Chapter Nine -- Good Morning, You Are About To Die

And if I die, before I learn to speak
Can money pay for all the days I lived awake 
but half-alsleep?
                              -- “Standing Outside A Broken Phone
                              Booth With Money In My Hand,” Primative
                              Radio Gods


     “You look like death warmed over,” Ted mentioned as Maynard
entered the lab early the next morning.
     “Thanks,” Maynard replied, taking a sip from his coffee mug.
“You don’t look so lively, yourself.”
     Ted gave a grunt as he turned back to the report he was reading. “I
doubt any of us did well last night in terms of sleep. We only left
here--what?--six hours ago? Maybe seven?”
     “Feels like three.”
     “Can’t argue with that,” Ted acquiesced.
     “Where’s Doug?”
     “Downstairs,” Ted replied, then grabbed a doughnut box from the
table and pushed it down towards Maynard as the other sat down heavily
in one of the chairs. “Here, help yourself. We have a few glazed ones in
there.”
     “Thanks,” Maynard said as he leaned forward and plucked one free.
“You set for today’s research gauntlet?”
     “As ready as I’ll ever be,” Ted answered, not taking his eyes from
the report. “I’m just rereading that report we were getting ready to file
before Glyph was kidnaped.”
     “How come?”
     Ted shrugged. “Not sure, honestly. Maybe I felt that I might realize
something else, considering what we learned about possible animal
sentience after we already wrote it.”
     Doug stepped into the room, looking only in slightly better shape
than his colleagues. “Good, you’re both here. I got everything set up
downstairs in the research center. The computers are up and running, and
the microfilm projectors are all ours for the day. Bring the doughnuts.”
     Maynard grumbled at the notion of having to rise after having so
recently sat down, but he dutifully followed in behind Doug and Ted as
the three men clustered into the elevator, riding down to the ground floor
in silence, then moving on into the research portion of the building,
which was laid out similar to a library. Shelves of books, rows of file
cabinets, and computer terminals were spread about the large room, some
desks already occupied by other workers in the building.
     “We’ll start in the major papers of the city,” Doug instructed as
they gathered around a workstation with three terminals, the doughnut
box being strategically placed within easy reach of all three of them.
“Then we move on to national files, and finally hit the world files, even
though those will be the longest shot. We’ll check up on what Ted had
research already tag for us, and then employ some lateral thinking to
chase down any peripheral links.”
     Ted and Maynard both nodded and tucked into the database
alongside Doug, the tenacious trinity focused solely on any possible
connections with a symbol that, unknown to them, was
easily-recognizable to the residents of this now not-so-secret animal
subculture.

*     *     *

     Monterey snorted awake, quickly being chastised by Zipper with an
intense “shushing” noise. Being a fly, Zipper had no difficulty sounding
this warning directly in Monterey’s inner ear, simultaneously preventing
anyone around from hearing while also making it sound like a jet liner
taking off to the hapless, semi-coherent form of his best friend.
     Monterey jerked his head reflexively, but managed to keep quiet as
he rubbed his ear gingerly, glaring at Zipper from the corner of his weary
eyes. The fly was crouched down by the corner of the duct, watching the
other end intently. Monterey shifted himself around to a better viewing
position, being careful not to lean too far beyond their cover. Even the
deep shadows that cloaked them wasn’t a guarantee of camouflage, as
some animals -- like Foxglove -- wouldn’t be fooled by such a tactic.
     As they waited, Monterey gradually began to hear more clearly a
rhythmic metal clanking, which he was able to identify as footsteps
approaching. It was difficult to tell just how far away they were, as the
sounds echoed endlessly down the metal walls of the duct. He didn’t
have to wonder for long, however, as a large form appeared at the far end
of the corridor, moving directly to the camera rig.
     The poor lighting made it difficult to pinpoint what it was, but
judging by its size, girth, and the thickness of its tail, the two Rangers
surmised that it was a rat, although they couldn’t say precisely.
     They waited anxiously, drawing each breath with great care so as
not to attract undue attention, while the figure at the far end checked over
the malfunctioning camera. It glanced up and down the hall, resting its
gaze in the direction of the partially concealed Rangers, and they froze.
But then it went back to work, apparently not noticing anything.
     Zipper and Monterey hoped for the best.
     Once finished with its work, it turned around and started back, not
bothering to hang around any longer than necessary. Zipper reached over
and tapped Monterey lightly, signaling that the fly would flit ahead and
make sure that their quarry was still moving away from them, rather than
lying in wait.
     Monterey nodded, and Zipper sped off, trying to keep his buzzing
down to a minimum. He landed at the other end, and peered over the
edge down the sloping section of the duct. He could spot the rat -- he
could see it clearly from here -- moving farther down the duct, at a
leisurely pace. It was even muttering to itself, a good sign that it was
unaware of its followers. Zipper turned back and motioned for Monterey,
then returned to keeping an eye on their suspect while Monterey caught
up.
     This game, which combined elements of Hide-an-Seek with Follow
the Leader, continued on for the better part of the Ranger’s tailing, as
they slowly but surely wound their way through the series of air ducts and
ventilation shafts. As they penetrated the darkness, moving deeper into
the heart of the building, Monterey doubted he could find his way back if
the need should arise, but he wasn’t concerned about it at the moment.
He wasn’t going anywhere without Gadget.
     The rat slipped out from the ductwork, through another
well-concealed sliding panel. The two Rangers carefully approached it,
and opened it a crack as quietly as possible. Peering out from the sliver
between metal, they saw the rat heading into a small, run-down dwelling
not too far below. They seemed to be within the walls near the basement
levels, as the shack was resting on a cement floor. The length of the
wall’s interior stretched far beyond their vision, deep into the darkness.
Nevertheless, both Monterey and Zipper could hear, drifting across the
distance, sounds of animal activity.
     “Whattaya think, mate?” Monterey pitched. “A secret community,
here, in a place that conducts tests and animals?”
     Zipper shrugged, explaining that maybe this was a group of animals
that escaped from the labs. More importantly, the fly went on, they
weren’t here to appraise the neighborhood for resale value; they were
here to find out what exactly the connection was between the
disappearance of their treasured teammate Gadget, and that rat in the
house below.
     Monterey nodded, and after making sure that the coast was clear,
the two Rangers expertly exited the duct, closing the sliding door
discreetly behind them. Monterey slowly worked his way down the rafters
and crossbeams to the floor, while Zipper hovered about, trying to keep
an eye on the innumerable places that someone might be watching them
from.
     Upon reaching the ground, Monterey scampered over to the
building that the rat had disappeared into. He waited patiently in the
shadows, keeping the house between him and the open stretch of the
passageway. He breathed a sigh of relief that at least this place was at the
end of the “street,” so to speak, as no other nests or houses were even
close by.
     Zipper flitted about unobtrusively, peeking through various cracks
and windows, trying to get both a layout of the place, and see how many
animals were within. A few moments later, he was reporting back to
Monterey.
     “Jus’ this rat, eh?” Monterey said after Zipper had finished. The
rat, a male, was apparently alone inside. And the whole shack was just
one large room, divided into small sections by shelves and cases holding
all manner of wires, lenses, camera shutters, and similar devices. Zipper
was able to describe the basic floor plan, pieced together from the
numerous vantage points he had been in, and was positive that there were
no other rooms, and no other individuals within the structure.
     Both of the Rangers were somewhat frustrated -- they had hoped
that this rat would have Gadget somewhere in the house.
     Monterey weighed the options quickly. They could snoop around a
bit more, but someone might come in while they pussy-footed around. He
knew that Chip -- and to an extant, Zipper -- would prefer the subtle
approach, and gather enough information on this kidnapper to write a
five-volume biography about him before making a move. But
Monterey’s eyes saw what they currently had: surprise, numbers,
location seclusion, and a major load of detrimental feelings to work
through. Preferably in a fight.
     “I’m goin’ in,” Monterey suddenly announced to Zipper, then
moved around to the back door before the fly could even voice an
objection. Not that the fly would have bothered to, anyway; he wanted to
find Gadget every bit as soon as Monterey did. He was, after all, the one
who was supposed to be watching out for her when she was stolen away,
and the fact grated on his nerves relentlessly.
     Monterey positioned himself firmly in front of the back door, then
reached deep into his bag of tactics for a successful interrogation. He shut
his eyes, and imagined, in his mind, Gadget. First as that sweet little girl,
full of life and energy, laughing and hugging her father and “Uncle
Monty.” He saw her as she helped them capture Klordane, defeat Fat Cat
and Nimnul, and rescue countless animals and people in need without any
thought of reward or thanks. He remembered vividly the endless stream
of hope, optimism, and compassion. How her physical beauty was only
dwarfed by the beauty of her soul. How young she was, how much life
she had left to live.
     And he thought about it had all be snatched away in a noiseless
gasp.
     When his eyes opened, they were burning hot enough to achieve
nuclear fusion.
     Strict snapped around with a start as the back door exploded
inwards, a shower of splinters and dust raining down over him before he
could even comprehend what was happening. A lone, bulking figure fired
out like a cannonball, barreling into him and crushing him into the floor,
knocking his breath free and sending his glasses skipping across the
rickety floorboards. One impossibly huge hand clamped forcefully under
his chin, hoisting his head up painfully to look straight into the crazed
eyes of a large mouse with a red moustache.
     “Where... is... she?” Monterey grinded out from between his
clenched teeth,
     Zipper hovered up around the rafters. He would say later because he
was on the lookout for any possible reinforcements, but in truth he was
just too unnerved when Monterey was in this type of mood.
     Strict grunted as he tried to rise, but Monterey had him pinned.
Monterey’s knee was holding down one arm, while his foot was
stomped firmly on the other. The free hand was balled into a fist, and just
itching for an excuse to fly.
     “Get offa me!” Strict growled, his own share of anger building.
     “Tell me where Gadget is!” Monterey demanded, not even
bothering to consider the fact that this suspect might not even know who
he was talking about. But, since Chip wasn’t here to point that out,
Monterey was handling the investigation his own way.
     He felt a tap on his shoulder, and turned to see what Zipper wanted.
Only Zipper was still in the rafters -- the tap had come from Strict’s tail.
     The momentary lapse of restraint was all Strict needed the surge his
own strength upwards, successfully unsettling Monterey’s balance and
rolling the large mouse off of him. Strict rolled to his glasses, quickly
slapping them on as he regained his feet.
     “I ain’t in the mood, mate!” Monterey shouted, coming to his own
feet and starting towards the younger rodent.
     And, Monterey noticed for the first time, the larger rodent, as well.
     Strict was easily a few inches over Monterey’s own height, and the
rat’s impressive girth was obviously just as superior. It wasn’t muscle,
but not flab, either. Just the natural heaviness that came standard on a
huge rat’s frame.
     “You want answers?” Strict scoffed, cracking his knuckles and
closing the gap. “Well, you came to the right place. Like Radio Hut,
I’ve *got* answers.”
     Like Santa Claus, Strict said not a word, then, but went straight to
his work, running directly into Monterey, taking the first of Monterey’s
attacks in stride, and delivering a few impressive ones of his own.
     From above, Zipper watched in trepidation as the fight escalated
into a battle, then into a war, and finally into sheer madness. The two
contestants crashed their way through shelves, racks, metal parts -- it
didn’t matter. No obstacle was too tough to be broken and no ready
object too unassuming not to be wielded as a weapon, even if only
temporary. Zipper thought for sure that the massive noise would have had
brought the locals out running, but not a soul stirred in the midst of the
chaos. Zipper wondered if the place was abandoned, or if something else
was going on. Something very strange.
     Down below, however, Monterey and Strict were far too
preoccupied with their immediate surroundings to even acknowledge that
anything else on the planet even existed. Or mattered. The battle raged,
spitting out sparks only seen between two equal forces, each trying to tip
the delicate balance between victory and failure. Strict had size, strength,
and punishment endurance over Monterey, but in return, the Aussie had
far more experience and fighting tactics, compensating perfectly to bring
them to the exact same level. If anything would determine the outcome, it
would be luck.
     After over a minute of wordless, fist-to-fist brawling led nowhere,
Monterey attempted to draw on his anger reserves by remembering why
he picked this fight.
     “Where’s Gadget?!” He cried again, solidly connecting to
Strict’s midsection with two fists, following it with a mighty shoulder
right into the stunned rat’s chest, knocking Strict off his feet and against
one of the few storage bins that was too wide to be knocked over.
     The anger was tipping the scale.
     “Where?!” Monterey demanded again, flattening his opponent
against the bin and pummeling him mercilessly. “Tell me ‘fore I pulp
ya!”
     “Get bent!” Strict snapped, but he was clearly on the full defensive
now. More of Monterey’s strikes were getting through, while he
wasn’t even able to launch a counterpunch before another attack from
Monterey homed in on one of the seemingly growing number of
vulnerable areas.
     “Give it up!” Monterey continued hammering ruthlessly away,
seeing the end closing in on Strict. One of Monterey punches nailed the
rat square in the face, snapping the glasses in half and drawing out a
small trickle of blood, right between the eyes. “Tell me what ya did with
her! Tell me! Or ya need me to call yer daddy to come save ya?!”
     Monterey’s own rage was burning intensely now, fueled by
frustration.
     Strict’s rage, however, was by far the worst of the two.
     Like absolute zero, Strict’s anger sucked all other emotions out of
him, flaring to horrible, chilling life from Monterey’s last comment. In
one smooth motion, Strict straightened and clamped his massive paws
around Monterey’s neck.
     “I -- will -- kill -- you.” Strict did not shout. He stated it as pure
fact. No embellishments. No colloquialisms. Just the honest-to-God truth.
     Monterey’s fists were still pounding into Strict’s completely
unprotected chest and head, but he might as well have been beating on
someone else entirely. No signs of notice, let alone pain, reached
Strict’s face. It was frozen in that unearthly inhuman gaze of someone
who’s brain has completely and totally shut off all extraneous portions,
pumping all of its resources into one single thought:
     Kill Monterey Jack.
     Strict didn’t even know who this mouse was. And he couldn’t
have cared less, either.
     Monterey’s own anger had, by now, been utterly, pathetically
extinguished by the ice-cold depths of the other’s hated, located only in
the very pit of the soul’s deepest, darkest abyss. The Ranger had seen it
before, but never felt it, himself. And he never wanted to. It was a
dangerous, deadly feeling to surface, which Strict was proving all too
easily at the moment.
     Strict’s hands relentlessly squeezed, driving Monterey down to the
ground, the mouse struggling in vain to loosen the pressure which was
steadily crushing his windpipe. The Ranger could feel his muscles getting
slacker by the second, the waning oxygen having trouble even keeping
his eyes open. He looked up, briefly, and saw what was to be his last
image of this life; that cold, emotionless face, with a sole trail of blood
leading down the snout, and over the tip of the nose. A single, solitary
drop of the life substance fell squarely on Monterey own nose, a cruel
mockery of the life that Monterey, himself, was about to lose.
     As the blackness began to wash over him, Monterey’s final
thoughts were not for him: I’m sorry, Gadget....
     Someone screamed, and Monterey felt the pressure evaporate from
around his throat. He forced his eyes open as he coughed and hacked,
trying to coax his throttled neck muscles into cooperating. He saw Strict,
tears of pain beginning to leak from the rat’s eyes. The rat had been
brought forcibly out of his trance by a single, solitary pin -- which Zipper
had used as an impromptu lance, running it through Strict’s tail, into the
floorboards. Strict snapped his tail to the front and ripped the pin out,
creating another shudder with an accompanying stifled cry. He spun
around to find the culprit, and moved far faster than Zipper would have
guessed, grabbing the diminutive Ranger in a crushing deathgrip.
     As with so many other veterans, Monterey operated purely on
instinct.
     Using the last vestiges of his strength, Monterey sprang up, grabbed
Strict by the hair, and as powerfully as he could, proceeded to drop back
to the floor, ramming the back of Strict’s head straight through the
wooden floorboards with a sickening snapping sound. Strict went limp,
Monterey collapsed, and a trembling Zipper rolled out of Strict’s
unresisting paws.
     The three bodies lay near motionless on the floor for what seemed
like eternity. Monterey was gasping for breath in fits and starts, battling
through exhaustion, pain, and a heavily bruised throat.
     Strict was not moving.
     Zipper was too busy collecting his nerves to notice anything else.
Strict had just started to squeeze when Monterey acted; a split-second
later and Zipper would have been dead. The stunning weight of the
realization had hit him completely off-guard, mainly due to its sheer
suddenness. Before Zipper could even react, he was nearly killed, faster
and more efficiently than Fat Cat would ever try. No theatrics or drama.
No chances for escape.
     Zipper closed his eyes and shook violently. He never felt so small in
his entire life.
     After what felt like eons, Monterey’s voice cracked. “Zipper?” he
rasped. “You there?”
     Zipper buzzed an affirmative, then swallowed hard and forced his
fears out of his mind, focusing on Gadget. He was still alive; they had no
idea if she had been as lucky or not. Especially if this rat was the one who
had kidnaped her in the first place. He shakily stood up and staggered
over to his fallen friend. Monterey was still lying prone on the floor, head
tiled to the side and mouth agape for air. His eyes were closed.
     Zipper walked around the still form of Strict, trying not to think
about the total lack of sound from the downed opponent.
     Monty? Zipper asked shakily, staring in wonder at the extant of his
friend’s injuries. Now that the dust was settling and the adrenaline was
wearing off, they both were finally getting a gist of the severity of
Monterey’s wounds. He had been cut in several places, and bruised
almost all over his body. Monterey’s resilience was legendary, however,
as he had managed to escape without any broken bones or other
hampering injury. Not that he could tell, at any rate.
     Zipper waited until Monterey’s breath reached a semi-regular
tempo before asking if Monterey thought anything was sprained or
broken.
     “Don’t think so,” Monterey said in a rush, exhaling out the words.
God, he had forgotten how good it was to breathe. He took a deep breath,
forced his eyelids open, and hoisted himself up on his elbows.
     They both looked over at the form of Strict. His head wasn’t even
visible, hanging in the darkness of the small crawlspace below the
floorboards.
     They had not heard a whimper from the large rat, and it was
difficult to tell in the low light, lingering dust, and ringing of blood in
their ears if the rat was breathing or not. Neither of the two Rangers
wanted to face the possibility that they may have, for the first time, taken
another’s life in the line of duty. The very notion twisted their stomachs
to no regard. Regardless of Strict’s own relentless drive to kill them,
neither Monterey nor Zipper felt that lethal force was something to use.
     True, it had been a last resort. Strict would have unquestionably
killed Zipper had Monterey not acted when he did. And it was highly
likely that Monterey would have followed Zipper into the grave shortly
thereafter, considering how close Strict had come to burying him in the
first place.
     But now, as the daze of the battle cleared, it still boiled down to the
simple fact that they may have wound up taking away the most precious
thing any creature has ever been blessed with; life.
     They knew they were delaying the inevitable, even though they had
said nothing on the subject yet. It was too hard to accept, nevertheless,
and thus they remained fixed in place, staring at the body as if it were
some realistic sculpture, placed here long before they arrived, never a
container of life. Of memories. Of hopes and dreams. Of thoughts of a
better future.
     The Rangers lowered their heads, and absent-mindedly rubbed a
hand over their foreheads in anxiety.
     Monterey had traveled for years, been involved in too many fights,
battles, and confrontations to ever fully list. But he had never, ever, killed
anyone else. Not even in self-defense.
     Zipper was well-accustomed to living things which had died. To
both plants and animals, he and his fellow flies were experts in the field,
the animal equivalents to medical examiners. He had actually seen the
bodies of the dead -- even humans -- many times before, but this was the
first time that the once-familiar sight actually made him nauseous. And
guilt-ridden. He had never been the instigator of any death, only the one
who completed the turn of life’s wheel by cleaning up and recycling the
remains. Seeing it from this side, however... it was impossible to look on
the whole cycle as just a chore, a natural part of life to go through. Not
when he had seen that same body up and moving not more than five
minutes ago. Seen it talking.
     Seen it living.
     Monterey looked to Zipper tenderly. “Zipper?”
     Zipper glanced over.
     “Don’t cry, mate.”
     Zipper blinked as he brought his hand to his cheek. His eyes
widened as he felt the wetness of his tears upon them. He hadn’t even
been aware that he was actually weeping for this rat that had tried to kill
them.
     I’m sorry, Monterey... Zipper sniffed. I just... I mean....
     Zipper trailed off. Monterey knew what his best friend meant,
regardless.
     “I know, mate,” Monterey said quietly, lowering his own eyes. “I
know.”
     They kept their heads bowed in respect. Until a loud groan welled
up from around them.
     Both Rangers glanced at each other in surprise. It was then that they
simultaneously realized that they were so wrapped up in the *possible*
consequences of their actions that they never even bothered to confirm if
Strict was dead *or* alive.
     Zipper quickly checked the mammoth rat’s pulse, and actually
grinned as he informed Monterey that Strict was alive.
     Monterey would have cheered, but as he started to raise himself up,
his head reeled with pain, and he nearly swooned back to the ground.
Again, arming himself with a deep breath, he carefully, and slowly,
brought himself back to a standing position, leaning heavily against the
large nearby bin.
     “Well?” Monterey asked as Zipper meticulously checked over
Strict. “Is he gonna be alright?”
     Zipper frowned, signaling that while Strict would certainly live, his
injuries were nearly as bad as Monterey’s, but the thing that was most
worrisome was the tremendous head injury subsided when Strict’s head
was put through the floor. The rat really needed to be moved to a hospital
for proper treatment.
     Monterey shrugged. “I’ve gone through nasty head shots without
gettin’ any medical aid, mate. I turned out fine.”
     Zipper’s dubious look explained that the fly was not reassured by
the remark.
     “Well, we can’t very well drag him outta here,” Monterey said,
tiredly. “I can barely move, meself, let alone lug around alla his extra
weight. I don’t reckon we can try the local docs, here, either. I mean,
they’ll all be on his side, right, ‘cause he’s a local boy? And since
were the ones who roughed him up, that won’t make him all that
cooperative to helpin’ us find Gadget--hey, that’s right!” Monterey
suddenly leaned -- carefully -- over Strict’s fallen form. “This bloke
here probably knows what ‘appened to Gadg! We can’t lose him, Zip.
Not if we wanna find her.”
     Zipper sighed, but agreed with his friend. If they were to
successfully track down Gadget, they would still need the element of
surprise on whoever was holding her. Chances were good that this rat
knew where she might have been taken, and chances were even better
that he was also the only one in the area who knew that two strangers
were looking for the female mouse.
     I can stabilize him a little bit, Zipper informed Monterey, but I
can’t guarantee how coherent he’ll be; at the very least, he’ll be far
too weak after that beating to even try and escape from any restraints.
     Monterey grinned at the indirect compliment. “Too right, mate.”

     “Finally,” an Australian voice said, with a bit of impatience
coloring it.
     Strict’s eyelids slowly parted, the dim illumination of the shack at
least being too feeble to blind his opening eyes and compound his
throbbing migraine. His eyes weren’t focusing, and it took him several
seconds to realize that this was because he didn’t have his glasses on.
Why did the back of his head hurt so much? It felt like someone had split
it open with a chisel. A dull one, at that.
     He then remembered that he wasn’t wearing his glasses because
they had been broken in a fight; the floodgates of his memory opened up,
washing every detail of the intense brawl over him until his brain had
soaked it all up.
     Glancing up, he spotted two blurs; obviously, the large mouse and
fly that had clobbered him. He didn’t actually remember too much of
the fight, but he wasn’t sure if it was from just the rush of the moment
or the part of his brain that was undoubtably bruised. He had no doubts
that he lost a lot of brain cells this time around.
     “Rise and shine, sleepin’ beauty,” the large Australian mouse said
gruffly. Strict’s eyesight was too bad to discern any injuries on his
oppressor, but the rat felt confident that he had given as good as he got,
nevertheless.
     “What?” Strict managed through the haze of pain and lingering
confusion.
     “We don’t have time to mince words, bloke,” Monterey said
evenly. “So I’m just gonna ask you once....”
     Here he leaned down close to Strict’s face, so the rat could clearly
see the drive behind the Ranger’s eyes. Glasses or no glasses, no
mistake could be made for the danger lying in wait for anyone who held
Monterey up on his and Zipper’s quest.
     “Where... is... Gadget?” Monterey said calmly and clearly, giving
equal weight to each word.
     Strict noticed for the first time just how tired he was; he was
breathing hard, every muscle ached, his tail was killing him, and his head
felt like someone installed a set of subwoofers in his temples. He may
have been angry during the fight, but right now he was too exhausted and
hurt to even manage a biting retort. It wasn’t worth getting beaten up
any worse, he was certain about that.
     “She’s at the Count’s place,” he managed to get out in a gasp.
Even talking was a chore for him right now.
     “Count?” Monterey asked, momentarily taken aback by this odd
reply. He glanced at Zipper, to make sure he had heard it correctly.
Zipper’s shrug showed that he had no clue who this Count was, either.
     “He runs the Edge -- that’s what we call our little open-air
nuthouse here,” Strict clarified through his ragged breath. “He lives in
the big building at the end of the street. Saw her on the monitors in his
watchtower, said she was in trouble, and for us to grab her.”
     Monterey and Zipper attempted to deal with the successive shocks
of the description of the neighborhood they had dropped into, the
Count’s apparent idolization of security systems, and the claim of
Gadget being in some type of trouble.
     Zipper buzzed a bit to get Strict’s attention, then asked what
exactly the Count’s watchtower had under surveillance. Clearly, he was
worried about the fight having been viewed surreptitiously.
     But Strict very lightly shook his head -- it hurt too much to give a
more vigorous response. “It only covers the interior of the walls around
the building. He doesn’t have any reason to worry about watching us,
here.”
     Zipper nodded. Strict could be lying, of course, but Zipper felt
secure that if they had been watched, they would have been jumped by
now, while they were still weakened from the fight.
     “Any place else?” Monterey double-checked.
     Strict thought. It hurt. “Oh... the Castle, too,” he said, wincing a bit
from the pain. He almost wished that Monterey would knock him out
again, so at least he wouldn’t have to endure it for a bit longer.
     “Castle?” Zipper squeaked out. He hated interrogations that
brought up more questions than answers.
     Strict allowed himself a chuckle. “That’s what he calls it, so
that’s what we call it, mostly. It’s his place at the end of the street, like
I told ya.” He smirked bitterly. “The end of the Edge. Where the abyss
begins.”
     The two Rangers exchanged glances. From the description, it did
not sound like a place that their Gadget should be in.
     Monterey decided to press the hard-edged line, again. “Before we
go any further, bub--”
     “The name’s Strict,” the rat managed with a grimace.
     “I couldn’t care less what your name is right now -- you’d better
hope that Gadget doesn’t have a *single* hair on her head out of place
from you or any other of this Count’s cronies--”
     “I ain’t no crony!” Strict snapped, then shivered again as his
headache flared up unmercifully. He took a few seconds to let it subside
slightly before reopening his eyes. “Not for the Count, definitely. And
don’t worry about that babe, either -- the Count says she’s his
daughter.”
     “WHAT?” Monterey and Zipper said in unison.
     Strict flinched at the high decibels, but recovered quicker this time
around. “Easy on the stereo, will ya? Look, the Count, he’s nuts. Not in
one of those funny, harmless ways. He’s got some real dementia.
Thinks he’s an actual Count, and like the Edge here is his territory or
something. He claims that he’s got a wife, high in one of his ‘towers,’
which nobody has ever seen. He says she’s sick; bedridden. But he also
said that he had kids that were stolen away at night.” He snorted --
lightly, of course. “Stolen by gypsies and all that. But he claims that this
Gadget of yours is his daughter, and wanted us to ‘rescue’ her. He’d
be even more ticked than you if she was hurt at all.”
     Monterey shot a glance at Zipper; the fly’s expression said that he
was trying to digest this all, but it was hard to keep up.
     “Okay, then,” Monterey said gruffly, turning his attention back to
Strict. “Let’s talk about getting into this Castle....”

*     *     *
     
     “You sure we should have just left him alone, like that?” Monterey
asked Zipper quietly as they stealthily worked their way along the upper
supporting crossbeams of the wall, towards the looming Castle at the end
of the Edge. “I mean,” Monterey continued, “he might slip free and warn
this Count bloke.”
     But Zipper shook his head in such a way that he clearly conveyed
that Strict was in too bad of a shape to even walk ten inches, let alone run
the length of the Edge to the Castle.
     “Feh,” Monterey grumbled as they neared their destination. “Still
don’t like this. He might’ve been lyin’ ‘bout any number of things.”
     I didn’t see any traces of guile, Zipper gestured out, just tiredness
over the fight.
     “Yeah, I gave him what for, eh?” Monterey chuckled a bit smugly.
     Zipper didn’t reply, but his smirk was evidence that he felt
Monterey had taken just as bad a whipping, but would never admit to it.
Especially when they still had to help Gadget escape.
     “Whattaya think this Count has done to Gadg?” Monterey asked,
tensely. “She could bust out easily enough on her own, right? I mean,
why would she still be here?”
     She could be locked up, Zipper’s shrug read, or otherwise forcibly
detained. Or, knowing Gadget, she might be trying to help out this Count
character.
     “No kidding,” Monterey chuckled. “Her compassion is bigger than
her common sense.”
     They quieted down, as they had reached the area of the wall over
the Castle. Strict had informed them that the Count’s security camera
system was spread out about mostly outside, to watch for possible
problems from the rest of the Edge’s residents. A few cameras were
inside, but almost all were set up in the main rooms. Strict admitted that
he wasn’t one hundred percent certain to all of the camera’s
whereabouts, but Zipper felt that they had enough information to handle
the rest.
     They had taken the high road -- slow and tough going, especially
for Monterey, who, despite his altruistic claims to the contrary -- was still
woozy. Zipper suspected that Monterey would be operating far below his
normal standards for the rest of this rescue attempt. With any luck, they
could avoid any more fights; he doubted Monterey could last another one,
even if it was short and simple.
     Their path had kept them far above any wanderers on the street
below, although an occasional highly disturbing noise or sound would
rise up from the depths the Edge, giving them cause to shudder for a
moment before continuing.
     The extra effort had paid off, however, as they had arrived at their
destination undetected. At least, as far as they could tell. Now they began
to work down towards the impressive and somewhat convoluted structure
below them. It seemed to be a constructed from doll house parts, wood,
stone, and plastic. The two Rangers had to admit; it certainly fit the role
of the ruling house of an open-aired asylum.
     The Castle itself was not actually attached to either wall, but one of
the crossbeams passed directly over it, about three feet up. Monterey and
Zipper tied a coil of rope around the wooden beam, then Zipper flew
down below to make sure that nobody was around, or that any type of
security cameras were in evidence. He signaled to Monterey when he felt
the coast was clear, and the Aussie mouse gingerly swung himself over
the edge onto the rope.
     Monterey’s head swam threateningly for a moment, but the rugged
Ranger squeezed his eyes shut and forced the dizziness out of his head.
He could be incapacitated later; right now Gadget needed him. With a bit
of concentration, Monterey deliberately lowered himself one hand at a
time down the rope until he felt the roof under his feet. Testing the
structure for his weight before letting go, Monterey risked a look around.
He could see out over the Edge from his vantage point, but the
insufficient lighting barely enabled him to see clearly more than a few
feet out.
     Zipper silently pantomimed that they had best remain quiet from
here on out; no telling if the Count was as enthusiastic about
microphones as he was about fiber-optics.
     Furthermore, Zipper motioned, we’d best split up.
     Monterey raised an eyebrow at this -- it never seemed to work out.
     Zipper explained that he was aware of the danger of making the
search party even smaller, but there was no telling how long before
someone discovered Strict. If word got to the Count that people were out
after his “daughter,” then the two Rangers would have a far harder time
discreetly accomplishing their mission.
     Monterey, personally, didn’t really like doing things all that
discreetly, but even he had to admit that he wasn’t in the best shape for
his preferred method of ramming head-on into obstacles. He nodded his
agreement.
     Zipper smiled in thanks. He knew that it wasn’t easy for his friend
to agree to engage in subterfuge.
     The fly led the way over to the edge of the Castle, and motioned for
Monterey to wait. Then Zipper flew back up to the rafter, untied the rope,
and brought it down to the rooftop. Quickly tying it off around a large,
stone chimney, he dropped the free end down the back of the Castle, and
flew down to the nearest window. It wasn’t locked, although Zipper had
to wonder if it was because the Count felt that his reputation was
sufficient enough security.
     Once the window was open, Monterey climbed wordlessly down
the rope and slipped into a darkened and deathly quiet hallway. Zipper
silently closed the window behind Monterey, and both Rangers paused
for a moment as it dawned on them what it was about this place that was
so unnerving.
     It felt like they were in a human building, not one built by rodents.
     A lush carpet lined the hall, small pictures of various rodents --
presumably family members -- and landscapes dotted the walls, and
perfectly scaled furniture and furnishings were all about. In almost every
other animal dwelling they had ever been in, the place had been decorated
and furnished using bits of human discards, or rodent-built items. It was
always easy to tell, however, that it was an animal’s home. Now,
however, they felt as if they had been enlarged and were wandering
around some elegant mansion of a human. Everything was scaled to the
right proportions. Nothing was salvaged, it seemed. Zipper had no doubts
that at least some of the furnishings had come from various expensive
doll houses or highly-detailed model sets, but neither of the Rangers had
ever seen anything quite so elaborate.
     It was highly disquieting, and took them several moments to adjust
to the point where they could function normally again.
     Zipper pointed down the east side of the hallway for Monterey to
take, while the fly would concentrate on the west. If one of them found
Gadget, they were to bring her to the roof and wait for the other searcher.
Zipper informed Monterey that they each should check the roof
periodically, in case the other had been successful.
     Monterey nodded once. From the outside, it was obvious that this
was a huge place to search, and it could take a while, especially as they
worked to stay out of sight. Strict had said that no servants worked in the
Castle, but they could never be sure where the Count, or an unexpected
camera, could be.
     Swiftly the two Rangers shook hands for luck, and parted ways.
     Zipper flitted down the hallway, wishing that there was more light.
Just enough existed from a few wall scones to see by, but it was dark and
gloomy, right out one of Chip’s favorite detective novels. He glanced
over his shoulder, but had already lost sight of Monterey. Zipper guessed
that the public areas under surveillance that Strict had warned about were
well-lit, and thus he presumed that the darkness was helping him, as well.
     He hoped that was case, at any rate.
     About a foot down the hallway, he paused as something caught his
eye, in the ceiling. It was a crack, and as Zipper drew near, he saw that it
was, in fact, an outline of a rectangle -- one of those pull-down stairwells
for an attic. It made sense, Zipper realized, as he and Monterey had
dropped down about two feet from the roof to the first window, leaving
plenty of space up above. He decided to check this out first, both for
Gadget and any other clues about the Count. Something Chip had told
him a long time ago was, “It pays to know your enemy.”
     The stairwell, to Zipper’s surprise, didn’t creak at all as he
lowered it. It was well-oiled; a sign of frequent use. No lights were on
above, but Zipper spied a series of small buttons on one of the small
support beams, right next to the hatchway. Trying the first one, he
smirked as he noted that there were lights for the attic, but no brighter
than ones down below. The Count didn’t like bright lights, it seemed.
     Zipper popped through the opening, and again closed the stairwell
behind him. The attic seemed to span the entire length and breadth of the
Castle, and, true to all attics, was stuffed with old items, boxes, and
unidentifiable shapes under dusty cloths. The only thing missing were
cobwebs, although Zipper was more than happy for their absence --
spiders and Zipper just didn’t tend to get along.
     Assuming that the Count considered Gadget his daughter, the
chances of her being here seemed exceedingly slim, but seeing as how
the Count sounded to be a dozen eggs short of a fly’s nest, Zipper
started a simple flying search, spiraling out from the trapdoor.
     It was on his second pass that he noticed a section of the attic which
was, apparently, the only one not thinly covered in dust. Flying directly
over to it, could see that a series of objects and boxes were, indeed, either
being used or were used recently. Landing, he could spot the areas of
traffic to and from the area, through the dust on the floor. Judging from
the edges of the dust patterns, he seemed to be in the front of the area,
with the trail leading behind him, back to the trapdoor.
     In front of him were several shrouded large objects, unrecognizable
from the vague shapes they made through the overlaying sheets. A large
number of small books were strewn about, and Zipper noticed with
surprise that the books, along with a chest pushed to the back of the area,
were all hand-crafted items, made from human discards, and obviously
made by rodents. They were the first items Zipper had seen in this Castle
which weren’t scaled, and his interest was immediately piqued.
     The books weren’t in any particular order, so he picked up the first
one he found and began to leaf through it. It was someone’s diary, dated
several years ago. Zipper’s eyes widened as he spotted “the Count”
written in one section. Was the Count writing this, and referring to
himself in third person?
     After a bit more reading, Zipper was able to deduce that this was
someone else’s diary, apparently someone who worked with the Count.
And it wasn’t a diary so much as a log, detailing rescue attempts and
information gathered by a group called “The Champions.”
     Zipper had, inadvertently, fallen into a trap that most young
detectives are faced with; a mystery within a mystery. Unable to resist the
challenge of figuring out what all of this was about, and how it tied into
the Count, Zipper forgot all about his primary objection for the moment,
and started going through the books -- all of which were written by the
same person. He started to shuffle through them, trying to place them in
order.
     He gulped suddenly. He glanced about, but didn’t see anything.
Nevertheless, he had he uncanny feeling of being watched. True, the
likelihood of cameras in the attic seemed remote, and Zipper felt
confident that wasn’t case. Still, something was scaring him; as if
several pairs of eyes were looking down at him in a silent, almost
mournful, gaze. He admitted to himself, though, that he was in an
unfamiliar house, in an attic, alone, in the darkened quiet. It was easy for
his nerves to be on edge.
     Settling back down, he poured his attention into the task before
him, and soon the unnerving feeling passed.
     The shadowy, draped objects around him stood silent in their
unknown vigil, forgotten.

*     *     *

     Gadget yawned and stretched, moving the covers back a bit. She
felt remarkably snug, though, and was just thinking about waiting five
more minutes when she had the nagging feeling that she was forgetting
something important.
     With a start, she remembered all that had transpired before she
blacked out, and her eyes snapped open as she sat bolt upright.
     She was in a soft, comfy bed. Alone, she realized with a flood of
relief. She seemed to be in a fairly large room, no doubt one of many in
the Castle. She reflexively checked her pockets for her various tools she
always carried on her; they were all still present. She took a deep breath.
Obviously, the Count trusted in her fully, and didn’t even conceive that
she might want to escape.
	Well, he was right. She had no desire to. Not until she learned 
exactly what in the world was going on. She bit her lip, however, as it 
dawned on her that she had no idea what time it was -- she may have 
missed the deadline for Osiris by now! Everything had taken such an 
unexpected turn that she had no clue what the other Rangers were doing; 
did they make the exchange? Did they miss it? Were they all right?
	She closed her eyes and placed a hand to her forehead, trying to 
calm down. The others knew what they were doing -- they would be fine. 
She had no idea if that was the case, of course, but in dark times one 
had to cling to their faith to keep them afloat.
	That, and she had a whole new set of problems of her own to sort 
through.
     She was positive that she had seen her mother in that bed upstairs --
positive! And yet it completely went against everything she had ever
known about her family. She couldn’t be the daughter of this Count.
She was steadfast in that. And not out of any scientific or empirical
knowledge. She just knew, deep in her soul, that she was the daughter of
Geegaw Hackwrench. Even her highly-analytical mind wasn’t trying to
dissuade her heart.
     But Gadget had never known her mother; whatever the Count’s
mental illness may entail, it didn’t account for the completely
unexpected appearance of her mother.
     Gadget noticed she was trembling, and swallowed hard.
     It was possible, she decided, that it might be someone who looked
*just* like her mother, and be totally unrelated -- same as the case
between her and Lahwhiney. But that didn’t explain the quilt on the bed.
Gadget couldn’t conceive that someone else had made a quilt exactly
like the one her mother had made.
     Well, perhaps her mother had gotten the pattern from someone else,
or maybe someone else copied the pattern from her mother.
     Gadget shook head as she closed her eyes, and rubbed a hand over
her forehead. It was just too bizarre. The Count knew all of this
information about her, which only her closet friends knew. All of the
coincidences were adding up too much for her to dismiss them all as
outright chance. If there was some type of quantifying connection, is was
buried in the swirling quagmire of confusion.
     “I wish Chip was here,” she said aloud, without realizing it.
     If anyone could sort through this mess, she knew he could.
     And she sure could use a hug right now. Especially when it entailed
getting a chance to feel Chip’s soft cheek fur against her own, to hear
the rustle of his fedora as her hair brushed against it, to bathe in the rich
smell of his worn and trusty jacket....
     Gadget blinked a few times, surprised at how easily her mind was
wandering. Looking down, she saw that she was hugging the covers to
her.
     Clearing her throat a bit, she set them down and slipped free from
the warm bed. Adjusting her goggles comfortably on her head, she took a
deep breath and tried to plan out her next move. Everything in her,
however, circled back to the same thought: she wanted to get another
look at her mother-- the woman in that darkened room.
     She was positive that it was Terica, but having fainted after first
catching sight of her, she hadn’t even had a chance to fully recover from
the shock, let alone allow the monumental event to fully sink in. More
importantly, she had to know the truth. If that was indeed her mother,
then she needed to know for sure. And there was no time like the present.
     Heading for the door, she paused as she heard a light tapping at the
window. Gadget curiously stepped over to the side of the room, gently
pushing aside the heavy drapery and rolling up the blind.
     A small, brown paw was tapping lightly on the window pane.
Gadget couldn’t see who it was from her angle, leading her to believe
that the owner was clinging to the wall....
     Chipmunks had a great knack for that.
     Gadget didn’t realize that she was grinning with anticipation as
she slid the window open.
     “Gadget?” a voice she recognized as Cyan’s said. “Are you
decent?”
     “Uhm, yeah,” Gadget replied, feeling acute disappointment that it
was not, in fact, Chip who had come calling. “Come in, Cyan.”
     Poking his head around the corner, Cyan nodded his thanks and slid
fully through the window. He first checked the door, making sure that it
was closed, then to make sure it was locked.
     “Look,” he stated quickly, obviously agitated, “I’m sorry about
seeing you like this, but it’s extremely important that I talk to you about
the Count.”
     “Okay,” Gadget nodded, “good. I have a lot of questions about
everything going on, too.”
     “First off, the Count is nuts,” Cyan quickly explained. “He does
rule here, but only because the residents of the Edge aren’t really even
aware of their own surroundings.”
     “Wait, there’s something I want to know first,” Gadget said as she
held out her hands for him to halt. “Look, I need to know who that
woman is.”
     Cyan looked at her as if she had asked how toast works. “What
women?” he finally prompted.
     “In one of the rooms on the upper floor--”
     “We *are* on the upper floor.”
     “In one of the rooms on this floor,” Gadget continued, “in the far
back, there’s a small room where some female mouse who looks just
like my mother is sleeping, under a quilt that also looks just like my
mothers.”
     Cyan took a step back in surprise. “You mean... all this time...
when the Count was talking about his bedridden wife in the tower... he
was actually telling the truth?”
     Gadget’s eyes widened. “You’ve never seen her?”
     “*Nobody’s* ever seen her!” Cyan replied, a bit more audibly
than he wanted to. He stopped to calm his nerves, and went on in more
subdued tones. “Dominic says the Count started talking about this wife of
his long ago, but it was only an aftereffect of the experiments he had been
subjected to. I mean, he rants on about all this other nonsense, so we just
figured that this wife of his was bunk too.”
     “Well, there’s someone in that bed,” Gadget restated, a bit uneasy,
“and it sure does look like my mother.”
     “So...” Cyan eyed her carefully, “are you really his daughter?”
     Gadget smiled and shook her head. “No. I’m not sure how I know,
but I just know that he is not my father.” Her smile slid into a puzzled
quirk. “But I’d sure like to know how he knows so much about me. And
who that mouse is, really.”
     “Actually, that brings up what I wanted to ask you....” Cyan started,
but didn’t finish his sentence.
     Gadget looked at him expectantly. And she was a bit surprised to
see the harsh Cyan acting so tentative.
     “Would you mind, terribly, if you pretended to be his daughter?”
     “*What?*”
     “Not for long -- not for long!” the short chipmunk explained in a
rush. “Just long enough to convince him to let me and my friends go.”
     “Go?” Gadget asked. “Why don’t you ask him?”
     “Because he won’t let us,” Cyan said, frustrated. He turned away
from Gadget and started pacing. “Look, when we first got here, it... it
didn’t seem so bad. I mean, we had nowhere else to go. I was on my
own, and Arc and Strict left their neighborhood for a darn good reason.”
     Gadget breathed in sharply. “Cyan -- does this have to do with what
you said before to Strict? About him being like his father, I mean?”
     Cyan snapped out of his brooding at the unexpected turn of
conversation.
     “Strict and Arc,” Gadget pressed, “are they really siblings?” Gadget
had sensed a very strong bond between the two, and while she was far
from being an expert in relationships, she got the distinct impression that
it wasn’t any type of romantic attraction that held the squirrel and rat so
close together.
     Cyan looked at Gadget for a long time before speaking. “Arc’s
parents weren’t exactly the Ward and June Cleaver of their
neighborhood,” he finally said, almost seeming to ignore Gadget’s
question. “I don’t know for sure, but the impression I got was that they
had been in lust, rather than in love. As they aged and the lust gave out to
staidness...” he sighed and shrugged, “I guess it must have been a rude
awakening for them. I don’t think either of them was really ready to get
married, let alone have a kid. But Arc came along, and was basically the
sole reason they stayed together. Then, when Arc was six, her mother got
pregnant again. At first, it actually helped, both within the family, and the
community. For some reason the community felt that the more children
squirrels had, the more respectable they were. Arc’s father was also
pretty tickled pink over it -- he was hoping for a son; someone who
would inherit all of his ‘manly’ squirrel traits. And Arc, too, was
actually looking forward to having a sibling -- it was no secret that she
felt distanced from her folks, even at that early age.”
     Cyan heavily sat down on the bed, while Gadget watched on, with
eyes full of her trademarked compassion.
     “When Strict was born,” Cyan grumbled low, “it destroyed
everything. Two squirrels don’t give birth to a rat, unless one of the
original parents *was* a rat. Figuratively and literally.”
     Gadget’s eyes widened.
     Cyan shook his head slowly. “Strict’s mother’s closet had a lot of
skeletons stored inside, and they all tumbled out with him.”
     He slowly stood up and turned away, running a paw over his
forehead. “It didn’t help when Strict’s real father ran out as soon as
word got around -- Strict doesn’t even know what the guy looks like.
Arc’s father wasn’t any better -- all he saw in Strict was his wife’s
infidelity. And Strict’s own mother never bothered to hide the fact that
she blamed her life’s ruins on him.”
     He turned back to Gadget, an angry look etched in his features.
“You tell me if that’s not a good reason to want to leave.” He looked
away again, and sighed. “At the very least, Strict had one redeeming
factor in his life, and that was Arc. Most siblings start out competing for
the attention of parents, but Arc... it was like she knew that she’d always
be the favorite, and it bothered her. She was the only one who actually
was looking out for Strict. Cared a lot more about him than any of his
parental figures ever did.”
     Gadget looked down slowly, feeling a bit ashamed over her own
feelings on her childhood. She thought that she had some difficulty
growing up without a mother, but hearing about Strict’s childhood... she
was just starting to realize how incredibly blessed her life had really been.
     “I got along with Arc and Strict pretty well,” Cyan continued,
although it was unclear if he was addressing Gadget or himself. “I was an
orphan, so maybe that had something to do with it. Anyway, about four
years ago we just took off, and never looked back.” He chuckled and
shook his head, then returned his gaze to Gadget. “So, to answer your
question, Arc and Strict are half-siblings, but heck, they’re closer than a
lot of brothers and sisters I’ve seen.”
     Briefly, Gadget’s mind flashed to Chip and Dale, and how they
were practically the same way; even though they weren’t related, they
shared a bond that went far beyond any simple bloodline.
     Suddenly, Cyan seemed to remember his purpose for this visit.
“God, I gotta get out of here before the Count comes around to check on
you -- look, Gadget,” he approached her quickly, “I’m just asking you
to go along with his dementia long enough for him to let us go.”
     “I still don’t understand,” Gadget said, unconsciously
backpedaling a bit from the chipmunk’s agitated mannerisms. “How is
he keeping you here?” Her eyes widened again as another look of
concern washed over her features. “He didn’t threaten you or anything,
did he?”
     It was Cyan’s turn to step back, unsettled. After living in The Edge
for so long, he had long ago really forgotten that such honest concern for
others was not merely a myth. Even Dominic’s own caregiving seemed
to be surpassed by Gadget’s worry, because Gadget was a still a 
stranger to this place; she hardly knew anyone, and yet cared for them as
if she had known them all her life. The concept totally boggled his jaded
mind.
     “He... he didn’t threaten *us*,” Cyan finally admitted, again
turning away from Gadget. Even so, she had spotted his cheeks starting
to burn. But whether it was from embarrassment or anger, she wasn’t
sure.
     “Cyan?” she gently prodded.
     After composing himself, Cyan turned back to face the Ranger, his
flushed countenance an undisguised look of frustration and anger. And,
Gadget was startled to see, fear.
     “Over a year ago, I was working on rigging up this place with
cameras.”
     “Cameras?” Gadget said in surprise, glancing around.
     But Cyan shook his head. “Not in here, don’t worry. Just in the
hallways. But I had to run the wires through the backs of the walls, so as
not to spoil the Count’s decor,” he said, placing an unflattering strain on
the last word. He paused before continuing, as if gathering the courage to
continue. “I also had to route them through the attic upstairs. Can you
believe it?” He snorted mirthlessly. “He builds a human-styled dwelling,
complete with pull-door stairs, secret doors and sliding walls -- right out
of the movies.” He swallowed, his mouth suddenly gone dry. “But what I
found in there... they weren’t props.”
     Gadget shuddered. She couldn’t bring herself to ask.
     Cyan’s face had taken an ashen hue, visible under his fur. He
swallowed and shook his head. “It... it was today when it fully hit me. I
mean, I never recognized any of them, but now I think... I think maybe
that the Count is a lot more dangerous than even *I* first suspected.” He
was rambling now, not even acknowledging that there was another person
in the room. “I thought before he was just sick, and that they were all
dead to begin with; people die around here all the time. But now...
hearing about those saner guys that just... vanished... no, I’m sure of it.
It must have been them.” His eyes widened as another possibility
hammered home. “ My God... maybe even the Champions themselves!”
     Dimly, Gadget recalled the tale that Dominic had related to her
earlier. “The group that liberated lab animals?”
     “Yeah,” Cyan said in a rush, nodding, “I think so. I never met
them; they were already... gone when me and Arc and Strict arrived. But
maybe it wasn’t them after all; maybe it was some other people from the
Edge-- cripes! What does it matter?” he snapped suddenly. “They were
still dead, no matter who they were!”
     Gadget jumped back reflexively. “What?” she said in a horrified
whisper.
     “Their bodies, Gadget,” Cyan said, a bizarre mixture of horror and
urgency blending in his features. “Posed and dressed like right out of
some Halloween wax museum! On the surface, the Count’s delusions
seem pretty harmless, the kind that people like to chuckle over on
television shows and cartoons. But underneath he is utterly mad, and now
it’s painfully clear that if you fall outside his excepted paradigm,
you’re nothing but some prop to him; a decorative piece to be used or
discarded like so much an old sweater.”
     Gadget was having a great deal of difficulty finding her voice.
     “I don’t know how the Count found out,” Cyan went on, “but
somehow he knew what I saw. He *knew*. I could tell by that glint in his
eyes. And I saw a different glint, too, one I never recognized before...
God. It was terrifying. Like he was sizing me up to add to that wretchedly
macabre collection of his. But he didn’t threaten me. Or Arc and Strict.”
Cyan took a deep breath. “He threatened the rest of the residents here.”
     “You mean,” Gadget said, her voice wavering, “Dominic, and Jar,
and Daytona?”
     “And the rest of the neighborhood, the ones you haven’t met,”
Cyan conceded with a scowl. “He never actually said anything, but he
made it abundantly clear that if we took off, he’d take it out the people
we left behind.” He turned away and suddenly kicked a chair across the
room in a fit of uncontrollable anger. He wanted to curse, but was too
worked up to even think of any truly offensive words.
     “I don’t even know half of the people here,” he finally stated,
managing to keep from screaming. Almost. “And yet they’re trapping
me!”
     He clenched his fists as he agonized over the dilemma again, for the
millionth time. He never made any pretense to his own failings -- he had
pride, and was greedy for the latest technology wonders. He was bitter,
cynical; a curmudgeon to the very core of his being. One who would
make even the most hardened New Yorker look like a Tibetan monk.
     But he was not a killer. And he knew full well that just by the
simple act of leaving -- of turning his back on the rest of the people here,
however mentally disturbed they may be -- he would be just as guilty of
causing their deaths as if he had pulled the switch himself.
     But the Count... the Count was a killer. Cyan had no doubts that the
implied thereat would be carried out in spades if he left, and that
knowledge would haunt him for the rest of his days. Cyan had briefly
entertained the option of attacking the Count somehow, capturing him.
Making some sort of action against the vise that Cyan felt himself
squeezed in.
     Unfortunately, the Count’s madness had not impaired the
mouse’s physical ability. The madman was still in prime condition. The
cane was strictly for show. Strict might be able to take on the Count, but
crazies could never be underestimated. They operated by totally separate
rules, if they could even be called rules. Cyan hated to admit it, but Strict
wouldn’t last long against someone like the Count. Nobody would. And
the Count maintained his level of cunning, as well. He had manipulated
everyone in this madhouse into accepting him as their leader, as tenuous
of a title it may be. None ever would revolt against him, and he even had
contacts to the outside, so no telling what type of back-up would come
calling if some try of a coup was ever attempted. Not that one would
ever work with the members of the Edge.
     Gadget however, might be the ticket out of this hole -- if she
convinced the Count to let Cyan and his friends leave, then no reprimands
would be made against those left behind. It was a win-win situation for all
involved as far as Cyan was concerned.
     The female Ranger did not agree, however. She couldn’t bring
herself to lie about being the Count’s daughter, especially when she had
so many questions of her own to be answered. Mainly, who that mouse
was in that bed. She actually was hoping it wasn’t her mother, as if it
was, then a great deal of her past was suddenly called into question.
Things that she had always taken for granted were at risk, and the
prospect of having to go through the same wringer when she found her
father was not particularly inviting.
     “I can’t lie to him, Cyan,” Gadget stated gently, but firmly. “But
don’t think that I won’t do everything else I can to help you.”
     “Gadget, please--” Cyan whispered, almost pleadingly, but abruptly
was cut off as a soft rapping at the door made his and Gadget’s hearts
come to a dead stop. They held their breath for a moment, then Cyan
darted back to the window. Before he slipped out, he turned to her and
mouthed, “Please help us.” Then he was through and away.
     Gadget looked after him helplessly, wishing she could but not sure
how. She turned back to the door, which was now carefully starting to
open. She tried to think of what to say, of what to do when the Count
strode through -- but her mind was completely frazzled. Her mother
apparently asleep upstairs, the Count’s assurances that Gadget was his
daughter, and now Cyan’s accusations of the grotesque actions of her
host were just too much for her mind to bear. She could handle machines
and computations without breaking a sweat, but the intricacies of people
always seemed to blindside her at the worst possible times.
     Fortunately, she needn’t have concerned herself with such
problems, as it wasn’t the Count who had come calling.
     “Monty!” Gadget said in delight, barely restraining her voice to a
intense whisper as she flung herself at her oldest friend.
     Monterey caught her strongly in his arms and hugged her tightly,
despite the pain aching through his bruised arms and chest. He carefully
swung the door shut behind him, while smoothing her hair down with his
free hand. He didn’t realize that he was tearing up.
     “Golly, it’s good to see you!” Gadget grinned up at him. “How’d
you find me? Where are the others? How’d you get here? And who beat
you up?”
     “One at a time, luv,” Monterey said through a laugh, setting her
back down on the floor and resting against the door. He wasn’t about to
admit it, but he had been seriously concerned that he might not have ever
again seen this ball of sunshine that he had been proud to have acted as a
father figure to. At the very least, he now understood the type of terror
that grips a parent whose child has been kidnaped.
     But he refused to dwell on it. Not now. They were still in the fire,
and needed to get back into the frying pan before they could really start to
think that they actually knew what the heck they were doing.
     “I was wanderin’ down the hallways, and a heard a noise come
from this room,” he explained. Gadget nodded, pointing to the chair that
Cyan had kicked. Since Monterey hadn’t seen the chipmunk, he
assumed that Gadget had kicked it, which posed a number of new
questions. Again, though, they would have to be dealt with later.
     “And the others?” Gadget prompted.
     “Zip’s elsewhere in this place,” Monterey answered. “We’ll have
to wait for him on the roof. The lads have gone off to exchange Osiris for
Foxy an’ the doc.” He paused. “I don’t know where they are. They
were goin’ to help search, but we had a humdinger of a time findin’
this place, ourselves, and this is a big buildin’ to search! They’ve
probably been searchin’ for hours by now, assumin’ they did all right
at the trade-off.” Monterey regretted saying the last part immediately as
he saw Gadget’s eyes fill up with worry. He was fairly sure that they’d
be okay, but the entire case, so far, had them fighting just to stay alive.
     “Chip and Dale have gotten though worse,” Gadget stated bravely,
but her disappointment that they weren’t here was clearly evident in her
voice.
     “Come on,” Monterey said, taking her hand, “let’s get you outta
this place.”
     “Monty, wait,” Gadget said. “I need to tell you something. We
can’t leave yet.”
     “What? Why?”
     Gadget took a deep breath. “I’m not sure how, but it looks like my
mother is here.”
     Monterey’s jaw hit the floor with an audible clatter. “What?” he
managed in a hoarse whisper.
     Slowly, she related the whole experience she had in the darkened
room, her halting speech and uncertainly in tone making clear that she,
herself, was having difficultly believing that it had actually happened.
     “Blimey,” Monterey whispered in shock, trying to come to grips
with it. He had known Terica -- and he knew for certain that her heart had
belonged solely to Geegaw. The Count was way off his rocker, but how
on Earth did he know so much about Gadget? The only people who knew
Terica that well was his old adventuring party, and even they had spilt off
before Gadget was even born.
     Finally, he turned to her and nodded his agreement. “Let’s find
Zip, first,” he suggested. “Now that we’ve found you, I don’t wanna
risk another separation of a teammate.”
     Gadget was quick to concur, and the two steadily made their way
out of the room, easing down the deserted hallway, allowing the door to
her room swing silently to a close.
     In the rush of stunning events, onslaught of incredible information,
and the endless barrage of bizarrities, it completely slipped Gadget’s
mind that Cyan had made the comment about a number of hallways being
equipped with hidden cameras.