.!" Ron said cheerfully, grabbing the cleaver by it's comparatively short hilt and swinging it around, the other sword flailing around dangerously in the air. "The swordchucks are making a comeback!"

Kim stared in shock a little more before she palmed her face. "Not again..."

Steathily moving across the top floor, Abel glanced over at the two and shook his head, grinning like an idiot. "Heh, Ron's a lot like me, isn't he? I remember when I invented the swordchucks way back when...Lilith wouldn't stop making fun of me for a week after I accidentally cut Cain's arms and legs off. Ah, but that was back before Cain turned into a homicidal psychopath and killed Lilith..." Abel sighed wearily, brightening as he had another thought. "Huh, come to think of it, Kim's a lot like Lilith was!" He jumped to the floor near the doubledoors, somehow completely uninjured from the distance he dropped. He looked at Kim and Ron, his face solemn. "May theirs turn out better then our's did, Lilith..."

The doors opened behind him; reacting instinctively, Abel whirled around and flung the bayonets. There was a loud of metal pointing impacting marble followed by a stunned silence broken by a loud squeaking noise that sounded suspiciously like laughter and a louder "WHAT THE HELL?!"

Abel blinked uncomprehendingly, his brain translating the sensory details he'd been provided with while his mind refused to acknowledge the sight of Spike pinned to a wall by the bayonets going through the shoulders of his duster while Rufus rolled around on the ground, pointing and laughing at the sight of the vampire, who was unharmed except for his mortally wounded pride. To say that he was embarrassed when he finally realized that he'd just pinned Spike to the wall would be an understatement.

Behind him he heard several concealed snorts. He glanced backwards, seeing the two teenagers desperately struggling not to laugh at the same sight that mortified Abel. "Ah...heh heh..." Abel said nervously as Rufus, still squeaking in amusement, trundled past him in a bee-line to Ron. He turned and ran over to Spike, timidly saying, "Ah...hello..."

"Oh, you call this a greeting? I'd hate to see how'd you react to seeing someone you really like!" Spike yelled as Abel approached, the vampire struggling futilely; while neither bayonets had so much as marked his skin, they had gone completely through the shoulders of his duster, suspending him in the air. Too impatient to wait for Abel to get him down, he reached up for the one on the left.

Abel's eyes widened in horror. "Wait! Don't do tha-"

Spike's unburned hand closed around the handle; there was an immediate sound of something burning and Spike screamed in pain, his fist reflexively curling around the handle. Smoke billowed up from between his fingers, his flesh turning bright red tinged with the gray normally associated with decay. The laughing around the room stopped, replaced by a kind of horrified silence.

Abel rushed over to Spike in a flash,quickly ripped Spike's hand off the handle, leaving small black burnt pieces of skin sticking to the handle, still burning to crisps while a fine wreath of smoke rose from the letters. There was also the fact that Spike's hand was burnt fairly badly, acrid smoke rising from his palm.

Ron winced, closing one eye as he turned his head aside. "This has just not been his day." Kim said nothing, horrified at the sight of Spike's hand.

Spike swore fairly badly as he flexed his pained hand, turning it over; as the smoke started to fade away from it, it was clear that the lettering of the bayonet's handle was burnt into his palm, looking as clear as if he'd scarred them into his flesh with acid stencils, somewhat blurred and out of focus from the awkward way he'd grabbed it. His incredulous eyes danced from an embarrassed Abel to his hand again. "You had to use damn blessed bayonets, didn't you!?"

Abel squirmed uncomfortably. "Um...I think that's a contradiction in terms."

Spike was about to say something, then was struck by a horrified realization. He turned his head as best he could, his worst fears confirmed: the vampiric aura of his body was applying his innate weakness to holy objects to his clothes, and his duster was smoldering around the blades. "SON OF A-"

Abel quickly pulled the bayonet's out, letting Spike hit the ground. Glaring at him for a moment, Spike eyed the room. "What happened here? Looks like I missed the party!"

"Actually, erm," Abel decided to skip the whole ugly buisness with Mr. Lyle. "Heartless are attacking."

"What?!" Spike asked, clearly surprised. "I don't see any-" About fifteen more Heartless portaled into the room. "Ah. Never mind." Drawing his sword, Spike glanced back at the bayonets. "Anderson should sue you for copyright infringement."

Abel smiled sheepishly. "That's a compliment, right?"

"If you want it to be. I got a fight scene to attend to!" Spike drew his sword. "Dunno why you use things like that; you've got terrible aim, you do."

"I do too have good aim!" Abel protested. To prove it, he took a bayonet and flung it in to exact opposite direction he was looking; Ron yelped sharply. Spike snickered. Abel turned around; Ron was clearly surprised but unharmed, though the cowlick on the back of his head was missing; directly behind him, embedded in a pillar, was the bayonet Abel had thrown, a few blond hairs against it's tip.

Abel gestured at Ron. See? My aim is so good I can hit a target dead on while looking the other way.

"Well, that's one way to deal with a persistent hair problem," Spike admitted, conceding the point to Abel. "Though if you aimed a little lower, you could have given him an instant lobotomy. Aimed a lot lower, you could've made Possible's love life very boring." Grinning, he disappeared into the shadowed pillars.

Kim crossed her arms, looking at Abel darkly. "Father Nightroad!"

Abel gulped. "Oh, look at the time, I must aid in the battle!" He quickly ran off, tripped once on a Shadow, got back up and resumed fleeing, which was his basic reaction to an unpleasant social encounter.

Ron scratched the back of his head awkwardly. "This has been a really weird day for me. I've been set on fire, chased by a mob, had one of my worst experiences exposed, got that stupid cowlick chopped off and I got a feeling none of it's over yet."

Kim's anger at Abel abated at Ron's words, his joking manner cooling her temper as it always did. "All in a day's work, right, Ron?"

At the other end of the room...

Behind some more shadowed pillars, two Soldiers, three Shadows and a Red Nocturne huddled together in the darkness under the balcony, as close to confused as Heartless could be; there had been a heart nearby. They were certain of it.

Among the six pairs of yellow eyes, they were joined by another, altogether more demonic pair, these one positioned on the ceiling.

A weight dropped from the ceiling, and a cloud of Heartless remained billowed out; Spike strolled out from between the pillars, his sword slung over his shoulder nonchalantly, his face in it's demonic 'game face'. Grinning fearsomely, he extended the sword out, his yellow eyes widening in glee at the sight of Heartless. "Come on, then. Let's dance." He dashed across the room at speeds only Abel had reached, bringing his sword to the Heartless and jumping, cleaving right through them, spinning in mid-air through some Red Nocturnes and bringing his sword down upon a hapless Soldier, slicing right through it and smashing the tiles around his blade.

He pulled his sword off the ground, swinging it around in time to ward off a descending Air Soldier, knocking it to the ground. Reacting quickly, he cut through it before it had a chance to move, turned around and swung again, his sword smacking right into the disclike shape of a Soldier's Cyclone. His sword shook and sparks flew as the whirling dark energy fought against his inhuman strength, the both of them stuck in a stalemate. He pressed his foot against the ground and moved foward, pressing his sword down; it forced the Soldier into the air, where it righted itself quickly and came down at him, it's claws bared. Spike simply stuck his sword straight up, the plummeting Heartless impaling itself on the blade.

He turned and faced a small group of varied Heartless, staring at him hungrily. Seeing that no one was even close to him, Spike smirked confidently and raised his sword; the air started to vibrate and swirl around it, making it look like his sword was enshrouded in a lunar aura, his duster billowing from the force his sword was giving off. Spike slammed his sword into the ground; the energy in his sword smashed down the ground as he released it in a wave much like the one he'd hit Zim with earlier, crashing through the doomed Heartless, obliterating them and continuing on, smashing into the wall and disappearing, leaving behind a massive crater trail, the crushed tiles around Spike and the large crevice in the wall as evidence of the wave of raw destruction that had just passed through.

Still tending to his own battles, Zim smashed the Keyblade through the head of a Shadow, rolling away as a Soldier came crashing down from above, sending up a small dustcloud. It peered around in confusion as the dustcloud faded with no Zim in sight. Starting to back away, it sensed movement from behind it and turned around as Zim jumped up, the Keyblade raised over his head. It started to open it's claws, about to launch a Cyclone, before Zim smashed his weapon right onto it's head: the Keyblade sliced through the Heartless and exited from between it's legs in a spray of shadow matter, smashing into the tiles and leaving a sizable impression. The Soldier remained where it was for a moment before falling apart in two uneven halves, imploding upon contact with the ground.

He looked aside, gauging the situation; the number of remaining Heartless, while significantly lower than before, was still considerable. He looked down at the weapon he held in his hand, the light making it's gold handguard gleam that special gleam unique to gold. Except he doubted that it was actually made of gold, as gold was softer than whatever supernaturally tough metal this was. He raised the Keyblade in front of him with both hands, the silver main section shining brightly in the artificial light. Affirming himself to the task at hand, he looked back at the various Heartless in the area. Picking a Soldier entirely at random, he ran towards it, tried to concentrate the power and getting a sudden surge of inspiration, yelled, "Fire!"

The change was immediately apparant; the flames, previously whirling around the Keyblade, tightened around it, focusing into a small fireball directly at the tip, almost balancing on it for a split second. The fireball blasted away, smashing into the chest of the Soldier; it exploded immediately, blasting a large hole through it's body and alighting the rest of it on fire. It looked down at itself in confusion, it's body crumbling in large chunks and falling to ash as they hit the floor. Zim looked at his Keyblade, feeling that he was getting a handle on this.

Hobbes strolled across the room, eyes closed as he hummed an old tune that he remembered from when he was a kitten. Heartless upon Heartless descended upon him, and if they'd had voices, he was sure they'd be shrieking with all the mindless malevolence of those who knew only need and hunger. Hobbes' step slowed as he slightly opened his eyes, acknowledging the Air Soldiers coming from behind and in front. Without missing a beat, Hobbes flipped into the air; the two Air Soldiers crashed into each other, unable to stop their flight. The tiger came down, slamming his shield into them in a cloud of black mist. It swiftly dissapated, allowing him to see the Soldiers now rushed at him in a similar manner that the Air Soldiers had.

Hobbes never had been one to reuse strategy; as the Soldiers neared, he suddenly leapt at one, seizing it's arm and pulling it into the air. The other Soldier slowed to a stop; Hobbes rushed at it, swinging the Soldier like an incredibly creepy bludgeon. The Soldiers slammed into each other and Hobbes let go, throwing the both of them across the room, disintegrating as they slammed into a pillar and cracked it.

He jumped over a fireball shot by a Red Nocturne, his reflexes well-honed from years of having to dodge sudden gouts of flame. Flipping high into the air, he plummeted towards the Nocturne and flung a leg up, slamming it right through the Nocturne and landing on the ground in a half-crouch.

Around the room, the battle raged on. It continued for a few more minutes until the Heartless retreated from their individual fights, crowding back and pushing the various fighters back into a defense circle. Without warning, the Heartless were suddenly surronded by a veil of misty black shadow, briefly hidden from sight until they disappeared, the room brightening slightly.

"Well, that was anticlimatic," Calvin said, slinging his hammer back and breaking the moment of temporary silence.

"Anticlimatic, or really convenient?" Ron said, holding the swordchucks out by it's long chain and willing it reform into it's usual shape. The bizarre weapon glowed bright blue and the chained-swords snaked off the ground as the chain silently contracted, bringing the swords closer together. Both swords gently tipped into each other, side to side, glowing brighter for a moment before the blue faded away, revealing the form of the Lotus Blade. Ron sheathed the katana, the blue aura around him fading away.

Spike sheathed his own sword and looked oddly disappointed. "I get to the fight and this happens. Typical."

"Hey, it could be worse?" Hobbes said, rolling his shield back up. "I mean, that Mr. Lyle guy could always show up agai-"

"Aw, you make me feel unwanted." Up on the second floor, a man-sized pillar of whirling shadows stood, fading away to reveal Mr. Lyle once more.

The heroes below turned around, staring up at him with various forms of annoyance, shock and irritation, except for Spike, who was simply staring up at Mr. Lyle speculatively. Mr. Lyle smirked at them, leaning against a pillar. "Not bad, not bad. Of course, the Heartless I summoned weren't particularily powerful, but that's besides the point."

"You were directing the Heartless, I presume," Kim said cooly. "That'd explain why they were so weak."

Spike peered up at Mr. Lyle, frowning slightly. "Who's this git?"

"He calls himself Mr. Lyle," Abel said evenly. "And he isn't a friend of ours by any means."

"Well, isn't that interesting," Spike said, one of his hands lazily falling to his sword's sheath. "I heard of a Mr. Lyle, somewhere."

Mr. Lyle held up his hand. "No need for introductions, Spike. I know who you are. Formally known as William the Bloody from both your lousy poetry and your savage serial killings, earned the name Spike through your penchant for torturing people to death with railroad spikes-"

Spike's eyes narrowed, his brow growing huge over his suddenly yellow eyes. Mr. Lyle stopped, aware that something misfortunate was about to occur but not understanding what exactly.

Kim and Ron exchanged mutual glances. "Oh-" Kim began.

"Snap," Ron finished.

Zim thought their combined statement, while probably used to express dismay, had a slightly smug aspect to it. As if they knew exactly what happened next.

Without warning, Spike started running, his movements blurred as he jumped to the second floor right next to Mr. Lyle. Mr. Lyle stumbled back as Spike rushed at him, his mouth opening to say something; the vampire roughly grabbed his thumbless hand. Mr. Lyle's startled surprise became agony as Spike grabbed his thumbless hand, violently twisting it down and kneeing him in the stomach.

Spike pulled him into the air and violently squeezed the human's hand, putting on more pressure as he angrily growled, not bothering to say anything.

Mr. Lyle had, perhaps intentionally, given off the sense that he was something more then human. His inexplicable awareness of their various distressing pasts had boredom on the omniscient, as had his knowledge of exactly which words would have the most dibilitating effect on them. His impossible abilities had only furthered that impression, as well as keeping him out of harm's way. But as Spike's inhuman strength caused Mr. Lyle's hand to break with a loud crack, it was certain that he was only human after all. Those on the ground felt little pity for him. Surprise at the sudden violence, but no one thought that he didn't deserve it.

Mr. Lyle tried to speak; his mouth opened wide, but only a small squeal came out. Spike held him in the air, grinning viciously, blood streaming from between his fingers in thin rivulets. "Here's something you might not know 'bout me," Spike said, speaking loud enough for the others to hear him. "Might not show it too well, but I like these guys, gits they might be. Lost their world just like me, fight evil just like me and they know what torment is, just like me. Way I see it, that puts us in the same boat. So when you try to hurt them, you get personal. And that was a really stupid mistake." Spike suddenly kicked Mr. Lyle between the legs; the human's mouth opened wide, his eyes tearing up in pain. With his free hand, Spike then punched him in the solar plexus and threw him to the wall.

Mr. Lyle bounded off the wall once, sliding to the ground in a heap. He slowly stood back up, cradling his broken hand tenderly, glaring at Spike with abject fury and fear; it was an odd combination and struck Spike as rather stupid. Unimpressed, Spike looked from him to the whole hand cradling his broken one; the bloodflow had stopped trickling through his fingers, replaced by a steady sream of a blue-black light.

The others couldn't see what Spike could, but they could see that something in the situation had changed.

"What the hells-" Spike started to say, stopping when Mr. Lyle moved his hand away; his broken hand was covered in a chintinous lump of blue-black grooved plates that looked weirdly organic, as if it was somehow alive. Supporting that notion was the way it was pulsing and twitching in several places, like strange organs just underneath were beating and working. It looked roughly like a glove, covering his broken hand, and if the slightly hooked fingers were any indication, serving as a surrogate hand. Spike didn't like the look of the thing at all, but couldn't resist a jab. "Doesn't look healthy, you oughta see a qualified physician. Dunno if you got the cover'ge for it, though." Spike sighed, tapping his forehead with a sadistic smirk. "Problem with all you 'dance with the devil' types, you never even think about getting a decent health benefits package. Me, I'm a vampire, don't need coverage. Wouldn't recommend having your soul ripped out and replaced with a demon, but always keep your options in mind, right?"

"Don't you morons ever shut up?" Mr. Lyle asked, showing no sign of pain despite the beating Spike just put him through; either he had inhuman recuperative abilities or was a talented actor. The black hand continued throbbing and changed, elongating into a foot-and-a-half long twisted shape that was very remnisiant of a gun. A tiny pod at the back, like an ammuntions load and shining with dark energy, flared for a moment and a small slightly pointed dark bullet shot out of the end of the protrusion, striking Spike with a loud cracking noise, throwing him back. The vampire stumbled to the ground, looking down at the smoking hole in his chest. "Bullseye," Mr. Lyle said, smirking cruelly.

To his surprise, Spike stood right back up and judging by the sore-looking mark on his chest, relatively unharmed. To his terror, Spike's face shifted into the demonic visage he'd unleashed earlier. "My duster! You bastard!" He tugged at his ruined coat furiously, growling as his sharpened teeth scraping against each other. "Do any of you loadweights have any idea how much it costs to get these things patched?!"

"What's going on up there?" Calvin said, his eyes narrowed.

"Don't know," Ron replied, Rufus on his shoulder. "But I think that Lyle guy just did something to his jacket."

"Well, he's doomed!" Abel said brightly.

"Get him down here!" Zim yelled. "We have superior numbers!"

"What?!" Mr. Lyle yelled.

"Have it your way!" Spike yelled back at Zim. Moving again with inhuman alacrity, grabbing Mr. Lyle by the arm and lifting him off the ground, spinning around once before launching him over the rail. Mr. Lyle hit the ground hard, screaming as he hit the hard tiles. Spike immediately jumped off the balcony after him and Mr. Lyle rolled to his back, pointing the odd gun straight up and shooting. Spike rolled away from it, hitting the ground hard and rolling away and springing to his feet, his sword in his hands.

Mr. Lyle stood up. The various heroes were surprised by the weird gunlike weapon he had and quickly resolved that it couldn't be any good. "Quick!" Kim called out, rousing everyone to attention. "Get him!"

Everyone was suddenly on the move, running at Mr. Lyle. The human was already on his feet, shooting blindly around him; most of them dodged out of the way, coming to a stop when Abel didn't bother, simply taking a hit directly in the shoulder. The priest rolled to a stop and stood back up. Abel started running again at Mr. Lyle, his heart pounding painfully in his chest, a grim determination pushing him while he fought back the electricty he felt behind his teeth. Mr. Lyle panicked and fired again, wildly shooting off another dark bullet, this one hitting Abel in the chest hard enough to knock him off the ground; he came to a rolling stop at Mr. Lyle's feet.

"Abel!" Zim said, grasping the Keyblade and getting ready to run at Mr. Lyle and severely hurt him. Mr. Lyle scowled and put the gun to Abel's head as the priest started to rise.

Zim's eyes narrowed dangerously. "You cruel coward," he hissed, but didn't move.

Kim and Ron glanced at each other, similar grim expressions of disgust on their faces. There was, however, a look of smugness there.

Spike growled bestially. "What, can't fight without a hostage, you pathetic bastard?" Mr. Lyle's widened and he resisted the impulse to shoot right there.

Calvin and Hobbes, having been through their share of hostage negotiations, started to move. "Don't!" Zim shouted and they stopped, willing to wait for an opportune opening.

"What's the matter?" Mr. Lyle said to Zim, smiling crookedly. "Never think a guy like you'd ever go soft."

Zim sneered at Mr. Lyle. "'Soft', you call it? 'Soft'?" He laughed sourly. "One such as you could never understand why I choose to aid another. All one such as you understands is gratification."

Mr. Lyle's eyes narrowed, widening in surprise when Abel spoke, his calm and even tone shocking under the circumstances. "The problem, Mr. Lyle, is that you are incapable of understanding how someone can come to learn from their mistakes and wishes to avoid the taking of life whenever possible."

Spike laughed. "Nice way of phrasing it. I got a way of saying it in a way he can understand; he's too stupid a bastard to understand why."

Mr. Lyle swallowed and rapped Abel's head with the gun. "Not smart, insulting the guy in a position to kill someone."

"Is it?" Abel said. His eyes narrowed in open contempt. "Or is it because you are such a low and despicable being that all we have to do is endure these scant few minutes with you to know how corrupt you really are? You only threaten me because you know that we will easily overwhelm you and you fear that. And you use our compassion against us like a weapon, so soon after using our pain like a twisting dagger!" Abel made a low disgusted noise. "And you wonder why we taunt you? It's because we know that you have no bargaining chips here! You know as well as I do that this will do nothing!"

"Shut up!" Mr. Lyle said, the gun shaking slightly. "Shut up! Just-"

"Do not tell me what to do," Abel said dangerously. "You are a cowardly parasite, filled with a false sense of your own grandeur! Instead of standing around and posing, do as you say and SHOOT ME! If you won't, then stand down!"

Mr. Lyle froze. For a moment, his gun started to drift away, him apparently swayed by what Abel was saying. Then he abruptly changed his mind and fired.

Both the back of Abel's head and his forehead seemed to disappear in a mingled burst of darkness and blood. He hit the ground with surprising suddeness, his body unmoving as blood welled up around him. Then he stood back up and slammed the back of his hand into Mr. Lyle's jaw, knocking him back a few feet.

Abel adjusted his glasses. The spot where Mr. Lyle had shot him looked weirdly pinched, ridged flesh standing up in twisting patterns around the concave dimple that had been a bullet hole. His hair had already grown back and the flesh was already smoothing out, assuming it's normal appearance, his head completely healed. "Huh," Abel said, brushing his bangs out of his eyes and gently poking the spot where he'd been shot, wincing slightly at the soreness. "You should learn to relax. You'd be much better for it. Perhaps these acts of callousness are an ill-advised attempt to excise strain, hmm?"

Calvin, Hobbes and Zim were stunned, needless to say. "He's a regenerator?" Calvin said, plainly amazed.

"Oh, yes," Abel said brightly, not looking away from Mr. Lyle. "I heal extremely fast from almost any injury! Not to brag or anything, but I'm not entirely sure that I can be killed again."

"That would have been helpful information about five seconds ago!" Hobbes said, somewhat snappishly.

Zim rolled his eyes, feeling slightly embarrased. "You think you know a person. And then you find out they can survive a point-blank blast to the head!" He frowned. "Wait, what do you mean 'again'?"

"I have to say though," Abel said cheerfully, pointedly ignoring Zim's question. "It's been a long time since someone tried to blow my head off. I'd almost forgotten what it felt like." His grimace was almost comically exaggerated. "Almost. Oh," he added, almost as an afterthought, unsheathing one of his bayonets. "Let's avoid another shoot-out, shall we?" He threw the bayonet with alarming suddeness and it was suddenly stuck right through Mr. Lyle's gun; it sizzled loudly, bubbling up like a cancerous protrusion before the bubbles froze and the shell became a light purple, cracking in a number of places before falling off Mr. Lyle's injured hand, crumbling to purplish dust even as they fell through the air. The bayonet hit the ground too, bouncing off with a clattering sound.

Mr. Lyle stared down in shock, realizing that the deck was not only stacked against him, but had exploded in his face. "Oh, shit!"

Zim's mouth curled up in faint annoyance. "Come on. Surely an intelligent person like you could use less vulgar synonyms to express yourself."

"Hey, I got an idea!" Spike said excited, cracking his knuckles. "Let's all beat this wastelock until he squeals like a stuck pig!"

"Sounds good to me!" Calvin said, grinning frighteningly.

Mr. Lyle's eyes widened, his limbs shaking slightly. He immediately started moving backwards, all sorts of horrific vengeance scenarios going through his mind. This has gone S.N.A.F.U. in the worst possible way was pretty much his one rational thought amid the terrified visions he was having of them taking their revenge upon him. Of all of them, though, none of them scared him half as much as what Zim might do. Sure, Hobbes was a barely civilized wild animal that was notorious defensive of his adopted brother and Spike was a barely reformed mass murderer with a homicidal streak a mile wide, but Mr. Lyle knew that Zim might do the worst out of all of them. When you were talking about a person who put someone through an elaborate virtual reality simulation that had ended up nearly breaking the victim's heart simply to discern if they had hit him with a muffin at lunch and not understanding that the simulation was torture enough, no form of retaliation was out of hand, even if he called himself a hero.

At the thought of what Zim might do, provided he was able to jury-rig something elaborate and painful, Mr. Lyle's back-pedaled even faster, not even stopped when he stumbled backwards and kept scooting backwards, nearly hyperventilating. Kim scowled down at Mr. Lyle with both loathing for his earlier cruelties and his repulsive cowardice, her slightly narrowed eyes and the tight line of her mouth suggesting she was strongly considering Spike's proposal. "Kiiim," Ron said from behind, putting a hand on her shoulder, shaking his head slowly.

Rufus looked at the helpless human and shook his head. "Nuh uh!" Kim looked at both of them and stepped back, standing just off to Ron's side.

Abel looked down at him, his mouth turning up in a faint frown, watching Mr. Lyle scuttle away like the human cockroach he was; Abel had known many people like Mr. Lyle in his time: people who seemed like reptilian demons wearing the stolen skin of a likable human, but once the execution blade was at their necks, all of their guises fell away to reveal that they were less like crocodiles then they were like squirming insects before a pin needle. Abel's frown became sympathetic in nature as he noticed that Mr. Lyle's hand was crusted with blood and his fingers were bent at odd angles: the effect was much like a worn-out red pincushion.

Mr. Lyle had told that Abel could heal quickly, but he hadn't been told that he could do so that quickly. His plan had been to take Abel out, at least temporarily, and use the confusion to buy himself some time to get away. "By the Partners," Mr. Lyle managed to say to Abel, his heart skipping a few breaths as he realized that what just knowing what Abel really was hadn't been sufficient. It was one thing to read the reports; it was another matter entirely to see the terrifying reality right here, especially with his knowledge of what Abel could do when his wrath was truly roused. "What the hell are you?"

Abel gave him a forboding look. "A human. Like you."

Mr. Lyle's mouth opened slightly as Abel's eyes narrowed slightly. The priest grabbed the bayonet off the ground, plucked the other one out of it's sheath and started to slowly approach him. Abel's face was stern, but not fixed in the nearly insane leer of indignated wrath he'd expected. This reminded him rather forcibly of a teacher that had caught his students misbehaving badly and needed to be quickly corrected, but gently so. "It's over," Abel said quietly, but not quietly enough so that neither Mr. Lyle or the others couldn't hear.

"What?" Mr. Lyle repeated, already starting to plan. He thought that maybe, just maybe, he might get out of this encounter alive. He quickly decided that the best thing was to kill time, at least until he reccuperated enough to summon his guns again. Then, Mr. Lyle was certain, he'd make good his escape. Kim narrowed her eyes, recognizing the veiled smug look: he was already planning a way out of his predicament, and while she hadn't expected anything less, it still annoyed her.

Abel stopped in front of Mr. Lyle and looked down at him. Mr. Lyle didn't understand what the expression on his face meant. It made no sense, given the circumstances, but it looked almost...depressed. Disappointed, nearly. "I wish you hadn't done this." He sighed wearily, like a man who'd seen every act of mean stupidity, hateful cruelty and human evil that had ever been committed. He sounded extremely old there, putting Zim in mind of someone who'd been alive for so long that he intimately knew of all the senseless acts of horror that a man could do and keep doing time after time and had grown sick of it. "What was the sense of bringing up bygone hurts and forcing us into a senseless fight?" Abel's eyes narrowed. "Or maybe you're one of those who has no care whether he wins or loses, and only cares for the process?

Mr. Lyle frowned, having no idea what Abel was going on about. "Look, I don't mean to be rude, but what the hell are you going on about?"

Abel continued on his tirade, completely ignoring Mr. Lyle. "You may look human, you may be able to play the part, but you are still only actors, knowing only self-love, envy, vindictiveness and hatred for everyone around you." Abel twirled his bayonet almost thoughtfully. "I could kill you," This statement brought a fresh surge of panic in Mr. Lyle's heart, and it chilled Zim to hear the way Abel said it. It was thoughtful, speculative, almost questioning; the same tone could have been used if he had asked someone whether they liked doughnuts or doughnut holes better.

"But what would it solve?" Able continued, putting his bayonet into it's sheath. "Rage never saved anyone, anger never brightened a dark heart and murder never solves anything." He looked down at Mr. Lyle, a hint of the apocalyptic rage lurking in his heart showing in his glower. "Even if I did kill you...even if I tore you asunder, even if I broke your body until you lost all ability to feel pain, even if I sundered you with the spilt blood of the innocent, I doubt I could ever make you understand the pain you inflicted tonight, the pain you no doubt take pleasure in and inflict everyday. No," Abel went on, looking more irate by the moment. "The destruction of even you, a loathsome thing that shows perfectly well just how far a man can fall into the darkness, would be futile and pointless."

"Glad to know," Mr. Lyle said as he stood up, Abel's speech meaning nothing to him. "Gotta give you this, you're more eloquent then your brother."

Abel frowned, wondering what dealings Mr. Lyle might have had with his malicious brother. He decided that Mr. Lyle needed another good shock and Morte had been cooped up long enough. Abel stuck his hand out, just in front of the ground in front of Mr. Lyle.

Mr. Lyle regarded that patch of ground suspiciously, even moreso when the ground darkened, shadows appearing in a hazy semicircle. He didn't like the way it had a vertigo-inducing sensation of depth. "Picked up a few new tricks, huh?"

"I can't let Cain get ahead of me, can I?" Abel replied. A metal square, wide enough for Abel to stand on, even with the uneven surface of it's manifold grooves and odd designs, breached through the center of the pool; it was hard to say whether or not the shadows were a simple gateway or had a substance of their own, but the way the metal square's appearance caused the shadows to shift around sluggishly like water that had had something dropped in it suggested the latter explaination.

Abel's hand shifted slightly. The metal square rose up with alarming speed, revealing itself to be Abel's cross, though it was temporarily obscured by the thick shadows slowly evaporating from it. There was something quietly iconic about the way it rose up, dripping misty darkness around it and fogging the tiles around it before it rose to it's full height, it's base touching ground level without the support of the shadows and standing about a head shorter than Abel, still in the state of unveiling it had been it when they'd last seen it. Abel's hand dropped to his side and the shadows quietly vanished, leaving no evidence of their passage except for the eerie device standing there.

Mr. Lyle was stunned, but recovered himself quickly. "I heard you were carrying around a pocket space armory. Pretty clever, disguising it as a cross. Who expects a cross to contain weapons of mass destruction?" Abel coughed politely, thinking momentarily of Nicholas D. Wolfwood, a friend of his from another world who had inspired the use of what Mr. Lyle had termed a 'pocket space armory'.

Zim cocked an eyeridge. He'd had suspicions about it ever since Abel had withdrawn weapons in it and stowed Morte within it's apparently infinite depths, but he still found it surprising that Abel's cross was a more elaborate-looking version of his Pak; glancing to those around him, he surmised that this wasn't news to the residents of Traverse Town present there and that the two of the Comic Kingdom had come to the same conclusion he had. He wondered how they could have thought of it so quickly and wondered what sort of lives they'd led before coming here for them to be so easily acquinted with such possibilities.

Mr. Lyle cocked an eyebrow, wondering what Abel was up to. Now that the attention had shifted to Abel, he falsely assumed that the others had lost interest in incapacitating him before he could make an escape. In reality, Zim, Calvin, Hobbes, Spike, Kim, Ron and Rufus were simply curious about what Abel was doing; his summoning of his cross suggested that he was planning something.

Abel proved them right by opening a particular opening in the top section. He swiftly turned it around, a combination of an odd echoing yell and the ringing pitch noise it produced as it turned making the hair on the back of Mr. Lyle's neck stand up.

Mr. Lyle braced himself as he realizing that Abel had partially opened it; the opening on the top section wasn't very large, only big enough to fit your head into, but he still thought something weird was happening. The weird yell suddenly grew louder and more distinct as an ivory speck appeared, growing larger as the yell became louder.

With alarming suddeness, the speck was Morte Rictusgrin and was flying out the opening, screaming, "FREEDOM!" and flying in a line, straight at Mr. Lyle; the human screamed in horrified fright and fell backwards just at Morte flew over him, talking loudly. He stopped in midair and pivoted, leering down. "Oh, it's you. You're like the fiend in Moridor's Box; always coming up at the worst possible time." He floated over to Zim, bobbing happily as he did so and steering well away from Abel. "From the look of things, you guys got this handled, right? Tell me I'm right, I need to know what happened!"

Calvin smirked. "Oh, it's done with, that's for sure."

"So!" Zim said loudly, grinning down at Mr. Lyle. "That statement does beg the question; what will you do now? You have but few choices remaining for you, oh foolish stinkbeast."

"'Stinkbeast'?" Mr. Lyle repeated, his mouth settling into a lopsided grimace and raising an eyebrow. "May I suggest a few lessons in English?"

"You're being e-vaaaasive!" Ron said in a lilting, almost singsong tone.

Spike tilted his head and smirked. "Never thought I'd be of the same mind as a Zeppo, but the Zeppo has a point."

Ron turned to Spike. "Why do you keep calling me that? Stop calling me that."

"Can't help it. I mean, look at you." Spike gestured at Ron with a pointed 'gunfighter' gesture. "You're useless."

"Am not!" Ron cried at the same moment Kim did.

They started to speak again when Spike loudly said, "If either of you says what I know what you're about to say, I will wipe the floor with the two of you right here and now." Kim and Ron looked at each, somewhat startled, then Kim raised her hand into the air energetically. Ron crossed his arms and fumed at being ousted from a free soda once more while Rufus snickered.

"Ignoring that bit of insanity," Hobbes said, the corner of his mouth threatening to lift up in a smile, "The fact remains: you're helpless and at our mercy."

"What make you think I'm helpless?" Mr. Lyle retorted, trying to play for time. Just a few more minutes, and I'll have my getaway.

"Because," Hobbes said almost gently. "If you could summon more Heartless, you would have done so. I know your type. And I'm guessing that gun trick of yours take a lot out of you, or we'd be in another fight by now. Am I right?" Mr. Lyle said nothing. Hobbe smiled broadly. "Am I right?" Mr. Lyle turned his head, refusing to look directly at the tiger. "Your silence speaks volumes."

"Hnk, out of it!" Rufus said loudly.

This is a new low, Mr. Lyle thought moodily. He'd had plenty of painful days in his life; the time he'd been reduced to a paranoid wreck after Jarod had almost shot an assault rifle into the back of his head, the botched dealing with the Yakuza that had resulted in the loss of his thumb, the time his ascendence to the top of the first organization he had joined being stifled when Jarod had stolen and blown up every car he'd bought and mailing the license plates and steering locks back to him, and of course that unforgettable inspection trip to the Nine Hells of Baator with a meeting with one of the Senior Partners, but having his weakness pointed out by a rodent that was barely capable of speech was definitely a new low. "So now what?"

"Now we bring you in, Lyle," said Jarod, striding from behind the others, deciding at last to reveal himself. Everyone except Lyle turned to him, various expressions and ranges of surprise on their faces. His sudden appearance disregarded, he'd also changed clothes since they'd last seen him: he was now wearing a long black coat over a light blue shirt collarless shirt, the loops of a complicate design formed of thin white lines peeking over from the shirt's right side. His pants were tan, with a tougher light gray material over them that was similar to the overlying covering on Kim and Ron's pants, but made of a single long piece instead of two separate pieces. He was wearing dark loafers, the shoes making soft footsteps against the ground as he walked. His right hand was clutching a long riflelike weapon: it was built like a futuristic weapon, with a great deal of rounded curves around it and an unusually large barrel. On the sides, in a low-caps computerized font was written the weapon's name on a read-out screen: Sharpshooter.

Calvin looked like someone had hit him upside the head with a baseball bat. "Whuh? Huh? You? When did...I mean, how did...how come none of us...ugh." He rubbed his forehead, turning to Hobbes. "Maybe you're right. Maybe I do need to cut down on my sugar intake." For the most part, the party's reaction was similar to Calvin's, though not as overblown.

Lyle's eyes widened and he pointed a slightly shaking finger at Jarod. "YOU!"

"Me," Jarod replied, looking uncharacteristically tense as he spoke.

"Oh, it's just Jarod," Zim said indifferently; behind him, Abel quietly placed his weapons back into the proper places, judging their fight to finally be over. After he did that, the rolls of bandagelike parchment lying around the cross-section snaked back up, tightly winding around the exposed sections until they were covered once more. With that done, the straps moved out from under the bandages and over him, snapping into place again. Zim quirked an eyeridge, something suddenly occuring to him. "Wait, when did you get here? And...why did none of us notice?"

"'Just Jarod'?" Ron repeated incredulously. "'Just Jarod'?! Do you have any idea who this guy is?" Ron paused. "Wait, come to think of that, I don't really know either."

Spike rolled his eyes and made a low growling noise. "Would you kindly shut up and stop embarrassing yourself?"

"Never!" Ron shouted, throwing his hands into the air defiantly. He frowned. "Wait, that didn't come out right."

Jarod kept walking. Zim felt annoyed, thinking that Jarod was taking the situation away from under him. He started to say something along the lines of this being his fight and it was his right to end it, then caught sight of Jarod's face. His mouth was set in a thin line, his brow furrowed and eyes narrowed. It was not only one of the most forbidding looks Zim had ever seen, it also underlined an unnerving intensity that disturbed Zim rather greatly. He stepped away, deciding that it wasn't a good idea to get in Jarod's way; frankly, it seemed safer just to stand back and watch the proceedings.

Jarod stopped in front of Mr. Lyle, the Sharpshooter's barrel tapping against the ground with a dry click. "We haven't had the displeasure of each other's company for a while, Lyle."

Mr. Lyle's mouth tightened into a thin line, but he didn't say anything back.

Scowling at the defenseless agent, Jarod started to speak in a low, steady, sing-song voice. "'Lyle, Lyle, Mr. Crocodile. What's that I see in your smile? You say it's something from the Nile, but I think it must be something vile, for you see, I don't trust you, not by a mile'."

"Crappy poem, Jarod," Mr. Lyle retorted. "That's the best a supergenius can come up with?"

"It says the point well enough," Jarod replied. "And isn't that really the point of all tales? Everything else is just window dressing."

When Lyle didn't say anything, Jarod started talking again. "You haven't been playing nice with the others again, have you?"

"You make it sound so unaccountable," Lyle said with a slight grin.

"At least unlike you, I'm honest."

"Honesty is really in the eye of the beholder. If you truly believe that something is the truth, then it is."

Jarod shook his head disagreeably. "Moral relativitism. I should have expected no less."

Lyle laughed sourly. "Figures that I'd run into you in this junkyard of a town, running around with the losers who got off lucky." He quirked an eyebrow questioningly. "Playing the Good Samaritain to a whole world's probably a first for you."

Jarod ignored the cruel jab at Traverse Town. "You wouldn't know. You haven't darkened my doorstep for a few months."

Lyle smirked. "I've been meaning to pay you back for that."

"As I recall," Jarod said, tapping a finger against the Sharpshooter. "You were nearly eaten alive by a sandworm cult."

"Got it in one, like always." Lyle frowned, wondering about something. "When'd you get here, anyway?"

"None of your business," Jarod said, a flat tone of satisfaction coming into his voice.

The two of them regarded each other for a moment; Jarod with quiet intensity and Lyle with a kind of fearful loathing.

Finally, Jarod spoke. "You're not here for me, are you?"

Lyle snorted. "Don't flatter yourself. I've got bigger fish to fry then you. Besides, I'm running with a new crowd these days. You're not a great priority for me anymore."

"Really?" Jarod's hand tightened around the Sharpshooter. "Is the Centre just not lucrative enough for you anymore?"

"Psh!" Lyle rolled his eyes. "Centre's old news, Jarod. I'm working for Wolfram and Hart."

Spike quirked an eyebrow at the name.

"Hold it, hold it, hold it!" Morte said suddenly, floating inbetween them. "You two know each other?"

There was a long pause. Jarod and Lyle stared at Morte slightly incredulously. "We've met," Jarod said, somehow investing those two simple words with indescribable menace.

"Jarod, Jarod, Jarod," Lyle said scathingly, hoping he could make him squirm with a few tentative revelations. "It's time you got rid of this ridiculous notion of being your own man and got it into your oversized skull: the Centre owns you. Anything I did in pursuit of that was just business."

Jarod's eyes narrowed and his hand tightened aroung the Sharpshooter so tightly it might have dented it if it were made of a flimsier material. He said nothing but the hateful glare he directed at Lyle said enough. It spoke of a long, painful history between the two, of the fury of a innocent man who'd been tormented by this callous victimizer and, not least of all, of the rage twisting through him at the very sight of Lyle.

"'Buisness', huh?" Abel said slowly. The others simply stared at Lyle, digesting this sudden and odd statement.

Lyle turned to the others. He knew full well what to do to escape, but he thought it'd be in his best interests to sow the seeds of discord while he could. "Don't listen to Jarod. He's not right in the head."

"Oh, and we're supposed to believe you are?" Calvin said scathingly.

"Trust me!" Lyle said almost desperately. "This crazy bastard almost hollowed my skull out with an assault rifle!"

Kim looked up sharply. "He did?" She looked at Jarod; not accusingly, as Lyle had hoped, but questioningly.

"Not that I blame ya," Spike said to Jarod, asking the question for the others, "But why?"

Jarod didn't answer directly. Instead, he glared down at Lyle and quietly said, "'I decide who lives or dies'."

His words had an eerie and slightly crazed aspect to them. Creepy as they sounded, they had an odd effect on Lyle; he paled slightly and he drew back, looking uncommonly like a puppy that had just been hit with a billy club and had good reason to expect another hit was forthcoming.

Zim regarded Jarod almost warily. "What does that mean?"

Jarod didn't look away from Lyle, even as he said, "It's something my brother Kyle used to say."

Lyle realized that he had lost the situation right there. "Look, mistakes were made. Heat of the moment, things happened, you don't need to overreact!" His hasty, scared tone turned overreact into a semi-squeal that was a little painful for those with sensitive hearing.

Jarod's hard look didn't change. "'Overreact'? You killed my brother."

Behind him, eyebrows shot up, glances of surprise were exchanged and they regarded Jarod with looks of surprise and pity, not to mention a little solidarity. The 'We-Hate-Lyle' quotient went up by a few more notches, too.

"Look, Jarod," Lyle said hastily, feeling his heart pound in his chest like a misplaced jackhammer. "I was just doing my job-"

"Your job?" Zim repeated, stomping right next to Jarod as a fresh stab of anger directed itself at Lyle. "Your job? YOUR JOB?! How is that ever an excuse, you lowly parasite?!"

Lyle stared at Zim incredulously. "How can a guy like you judge me?! These guys might not know everything about you, but I do. Oh, believe me, I do." He managed a cruel smirk, despite his fear. "Seems you weren't always such a knight in shining armor, now were you?"

Calvin frowned and looked at Zim, wondering what Lyle meant by that. Morte clicked his teeth once, twice, thinking about both his own tormented past and of the man he'd called Chief.

Zim said nothing for a moment, his mouth set in a hard line. What Lyle said made him think of the days in which he'd wanted nothing more than to destroy the Earth or just conquer it, depending on his mood that day. Sometimes, the memories of those days were apt to induce nostalgia at the thought of a time when things were so much simpler; there was none of the gray thinking he had to ponder these days and frustrate himself over whether or not an action was right. Back in those days, he had a clarity he rarely saw anymore. There was only himself, the Empire he charged at the forefront of, the Tallest he served and the will to succeed that was birthed by his drive to be recognized as someone important, someone worthwhile, someone that all Irkens would have to acknowledge. Beyond that, no one else mattered. It wasn't really a question of selfishness or a conscious refusal to care about anyone else; he'd simply been blind to everyone else around him, and in that blindness the kinder concepts of life had never really mattered much.

But, Zim now knew all too well, clarity wasn't everything. More often then not, the memories of the old days aggravated him, filled him with revulsion at his total self-absorption and of course, the now familiar self-disgust. Sometimes, there was musing over what led him to become what he had been. Certainly, there had been a progression to the nearly sociopathic persona that had made him infamous; his Pak's corrupt data had only been a factor in that backwards evolution, not the root of it. The plain and simple fact was that he just hadn't cared. He had refused to care about anyone but himself long before he came to Earth. And look where that had led him: a existence that was an utter lie, a mission that was just an excuse to keep him from destroying everything Irkens long dead had given their lives to build up from a scattered collective of nomadic proto-Irkens.

He was different now. That was truly something of value; to know just how much of a despicable defect you'd once been and how far you'd come from being a person you were ashamed to even remember. Lyle, no doubt, had no conception of that sort of progression, and he wasn't sure if his new allies (he wasn't prepared to think of these strangers as friends) would entirely understand that strange gulf between who he was and who he had been.

"Things change," Zim said, summarizing all his months of personal reflection in two simple words, his tone a calm that was downright eerie coming from a person whose ordinary mode of conversing what yelling and communcating whatever random thoughts came into his mind. His eyes narrowed to crimson slits glimmering with great dislike, his mouth set in a resolute line.

No one else said anything. A few glances were exchanged, their givers aware that something of great import had been said, though they didn't know the reason why.

"So," Lyle said calmly, with the air of someone coming to an inescapable conclusion. "I have lost."

Zim's glare softened, his anger dulling away. His mouth curved into a smirk. "Yes, you have lost. We have beaten you at your every trump card. The shock of what you know has faded. Your minions have been vanquished. Your powers have deserted you. You have lost."

Lyle sighed expansively and half-smirked; it was the look of a game player who'd been trapped in a stalemate and had chosen to admit to it. "So what happens now?"

Jarod stared at him heavily for a moment. He raised a hand, making a 'come-hither' gesture at those behind him. Calvin and Hobbes exchanged glances, then came up behind him, as did the others, forming a half circle behind him. "We bring you in for questioning," Jarod said simply.

"We could do that right here," Spike said, grinning. "Won't be too hard to get screams, a few fluids, some information."

"Tch," Lyle said disgruntledly. "Talking about torture? You're moving around with some real winners, right now, Jarod."

"Enough with the insults!" Calvin said in a tone of supreme exasperation. "You're completely beaten and helpless and surrounded by people that would love any excuse to redefine pain for you." He frowned. "Come to think of it, why would you come up and talk to all of us about things we don't want talking about? Are you reckless or just born stupid?"

"So!" Ron said with false cheer, dropping on one knee, crossing his arms and grinning. "Feel like talking or would you rather do this somewhere more comfortable?"

"We can do uncomfortable!" Hobbes said, pointing a claw at Lyle. "We'd love to do uncomfortable!"

Lyle rolled his eyes. "Well, as far as business opportunities go, imprisonment and interrogation aren't very viable. So, sayonara." Darkness flared around him suddenly in a turbulent blue-purple-black capsule, vanishing a moment later and Lyle along with it.

The group stared in stunned disbelief at the spot where Lyle had been standing only moments ago. "Well, I can't exactly say I'm surprised," Jarod said disgust, breaking the silence.

"Ugh!" Zim said angrily. "He got away! I don't believe it, he got away!" He kicked the ground angrily. "And I thought we had him deceased to privileges!"

"That's 'dead to rights'," Kim corrected.

"Whatever!" Zim made a low noise that sounded like a dying moose. He stood there, twitching for a moment before he ran over to a pillar and started furiously kicking it. "Stupid house! Stupid town! Stupid darkness! Stupid Lyle! Stupid idioms!"

Hobbes watched Zim's tempermental outburst, his ears drooping. "And I thought you had a short temper," he said to Calvin.

"Yeah," Calvin agreed, suddenly realizing what he'd just said. "Hey! What's that supposed to mean?"

"What do you think it means?" Morte said.

Zim stopped attacking the pillar, turning around and slumping against it moodily. Ron came up to him and asked, "Feel any better?"

Zim gave an indifferent half-shrug. "Eh."

Ron thought of something to say. Kim walked next to him and said it for him. "So, your first day here has been pretty wild, huh?"

Zim looked surprised for a moment, and then suddenly laughed, He settled back, grinning slightly, looking more at ease. He looked up at the destruction around the room and tapped his forehead once thoughtfully. "Now, where do we go from here?" He said, mostly to himself.

Rufus took it as a question instead of the statement Zim had meant it as. "Hnk, home." Zim's antennae twitched slightly irritably, but he didn't say anything.

Jarod silently walked up behind Spike, somehow completely evading the vampire's notice. "We're a destructive bunch, aren't we?"

Spike jumped and turned around, his eyes wide. "Don't do that! You trying to give me a heart attack?!"

Jarod looked at him, clearly surprised. "Wouldn't your heart have to be beating for it to have an attack?" Spike said nothing, settling for glaring at him. Jarod looked back at the devastated danceroom around them, putting a finger to his temple moodily. "This is not going to be a good place to be when Herrimen gets up here..."

"What's a Herrimen?" Morte wondered. His head cocked to the left, peering at Jarod intently. There seemed something somehow...familiar about him. Something about him that Morte had recognized almost immediately, but couldn't readily define.

Not knowing or caring who Herrimen was, Zim said, "All the more reason for us to get out of here as soon as we can. Of course," he added, "That begs the knowing of how you got in here without any of us noticing."

Jarod looked back at the shaded area behind the pillars around them. "Sometimes, questions answer themselves. Listen," he said suddenly, addressing everyone around him. "We have to get out before anyone comes looking. The last thing we need right now are more complications."

The ones who'd been trapped in the house for one reason or another stared at Jarod disbelievingly.

"'Get out?'" Abel said wonderingly. "As in, leave and go home!?"

"Yeah," Jarod said, trying not to grin at the sudden looks of enormous happiness at the looks on their faces. "I'd need a few things cleared up first, like how all this happened or what Lyle was doing here, but I can take all of you where you want to go."

Calvin, Hobbes and Zim exchanged annoyed glances. Morte spoke for them. "Hey, what about us!? We still need a place to set up kip! Let alone those cutters." Morte nodded towards Kim, Ron and Abel, who got the distinct sense that Morte had just payed them a compliment.

-------

Excerpt from the Hitchhiker's Guide

"Sigilian slang is a funny thing. Not funny ha-ha, but funny weird, somewhat like the difference between a bunch of clowns slapping each other with giant boxing gloves and a row of faceless dolls facing an old rural road.

"It is commonly considered to be similar to old variations of eighteenth century British slang, though linguists are unsure how this might have come around. Some Planewalkers believe that some Primeworlders who accidentally came to Sigil in it's earliest days might have spread their dialect among the inhabitants, thus evolving into the terms you see today.

"There are many variations on it across the Planes, but there are some widely used terms. Among them follows; berk, which is a generic insult. Cutter, a compliment for any sufficiently skilled, intelligent or cagey individual, often applied to adventurers, believed to have it's roots in the activities of the usual hack-and-slash lifestyle of adventurers. Kip, a term referring to a camp in the roughest sense, generally referring to a temporary refuge such as a one-night stay at a inn. Jink, a term for gold or any other widely used currency. Graybeard, an old person(though one Morte Rictusgrin typically applies it to animated corpses that have decayed to skeletons).

-------

Jarod understood all of what Morte said, having a passing knowledge in the odd slang Morte spoke in. "As soon as we have everything sorted out, I'll get everyone where they need to be."

"Oh, okay then," Morte said, mollified. Zim was a little miffed that Morte had just made a decision without bothering to discuss it with him, but decided that there was no harm in getting Jarod up to speed with things. Besides, he thought that making an ally out of him could be helpful later and nodded to show his approval.

The others voiced their approval, except Spike, who shrugged. "You lot do what you want. My part's done."

Hobbes looked at him curiously. "You're not coming?"

"Hell no! I did like I was paid for. Found Keyboy, got him here and helped out in a fight. That's all I'm doing for you lot tonight." Spike raised his arms wide, gesturing at the world around him. "You can all head off and do whatever it is Captain Forehead has in mind, but I've got better things to do."

"Suit yourself," Jarod said amiably, not at all bothered by Spike's usual half joking, half insulting manner. He pulled one of his sleeves back, revealing a light blue wristwatch with buttons on it's face that were similar to a rough display of planetary orbits, which made no sense to anyone else. He clearly knew what they meant; he pressed a few buttons on it, producing small beeping noises and a single loud boop. "Stand back," he advised them. "The Butterfly's coming."

"Why-" Morte started to say before he was interrupted by the sound of something moving towards them. Something pretty big. And they didn't just hear it, they felt it move towards them. A large shape moved towards them, shimmering into visibility as it approached. Zim regarded it with interest. "Why would you call it a Butterfly?"

The bulky blue ship approaching with an almost cautious haste was about the size of a truck, hovering just off the ground, two large glowing discs on it's underside producing twin waves of rippling force that kept it off the ground, generating a gentle wind around them. The ship had a distinctly utilitarian aspect, seemingly all swept-forward squarish shapes. On the rounded front there was a wide dark windshield, probably hiding the cockpit. At the lower half of the front was a pair of long hatches that Zim thought had concealed weaponry behind it. Long tubelike structures marked the lower sides, small disks like the ones at the bottom dotting their surfaces.

It came to a stop in front of them, sharply turning so that it's back faced them, exposing a squarish indentation. The indentation folded away from the rest of the hull, quietly touching ground in front of them, exposing the interior; the walls were tan, with large cushioned chairs lined against them. It seemed mostly empty, except for the single airlock-styled door at the end of the small chamber.

Jarod stepped aside, sweeping a hand at the ship invitingly. "After you guys, please."

Zim quickly stepped in, thinking that the door he saw probably led to the cockpit, judging by it's position. The room itself, which struck him as a cargo hold, was almost completely empty except for a small dufflebag lying atop one chair. Zim sat at the chair opposite the one with the dufflebag on it, noticing that a large label on the dufflebag read Property of Calvin Pelagius Nocker. He looked to the side, observing Kim and Ron get into the first and second seats from the door. Abel came in next, his cross nestled in the crook of one hand. He sat a seat away from Zim moments before Calvin and Hobbes came up and got into the seats across from Zim; recognizing the dufflebag he'd filled with some spare things, Calvin assumed Jarod had simply taken it from the Gummi Ship for them and picked it up, slinging it over one shoulder and sat in the seat it had been in. Morte floated up next, coming down just above a seat next to Zim. Jarod came up after him, the ramp closing up behind him, settling into a wall with a number of hard clicks that suggested bolts securing it into place as it's surface smoothed over again, looking no different than the rest of the walls around them. Jarod quietly took a seat near the back of the room, well away from everyone else. Zim wondered whether this was because he was stand-offish or simply used to his own company; given his slightly awkward manner of communication, he supposed it was probably the latter.

Morte floated up and leaned against a head rest, muttering to himself thoughtfully and occasionally throwing glances at Jarod for some reason. For the skull, the feeling of familiarity he got from Jarod was impossible to shake; he felt like he knew him from somewhere, and very well at that. He did look very familiar, but it wasn't his looks that reminded him of a man he had once known. His presence was almost indistingushible from the immortal amnesiac he had known as Chief and what the multiverse had known as The Nameless One. He silently watched him with all the studious observation thought that centuries of having no eyelids had impressed on him, wondering what it was about Jarod that struck a chord in him. For his part, Jarod took no notice, or if he did, chose not to say anything; he pressed a few more buttons on his wristwatch, saying nothing.

Zim leaned back, letting his mind wander. The thought of everything that had happened had become a tight coil, constricting him when he wasn't preoccupied with something like he'd been all day. He'd always been like that, which was one of the reasons he'd preferred to have things to do at all times: it was always the quiet moments that got the more stressful thoughts boring into his mind and disturbing his peace.

Zim could freely admit to himself that he was still a bit shellshocked by everything that had happened. Dib's weird experiment(which had worked, after a fashion), the world being invaded by dark monsters and somehow winding up in this new world with a new mission, some irritating companions and of course, the Keyblade. All of that, though, was secondary to the ideas he had about what to do. He thought it might be easy if he could find Gir and Dib first. He remembered Gaz, and considered that she'd probably be with Dib: she could be incredibly cold and mean-spirited sometimes, but she was, in the end, attached to her brother, even if she'd likely massacre the first person to suggest that. Of the two of them, Dib was the one prone to take action; Gaz was more like a ship set to drift, moved primarily by whatever currents came her way, so in such a traumatic situation as this, she'd probably go along with whatever her brother decided. Further logic suggested that Gir, who regarded Gaz as a mother figure, would remain with her.

It seemed simple enough, then; find Dib first and go on from there. Zim thought that it might not work out that way; they could have been scattered from each other, just as he had. He was momentarily troubled by this, then determined himself to simply have no expectations: that way, he couldn't be stymied by any deviations in the collection of hopes and random thoughts he called a plan. Besides, if these two could be believed, their mission was to aid him. He didn't entirely trust Calvin and Hobbes yet, or understand them for that matter, but he was sure that the two of them would be an asset, if the skills they'd shown earlier were any indication. Zim momentarily considered finding Aang and Danny tomorrow and enlisting them in his quest. After some thought, he discounted it. For one thing, he knew they'd be busy enough keeping their own circles together and stable. For another, he wasn't sure there'd be enough room in the Gummi Ship for them.

The ship suddenly lurched up, cutting off any further thought in that vein for a while. Zim was so startled he almost fell down, but no one else seemed to have been as bothered. Calvin and Hobbes wer startled too, but they clearly weren't as lost in their thoughts as Zim.

Jarod's wristwatch emitted a blue light momentarily. "Okay," He said. "I've set a course to a safe place we can figure out what happened, we're now sight and radar invisible, and the Phase Matter Shifter has started."

-------

Spike smirked as the ship flew upwards and vanished from sight. A normal human wouldn't have been able to tell when it flew straight through the walls, leaving no trace of it's passage, but Spike was nothing like a normal human.

He popped his knuckles, feeling entirely at ease. He'd done what he'd been assigned to with no casualities, everything had been completed as directed(the little hiccups of earlier nothwithstanding), he had just made a good fifteen hundred dollars and he'd got to annoy Possible while he was at it. Add in six good hours of drinking and sharing the drink until everyone was good and drunk, instigating a bar fight and take out every single partaker of alchohol and Spike thought he'd be close to his definition of a perfect night. The reason it couldn't possibly be a perfect one had a little bit to do with Possible's likely misinformed jabbed at his mother; now he was going to have to drink off bad memories and think about all the other things thoughts of his mother usually led to.

Things were simpler when it was just me and the other Scoobies, Spike thought morosely. No Heartless, no other worlds, no other people dying by the truckload every other night...of course, I did have a inhibition chip planted in my head much of the time. I'd even take my first few months with Team Angel over this.

Spike decided that dwelling in the past was a terrible idea and resolved to think of more interesting things to do then get drunk and beat people. Just off the bat, he couldn't think of many, but he was sure they were there. He paced around the room, trying to think of some. It took him about five minutes to come up with a few. In the process, he absently scratched his name in three different languages into various parts of the room, dropped a chunk of pillar from the chandelier just to see if it would crack the floor (it did), used his sword to carve one pillar into a passable likeness of a singing frog in a tophat, got so distracted that he forget what he was thinking about in the first place almost four times and was generally destructive.

Spike decided to make a dramatic flourish before leaving the house. He knew perfectly well that he could have left by simply leaving with Jarod and the others, but he had no desire to subject himself to any question-and-answers; he found that kind of thing too boring to keep his attention for any real amount of time. The flourish he had in mind involved jumping on the intact chandelier at the top of the room and cutting the chain; if all went well, it would then crash into the floors, smashing down and down until it reached the subterranean levels, allowing him to escape through the sewers before anyone knew what had happened. Even if that didn't work, it'd still make a great mess and he could blame it on Bloo.

Twirling his sword around cheerily, Spike grinned malevolently and suddenly froze as the doubledoors slammed open. It slammed over in a very specific, very familiar way, ringing with the sort of pitch that only a bearer of flabbergasted and soon-to-be-infuriated authority could muster. There was a painfully long moment of silence as Spike realized what the scene had to look like; him standing in a demolished room, evidently responsible for the mess. His mind was ringing with screams of Oh sonuva friggin' frackin' almighty crapshack! Dammit! Damn damn damnity damn DAMN! Shit, hell and other such expletives!

"MASTER WILLIAM!" An ordinarily cordial and well-mannered English voice bellowed from behind. "WHAT IS THE MEANING OF THIS?!"

Spike knew this meant that he wouldn't be able to avoid the issue anymore. Moving with all the miserable trepidation of a dead man walking who knew that the distance between himself and a lethal injection was a single mile, Spike slowly turned around.

Standing in the doorway was none other than Mr. Herrimen, the imaginary friend of Madam Foster, the president of Foster's and head of all things related to it. He was a six foot tall vaguely humanoid rabbit, hs body covered with fluffy fur that was mostly gray except for the white on his front, mouth, belly and temples, his legs the only feature that were definitely rabbitlike with no human influence. His short face, rabbitlike except for the small dark eyes, was dominated by a outgrowth of fur over his mouth with a heavy resemblance towards a handlebar mustache. One of his eyes was covered by a monocle; the uncovered eye was usually only slightly open, but was now wide in abject fury. He was dressed in an distinct Edwardian style that left his large belly exposed, wearing a button-up plaid shirt under a black overcoat with a folded down white collar over a red bowtie and a tail that covered his entire backside, splitting apart just in front of his small fluffy tail. His somewhat overlong arms were held stiffly to the sides, his three fingered white glove-clad hands clenched tightly. Accounting for at least a foot of his height was a tall narrow stovepipe hat, perched neatly between his back-slanting ears, which brought to mind a dignified double ponytail. Overall, he was built somewhat like a slightly filled bag that someone loosely held; wide at the bottom and thinning as you went up.

Mr. Herrimen forced himself to calm slightly, though one of a pair of spat-clad feet thumped against the ground in an almost spastic twitch. The eye uncovered by a monocle nearly closed as he managed to calm himself. Mr. Herrimen looked around the destroyed room and observed the extent of the damage, which was considerably extensive. "Well?!" He demanded, his voice deepening slightly.

Spike felt himself faltering. "Bugger," he muttered, mostly to himself.

-------

Jarod, Zim, Calvin, Hobbes, Morte, Abel, Kim, Ron and Rufus were standing around a conviently vacant room; it had a desk at one end, two beds on either side of it and a third bed on the other side of the room, otherwise much like the room Zim had been in. The Butterfly was floating outside the room's single window, it's open cargohold facing them.

Zim was sitting on the bed against the wall, with Morte floating around him. Calvin and Hobbes had respectively staked out the other two beds while Kim and Ron sat side-by-side against Hobbes' bed, the naked mole rat sitting atop Ron's head. Abel and Jarod were both standing up, at opposite ends of the room and resting against the wall.

As Jarod had explained, telling him what had happened in this room would make it easier for all of them; he himself could get a handle on what Lyle had been doing there, Abel's group could get a respite and rest before going home, and Zim's group wouldn't have to go anywhere else. They'd agreed with this idea, though they weren't quite sure what Jarod wanted.

"Okay," Hobbes said nervously. "Ummm..." He looked over at Calvin, his tail wagging anxiously. He looked up at Jarod, his ears flattened. "What do you want to know?"

Jarod recognized that Hobbes was exibiting signs of a distressed cat. "Well," he replied, keeping his voice as calm and even as possible. "I'd like to know how all of you got together of course, and how Lyle got involved is important."

"Okay, okay, we got the picture," Morte said. He looked down at Zim. "So, what do you say, Boss? Want to spill the dark?"

Zim took a few moments to think before he answered. "I am not sure. We do have to leave first thing in the morning-"

"About that," Jarod said quickly. "Your Gummi Ship won't be ready until twelve o' clock tommorow."

Zim straightened up in his chair. "That long?" he said in clear surprise. The incredulous look slid off his face as he mulled over it momentarily. He'd been assuming that it would be quickly done, even despite the warnings he'd been given that it'd be an all-night repair job; with his mistaken assumption had come the idea that they'd be leaving to investigate the closest world almost first thing in the morning. After some thought, he decided that he'd flow with it, as it would give them more time to get supplies, investigate this town and other such things. Zim settled back into his chair, feeling less on-edge. "In that case, I see no harm in any of this."

"There you go," Morte said. "And what the Boss says, goes!" Jarod gave Morte a curious look, wondering if the skull was a bit of a yes-man or simply regarded Zim as his leader. Behind his curiosity was a strange familiarity with the skull.

"So!" Kim said brightly. "Who goes first?"

They looked around at each other and quickly discussed it; they decided that since it was relatively short, it'd be best for Abel, Kim and Ron to explain how they wound up wandering around the catacombs of Foster's. That, and some of it had already been said before, with only a few details needing clearing up.

Abel started first; he stood against the wall, using the cross strapped to his back as a rest, collecting his thoughts with the trained practice of a man who not only read passages of Scripture every week to an audience, but had to impart what seemed to be the truth under the surface without repeating tired old theories and keeping his congregation's attention. His main experience as a priest was protecting people, killing evil things and other pursuits suited to a paladin, but he did know some of the most essential parts of his office. "Well, I suppose our story begins with me: if I hadn't been foolish enough to lose my way, I would never have needed these two's help." He gave the two teenager's and their naked mole rat a grateful look.

Kim frowned unhappily. "Father Nightroad, you shouldn't be so down on yourself. Humility isn't something you need to fake."

Abel shrugged indifferently. "I'm not faking anything; I'm just being honest. That's what a lack of overweening pride is all about. Wait, I'm getting off-track. Hold on..." He collected his thoughts again, pausing thoughtfully before he was ready to speak. "It was a few days ago; I was back in my church, listening to alternative rock turned up so loud the neighbors complained-"

"Wait," Calvin interrupted. "You play music so loud the neighbors complain?"

Abel smiled almost roguishly. "They complain louder when my choir practices. We like playing our own songs, preferably rock and roll. So...I was interrupted in my trivial pursuits when I got a call from Frankie; see, when people have problems, they ask me to help them fix it. Construction jobs, technology troubleshooting, advice on dealing with troublesome situations...that kind of thing. Frankie called me to fix a problem with the shields-"

"Shields?" Zim interrupted, his brow furrowed. "What shields?"

"Foster's is kind of a local defense zone," Kim informed him. "A lot of the large-scale defense systems for this district are based in that house. Because of that, it's really well protected; you can't send unauthorized satellite signals there, most communications have to be explictly authorized to work and there's a lot of offense-triggered force fields around it. And that's just the basic stuff."

Hobbes scratched his lower jaw with his foot before speaking. "Why put so many vital defenses in one house? Sure, it's a big house-"

"It's also one of the most easily defensible places in town," Ron reminded him. "There's only a few ways in or out and it's almost smack in the middle of the district, among other things."

"So why would such important things be malfunctioning? I may not be the science buff in this little group, but I do know enough about security systems to know that most of them have back-ups in case of failure."

Abel shrugged, making a goofy and somehow charming expression of supreme bemusement. "Lots of reasons." He starting counting them off on his fingers. "Ordinary mechanical failure, emergency overrides, programming errors, Cheese messing around with them, Bloo getting bored and playing with them, Spike getting drunk and messing around with them..."

Jarod's visage darkened. "Of course, we can't rule out sabotage."

Morte gave off the feeling that he raised an eyebrow. "Who'd want to sabotage the defenses?"

"Well," Ron explained. "While a lot of the people in town are heroes and adventurers, a few are just regular people but a lot are your standard-package freaks. Villians, super and substandard. Half the time we're going on missions, it's to stop them from doing anything really stupid or hurting anyone."

Abel nodded. "Right. In this case, someone had somehow sent a remote virus into the shields and fouled up, I think, the ones based around communications and threat detection. They couldn't get anyone else on short notice, so they called me in; I think Herrimen acquiesed because those systems are particularily vital. They can detect whether or not Heartless have invaded anywhere in the Foster's property. Not that it happens, very much; Heartless tend to inhabit dark isloated places and avoid densely populated areas; Foster's is the sort of place they avoid like the plague. Still, it does happen.

Abel continued. "It was simple enough to do; I'm guessing whoever sent the virus was just playing some pointless joke or isn't very skilled in programming. It only took me about twenty minutes to isolate the virus and remove it. The systems came back on-line only minutes later, and I left to go home. I think I took a wrong turn at one hallway or another. I do remember falling down six trapdoors, one after another, until I was in the subbasement levels and got hopelessly lost for the last three days." Abel paused, possibly for dramatic effect. He loudly wailed, "THREE DAYS! You have no idea how miserable I've been, wandering around in those dank corridors for hours, fearing the approach of the darkness or sadistic children every time I turned a corner, waiting breathlessly for the rancid breath of a thing man was not meant to even conceive of to come down on my neck! I had to eat lint to survive!" He paused. "It tasted like thread-spun cotton."

Morte bobbed uncomfortably, showing every indication of wanting to get as far away from Abel as possible. Zim, on the other hand, nodded in agreement. "This house is evil. Is it not? TELL ME IT'S NOT!" His left eyeridge twitched. "And I'll tell you a lie, blibbering and covered in the grease of all those ensnared in it's falsehood-derived claws!" Zim paused. "And then?"

Abel started to speak, then stopped. "Actually, I'm not sure." He looked down at Kim, almost questioningly. "Well, what happened next? Everything from after that last trapdoor hit me until you three found me is just a big, dark, lint encrusted blur, so...your turn!"

Kim's eye widened in surprise and she said nothing. One of the odd contrasts in her personality was her complete lack of fear when it came to physical challenges and how the very thought of inviting the criticism of others could fill her heart with dread in a way that, say, snowboarding down an avalaunch could not. She was suddenly aware of everyone now looking at her, and in her suddenly over-concious mind, they were all staring at her, waiting for her to start explaining and all ready to pass judgement on anything she had to say that they found objectionable or idiotic.

Of all the people there besides Ron and Rufus, the only person she knew fairly well was Abel, and that was mainly because Abel happened to be in charge of the church her family attended (despite being Catholic, Abel didn't consider other denominitions as outside of his jurisdiciton, making his church attractive to people of all denominations); she had no idea how these new people would take what she had to say. She was certain that Calvin would be quick to make fun of the first thing he heard and Hobbes reminded her of Ron in an odd sort of way, so she didn't think he'd judge her. And Zim and Jarod had something in common: to her, they were almost complete mysteries. She had no idea how they'd react to what she had to say. To say that Kim was paralyzed with trepidation at the thought of anyone dismissing her or critizing her based on what she had to saw was a bit of an understatement.

Before her drive to impress could push her into starting off with the first thing that came to mind, followed by her fear of being judged leading to her saying something to make herself look idiotic, Kim felt a pleasantly familiar light touch on the back of her hand. She looked aside to see that Ron had placed his hand over hers; he had recognized her mood and was doing something to help her. Looking at him, Kim realized that Ron, at least, was still there, ready and willing to back her up in the event of a mistake or a panic-induced case of short-term memory loss. More to the point, he, at least, was one person that no matter what she said, wouldn't think ill of her. Kim's panicked nerves smoothed out quickly.

Feeling more grounded with Ron there, she started to explain how they'd got the call to save Abel before she realized that Calvin, Hobbes, Zim and Morte weren't familiar with their team function. "Um...you guys remember when Ron said that we got hired to go save Abel?"

"Yeah," Hobbes said. "Wait, 'hired'?"

"It's not exactly like that," Kim said, a bit heisitantly. Hobbes found himself fascinated by her obvious terror of public speech and her refusal to clam up and let Ron do it for her. It struck him as both girlishly cute and unusually courageous at the same time. "Uh...you guys know about Traverse Town's thing with adventurers, right?"

"Yeah," Calvin said, nodding and looking surprisingly interested in what she was saying.

"Well...me, Ron, Rufus and our tech genius Wade Load are a team of adventurers: Team Possible. People call us for help and we do what we can. Fighting villians, stopping disasters, securing dangerous areas, hunting for ancient treasures in lost cities for museums, we've done it all."

"Hence the motto," Ron said grandly, spreading his arms wide. "Team Possible: We can do anything!" Zim quirked an eyebrow, thinking that sounded a bit boastful, but he thought that given their performance in the fight from earlier, their motto might well be nothing more than honest advertising. "Mostly stopping the forces of evil, even if the ones we fight the most are kind of pathetic and lame."

Calvin and Hobbes looked at each other and raised eyebrows in virtually identical expressions of puzzlement. Kim, whose two younger brothers were identical twins, thought that Calvin and Hobbes acted like lifelong twins, even if they looked nothing alike. No, she thought. Disregarding the gulf that being of different species engendered, they acted like identical twins. They moved like each other, had the little motions of sympatic thoughts and generally acted like brothers in all ways but the literal. Noting it as interesting, Kim continued. "So, about a few hours ago, we got a call from one of my friends; Kimiko Tohomiko-" Calvin and Hobbes exchanged looks, recalling their brief encounter with the Xiaolin Dragons and Eduardo. "-about Abel. She told us what she thought had happened and that Abel needed rescuing, and the other rescue groups weren't available: the Titans've been busy for a while, she and the other Xiaolin Dragons didn't have time, she couldn't get into contact with the Plumbers and everyone else charges money. So she contacted me and Ron at our house-"

"'Our' house?" Morte interrupted. "Not that I'm judging, but ain't the two of you kinda young for that kind of thing?"

"Mind out of gutter," Ron said sharply. "I live in the Possible's house. I stay with her family, they get a daily dose of the Ronshine, it's all good!" Morte clicked his teeth in a somehow perverse way, but he didn't say anything.

Kim continued on, rolling her eyes with a slight smile. "We set out right away. We don't live that far away from here, so we didn't need to call in a favor for a ride like we usually do. We managed to find Abel's tracks, but it took us a while to find him; by the time we found him, he'd gotten somewhere in the sewers."

"Few hour ago," Rufus noted, crossing his arms and nodding sagely. "Hnk, got him getting smack-human with big handbag iguana!"

To the majority of the people there, most of what he just said was just chattering with an unusual candance and pattern that sounded like speech. For some reason, Zim was starting to catch the candence of the mole rat's style of talking, but still found it hard to understand him. For the benefit of the others, Ron quickly translated. "In Ronman-terms, that'd be 'we found Abel fighting with a big sewer crocodile.'"

"Hnk, what I say!" Rufus said, crossing his arms irritably.

"A-HA!" Calvin suddenly exclaimed, pointing at Hobbes. "I knew there were sewer gators somewhere in the multiverse! And yet you never believed me, like always!" Hobbes rolled his eyes.

"We have been having territory disputes with them," Abel admitted sheepishly. "So they helped me mollify the iguana, er, crocodile."

"What'd you do?" Jarod asked, looking amused by the whole thing.

"Ron just hit it in the head really hard," Kim said, giving Ron an affectionate look, putting a hand on his shoulder.

Ron smiled confidently, putting his hands behind his head. "What can I say, some people just are born with it!"

"Yeah," Kim said, lightly punching him on the arm. "And you had to work for it."

"Ouch!"

"You're getting sidetracked," Jarod said, though finding their back-and-forth fascinating. Zim snickered.

"Oh...yeah." Ron scratched the back of his neck sheepishly.

Abel took the lead. "So we spent the next few hours pretty much just moving upwards; in retrospect, it was actually kind of fun. We got a lost a few times, until Kim made me stick in the back. I remember we had a few interesting things happen to us: there was that moment where we took a wrong turn and fell into a trapdoor and fell up to the Foster's roof, but then we fell into another trapdoor and ended up where we started."

"Hold it!" Morte suddenly yelled. "You said you fell into a trapdoor."

"Uh huh!" Rufus said.

"And you ended on that house's roof."

"Yeah." Ron said.

"So...you're saying you fell into a trapdoor, and landed out on the roof."

"That's pretty much it," Kim said.

"Ah." Morte's face, though fleshless, was somehow able to convey expression. He seemed calmly bewildered. "So...how in the Seven Heavens of Mount Celestia do you fall up?!"

Abel shrugged. "I dunno."

Morte stared at him for a long time. He gradually floated down to the armrest, staring at the priest like a man who'd just found out that his soul was the legal property of a family of pineapple farmers, or more precisely, like a person who'd just been told something that was completely impossible but had no reason to disbelieve it.

Zim, on the other hand, had absolutely no problem with events that flagrantly violated all laws of physics, having perpetuated a few of them himself. "Yes, yes, you fell up and fell down to ground zero, blah blah, stuff happened, yeah yeah, what happened next?!"

Kim blinked politely at Zim. "Uh...there's not really much more to it than that. Right after that, we walked up a staircase and ran into you guys."

"Your turn," Abel said, folding his hands behind his head and wedging himself even further into his chair.

Zim paused. He remembered what Cyborg had said earlier, and looking at them now, realized that Kim and Ron had both been in Cyborg's picture, causing him to wonder why he hadn't recognized them. He shook his head and gave a quick run-through of his adventures in town, ending when he teamed up with Calvin and Hobbes.

"That sounded like a great fight," Kim said wistfully. "Wish we could have seen it."

"They had tapes of the scene," Jarod informed her, sounding a little uncomfortable. "If you want, I can send you copies later-"

"Excuse me, tapes?" Zim interrupted questioningly.

"Certain areas of the town are recorded by sensitive cameras," Abel explained. "It's an idea Bloo had; since there's so many crazy things happening at the same time, he thought that people would literally pay to see them. So he had a number of motion activated cameras installed in areas where these things tend to happen and made a show out of it."

Ron nodded. "It's not actually that different from a thing they've been doing in town ever since we got a visitor from this one world; I forget what it's called, but he called himself an Iskoort or something like that. This guy brought this technology that records memories in a playback format; turns your experiences into movies kind of idea."

"Yeah," Morte commented. "They have do something like that in the Sensorium back in Sigil. Use a magical stone that records memories in the same way. They call them Sensory Stones."

Calvin considered the tape thing thoughtfully. "Huh, that sounds kinda cool."

Jarod grimaced. "I hate them."

Abel suddenly looked uncomfortable. "Um-"

Jarod shuddered violently, in much that same way that somewhat who had just had something slimy, large and alive dumped down their back would shudder. "I can't stand being watched! I hate knowing all those Argusian eyes are watching me, recording my every move, digesting the sight of me and funneling the information down for others to see." He shuddered again, his hands shaking slightly. "I wish Bloo'd scrap that stupid idea and switch to the memory one full-time; all those cameras...all those eyes...all the time..."

Abel said nothing, looking horribly awkward. Kim and Ron looked stunned by his outburst and were watching him with evident concern and worry. Zim recognized the tone in his voice, and thought that his irrational loathing of the video cameras might be related to a more traumatic experience. Calvin and Hobbes keenly watched Jarod; not with the usual morbid interest of people who'd seen something completely unexpected, but of biologists in the field observing a new species of exotic animal. Morte looked at Jarod with even greater intensity then he'd already displayed; when it came to sheer intensity of staring, the only thing that came even close to a talking skull was an interested fangirl.

Jarod shuddered again. "What happened after you guys left?" He asked suddenly, wanting to get off the topic.

"Uh..." Zim looked intently at Jarod a few moments more, still wondering. "Bloo led us through an incredibly complicated and inarguably pointless venture to Foster's; now, I am certain that he had no real idea that was what he'd been doing and had been on a search for his strange treasures." Zim shook his head in disgust. "The full extent of what he led us through is far too long and convoluted to tell you tonight, but suffice to say, by the time we got out of an underground 'shortcut' he promised would take us right next to Foster's, we were in a completely different district! Spike and Bloo recognized no one, the architecture was completely different-"

"What kind of architecture?" Abel asked suddenly.

"More elaborate then the buildings here: mostly white tones, higher buildings and a lower population density."

"That was the Upper District!" Abel exclaimed. "It's on the other side of town! And even if you used the Underground, you'd still have the obstacles in the way to deal with! How'd you get all the way over there?"

"Obstacles?" Hobbes said. "We didn't see any obstacles."

"Wait a minute," Morte said. "What about that one room that looked like a cranked up obstacle course?"

"Underground obstacle course...between this District and the Upper..." Jarod sat up, visibly startled. "You ran into one of the Training Zone's obstacle courses!" He sat back, looking slightly bemused. "How'd you get through that? Kim here has problems getting through it! I have problems getting through it, and I designed it!"

"I don't know," Calvin said, scratching the side of his hair. "I think we were just running like the wind; course, Morte, me and Bloo were carried by Zim, Hobbes and Spike, and they're good at the whole flipping off walls thing, so it happened too fast for me to even notice."

Ron rubbed his forehead, still stuck on one detail. "I don't get it, how could you go to another district and not notice?"

Zim shrugged, well-used to that situation. "We were that lost. I still am not sure how we got back to this district with resorting to proper directions. We somehow got to Foster's after; while Bloo became distracted with some paddleballs, I spoke with his creator and learned of the buildings's histories from Mac...Mac...whatever his last name is. We were told of the imaginary friends by him, then Spike spoke overmuch to the Frankie human, during which Calvin and Hobbes were momentarily distracted because of a freak paddleball accident, instigated by Mac and Bloo."

"Been there-" Ron said.

"Done that," Kim finished.

They looked at each other. Ron had just opened his mouth when Kim said, "You owe me a soda!"

"Son of a-" Ron started to say before he caught himself. "Wait," he asked Rufus, "How many sodas to I owe her now?"

Rufus dove back into Ron's pocket, holding a tiny notepad and wearing a pair of reading glasses for his subterranean eyes. "Uh..." Rufus peered closer at the number and said it clearly enough for everyone to hear.

Calvin and Hobbes stared. So did Zim, and Morte. Abel stuck a pinky into his ear and dug in, convinced that he had to have heard wrong and a build-up of ear wax was to blame. Jarod walked over to him and softly said, "Nothing personal and I mean absolutely nothing that infringes on you...but you are really bad at that."

Ron's jaw, slack in the fact of how many sodas he owed, closed with a small toothy click. "Aw man, I am really bad at this." He crossed his arms, eyes narrowing darkly. "And it vexes me so..."

"Yes, that's very nice, blah blah, big deal!" Zim said, stealing everybody's attention and reminding them that he was now talking. "I had no interest in the incident, so I wandered away, lost in my own thoughts and then ran into one of my old friends; Avatar Aang, the last Airbender."

"'Airbender'?" Ron asked. "What's that?"

"They were an ethnic tribe from Aang's world," Zim explained. "Roughly analgous to the Tibetians, I believe. They were called Airbenders due to their ability to manipulate the air around them through the use of certain martial skills. Because of their spiritual view on life, every member of their people, the Air Nomads, were skilled at Airbending." He frowned. "That is, until another of the Four Tribes, the Fire Nation, develouped an agressive expasionist policy and killed every Air Nomad as a preemptive measure. That is, except for Aang."

There was a moment of stunned silence. "That's horrible," Kim said, plainly horrified. Ron and Rufus nodded in glum unison.

"Aang's the last of his people?" Calvin said, clearly surprised. "I don't get it...he seemed so happy when we ran into him."

Zim shrugged. "Aang is not one disposed to despair. Although," He said, sounding troubled. "He does suffer because of it. You see, Aang was trapped in suspended animation at the time, and blames himself for not being able to save his people."

"Why?" Jarod asked plainitively. "What could he have done against an army?"

Zim gave him a look that suggested he knew more about this then Jarod did. It wasn't a look Jarod liked very much. "Because he is the Avatar."

"The what?" Abel asked, nonplussed. "That's a Hindu term, isn't it?"

"Perhaps. As far as Aang is concerned, it means that he is the living incarnation of his world," Zim said, noting they once again had stunned looks. It was like some malicious spirit was repeatedly smacking them upside the head with a large baseball bat when they weren't paying attention. "As such, giving him the ability to Bend the elements of fire, air, water, earth, act as a medium for the spirit world...you get the idea."

"Wait," Calvin interrupted. "You said your world disappeared."

Zim's eyes narrowed. "Yes?"

"Then how could he still be alive?!" Calvin demanded. "If your world was destroyed or taken or whatever happens when a star goes out, shouldn't he have died with it?"

"Hey, now..." Jarod started to say warningly.

"That," Zim said pointedly. "Is because he is not from my world."

This statement brought a number of blank stares. Finally, Ron said, "What?"

"You heard me. I met Aang and his group during a journey I had some years back. I believe he and his group came upon a natural interworld gate sometime after he ended the threat by the Fire Nation and brought peace to the Four Tribes and wound up on my world. He remained with me during the later half of it and liked my world so much, he decided to stay." Zim frowned, wondering what had become of Aang's world since then. He shook his head, continuing. "So, Aang and I caught up, and he helped me to locate the idiot trio-" Calvin, Hobbes and Morte made various angry noises in reaction to Zim's unflattering term. "Unfortunately, one of Aang's friends found him too, and we had to leave to save ourselves." He gave Kim a look, a thought occuring to him. "Come to think of it, you remind me of Katara."

"Hope that's a good thing," Kim replied, quirking an eyebrow at Zim.

Zim ignored her. "That was when we began our long search for a room for the night; during so, we wandered around the house for quite a while. Quite...a long while. I grew frustrated. And angry. And a little naeseous. But mostly frustrated." A mad gleam came to his eyes. "I had to resort to drastic measures. Oh, the drasticness of my measures! Wait." Zim brought a finger to the area approximate to a chin. "Is 'drasticness' a falsified term suitable for relatively informal conversation? I don't care, I am in full speech mood!" Zim laughed maniacally again, suddenly stopping for no apparent reason. "Ahem."

Kim held her hand up. "Hold it. 'Drastic measures'? Would this have anything to do with the angry mob?"

"Mob?" Jarod asked in plain puzzlement.

Zim's look of blank madness was quickly exchanged for something more evasive. "Eh, maybe..."

She looked hard at him. "Would that maybe be a 'most def'?"

Jarod rolled his eyes and ran a hand down his face. "I try to stay unnoticed, but this is a bit much."

Zim stared at her, his face a study in glazed incomprehension. "..What?"

"That would be a yes, Red," Morte said flippantly; he understood Kim, partially due to being an expert on languages and bizarre dialects but also because he was a good listener. "And I'll do a turn better; I'll tell you everything that these morons did!"

Morte explained, in excrutiating detail, Zim's acts of wanton obnoxiousness and the results thereof. He went on and on, the other's incredulous stares increasing in number and intensity as he lovingly lingered over Zim's inexplicable ability to annoy people and incite murderous mobs. As he kept talking, Zim straightened up, deciding to take pride in his 'accomplishments' rather then directly display his slight abashment at the whole scenario.

And thus did Morte continue, his barely veiled taunts and implications about his group's complete lack of anything remotely approaching directional skill growing by the moment; Hobbes made no effort to correct him on this matter, interrupting at a few key points to point out that Morte hadn't fully explained just how bad Zim and Morte were at navigating. Finally, about the the point where they fell into the trapdoor, he gave up trying to annoy Zim and traded irritating overdetail for simplicity. "And then we fell down a trapdoor into some subterranean room. Before we could get out, you guys came in."

Jarod had a question that was related to his curiousity as to how Morte could float around. "How'd you fall down with the rest of them?"

Morte bobbed to the side in a way that was analogous to a shrug. "Eh."

Abel took it upon him to quickly detail what had happened after the two groups had met; Jarod listened attentively to him, showing suprisingly little reaction to the various odd things that had happened, mostly because of Zim. He didn't say anything during Abel's narrations of Zim's initial paranoid reactions to seeing Team Possible and Abel appear and he only looked thoughtful when Abel spoke about Zim's attempts to exorcise the 'demon' or whatever evil spirit he believed had inhabited the map Abel'd had on him, instead of any stronger reaction to much of anything from then on. Zim thought he had an unusually strong resemblence to a computer recording data, stockpiling it away for future reference. In fact, the only point at which he had reacted strongly was when Abel referred to the time after Spike had appeared, when Kim, driven to extremes by her fury at Spike, had insulted him by calling him a mama's boy. At this, Jarod's eyes narrowed and he gave Kim the most intensely withering look she'd ever seen.

"Kim," he said reproachingly, with a hint of anger burning just behind his eyes. "You really shouldn't have done that."

"I know," she said resignedly. She knew that had been a mistake, but her anger had gotten the better of her, and so she had struck the only way she knew how. Still, the way Spike had reacted told her that she had gone miles beyond pushing a buttons to something not unlike what Lyle had done to her, to all of them. That she'd only meant to irritate him rather than remind of him of some past torment didn't make her feel any better evil; an accidental evil might be less than an intentional one, but as it was an evil she had commited, she saw no real difference between the two. "I don't know, you know what he gets like when he's around me and Ron and I snapped-"

"Wait," Jarod interrupted her. She stopped in mid-setence, surprised, noticing that the slightly plainitive look on his face was being supplemented by how the odd feeling of calm impentrebility that he wore around him like a cloak of authorutive tranquility was giving way to something entirely darker. Kim realized that, thought he wasn't showing it, Jarod was angry with her. The thought chilled her; Jarod didn't have a reputation around town for nothing. "You'd shouldn't treat him so harshly. He likes the two of you, you know."

Ron blinked. This struck him as either proof that he'd been paying absolutely no attention to the conveersation at all, or the second most misinformed thing he'd ever heard. Considering that he'd been listening fairly intently, he was leaning towards the second explanation. "He does?"

Jarod interlaced his fingers together, staring at the two of them. "I suppose that it might be because you two remind him a lot of some people he knew once, before his world disappeared." He gave them a thoughtful look.

Ron snapped his fingers, thinking that this was actually sounding a little familiar. "Yeah, I remember him talking about them once."

Kim thought about how Spike, not knowing they were hearing, once compared her to a number of the women he'd known then, which explained why Spike sometimes called her 'Red' in his less antagonistic moments and why he sometimes told Ron to 'stop acting the Zeppo' during Ron's occasional crises of confidence. She'd investigated it herself once, and found it almost eerie how similar their two stories were in small but absurdly significant ways. She'd never brought it up with Spike, as to her knowledge, most of those people were now dead. Irritant or not, she wouldn't bring up those kind of memories with her worst enemy.

Jarod gave her a long look. "The next time you feel about to lose patience with Spike, you should remember that just looking at you two reminds him of people that are at best scattered across the worlds and are at worst worse then dead. Spike hates dwelling on the past and you two can't help but remind him of it."

"So, in a way, he hates the two of you for that," Hobbes said perceptively.

"Yeah," Jarod said, his brow furrowing slightly. "So, how did you stop Spike from attacking?"

Zim looked surprised. "How do you know he attacked?"

Jarod's face revealed a modicum of impatience. "You don't work with Spike and not learn his habits."

Ron told him. "Abel did his..." he glanced momentarily at Zim and his coterie. "Thing. You know, the...thing he does."

Hobbes quirked one side of the stripe that occupied the area where his eyebrows would have been were he human. "You mean when his eyes glowed bright red and he used that weird shadow manipulation ability and restrained Spike?"

Abel shrank back uncomfortably as Ron heisitantly answered, "Uh, yeah."

"Would this have anything to do with that Crusnik thing you mentioned earlier?" Morte asked sharply.

"If it does, that would be Abel's perogative to tell you," Jarod said quickly. Abel sighed expansively and slumped back into his chair.

"Then," Zim continued. "That mob showed up again. Calvin trapped them in a cage, blew up the wall, allowing us to flee for our spleens!" He gave the various humans a look. "Those of us that have them, anyway."

Picking up the slack, Ron said, "We kinda just ran for a while until Rufus split up with Spike to distract them. Spike shoved us into that ballroom."

"Not too long after that," Abel said in obvious annoyance. "Mr. Lyle showed up."

At the sound of the name, Jarod's fists tightened, his knuckles turning white. His brow furrowed, his nostrils flared and his eyes narrowed. In a flat voice, he asked, "What did he do to you?"

"What do you mean?" Calvin asked, brow furrowed.

Jarod started pacing, unable to stay still and talk about this subject at the same time. "What I mean is that whatever Lyle's up to, whatever he's doing...he's always got an agenda, an ulterior motive." That last he deliveried with a furious near-growl, and from his clenched fists, it was fairly obvious that the very mention of Mr. Lyle set him on edge.

"So you do know him," Calvin said insistently.

Jarod gave Calvin a long look, one even the strong-willed mage had great difficulty returning. He'd seen intensity before: in stars, in thermonuclear reactions, in the eternal dance of molecues, in political debate. But he'd never seen anything as intense as the look in Jarod's eyes. "Yeah," Jarod said, sounding almost bitter. "We know each other." He looked away, looking distant for a moment. "How did he hurt you?" He asked again.

"He...he said things to us," Hobbes said heisitantly. "Things about us. Things he couldn't possibly know. And he told them."

"He..." Ron swallowed, his tail curling around him. "He knew about my family. About Cain."

"How could he know about CAIN?!" Abel demanded, angrily, slamming his hand into the wall, smashing a hole through it.

"I..I..." Kim shuddered violently. "He knew about..." She spoke in a tiny, quiet voice, a voice you expected to be carried out of hearing range by the air. "...him. And the gray laboratory." She shuddered again, looking sickened by the very thought.

"I don't know how or why," Calvin said, "But he knew about Hobbes' family history. You'd have to track down Hobbes' old clan to find that out, and they hate outsiders. Espically humans."

Morte didn't volunteer anything. He didn't want to say anything more about the Pillar of Skulls then he had to.

Zim quietly said, "At least he didn't say enough to force anyone to know things about people you wouldn't want to know."

Jarod looked at him sharply. "What do you mean?"

Zim looked away. He didn't speak for a moment. "Sometimes, when you know all there is to know about someone, you may decide that they're not worth knowing."

Abel shook his head. "No, that's not true. Everyone here in this town has secrets, many of them terrible ones. We won't think the less of you because of whatever may have happened in your past."

Zim half-shrugged. "Perhaps. Perhaps not. I'd rather not put it to the experiment."

"People change," Ron said sagely, placing a hand on the floor and leaning into the bed behind him. "Until one of those days you look back and you can't recognize yourself anymore." He gave Zim a look. "Even if you did things you're not proud of, that was a long time ago, y'know."

Zim frowned thoughtfully. Unwilling to risk anyone getting wind of his past misdeeds, he changed the subject and said to Jarod, "What was this Lyle doing there?"

Jarod heisitated before answering. "I don't know how he got in there...as for what he wanted, I have no more idea then you do."

"He did say something about an old story of the Keyblade," Abel recalled, looking at Zim. "That tormented souls are drawn to it's bearer."

Jarod frowned. "He did?" The others nodded almost excitably, but Jarod didn't say anything. "What did he do after that? Fight you?"

"In a manner," Zim said. "He summoned a large number of Heartless, commanded them to attack us and then disappeared."

Jarod arched his eyebrows. "He summoned Heartless? That's a new trick."

Ron quirked an eyebrow disagreeably. "We've seen lots of people with enough darkness in their hearts command at least a few Heartless; more if they're strong." He paused, arching his eyebrows at Zim. "And he brought a lot of Heartless."

Jarod frowned. "That doesn't make much sense. His heart's dark enough to attract their attention, but I seriously doubt that he possesses the strength of will to control more than five, if even that. And then there's what he's been doing. It doesn't fit him at all."

Kim faintly frowned. "What do you mean?"

"Lyle's usual pattern is different from this. He tends to insinuate himself with his victims and manipulate them into doing what he wants. What he did here was, well, it seems so random."

Calvin nodded. "He did pass himself off as a nice guy at first, at least until he started cutting with words."

Jarod spent a few moments thinking about all that, then returned to the discussion at hand. "He was using dark powers, his modus operandi has completely changed and he knew things about you guys that you make an effort to keep quiet...something about all of this screams suspicion."

Ron's eyes darted back and forth. "Yeah...it's suuuuh-spiii-ciOUS!"

"Ron, quit it," Kim said flatly.

"Normal person." Ron shot back.

"How did the fight go?" Jarod asked, ignoring them.

Calvin shrugged. "Reasonably well, I guess. There did seem to be a lot of them, but I seriously doubt they would have ever been able to overwhelm us with sheer numbers, even if Spike and Ron's mole rat hadn't came back halfway through like they did. They seemed kind of...weak, compared to the ones we fought earlier." He crossed his hands behind his head and laid down on his bed. "Then again, you guys are more experienced at this then us, so maybe that made a difference. Strange thing; they attacked in groups. I don't think they did much of that before."

"Heartless do generally attack in numbers," Jarod informed him, raising a finger. "But they use horde tactics, descending in a group and then seperating. They rarely display any sort of tactical patterns at all unless they're a more powerful Heartless nearby or someone's directing them."

"Lyle did show up after we finished them off," Abel commented. He leaned back leisurely, looking up at the stars thoughtfully. He sat up, his face contemplative. "He did claim to have observed us the entire time."

"Co-ordinating an entire group like that?" Jarod asked, almost challengingly.

"They did seem weaker than usual," Kim said, crossing her legs, propping an elbow on a leg and holding her rounded face in one palm, thinking back on what happened earlier. "The weaker ones never bothered to heal themselves and they didn't display their usual attack patterns."

"He could have found a more effective way to control them," Zim suggested.

"I wouldn't put it past him to do something like that," Jarod said thoughtfully. "But I really don't know why he'd bother: none of this really seems to be Lyle's style."

Zim snorted. "You call that style?"

"I never said it was good style."

Kim laughed suddenly. "You know, after Lyle came back, he almost did the same thing I did." She shook her head ironically. "Spike broke his hand, nearly snapped his arm in half and knocked him off the balcony. Think I got off lucky."

"You think?" Calvin said sarcastically.

Hobbes brought his hands up, making some sort of complicated gesture. "Then he summoned some kind of gun thing to his hand, the one without a thumb. Abel went after him and Lyle shot him in the head. Didn't stick, but I think that was when he already lost."

Jarod, alarmed, looked at Abel keenly. "You got shot in the head?"

Abel rubbed his forehead ruefully. "People have no appreciation for how much that stings." Looking thoughtful, he added, "Not long after that, you showed up." He shrugged. "And...that's pretty much all there is to tell."

Jarod nodded, a little slowly and looked up at the sky thoughtfully. "I see." He stood away from the wall and walked over to the window.

Seeing what he was doing, Hobbes called out, "Are we done here?"

Jarod nodded at him. "I need time to think about this. Since none of you have that kind of time, I'm setting the Butterfly to fly you home. Just give me a few minutes." He opened the window and disappeared into the awaiting ship. The others chose to take the time he was gone talking; not serious buisiness, as they had been earlier, but just speaking about random subjects that came into their minds.

They barely knew each other, but Abel and Zim still felt a vauge rapport with each other, perhaps each other sensing the other's warrior spirit; Zim was a career soldier, driven by both his own thirst for challenge and his need for approval while Abel was a paladin, driven by his need to protect people that couldn't help themselves as he believed his faith commanded him to, but they were both warriors.

"You're different, you know," Abel said. "From back when I had met you. More well-intentioned, I think. And you've become a true leader."

Zim opened one eye at Abel. He saw no reason to disabuse him of what Abel had clearly misinterpreted. Life, Zim had come to understand, was a thorny flowering vine, and he saw no sense in trapping another heart in it's labyrinthean brambles. "Two years can change a person. Not in overt ways, perhaps, but change is inevitable."

"Yes, yes." Abel looked up reflectively. "Contrition can lead to wonderful things. It hurts like blades buried in your side, but in the end, it's better then being the worse you." He thought momentarily of what Mr. Lyle had said to him, his cruel near-revelation of the countless people he had murdered in the days when he had filled with rage towards ordinary humans for using him, his siblings and his love as tools and not human beings. When he had sought to drive them into extinction and had brought about a disaster of near-apocalyptic lengths. It had taken Cain's sudden turn to evil and Lilith's murder to make him see sense, and that still struck horror in him.

"Yeah," Zim said agreeably enough, understanding what Abel meant completely. "Some things stay the same, regardless of time's passage." He remembered how he literally ran into Abel two years ago because of his impulsive decision to find out what happened when you poked a Flying Bison with a beehive when Aang wasn't looking. As it turned out, the answer was a small hurricane.

Abel knew what he was talking about and smiled. "May some things never change, God willing."

Hobbes was happily relating some of his past experiences to Kim and Ron, having invited the two of them to sit on his bed; he sat inbetween them in a fashion more appropiate for his more bestial evolutionary ancestors. "So Calvin comes up with this idea for giving all my knights hi-tech armor, right? Something about making the metal out of free-shifting nanites. Of course, we already used hi-tech armor, but he had to step it up."

"Yeah, we use the same technology for our supersuits," Kim said, motioning for him to go on.

"Well, it was a pretty good idea until he thought it'd be great if they could function with an A.I., to use built in fighting skills, to enchance the knight's fighting capabilities," Hobbes said, smiling ironically.

"Bad thing happen?" Rufus guessed.

Hobbes sighed heavily and his tail flicked at Calvin's direction. "Ooooh, yeah. See, he programmed the armor's A.I. to evolve over time to create more intelligent capabilities, but they quickly became sentient and quickly absorbed all the schemata in their linked networks. Calvin shut it off, but not before they were fully autonomous warmachines with enough individual power to decimate a large army on their own."

"They attacked your kingdom?" Ron asked, his eyes wide.

Hobbes shook his head. "No; for one thing, the Kingdom spans quite a few worlds. You'd have to have a big army to attack all of it at the same time. What the suits actually did was suing for the Kingdom to recognize them as legally ensouled beings, with all of the rights and privilges thereof."

"Did they?" Kim asked. "Win, I mean?"

"Of course they did," Hobbes said, sounding surprised. "They possesed the ability to communicate, had spontaeneous emotional reactions, possesed individual personas...what more clarification would you need?" Hobbes smirked. "Calvin's still mad at me for arguing the armor's case for sentience. He wanted to do it himself. Not your typical mad genius, my brother is."

Kim had to agree with him; Calvin seemed like a bratty kid that was frighteningly intelligent, but given that he'd wanted to make his accidentally intelligent creations beings in the legal sense instead of fighting it to keep him under his control, he was different from every mad scientist she'd ever known.

Kim decided to ask a question that had been pestering her. "Are you and Calvin adventurers?"

Hobbes nodded. "We were, before our days as the best of the best. How'd you know?"

Kim shrugged. "Lot's of ways. It's mostly in the ways you guys reacted to the Heartless showing up. Instead of freaking out, you got on the defensive right away."

"Well," Hobbes said. "We did a lot of odd jobs back then but exterminating freaks of mass destruction was our specialty. These Heartless aren't really anything new." Hobbes smiled slightly, a nostalgic glint in his eyes. "Those were the days. We didn't have to plan out things weeks in advance, I didn't have to keep all the knights in line, Calvin didn't need to argue with his co-workers for hours about his ban on testing on live subjects...we didn't have to deal with all this nonsense. Come to think about it, this adventure is kind of a decent break. It's just like the old days."

Rufus cocked his little head. "Hrk, don't like job?"

"Sure, I like it. What I hate is the bereaucracy." Hobbes paused, looking at Kim. "Wait, why'd you ask in the first place?"

Kim pointed up at the stars. "I don't know much about the people who do go up there, but adventures I do know." She paused. "Have you ever gone on world-spanning missions?"

"No," Hobbes admitted. "Diplomatic kind of stuff, overseeing various departments on other worlds, enviromental evaluations, making sure the knights were up to snuff, but not the more actiony things."

"Would you..." Kim seemed embarrased. Hobbes suddenly thought that as confident and fearless as she was in battle, she had a rather severe preoccupation with being in people's good graces. Considering from Ron's behavior ealier, Hobbes thought that he really didn't give a damn if the entire universe regarded him as lower than an animate pile of sewage, which made for an interesting combination that reminded him a bit of him and Calvin; where one was weak, the other was strong, benefiting from each other's strengths and helping to undermine the other's weaknesses. "Would it be offensive if I, y'know, gave you a little advice or something?"

Hobbes shook his head, the longer fur on his ruff fluffing up. It was an old custom of his people to grow that part of their fur long, and to style it for ceremonial purpose or just to look cool. Personally, Hobbes favored braids with decorative beads, but it was too much of a pain to do except on ceremonial occasions or fights when he had time to prepare. "No, go ahead."

"Well," Kim said, her confidence returning. "If you want my opinion, I think it'd be best if you guys stocked up on supplies before you leave."

Hobbes nodded gratefully, slightly irked that he hadn't thought of these things until she'd brought them up. "Good idea. Think I'll do that first thing in the morning. Assuming I can find my way around."

"Yeeah, guy like you?" Ron said, pointing a finger at Hobbes. "You'll find someone to show you around? Say, where'd you learn those bon-diggity fight moves?" Ron asked him.

Hobbes sat back, blinking uncomprehendingly. "Excuse me." To Zim, he yelled, "Can I have a translator here!?"

Zim threw the Hitchhiker's Guide at him. Hobbes tapped it as it flew at him, causing it to spin in the air. He stuck his foot out as it dropped, catching it one by the corner between his toes. His foot gently flicked up, tossing it into the air; it landed in his open hand, falling open as it did. Hobbes gave it a long look and proceeded to push buttons and such, figuring out how it worked by trial and error.

The screen beeped, lighting up. Hobbes looked up 'bon-diggity' though not quickly, having to correct his spelling half a dozen times; both due to the odd word itself and the fact that he was just a lousy speller.

Zim had earlier deactivated the voice, so Hobbes was able to silently read the article. Bon-diggity. Phonetically pronounced. Adjective.

Originally develouped by Ronald Stoppable as a word that just sound good, this term sees uncommon use around Traverse Town, primarily by the Ron Stoppable Fanclub, which has been classified a 'Stalker Fangirl' designation by the Traverse Town Defense Association.

The word's precise definitions are vauge and unclear, but analysis in the various instances it has been heard suggests that it generally is used as a means of declaring an interest of a specific thing; it has also been hypothesized to make known a feeling of admiration or appreciation that the speaker would be otherwise hard-pressed to state.

Examples: "I am loving this bon-diggity ambience." or "This is one bon-diggity scenario they got going on here!" or "Aren't falsified terms just bon-diggity?"

Related articles: Ronald Dean Stoppable, Popular Catch Phrases, Sidekick Syndrome and the 'Ten Signs of Insanity(Number 7: Usage of Any Word Ron Stoppable Has Made Up)'.

"Oh," Hobbes said, understanding at last. He turned to Ron, closing the book. "Well, uh...ancient techniques of the Kotirrim, you know."

Ron wasn't really listening, having had his attention drawn by the article Hobbes had read with surprising speed. "Snap, I thought I edited that link list," Ron muttered, referring to the list of related articles at the end of the article.

Hobbes' ear twitched. "'Edited'?"

"Yeah, I'm one of the editors of the Guide: they pay me to do the food critiques and stuff and I've never looked back. Buuut!" He pointed at the offending list of related articles. "I'm also able to edit the articles, try to keep my buds from looking bad." Ron snorted. "I hate the 'Sidekick Syndrome' one. They make me look bad."

Hobbes looked back, curious. "Why does it mention 'The Ten Signs of Insanity'?"

Ron rolled his eyes. "It's this stupid quiz they have in the magazines. Not as stupid as that Animology thing, but too close for me. They have ten signs that supposedly mean you're insane or at least classically shizophrenic. First one asks if you've ever wanted to be a florist, then they ask you ever used a catchphrase, then there's that one about if you've ever wanted to take over the world in any way..."

As Ron babbled on, Hobbes let him talk and gave the impression of listening. Being around self-important politicians, whiny braggerts and worse, Calvin, had instilled in him the ability to convince people he was paying attention when he was in fact not listening at all, except subliminily: one too many disasters from this act had convinced to him to submit to training that had given him the ability to devote a portion of his unconcious mind to listening so that he could later remember what had been said through the use of total recall; it always ended up giving him the baffling and bizzare surrealistic sleep-visions he referred to as 'Kafka dreams', but it was worth it. As such this gave him the oppertunity to let his mind wander.

He thought about what Ron had said about the Guide. Hobbes inferred that this editor buisiness was an actual job. He knew, from both common sense, personal experience and what Kim had said that supplies were paramount in an adventure: run out, and your chances of not making it out alive rise by forty-eighths, by his count. It was therefore imperative that they kept them going. Of course, supplies were no doubt expensive in a town like this. Businesses no doubt exploited the adventurer traffic, and they had only a limited supply of money, even if the Queen had given him a munny card before leaving, to pay for any of their expenses. Money, even if they were careful, was limited, and while he didn't doubt that they could convince Prime Minister Opus to funnel more munny into it, there was always a possibility they could somehow be cut off from the Comic Kingdom and he didn't much enjoy the mental image he had of himself, beaten and bruised from the rough voyage back home, begging the little penguin for money Calvin had wasted. It was a good idea to secure some other means of money making.

He supposed Calvin could patent some of his less destructive inventions in town, but that didn't seem entirely feasible in the short run. But if he was right and editing the Guide was a service worth being paid for, they might be sitting at the top of a convient means of avoiding all of that and being not having to give anything back to the Queen. He was going to have to do some research, but based on the articles he'd seen before landing on the one he'd read, he had a strong idea what it was.

He waited for Ron to pause between sentences and abruptly asked, "So this Guide thing, do the editors do stuff about other worlds?"

"Pssh, yeah!" Ron said. "How do you think we know so much 'bout the other worlds? We send tourists up there, they check out the worlds and stuff and they put it down in an article. Not really my thing, but I get told stuff."

Hobbes tapped his chin. "Do they pay you for this?"

Ron looked proud and a little smug. "Yeah. I'm one of the best editors about the Traverse Town feed scene: every single article about food, dishes, snackage and eateries was written by yours truly!"

"See?" Kim said encourgingly. "I knew you had potential!"

"Even when no one else did," Ron said back happily.

Soft as he was, Hobbes didn't have time for listening to sappy banter. "So how do you get employed?"

Ron looked surprised for a moment, then simply grinned slightly, his eyes narrowing in what he clearly thought was a rougish expression but made him look a little insane. "Oooh, trying to muscle in my territory, huh?"

Hobbes blinked. "Huh? What-"

Ron waved his hands peaceably. "Relax, man, I'm just joking. So, sitch me, what do you have in mind? I'm guessing, world exposition?"

"Uh huh."

"Well, there's always an opening there, though if you were to move here, I'd recommend something a bit more your style, like the arts. You look like an artsy guy. Here, give it to me." Hobbes handed it over to Ron; Ron opened it, gave it an analytical look and input a number of button sequences, his big fingers moving quickly; to anyone without Hobbes' rarified vision, they would have been nearly unseeable blurs. After a few more minutes of this, there was a loud beep! and he handed it back to him, grinning sunnily. "Congrats, the Returners are official Guide editors! Just do what you want with it, I'll do the paperwork later."

Hobbes' whiskers quirked. "'The Returners'?"

Ron shrugged. "Hey, you guys needed a group name! And it makes sense, think about it! You guys want to find your King and return him, Zim wants to find his friends and return them to Traverse Town..." He tossed the Guide to Hobbes. The tiger mulled over the name and decided it was good enough. He would have liked more time to think about it, but if it was too late and that was the name they'd go by in town, he would use it.

Calvin didn't really have anyone to talk to, so he was just having an insult war with Morte. It was fun, but not espicially rewarding or interesting.

All their various pursuits were interrupted when Jarod stuck his head into the window. "It's all set up. Ready to go?"

There was an overwhelming affirmative from Kim, Ron and Abel.

Jarod nodded. "Right. I haven't had any ideas about what Lyle was trying to accomplish-"

"Aside from being an ass," Zim said.

Jarod ignored him. "But I think if anyone has any resources they can use, I'd appreciate it."

"I could put Wade on the job tomorrow," Kim offered, rolling off the bed and lightly landing on her feet. Ron followed her in a similar manner, though instead of agilely landing on his feet, he fell to the ground and rolled into a wall, rebounding onto his feet. "You might have to give Herrimen a call and tell him it's labeled a crime scene so he doesn't have anything moved around."

Abel stepped away from the wall, spreading his arms. "And I could get some of Section Thirteen help. Maybe Alexander Anderson or Nicholas Wolfwood could help." Abel paused. "Wait, maybe not Anderson, if you bring Spike..."

Jarod nodded. "I can promise you guys one thing; I won't rest until I figure out what's going on. But I don't have all the pieces left." He made a noise of deep frustration, briefly clapping his temple. "I wish I knew what to do." He shook his head. "Well, see you later...Returners."

Hobbes and Ron blinked at the same time.

Jarod smiled in a way that suggested unknowable knowledge and was incredibly irritating at the same time.

Zim looked around questioningly. "'Returners'? What does that means? Why'd he call us that? Why does it sound like something from a role-playing game? Hello? Anyone? Anyone?" Zim crossed his arms and scowled. "Oh, fine. Everyone ignore me. I'm just the bearer of the Keyblade, never mind what I have to say." He made a rude noise. "Turlingdromes."

-------

Not too long after that, they left, leaving Zim's group on their own. He had fallen asleep about fifteen minutes later, though his mind was still ablur with unanswered questions, vague suspicions and the usual unfettered chaos of his mind. He didn't remember much about his dreams, except that they had been filled with torment, fear and darkness. That, and one odd dream about a full-scale war that wouldn't have been out of place in that one fantasy movie about an evil ring they'd filmed in New Zealand a few years back, except his dream had been about an epic battle between freakish abominations best described as lobster-scorpions with a little dinosaur in there and what looked like adorable little creatures resembling crossbreeds between pandas and kangaroos, riding on motorcycles and armed with chainsaws on hilts. The poor lobster-things never stood a chance, even after the hour-long break the two armies had taken for slow-dancing and some mid-massacre tea.

Entertaining as that last one was, he now had no real inclination to sleep again, at least not yet. With his mind too alert to return to the imaginative blackness of sleep and little else left to do, Zim had sat back and read from the Guide, which Hobbes had helpfully left upon the desk that Morte was now sleeping on, his eyes rolled back into his head.

He'd started off reading articles completely at random; among other things, he knew now of what the literal definition of opoponax was (a word not to be found in the dictionary or a fearful mystery), how many ways there were to pronounce the Old Galactispeak word for 'taco'(it depended on how prehensile your tongue was), the correct method of killing your own sins made manifast (preferably with a knife endowed with Holy magic, but a flesh-eating gerbil down the pants would suffice and any workable method is held to be highly therapeutic), and a diagram that laid out exactly how much wood a woodchuck could chuck, were woodchucks given to chucking wood(the answer depended on the woodchuck's weight, the amount of lumber in it's immediate area and whether or not it was being paid, and if so, how much it's salary was).

He'd discovered that his new aquaintances were celebrities of a sort after he randomly put Abel's name in, finding a fairly large number of articles, including Nightroad, Father Abel; Church Reforms Instigated By Abel Nightroad, Members of Vatican Section XIII 'Mattias', Theological Figures In Traverse Town, Local Writers, Guide Editors and stranger still, Persons of Mass Destruction.

His curiousity aroused, Zim looked to see if any of the others he'd met that day had had any articles relating to them and found some interesting things out. Bloo was one of the ten richest people in town, Spike was part of a group called Angel Investigations (motto: We Help The Helpless), Abigail and Nigel were part of a five member group that was a combination investigation team and strike force called the K.N.D., Gwen worked with her cousin Ben and her grandfather Max as part of a three-fold multipurpose team popularly referred to as the Plumbers, Cyborg was a member of a group of heroes called the Teen Titans that currently employed eight members, Gaara and Naruto were only two of a large number of ninja from their world that did missions on demand and Abel was, among other things, a priest that did exorcisms on demand, claimed to view the entire town as his congregation, a noted demon slayer and was on the consideration list for the papalcy election next week, but was considered a dark horse contender due to his bizarre personal beliefs and the popular rumor that he had spent time in a rehabiliation clinic for schizophrenic priests.

Of the various people he'd met, there was at least a small mention of everyone, with the notable exception of Jarod. There was very little said about him at all, and he had to do some work to find any mention of him at all. Once he did, he was surprised to find him mentioned in an article called Urban Legends of Traverse Town.

More specifically, Jarod was an urban legend of great interest among a number of webrings, but they were said to be disreputable and had never found anything substantial. He was at once a tale told to children as an object lesson in what a good person should be like and a spectre of horror whispered about in dark alleys between villains and criminals all over town. The various theories didn't even agree with each other on who or what he was: some claimed that Jarod was a justice-seeking clairvoyant with the ability to look at someone and see every act of evil they'd ever done and everyone person they'd wronged; another claimed that he was a spirit of vengeance bound in a human body, forever sworn to hunt down the guilty and avenge the innocent, while yet another claimed that there wasn't one Jarod: he was actually an entire species of enigmatic spiritual beings that were in some strange way avatars of Justice.

Zim continued to pour over the Guide, finding out all he could about the town in preparation for tomorrow. He knew that it wasn't advisible to go from world to world without stopping: they needed to use a base, and this town was as good as any. If he was to be making a new home here, he needed to know everything about it anyway.

As he continued to read, he allowed his mind freely wander, and it hit upon another issue: his poor skill at magic. His rapidly escalating use of it notwithstanding, the fact that he was unable to do it as well as Calvin bothered him. Calvin could freely manipulate his elemental magic, could alter the very state of matter, could do all manner of interesting things...whereas he, Zim, a former member of the Irken Elite and a qualified Invader, had to struggle to keep from setting himself on fire.

He mulled over the issue, eventually coming to the conclusion that he was too new at it to learn it properly. In order to become better at using magic, he'd need to practice it. He felt pleased at this discovery until he realized that he wasn't sure how to do that. He could shoot all the fireballs he wanted, but that wouldn't help him figure out the abilities Calvin had, or how to become better at shape manipulation.

Zim fell back on his pillow, his feet crashing into the bed with a soft thud. He stuck a hand in the air, summoning the Keyblade. Hobbes stirred at the brief increase of light in the room. Once the light faded, Zim regarded the moonlight shining gently across it's metal surface, wondering if that actually was metal it was forged of. He gently flicked the Keychain with his freehand, wondering just that part was for, anyway.

He stared at it, willing for it to give up it's secrets. Nothing happened. With a grunt, he pulled himself into a sitting position, staring at the Kingdom Key with a slight frown.

He came to a decision: if he was to learn how to use magic, to enable him to fight the darkness more efficiently, he would have to be more experienced at what he did know.

He looked out the window. And to do that, he would need to practice. Zim observed that it was deserted outside. He thought that there was no time like the present to get to work.

Getting up, he quickly put his shoes and jacket back on, thinking for a moment that his clothes were a little plain compared to what he'd seen so far. Putting that issue out of hand, he tapped the Keyblade against the window; the latch on the inside and outside simultaneously slide into the 'open' position, the window sliding open. Zim carefully crept into the open space, glancing back to make sure he wasn't being watched.

Calvin was still at work, and Hobbes was still fitfully asleep. Grinning to himself, Zim jumped outside, landing on a roof-ledge made mostly of rock-steady rust-brown plates. He took a briefly unsettled step, then extended his spider-legs, cautiously making his way to the ground, confident he could find his way back to the window, not certain he was even going back there.

He spied a good looking patch of ground on the lawn, near an old tree. A number of large boulders were standing up, looking perfect for target practice.

Four slightly curved metal points hit the ground, followed shortly thereafter by a pair of shoes. Zim summoned the power he had learned to control, wreathing the Keyblade in softly glowing yellowish flames with a hint of white as he advanced upon the rocks, certain he was going to have a busy night.

------

The landscape, if anyone else had been around to see it, would have been judged somewhere you wouldn't want to take the wife and kids, unless you really, really hated your family.

The place was all craggy rock, with a lingering trace of stunted greenery here and there; the effect wasn't of wild Nature stubbornly maintaining a presence as it might be in other such benighted wastelands, but brought to mind shellshocked survivors being ground into death by the whim of a conquering overlord with bad taste in entertainment. The ground was almost all cracked dirt, the wreckage of toppled buildings littering it like the litter of giants, and the sky was an almost unrelieved stretch of dark red clouds, greenish lightning flashing across the sky from time to time. There was illumination, but it was hard to tell what was lighting the night up: no stars were visible under that red sight, nor could any moon be seen either. The overall effect was a bit like a big sign that said Abandon all hope, ye who wander here. Please submit suicide forms at the front desk, thank you. -The Management.

All in all, the best thing that could be said was that no one was around. If some unlucky visitor were to come here, it would be a good thing if he disliked the company of others. If he could get over the post-apocalypic look of everything, the strange way the darkness was almost solid and the total desolation of everything around and the overall feeling of impending doom, that is.

It wasn't, however, completely devoid of life, appearances notwithstanding.

Dib, sitting in a bowllike depression in a conviently hollow rock, looked up at the black sky, thinking thoughts only slightly darker than the scenery around him. The vista around was, if nothing else, a clue that he really didn't want to be there. The complete lack of anything remotely approaching civilization, the absence of anything nonthreatening since he came there and most of all, the all-encrouching darkness made him seriously doubt the wisdom of using the darkness like he had without a coherent plan.

Dib looked at himself, thinking that he looked an absolute wreck. His pants were doing well enough, as were his boots, but he'd lost his trenchcoat some time ago. It was probably still in the grasp of the ratlike beast that tried to catch him and snared it instead. One of his glasses was missing it's lenses and his exposed sleeveless blue shirt was ripped in places. He'd had days where he had looked better, but then again, he'd had days where he had looked much worse, too. "I'd say this is been the worst day of my life," Dib said aloud. "But it could always get worse by being the last day of my life. Besides, this is just an apocalyptic wasteland, I've been through worse. Hey, why does apocalyptic keep coming to mind? I seem to have an inexplicable fixation on that word."

Dib stood up, peering nearsightedly into the distance; without both lenses, seeing things that weren't close by was difficult, but he could see that he was on top of a relatively smooth short hill; the only real feature he could see was what looked like a sprawling deserted city.

With not much else to do, Dib carefully made his way down the hill. His limbs still felt sore and tired, but the exhaustion he'd had when he'd awakened here had long since vanished.

As he descended, he thought to himself. It had been troublesome getting down from the stone pinnacle he'd appeared on, but once he'd made his way off the ice field and the long cavern right by it, his troubles had began; almost immediately he'd been attacked time and time again by a number of monsters, most of which he had no name for, even given his interest in the paranormal. A few times he'd been attacked by ratlike things he compared to the aliens formerly known as the Slaughtering Rat People, he'd occasionally been ambushed by nightmarish blobs constantly shifting form, never keeping the same shape for more then a few seconds, gibbering insanely the whole time and more frequently he'd had to avoid the attentions of enormous stone golems with glowing green eyes.

And those were just the things that were actively trying to hurt him. The very landscape was a passive threat; more than once, it was only his honed reflexes that had kept him from plummeting into a sudden sinkhole or crushed under a falling rock from above and he was reasonably certain he'd never be able to go near a crane now after the one that had nearly fallen around him. Almost everything he'd seen had been a threat, and he was sure he'd been watched the entire time: more then once, he'd glanced into darkly-lit places and seen yellow lights suddenly flicker away. Lights that seemed all too much like eyes.

Dib maintained his balance with the help of a nearby plant, grabbing it and carefully moving downwards as he did. He thought that perhaps this might have been easier if one of his allies was around; he wondered what had become of those few people he could consider himself friendly with, and the thought of where Gaz had gone to disturbed him. Sure, she could be cruel, absurdly vindictive and self-absorbed, but that made little difference to him. He was her big brother, the both of them born in a laboratory under their father's watchful eye. It was his duty to worry about her, to take care of her and protect her. It was as much his duty as it had been to protect the Earth.

And then he thought of Zim. His eyes narrowed as he thought of the unstable Irken's paranoid reaction to the darkness sweeping their world. Dib thought that that had definitely been horrible, and he hoped it hadn't been his teleportation device that caused it, but he still had had the presence of mind to use the darkness to his advantage rather than running away from it like Zim had.

Zim had seen it and only seen whatever paranoid delusion his mind could come up with, but Dib knew that it could be his tool just as easily as Zim had only seen the stuff of fear and loathing. A sudden flare of anger caused his fists to tighten on the plant he was balancing himself with. "Stupid Zim!" He yelled. "Stupid world, stupid people, stupid, stupid, stupid!"

He pulled too hard on the plant; it tore loose of the ground and he overbalanced, falling head over heels down the hill, letting loose a series of pained exclaimations as his helpless body made contact with rocks, stickers and loose twigs, which had to be every one and a half second, as though gravity was making a point to steer him down the path with the most painful things to contact.

He hit level ground fairly hard and came to a sitting position, his unfocused eyes staring dazedly. He fixed his crooked glasses as best he could, displeased at the numerous cracks in his remaining lens. "Figures," he muttered sullenly.

He got up, observing that he was at the bottom of the hill, next to what looked like an abandoned roadway into town. The ground along where he was standing looked more craggy then normal, as if someone had just shoved the decrepit town into the ground and shoved up a great deal of earth.

Not much else to do, Dib boldly walked ahead, hoping to find some other living creature that didn't want to rip him apart.

-------

It was about fifteen minutes later, and Dib had yet to find any other living creature that didn't want to rip him apart. On the bright side, he hadn't found any living creature at all, which served his purposes well enough.

He assumed that this town, before whatever disaster had assulted this place had struck, had once been a reasonably prosperous town; everywhere he saw moldering wrecks of cars and buildings, all of them looking like they had been well-designed in their prime. He noticed that this hadn't been a big city place, but more like a step above suburbs, more or less.

The architecture almost reminded him of Nicktown, and to a lesser extent, Doomsdale, the city he'd lived in when he and Zim had first been bitter enemies, then arch-rivals. He thought that it had once been a nice place to live, 'once' being the keyword. He had seen a number of places that had once looked quite nice, and he'd seen a school that definitely made the ones he'd attended look poor in comparision; at least the one in Nicktown, anyway. It was actually in better repair then the poorly named Skool in Doomsdale, and he half-expected to see the sillouette of Ms. Bitters skulking through a window. The twisted billboard lying across the walkway from the school doors to the sidewalk still had a number of letters on it, too worn away by the elements to be legible.

"What happened here?" Dib asked aloud. As if in reply, a mournful wind blew through the ruins, blowing dust around him. It occured to him that the dust might well have it's origins in the ground bones of what people had once lived here and he shuddered.

After nearly twenty minutes worth of further walking without seeing anything alive, he came to the conclusion that whatever disaster had happened, it had to have been at least five years ago, and struck extraordinarily quickly, or at least enough to catch people off-guard in the middle of their daylives. He noticed quite a few smashed-up buildings with holes in them that made him think of punching bags that had been hit too hard. There were enormous footprints around those areas, like the imprints of clawed boots. He saw evidence of claws and the like; scratches in the peeling building-paint, burn marks and melted metal, walls that looked like they had been literally ripped apart and he'd seen many faded marks that looked like old bloodstains. The streets were littered with cars; some of them had smashed into lampposts, mailboxes and other stationary objects, others looked liked they'd been partially ripped apart, and still others looked like they had just been frozen there.

Oddly, Dib saw no bodies anywhere. Stains in many places, but no other evidence that anyone had actually died. It was odd, reminding him of old stories about the disappearances that happened world-wide every fifty years, or so he heard. A few years back, the subject had interested him intensely; he had believed that aliens were behind it, coming every fifty years to harvest human beings, perhaps. He'd since disregarded the idea, as Zim had told him that he'd never heard of anything like that, espically after Zim had mentioned something about most alien abductions being the work of bored rich kids or a few peverted freaks.

Just looking at this place, though, made him think of the disappearances at Roanoke and all those other places famed for people suddenly disappearing without a trace. It gave the deserted town an odd feeling, but not a terrifying one. If anything, it was a sad one: something terrible that was never supposed to have happened, had happened.

"It's like everyone was taken by something," Dib said aloud, plodding up the long walkway to a wide, lodgelike two-story house that looked better kept together then the other houses and set up on a hill, away from the other houses; Dib thought it might make an adequate defensive point.

He walked up and opened the door hesitantly, expecting something to attack him as soon as he looked in. Nothing unpleasant happened, except for him getting a whiff of stale air. The interior of the house looked as damaged as the rest of it; that is, not as badly as most of the town, but badly enough to make one wonder what had happened. There were some noticable claw marks here and there, some rather noticable holes in the walls and some other things that put him in mind of a confrontation. He noticed no bloodstains or anything like that, making him feel a little better about it. Making his way to the intact couch, Dib laid down, intending on thinking about his situation.

He laid his head against the cushion, closing his eyes momentarily. He knew it wasn't a good idea, but his eyes felt heavy; he'd been through so much since he had escaped through the gale of darkness and wound up on this strange damned world, attacked almost constantly but not enough to make him forget about the others and where they might have gone to. His body had endured so many near-misses and pains over the last few hours that he felt like a walking bruise and his pain was compounding by the unbelievable exhaustion he was suddenly feeling. He started to nod off, rationalizing it to himself. He was so tired...and there was nothing else around here to harm him. Surely there was no harm in taking a moment to rest? Yeah, he thought dazedly. No problem there. There shouldn't be anything wrong with wanting to retreat, if only for the time being, to a dream-world where there were no painful memories, horrible regrets, constant second-guessing or that aching awareness that no matter how hard he tried, it was never going to be good enough for anyone, espically himself.

And Dib gradually went to sleep, his thoughts untroubled by dreams of any sort.

He woke up fifteen minutes later with a jolt, swinging his body upright. "Ugh...I hate my life." He swung his legs out, grimacing as some of his scratches stung as his entire body ached. "Man...all of this makes no sense. What happened at home? What happened here? And why haven't I been talking to myself as much as I normally would?"

"Perhaps you are troubled," suggested a rasping, female voice from somewhere above him. "A not unreasonable reaction to...recent events, boy."

"Yeah, that's probably it-" Dib froze, his amber pupils contracting to small dots. Taking a chance, he slowly turned his head up. Upon seeing what had spoken, he fell to the floor with a yelp.

It was a small purple ghost, partially phased through the wall. It was a great deal smaller than most of the ghosts he'd seen, being only slightly larger than his own head and not remotely humanoid in the least. In that matter, at least, it was similar to the weaker ghosts Danny had fought at the begining of his career as a half-ghost. Like those things, it's body had a pair of pawlike forearms, a long wispy tail coming to a small point behind it and no real neck between it's head and body. It's face, if it had one, was covered by a colorful mask with a long beaklike red nose, it's large eyes glowing with a yellow radiance and in place of hair were three large squidlike tentacles, fluttering over it's body endlessly.

Seeing it had his attention, the ghost smoothly flew out of the wall and just above the couch as Dib got to his feet, his eyes narrowing in suspicion. Since the first it had done was speak to him rather then posesses him or terrify him, he believed that it was intelligent.

That worried him. An intelligent evil spirit seemed a great deal worse than a wild bundle of half-formed hatreds, jealousies and envy. Those sorts of thing just reacted to events around them, frequently inciting others to their needs. An intelligent ghost, even a weak one, was much worse. "Who are you?" Dib asked, feeling that asking the more obvious what are you would have rude and not at all conductive towards his continued survival.

"I am Wuya," The ghost said, it's voice indisputably feminine dispite it's rasping quality; the mask-face smiled slyly, showing off pointed teeth. "And now, who may I ask are you?"

"I'm..." Dib paused, not sure if he should trust her. He'd learned to trust his hunches, and there was something unsavory about Wuya. There was some elusive quality about her that he didn't like at all. Some twinge of intuition, perhaps a rudimentary form of psychic awareness, suggested that Wuya was dangerous. That alone gave him reason to be wary before one considered the scenery around him.

"Come now," Wuya said, as if discerning his troubled mind. "Who else will help you if not I? Who else would be willing to aid you in this desolate place."

"I'm Dib," the self-declared paranormal investigator said. "Dib Vael, m'am."

Wuya smiled happily. "Ahh...politeness. Such a rare commodity in this brambled multiverse."

Dib quirked an eyebrow. Multiverse? "If...you don't mind my asking...what happend here?"

"It's such a sad story," Wuya said, shaking her masked head. Dib wasn't entirely convinced that her sad tone was genuine. "This world you stand upon is formed of several worlds that fell to the Heartless. I have taken it for my own, you see."

"'Heartless'?" Dib questioned. "You mean...those black creatures?"

"None other! You see, many worlds have fallen to the Heartless, those witless incarnations of darkness. Many indeed. Long have they existed, but only until recently have their numbers increased to the numbers they do, and so have the worlds and peoples fallen to them." She grinned again. "Blame Hohenheim for that, if you must. All his fault, it is. So much pain, so much disaster and so many shattered lives." There was a slightly excited tone in her voice that Dib greatly disliked.

Feeling confused and annoyed, Dib rubbed his large forehead gently, avoiding a small cut he had on it. "We...we shouldn't stay here. We need to get to a place of safety. The monsters will-"

"Monsters?" Wuya chuckled, and Dib's vauge feeling of unease about her erupted into a near-certainty that she was worse than any of the things he'd fled from. "Dear boy...I have no fear of the monsters that lurk outside here! And neither should you, for I have far greater power then those miserable cast-offs." Wuya lifted her stubby limbs to the mask on her face, somehow lifting it off; Dib stumbled back on the couch as the mist comprising Wuya's form rapidly billowed out, becoming a distinctly humanoid shape before fading away, revealing a rather beautiful if somewhat inhuman looking woman. She quietly put the mask she'd worn on her belt, smirking at his obvious surprise and gesturing with her long fingered hand. Green flame whirled around it, wreathing her hand in a soft penumbra. "I have nothing to fear from the likes of them. And if you come with me, dear boy, I will help you."

Dib was stunned, but he was nothing if not quick-witted. "Help? Help me how?"

The flame around Wuya's hand vanished. "There is greater power sleeping within you, boy. I can see it as clearly as you see this abandoned home around us." She spread her arms wide to emphasize her statement. "Power that you have yet to give shape to."

"Power?" Dib said dubiously. " I just want my sister and my friend back."

Wuya smiled as if she had expected no other answer. "That is easy to understand, my young friend. But it is a cruel, cold universe out here in this Realm of Light. How like might they survive on their own, cut off from you as you have from them? Lost...alone...friendless."

Dib started to speak and stopped. He looked at the floor near his shoe, his mouth set in a tight line. He didn't like it, but he knew she was probably right.

"But I can help you," Wuya reminded him. Dib slowly turned to face her again, his expression incredulous, the child that lay buried under layers of cynicism and grim expectation waiting to evolve into full-blown misanthropy wanted to believe, wanted to believe so badly that it was almost a physical ill. "I can help to awaken the power of your heart, teach you to turn your heart's darkness from a burden in a strength that those who hurt you would tremble at."

Dib started. "H-how...?"

"Yes," Wuya said smoothly. "You have been hurt, haven't you? You poor boy...you have always tried so hard to help those around. Tried so hard to save them from the nightmares dancing around them. And how did they repay you? With scorn, cruelty and malice. Such a life would scar anyone, but you endure. Tell me something, child: do you call that simple brute stubborness, or strength of heart?"

Dib's brow furrowed. "I don't call it anything. I just do what I should."

"I'll tell you this," Wuya said, placing a hand on his shoulder. Dib couldn't help but notice the tremendous strength in that hand; Wuya was enormously strong, and he didn't doubt that she could had ripped him apart right then if she had chosen to. "You have the strength of heart to tear your own path through the universe, to take the power you bear inside and crush anyone who would dare stand in your way."

A flare of his innate suspicion of everyone and everything around him, mixed with his state of almost utter exhaustion pushed him to draw back and snap, "I don't need anyone's help!"

Wuya looked at Dib with surprise, obviously stunned at the sudden outburst. "Oh?" Wuya said, the surprise quickly subsumed by her usual dry confidence. "Tell me then; without me to help you, how will you escape from this place? How will you acquire a means to search for those you miss? How will you find a way to fight? And of course, how will you know where to go?"

Dib said nothing, scowling slightly. The wheels in his head were turning, and he didn't like the direction they led in.

Wuya couldn't repress a grin. The boy-child before her had one of the greatest streaks of stubborness and self-reliance she'd ever witnessed. It would make breaking through to him and winning his trust an exceptionally difficult task, but once it was done, she knew with complete certainty that he would make an excellent tool. He was one of those grim fools who would do anything for those he valued, no matter what the cost was to himself. To bring his companion and his sister to a place of safety, he might well dive into the darkness and push away any safety line that came his way. Wuya walked away, silently striding to a window. "Your sister and your companion lie out there, somewhere. Alone of all those in all the worlds who might have reason to care, you alone have the ability to save them. You alone can help." She turned back to Dib, smirking knowingly. "What will you do?"

She extended a hand towards him.

Dib cautiously considered this offer. After a few more moments of tense thought, he came to the conclusion that he really didn't have a choice. If he didn't take a chance here, there was every possibility that he, Gaz and Zim would all die. He refused to take that chance, no matter what the cost was. Even if he had to dwell among those things of darkness and risk his heart, his very soul, he was willing to take that risk. But he also vowed to never entirely trust this Wuya. He knew people like her, out only for themselves and unable to see people as anything else but tools. He refused to be her tool any further than he had to. "Fine," He said warily, taking her hand.

Wuya laughed; the sound reminded him of a cawing crow. "Excellent, boy! You will not regret this."

I hope not, Dib thought grimly as she led him out the door once more, the darkness flickering around her like flapping wings.