Chapter Ten -- Ghosts And I’m Haunted By the lives that I’ve loved Connections that I’ve hated Haunted By the lives that roll around Inside my haunted head -- “Haunted,” Poe “Living in Stones City, you expect there to be a lot of rocks for the lowlifes to crawl out from under. Problem is that the ratio of rocks to lowlifes is unbalanced, resulting in a lot more scumsuckers getting evicted onto the populace sooner than anyone planned on. I guess you could call me an agent for the Housing Authority, then; I relocate the dirtbags to the nearest jail cell, or help them explore new horizons by kicking them outta town, right onto their dumpy butts. “People just call me Justice. Funny, nobody ever bothers to ask if it’s my actual name anymore. No need. Everyone on street knows if you cross the law, Justice will come calling. And unlike revenge, Justice is a dish best served red hot and smoking.” “Chip, wake up -- you’re talking in your sleep.” “Snkw--huh?” Chip said with a start as his head jerked up. Dale had been shaking Chip’s shoulder a bit, causing Chip’s fedora to fall off. “Hey, my hat,” Chip frowned. “Okay, okay -- I’m up, Dale.” “Sorry, Chipper,” Dale replied affably, then grew serious. “Foxglove says that we’ve been outta it for the most the night. She and the doctor have been keeping an eye out on the roof, but haven’t seen Monty, Zipper, or Gadget.” Chip glanced out over at the horizon. The last deep blue traces of the starlit sky were being edged back by the approaching daybreak. The sun’s rays were not visible yet, but the lightening sky in the east made if clear that they didn’t have long before morning was fully upon them. A distinct pre-morning chill hung in the air around the rooftop, more invigorating than cold. Unbidden, Chip’s mind flashed back to the that night with Gadget at Thanksgiving, and their discussion about his family back in the deep Midwest. Mornings like this were stock in trade in that part of the country, and he felt a pulling at his soul, if only for a moment, to return. The fleeting sensation passed, and Chip shook his head to clear it. The impression was still tangible, however, as Chip again thought it had been too long since he had been to see his parents. But he wasn’t even going to be leaving this building, let alone the state, without Gadget. Hopping over the edge of the Ranger Plane, Chip secured his hat on, tugged out the stiffness of his jacket in the predawn air, and focused on their task for today. They would need to somehow track down Monterey Jack and Zipper for their own progress report. Of course, they’d be searching for Gadget at the same time, which would make things a bit more difficult. To further complicate matters, any of the missing Rangers could be anywhere within the entire structure of the building -- having moved there voluntarily or not. Foxglove’s hearing wouldn’t be of much help in this case. Behind the walls, various noises sounded with frequent regularity, as motors turned on and off, pipes gurgled, and the muffled sounds of the people working would be always present to some degree. Her flight might make some faster times for searching, but with all the nooks and crannies provided in the hidden recesses of the walls’ interiors, a thorough search would have to be applied throughout the day. Chip grimaced as he realized as long as the others were still moving about, they could very well miss each other -- they could even wander into an area that was already searched, wasting precious time and energy. “So where do we start?” Dale asked earnestly, his much-needed sleep providing him with a fresh supply of vigor. The fact that he slept in Foxglove’s wings certainly added to it, as well. Chip dawdled for a few moments, the decided to play it safe, even though it would mean not actually searching right away. “We’ll head down to the ground floors,” he replied, stroking his chin, “and work our way up from there. Hey Dr. Speck?” he called to the mouse still seated comfortably in the Ranger Plane. He was reading one of Dale’s recommended literary choices for intellectual stimulation. The psychiatrist glanced over the edge of “The Collected Works of Sam & Max.” “Yes?” he asked. “Can you keep an eye out for the others,” Chip explained, “just on the off chance they come up to the roof?” “Of course,” Dr. Speck answered with a smile. “I was hoping you wouldn’t ask me to crawl about the rafters and support beams; I fear my body isn’t as nimble as it used to be.” He paused. “But how will you know if they have returned? It’s not as if we’ll be able to find you easily.” Chip chuckled and waved it aside -- he had already planned that out. “Foxglove can easily check back up here every so often. Dale and I won’t move from our spot until she returns, so she’ll always know where to find us. I mean, if you don’t mind, Foxy?” Chip added hastily, a bit embarrassed that he had neglected to ask the bat. He had merely assumed that she’d be willing to help out in that regard. She was, of course. “Oh, I’d be glad to, Chip!” she grinned, and hugged Dale close. “Since my cutie came to *my* rescue, the least I can do for him is come to his aid.” Dale smiled broadly and playfully tousled her head fur, “Yer a nut, Foxy. Don’t ever change.” Dr. Speck shrugged and settled back into his seat, reading the comic with renewed interest. “Okay, gang,” Chip stated as they approached the nearest air grate. “We’ll have to keep our senses sharp; no telling if we’ll run across Monty or Gadget or Zip as we head down to the ground floor. “Or one of the goons who took Gadg,” Dale noted sourly. Chip frowned, but held fast to his faith in his favorite Ranger. Gadget could come through any encounter unscathed. He felt his throat tighten as he thought about her. Gadget’s track record while being on her own, however, was not one of the best. They sooner they found her, the sooner he’d be able to fully operate. Since she had been gone, he felt a distinct separation, as if someone had swiped part of his own being away from him, and the void it left had been gnawing itself wider with each passing second. It needed to be plugged before it swallowed him completely. Please Gadget, Chip thought desperately, be alive. * * * Zipper was developing a serious case of the creeps as he read through the journals by the unknown author who logged the decline and fall of the Count’s sanity. It wasn’t the actual purpose of the journal, though -- they were, in reality, records of a group called the Champions, and all their exploits at rescuing other animals from labs wherever they traveled. But at the same time, a number of entries held valuable clues as to the Count’s slow tumble into mental instability. He had been a member of the group at one time, but the experiments that had been preformed on him had developed unforeseen side-effects on his mental state, slowly -- subtly -- pushing into a realm of fantasy and madness, constructed by his own repressed emotions and regrets, it seemed. Although Zipper was not a speed-reader, he was fairly good at skimming through large passages just for references to this highly-deranged mouse. By cross-referencing the dates in the journals, he was able to put them in some semblance of order, and was currently pondering on the last entry made. The chronicler obviously wasn’t intending for it to be the last one, however -- over half of the book was still blank, forever awaiting the next application of a pen. According to what Zipper had scanned over, the Count was a member of this team, the Champions, until his mental defect grew so pronounced that the other teammates were beginning to notice that the illness had gone beyond anything mild, to some form of acute psychosis. He had been talking about executions for those who did not accept the established laws of the Edge. And even though he never said what exactly was the law, the rest of the group feared that the Count considered himself sovereign. But then it seemed to change. Right before they headed out on what was apparently the writer’s last case, he expressed a great deal of relief in the Count’s apparent regaining of common sense. The Count had discovered a lab with hundreds of mice and rats just waiting to be freed from some grotesque experiments, and the original cause of the Champions had stirred something noble in him once moire. He took care of most of the planning, drawing out the building plans and directing their route of travel into the heart of the lab cages, then marked off the exits out. The journalist had even included some of the actual sketches, folded into place between the pages that told of this daring rescue mission. The rest of the Champions were excited too, and were impressed by the Count’s convictions and leadership, the two traits that he has most admired for, and showed endlessly in the heyday of their tour of duty. And then... nothing. The rest of the diary was blank, making it clear that this marvelous plan of the Count’s apparently didn’t work as well as planned. And yet, the Count had returned. It was conceivable, and likely, that they had been split up, or that the Count was severely injured and left outside the building, but since the writer had not made it back, those events would never be known for sure. Something happened during the case; something so unexpected or unprepared for that the Champions were totally floored, leaving only the Count to return to the Edge. Reflexively, the humble fly removed the floorplans from the diary, tucking them into his shirt. He wasn’t sure why, but would later realize that the tough part of being a detective was the irresistible urge to solve every mystery -- perhaps the floorplans could be matched with an actual building, and an investigation would turn up what really happened, just to sate Zipper’s wondering. He would have taken the books, but the sizes prevented that. He began to shuffle around in the truck a bit, when again that eerie sensation of someone watching him resurfaced, slowly crawling up his spine to rest at the base of his head. But once again, glancing about, he didn’t see anyone. Finally, he realized what it was: the looming objects under the heavy shrouds, surrounding him. The unusual shapes caused by both the objects themselves as well as the full and draping cloths seemed reminiscent of ghosts, pointlessly haunting the attic of a mouse who had long ago learned how to shut them out. A sudden urge to run to the nearest one and whip off the obscuring drapery, to reveal what lay underneath welled up from out of nowhere, and Zipper felt his muscles lock into place as he realized that some innate fear was countering this urge, freezing him in place as if it was some sort of safety catch. He waited a few moments, his eyes locked on the closest covered one, but he made no move towards it. Finally, with a sheer effort of will, he tore his eyes away and glanced back down into the truck, breathing a bit heavily now for some reason. His searching hands quickly brought his full attention to the forefront, however, as they latched onto what appeared to be an old photo of sorts. Zipper couldn’t tell for sure, as the back was to him, and the picture was jammed under some heavy artisan tools -- felt scissors, clay shaping tools, paints. Used regularly, too, it seemed. He carefully pried the photo free, and turned it around to study the face. It was indeed an older photograph, apparently taken easily over twenty years ago. Six young rodents were gathered together, all smiling at the camera and in the middle of some good-natured rough-housing when the shutter had been snapped. It was hard to make out the figures, aside from their obvious rodent markings, as the locale was some remote, snow-covered area, and everyone was dressed in heavy coats, caps, and gloves. Squinting, Zipper thought he spotted a few penguins wandering about in the background. He noticed that some handwriting was in the corner, as if the photo had been autographed, apparently by the people in the photo. The dim lighting and ciphered scrawling made it difficult to read, but the writing seemed to start with something along the lines of “From here to eternity, friends ‘till infinity,” then went into signatures. One looked strikingly familiar, but before Zipper could place it, and sudden noise from behind him caused him to startle violently. Spinning around, he breathed a sigh of relief when he saw that no-one was around, and became even more relaxed when he realized that the noise had actually come from the hallway below. Like a sledgehammer, the purpose for his visit to the attic homed in with jarring force, and he realized that he may have wasted too much time -- Monterey may be caught for all he knew! Or maybe he found Gadget, and they’re on the roof already! Quickly, Zipper threw the photo back at the truck, although in his haste he missed by a mile, sending it floating down to the side, and then he himself dashed back to the stairwell and switched off the light. He quieted for a moment in the darkness, listening carefully for any more sounds. He briefly wondered if it might be Gadget, but knew it was too big of a risk to merely pop out to see. Instead, he ever-so-gently eased the stairwell down, until a feeble stream of light trickled in from before. It was impossible to see if anyone was in the hallway, but it was easier to hear. While Zipper never claimed to have as acute hearing as Foxglove, he was assured that the coast was now clear. Noiselessly, he slipped out from the attic, slowly easing the stairwell back into a closed position. Glancing up and down the hallway, he didn’t spot anyone offhand, and so continued his flight down the original direction he had first been heading, but was stopped when one of the side doors flung open and he was snatched into the darkened room beyond. Fortunately for all involved Zipper didn’t have time to even scream before he recognized the quick whispers as Monterey’s. “Easy, easy, Zip!” Monterey said in a hushed tone, then smiled as his best friend nodded and grinned. Monterey didn’t say anything, but that snatch and grab routine he had just done took another toll on his already weary arms. He needed to get some rest badly, but was confident he could hold out for a while longer. “Gadget!” Zipper actually said, fortunate that he never could yell very loud. “Hiya, Zip,” Gadget returned with a wide grin. The reunited Rangers shared a grateful hug, before Gadget sobered a bit and filled Zipper in on what had transpired. Once completed, it was Gadget and Monterey’s turn to listen with interest to what he had seen in the attic. And Gadget immediately blanched at the mention of the shrouded objects. Gadget? Zipper’s worried look said. “Cyan said that he uncovered something in the attic,” Gadget answered weakly, her voice trembling. “He said it was... some of the people from the Edge.” She waited a moment to steady her nerves. “He’s afraid that the Count may have done them in, himself.” Zipper felt a disgusting shudder rip through his body -- if Gadget was right, it fully explained that unnerving feeling he had before; the feeling of being watched by lifeless eyes-- He snapped his head about to break the chain of thought, not wanting to go any further. “Blimey,” Monterey whispered. “This guy is seriously scarin’ me.” He was started to dread any type of confrontation. Zipper nodded, but knew that they owed it to Gadget to find out about this woman she had seen. Quickly, he suggested to the others that they find out who this is and then get far away from this place, and find Chip and Dale and the others. “We gotta take this gal with us,” Monterey added. “Regardless of who she really is, she’s in danger under the ‘care’ of this psycho.” “Agreed,” Gadget concurred, then looked thoughtful. “But what about Cyan and the others? We can’t just leave them behind.” We don’t have a choice, Zipper informed her with a shake of his head, especially since Monterey is in no shape to do anything more than carry this female mouse out of here; and even that’ll be a chore. We’ll need to at least find the others first. Gadget sighed helplessly, but nodded. Cyan and his friends would have to keep for a while longer. But she knew that once they were all back together, they’d figure out some way to help. They just *had* to. The trio took a moment to clear their minds, then moved back into the hallway. Even though she wasn’t exactly sure of where they were, Gadget led the small group down the hallways, until she reached a junction that she recognized. Her eyes lit up, and her paced quickened noticeably, until she was practically jogging to their destination, barely taking the time to check the room beyond after she opened the first door. Monterey and Zipper kept an eye out behind them, but the coast was clear, and it was obvious that Gadget wasn’t going to stop for any reason now, anyway. She reached the final door and grasped the doorknob firmly, then froze. The last time she fainted. She knew unquestionably that the Count was not her father, but a lingering doubt remained as to the woman in the bed. Was it really her mother? Was there some sort of bizarre happenstance that separated Terica from Geegaw and Gadget for all these years? Gadget honestly didn’t know if she wanted it to really be her mother or not. The whole concept was too unreal for her mind to even acknowledge it in a practical light yet. But she had to find out, one way or the other. And, every second she held out here was one more she’d have to wait to find Chip. Even if he was only half as worried about her as she was about him, he must be a very distraught chipmunk right now. Her confidence bolstered, she firmed her grip on the doorknob and opened the door into the blackness beyond. In the room behind her, Monterey had scrounged up some candles and a match, and each Ranger took a lighted candle into the awaiting darkness, none really sure what to expect. Least of all Gadget. They crept every so carefully over the soft carpet, their combined candlelight giving the entire room a soft glow, but the actual area of adequate light provided was much smaller, centering on them and extending no more than a few inches beyond. Still, they could easily discern the shadowy figure in the bed on the other side of the room. As one, they approached. Nobody realized that they were all holding their breath. The sheet of warm light spread out over the bedspread, making Monterey gasp -- he recognized it, as well. And then the light fully fell across the form tucked under the quilt, and Monterey, like Gadget, could only stare on in wonder. It was Terica. Absolutely no doubt existed in Monterey’s mind that this was, in fact Gadget’s mother lying before them. But it was impossible! Monterey remembered the shock and pain that came upon learning that Terica had died in childbirth; he remembered going to the funeral, even! But there Terica was, nevertheless, sleeping peacefully before them, her ash-blonde hair glimmering gently in the soft light, her face wearing a slight smile, her eyelids gently closed, as if they could blink open at any time. Monterey half expected them to. Gadget felt tears slowly trickle down her cheeks. She had taken out her locket again, and was looking back and forth between the photo within and the figure before her. They looked exactly the same -- *exactly* the same. And that’s when Gadget and Monterey realized it, simultaneously. “Somethin’s wrong,” Monterey finally voiced, some small doubt that had been hidden in the recesses of his brain finally coming to light. Gadget mutely nodded, her eyes starting to dry. They couldn’t place their finger on it, but there was something wrong with this entire situation. Something so obvious that they couldn’t see it, although they knew it was right under their noses. Gadget studied the image in the locket, then looked back up at the Terica before them. She blinked. “She hasn’t aged,” Gadget stated in wonder. Monterey’s breath caught in his throat, and he realized Gadget was right -- that’s what was wrong. Terica looked just like she did over twenty years ago. No age lines showed in the fur on her face, her hair was exactly styled as it was in her youth, and even under the thick covers the Rangers could see that her figure was nearly the same as well. True, some people aged very gracefully, but this was beyond even that. Terica had, apparently, been untouched by time. No trace of the years past were evident anywhere. Studying the form under the covers, Zipper realized another problem. “She’s not breathing,” he urgently and clearly stated, then flew up to settle next to Terica while Gadget and Monterey took a step forward. “What?” Gadget asked in a hoarse whisper. “Is she... is she...?” Monterey remained quiet, knowing that if anyone could tell, it would be a fly. But Zipper had something of a puzzled look on his face, which was growing into one of utter confusion. He couldn’t smell any type of pheromone. Nothing existed whatsoever to indicate, either, that this woman had ever held any type of a scent or musk. She’s not dead, Zipper motioned in a dumbfounded manner, because she never was alive. This one took a few moments to sink in. “Not alive?” Monterey finally echoed. What in the world is going on? Zipper reached out, his nervousness replaced by bewilderment, and touched Terica’s cheek. His eyes got even wider. “This fur’s fake....” he announced to shock of all. “What is going on?” Gadget said, reaching out and touching the cheek opposite of Zipper’s hand. Sure enough, it wasn’t an actual pelt -- just some manufactured fur, dyed and trimmed to look like the real thing -- done with such expertise, no less, that it was impossible to tell the difference until one touched it. Wait a minute, Zipper mouthed to himself. He suddenly remembered those artisan tools he had unearthed in the attic, the ones on top of the photo. Felt scissors were in there, he remembered. As well as molding tools for clay. Gently, he tapped on the forehead of the figure, then the eyes. Underneath the fur, both were made from clay, or plaster. Dear Lord, Zipper breathed in disbelief. The Count had fashioned a perfect facsimile of Terica Noteworth. “But... but...” Gadget stammered. “Why? I mean... my mother....” she trailed off totally at a loss. She wasn’t sure if she was to feel relieved, enraged, disgusted, or even frightened. Monterey was clenching his teeth. He wanted to destroy the dummy, the mockery of the wonderful being that Terica was in reality, but the mannequin was so life-like, so *real*, that he couldn’t bring himself to move against it. “So you’ve returned.” The cold voice cut through their entrancement like a sharp knife, causing Monterey and Gadget to spin around with a yelp, while Zipper froze in place, staring out at the sole figure framed in the doorway. The Count stood impassive. It was difficult to tell who he had aimed the comment at, just as it was impossible to tell what his actual mood was. But, the Rangers present knew that he was not one to underestimate, so none of them dared to make the first move. The silence stretched on for indeterminably long seconds, their hearts thudding mechanically in their chests. Finally, the Count stepped towards them, but in a non-threatening gesture. His shoulders were drawn back, his monocle firmly in place, and both hands rested easily on the eagle head -- the “Screaming Eagle” head, Gadget understood with a jolt -- of his cane as he placed it solidly in front of him. Monterey realized that the only way out of the room was through this looming madman. Count Carl Von Castle sighed deeply and shook his head, looking directly at Monterey. “What did Geegaw do to you, Monty?” he asked with the utmost sincerity in his voice. “Geegaw?” Monterey repeated, having no clue where the Count was coming from. “You disappeared all those years ago,” the Count continued, obviously saddened over something. “Terica and I didn’t see you any more. I could never understand why. But maybe now I do.” He stepped closer. “Whose idea was it, Monty? Yours? Or Geegaw’s?” “What are you talkin’ ‘bout?” Monterey finally managed. “I never met you in my life.” The Count’s face twisted into a mask of inhumane evil. “Don’t you dare lie to me, Monty. We’ve know each other far too long for that. The truth is the least you owe me. Now tell me -- was it your idea or Geegaw’s?” “Idea for what?” Monterey replied. He would have played along, but was painfully aware that he’d never be able to follow the Count’s rules. “Do not mince words with me, Monterey Jack!” The Count burst in fury, one hand drawing the sword free from the sheath which was the cane. The blade glinted menacingly in the low light as the Count pointed it accusingly at Monterey, snarling with a dark madness that made Nimnul look like Mr. Rogers. “I want to believe that it was Geegaw’s fault -- he was always jealous of Terica and I, and the children we had. I want to believe that he was the one who obviously coerced you to kidnap my baby girl. That it was his fault Gadget was spirited away from me, and raised with a head full of lies and untruths.” He took another step closer. Monterey stood his ground, pushing Gadget behind him. Zipper didn’t move, afraid the slightest motion would set the Count off like firecracker. The tension was so palatable Monterey felt like screaming just to break it. But he knew that if the Count wanted to fight, Monterey was finished. From the manner in which the other was holding the sword, Monterey had no illusions as to the Count’s proficiency with the weapon. Even if Monterey wasn’t a battered husk right now, the Count would be able to fillet him within five seconds. Monterey had to tread very carefully. “Please,” he stated slowly, as calmly as he could force himself to speak. “I am tellin’ you the honest-to-God truth. I don’t remember who you are.” He waited, tongue caught in his throat, waiting for the Count to either explode or back up. The swordsmouse remain rooted in place, bladetip still aimed at Monterey’s chest, eyes still locked on the face of the trespassing Australian. The Count’s eyes flicked with insanity, the brain misfiring information at a frantic place, setting off neurons at the wrong times in the right places, or the right times in the wrong places, making the Count completely unpredictable. Finally, some memory slipped through, tainted with his delusion. “I am Count Carl Von Castle,” he stated coldly. “My wife is Terica Noteworth. She is very ill. My Daughter is Gadget Castle, heiress to my title, lands, and love. You, are Monterey Jack Stilton, son of Chedderhead Charlie and Camembert Kate. You and I were good friends once, Monty.” For the briefest, singular moment, a grain of truth sifted through the mesh of madness, and the Count relaxed slightly. “Don’t you remember?” he asked in a soft voice, a fond smile coming to his lips. “I told you guys those singing penguins would drive me nuts....” Monterey’s brain snapped into overdrive -- he had heard that before! He *did* know who this was, he was positive of it, but who-- The Count’s eyes clouded over inexplicably while his sword was reared back, the hate-filled snarl reforming chillingly quick. “And you and Geegaw stole my daughter!” he yelled, ready to lunge and drive his sword through Monterey’s heart in vengeance. Zipper didn’t waste another second. He had thought of a last-ditch plan while Monterey had kept the Count talking, but he refrained from using it, not sure how the Count would react. But, now was the time for a last-ditch plan if there ever was one. In one swift motion, he slipped under the inert golem and powered all his strength into one strong, upwards push. The body of the false Terica pitched forward in the bed, tumbling over the end and thumping noisily to the floor. The Count’s reaction was instantaneous. All thought of anyone else in the room were vaporized as he shrieked in utter terror at the sight of his beloved crashing to the ground. He sprang to its side, completely hysterical. The Rangers wasted no time in beating feet from the room, more afraid for their lives than they ever had been in a great while. Even Monterey felt that Cat Street was like walk in the park compared to this utterly demented mouse. The Count’s howl of agony would be to remembered by the Rangers present forever, to always haunt their nightmares and moments alone in the dark. It wailed like nothing they had ever heard, like the souls of the damned ringing in their brains, seeking for a release from their torment, yet cruelly aware that none would ever be quartered. The receding door behind them was splintered from its hinges, the Count stumbling through in a maddened rage, any last traces of sanity torn asunder and the shreds scattered to the four winds. “YOU KILLED HER!!!” The Count’s accusation rebounded about the fleeing Rangers. For a moment, panic fully settled in, barring any hope of rationale thought from their minds. All they knew was that they had to run -- to escape from the creature behind them who would surely rip their hearts out should he catch up to them. They struggled blindly in the grip of terror for a moment, then Monterey managed to break free. “Where to?” he yelled as they raced down the hallway. Not the window! Zipper replied in frenzied series of squeaks. We’d never find it in time! “Follow me!’ Gadget called out. “I remember how to get to the front door from here!” “By all the powers in my command,” the Count’s voice roared down on them mercilessly, “STOP THEM!” The house seemed to come alive. Had they not already been pushed past their endurance level for this stress, the Rangers would have realized that all that was happening was a series of complex traps being tirggered. Cyan had, after all, mentioned sliding doors and their ilk to Gadget earlier. But in the Rangers’ present state of mind, logical thought was nowhere to be found, and thus, to them, the Count had called forth his personal demons to stop them. Age-old metal spikes dropped through slots in the ceiling, attempting to skewer the fleeing heros. One section of the hallway slid open to allow a giant iron plate to be forced through with massive force, barely missing them and crushing the small end table opposite into a pile of kindling. The floor in front of them grew a mouth, opening wide to swallow them whole. Monterey and Gadget didn’t falter, thankfully, and launched themselves clear of the gaping maw leading to some infernal abyss. They rolled on the carpet, and came up running, not even bothering to look behind them anymore. The end of the hallway which opened out into the main foyer loomed ahead of them, and Gadget’s eyes brightened. “That’s it!” she exclaimed, pointing ahead to the beckoning light. “There’s a set of stairs just around the corner that’ll take us right to the front door!” Her face dropped at the same time the iron-bound portcullis did, blocking them off from the escape. “No!” Monterey cursed, tugging uselessly at the gate, while Zipper tired unsuccessfully to fit through one of the holes. They risked a glance over their shoulders, to see the Count barreling down on them, deftly avoiding the remains of his own traps, his already dubious grasp on stability gone with the passing breeze. All he cared about now was their deaths. “I can’t budge this thing!” Monterey yelled, gripping it so tightly that he was scraping the fur from his paws. “Wait a minute!” Gadget said, an idea hitting her. “It needs to have a release valve, which locks it into place!’ Without another word her eyes darted about the end of the portcullis, stopping when they spotted a metal spring latch in the upper right corner. She leapt onto the portcullis, yanked it back with all her might, barely getting it to clear the locked position. “Now, Monty!” Monty hoisted the portcullis up a bit, which inadvertently knocked Gadget off and to the floor. The latch sprang back, but was too far up to lock back into position, with a heave, Monterey shoved the portcullis fully up into its slot in the ceiling. “Behind you!” Zipper screamed out in warning. Monterey knew better than to turn around; instead, he threw himself forward with a twist, so he landed on his back, putting him out of range of the lunging swordtip which would have ran him through had he stayed in place. The Count tumbled forward a bit, losing his balance, and Monterey capitalized on it by kicking out the other’s legs out from underneath him. The Count crashed to the floor, but rebounded almost instantly, hand gripping the handle of his sword so tightly that his knuckles were showing white through the fur. Zipper shot by, grabbing the Count’s tail and spinning the mouse about, disorienting him enough for Monterey to scramble to his feet. Before anyone could do anything else, the Count was knocked flat by Gadget, who had launched herself into a shoulder block, sideswiping the unsuspecting mouse. Nobody bothered with congratulations as the three Rangers bounded down the stairs, the front door now easily in sight. Of course, even if they got through, the Count would still be after them, but somehow escaping this castle seemed to be all that mattered, as if the Count’s madness wouldn’t let him go beyond its boundaries. As they reached base of the stairs, the Count’s avenging cry from above brought their attention back around. The mouse hadn’t even bothered with stairs, instead leaping clear of the banister from the second level, and hitting the ground running. If the landing hurt, he certainly didn’t show it. Another impossible bound and he was on top of Monterey, wrestling the larger mouse to the ground, then snapping his sword up for the final blow. Gadget had darted to the podium she had first seen the Count by and with a tremendous effort lobbed the heavy book which had rested upon it through the air, catching the sword broadside, the inertia knocking the blade free from the Count’s hand. Zipper followed it up with a powerful dive, driving his fists directly into the Count’s face. The mouse jerked back, but snapped his now free sword hand around, belting Zipper squarely in the chest, and dropping the fly like a lead weight. Monterey’s own massive hands came up, tossing the Count off to the side, while Monterey scrambled to put himself between the Count and the fallen sword. The Count, however, was more than eager to tear Monterey to shreds bare-handed. Monterey was stunned by the sheer berserk rage that the other was displaying, not bothering to hide any of his attacks as he lunged and charged, his hatred burning as fiercely as a brush fire. The Count made a sudden feint to one side, the dashed around Monterey heading for his fallen sword. Monterey dove at the Count from behind, knowing it would be all over should the Count’s sword come back into play. The Count managed to get out of reach of Monterey’s tackle, but not his tail. As Monterey came down, he yanked and pulled the Count’s tail down and underneath him, snatching the lighter mouse free from his feet, and away from the sword. Zipper, having recovered, immediately followed it up by swooping in and snatching the sword, hoisting it up and heaving it over the top banister, placing it well out of reach. Monterey’s ploy had a serious drawback, however, which he was now experiencing first-hand: he had pulled the Count right back into his face, and the large Ranger was struggling to keep the enraged opponent from ripping out an eye, tearing off his mustache, or some other painful disfigurement. A muffled *THUMP* was heard, and the Count’s form went limp. It took Monterey a few seconds to notice, but when he finally did, he gasped to catch his breath as he forced himself to a sitting position, sliding the body of the Count off to the side. Gadget, breathing heavily, was leaning for support on the large book she had retrieved and used as an impromptu club. She managed a weak smile. “Chip always said a good book could put you out like a light.” “Too right, luv,” Monterey chuckled, taking a moment to let his nerves settle back into place. He looked up at her and smiled. “Thanks Gadget.” Gadget’s smile was full this time as she helped him to his feet. “Just a little o’ mechanic doin’ her job,” she answered in a slight southern accent. Zipper flew down to them both and motioned that they had best make haste while they had the opportunity. He pointed out that they would have to go back upstairs and attempt to leave the same way that Monterey and he had come in. Walking down the middle of the Edge wasn’t very advisable right now. “Good idea, Zip,” Gadget said, then glanced to the front door. She remembered her kidnapers having mentioned something about having cameras around the parking level, then remembered Cyan’s own comment about video surveillance in the halls of this very mansion, as well. She brought it up with her teammates who nodded glumly. “Strict told us as much,” Monterey said. Gadget blinked. “You know Strict?” “Unfortunately, yes.” Zipper politely motioned that they should be talking as they *moved.* No telling when the Count would regain consciousness. Monterey and Gadget sheepishly nodded and followed the fly as they all quickly made their way back up the stairs to the window Monterey and Zipper had first gained access to. They expediently exited the castle, returned to the upper rafters of the Edge, and started heading back towards the vent which had brought them all here. As they went, Gadget explained what Cyan had told her, and Monterey and Zipper related their own discovery of the hidden camera near the location of her abduction. The monstrous fight between Strict and the male Rangers unnerved Gadget a bit, but Monterey and Zipper were equally surprised to learn that Gadget had sympathy for the rat, nevertheless. After she relayed to them the same horror story that Cyan had spoke to her about, however, even they had to admit it was hard not to feel some compassion towards the rodent. “It certainly explains why he snapped when I made that mention of his dad,” Monterey noted, a bit abashed. He sighed and swallowed his current aches and pains -- they weren’t out of the woods yet. Zipper gestured to the others that they needed to figure out how to find Chip and Dale, but without being discovered, themselves. “That’s right,” Gadget frowned. “No telling where they all are.” “And when laughing boy back there wakes up,” Monterey added, “you can bet the first place he’ll run to is the monitoring room. Or watchtower. Or whatever he calls his little voyeur vista.” Well, Zipper’s thoughtful pose suggested, there’s one place that we know *isn’t* monitored. Monterey and Gadget looked at him blankly, until Monterey realized what his pal was inferring. “You have *got* to be kiddin’, mate.” Try me, Zipper smirked. Monterey sighed, but couldn’t think of an alternative. “Monty?” Gadget inquired carefully, her eyes wide with worry. “I sure hope that Cyan’s buddies really like you, luv,” Monterey replied, “because they sure ain’t gonna welcome me and Zip back with open arms.” * * * “Any luck?” Chip asked hopefully, even though his drained voice was a clear indication as to what answer he was expecting. Foxglove shook her head in dismay as she landed next to him. “I’m sorry, Chip. Nothing yet.” Chip let out a long breath. Each minute that went by without any sign of his friends was wearing on his resistance. He had the fortitude to last as long as it took to find them, but that didn’t mean he wanted it to last any longer than absolutely necessary. Dale glumly looked out over the vast array of intermingling shadows, shafts, and wiring. The interior of the walls of this place held a great deal more hiding places than he would have thought. He briefly considered it a prime arena to hold a World Champion Hide-n-Seek Tournament, if it wasn’t for the fact that one wrong move and a contestant could wind up being captured by the research staff and tossed in a cage. Then again, that might just make it all the more interesting. Shifting his attention back to their search, he let out a heavy sigh. The sleep he had gotten had boosted his energy level again, but he -- and Chip -- hadn’t eaten anything for ages, it seemed. On the plus side, however, ever since they had successfully gotten Foxglove back, his spirits had been remarkably higher. With that bat by his side, he had no doubts that they’d triumph against any odds life threw at them. Absent-mindedly, he smiled at the thought. “Maybe we should move up to the next level?” Foxglove suggested to Chip, who was looking about them consternatlely. The fedora-topped chipmunk glanced over at her and acquiesced. “Yeah, might as well,” he grumbled, “we’ve pretty much checked this whole floor.” He knew, of course, that they probably missed a million and one possible spots, but they didn’t have a choice except to keep moving. They could spend over eight hours looking through one floor, and with over twenty more to check, time was just not going to allow it. Dale and Foxglove fell into step behind Chip has he led the way up one of the wooden beams, moving up towards the next floor. Chip had just placed one paw on the wood when Foxglove grabbed his shoulder with a start. “I hear something,” she whispered urgently, her eyes wide with alarm. Since they had been working around a multitude of sounds since they entered, Chip reasoned that this new sound was one that was not normally present... like another animal moving about. The trio froze in place while Foxglove’s keen ears swiveled and perked, trying to locate the direction of the sound, and possibly even hazard a guess as to the source. Dale’s eyes scanned the area immediately around them, half expecting some sort of ambush of ninjas or mutant lab animals to pop out, straight out of own of his favorite horror flicks. A moment later and Foxglove silently motioned to the air vent behind them, back about a foot and three feet overhead. “Sounds like a few sets of feet are moving in there,” she quietly informed the chipmunks. “They aren’t trying to hide their passage, so maybe they don’t know we’re here.” Chip’s mind ricocheted a number of possibilities off of each other, but they all dealt with someone getting into that vent, and unfortunately, no readily accessible grillwork or other openings were visible. That matter was promptly resolved, however, when a section of the air vent slid open, revealing a short, somewhat cross-looking chipmunk within. “You three,” he announced to them, seeming a bit annoyed for some unknown reason. “Get up here.” “We aren’t supposed to go in air vents with strange chipmunks,” Foxglove replied uncertainly. “Hey, watch that,” Dale said defensively. Behind the unfamiliar chipmunk, a large mouse stepped into view and waved heartily to the trio below. “Hey there, mates!” Monterey called out cheerfully, tossing out the end of a rope, letting it dangle down to a crossbeam about a foot below the vent. “Monty!” Chip, Dale and Foxglove cried cheerfully, all the stress and weariness in their limbs evaporating at the sight of their friend. Quickly, they sprinted off to him, Foxglove flying directly up to meet the Ranger while Chip and Dale scampered with ease up the proffered line hanging from the opening. As they neared the top, Chip felt his heart skip a beat as he heard Foxglove yell, “Gadget!” Reflexively, he expertly flipped up and over the edge, coming to land on his feet and facing Foxglove and Gadget sharing a warm hug. Gadget glanced over at the new arrival, and her face broke into a brilliant grin. “Chipper!” she sang, darting over and embracing him in a tight, relentless hug. For his own part, Chip’s legs weren’t able to function, the neurons usually slotted for the job having been shanghaied by the synapses fired in response to handle the sudden, overwhelming relief and joy Chip felt at seeing Gadget alive and well. And in his arms, no less. He pressed her closely to him, breathing in the scent of her hair as if it was the only source of oxygen on the planet. Her own arms crushed him even closer to her, as if they were attempting to merge the two of them into an inseparable physical form. Chip didn’t even bother trying to say anything; he merely closed his eyes and let the feeling of bliss wash over him like a wave of cool water on a hot summer day. As they pulled back, they looked longingly into each others eyes, and on impulse, Chip gave Gadget a quick peek on the nose. “Heya, hon,” he said warmly through his smile. Gadget blushed deeply, and glanced down shyly. “You too, Chip,” she breathed softly. “You have any idea how much I was worried about what had happened to you?” Chip lightly tilted her head up to gaze into her baby blues. “Maybe almost as much as I was worried about you?” Dale grinned triumphantly. “Ha! I knew you were lying when you said you weren’t worried!” Chip didn’t bother to argue. Instead, he took the moment to hug Gadget strongly once more. Her hugs were the most therapeutic things God had ever granted life on Earth with, purging all of his previous stress, worries, and doubts in one fell swoop. They parted once more as Gadget giggled, and then bit her lower lip lightly. Her head was slightly cast to the floor, but her eyes were still looking at Chip, her trusting gaze seeming even more soothing as it filtered through her eyelashes. Every time he saw her, she seemed to grow even more radiant. It was uncanny. “If you’re all through eyeballing each other now,” Cyan stated bluntly, “can we get moving? No telling if the Count will be out here looking for you guys himself, or just send some of the nuts in the Edge.” Zipper flew over to the group from down the vent and signaled that the coast was clear; nobody had followed them. “How’d you find us, anyway?” Dale asked. “Cyan and his mates have cameras and the like wired throughout this place,” Monterey explained with a grin. “Once you moved into a monitored area, he led us up here.” “We’ll have to take refuge in their place for a while, too,” Gadget commented. “It’s one of the few spots that we know of where the Count doesn’t have surveillance.” “The Count?” Dale asked. “You mean that guy from ‘Sesame Street’?” “I wish,” Cyan remarked darkly, then headed off, leading the reunited Rangers back to the new safehouse. Despite the fact that the Rangers still were far from the completion of this mission, each of them felt a distinct surge of optimism, rekindled by their reunification. They were too content at the moment to even give the obligatory back stories of what had transpired. That started when they returned to humble living space of Cyan, Arc, and Strict at the far end of the Edge. “...and we left him unconscious on the floor,” Gadget finished, a bit uncomfortable that she had been forced to harm someone else, but Monterey’s life was at stake; she didn’t have a choice. Still, it bothered her, and she shifted self-consciously in her sitting position on the floor. “And this guy hasn’t tried to come after you?” Chip asked, incredulous. He was slowly pacing the length of the room, the urge to move stimulated by all the facts pouring in from the others. Gadget couldn’t help a fond smile as she watched him. “We don’t even know if he’s awake yet,” she answered with a shrug. “And,” Cyan piped up, “even if he is awake, he’s probably searching the building through the video feeds in his little watchtower. He’d contact us the minute he spotted you.” “Why you?” Dale asked. He was sitting against the side wall, one arm over Foxglove. For her own part, the bat wasn’t too concerned over the discussion currently going on. She had been so frightened at the thought of never seeing Dale again that now she was determined to relish in the simple and reassuring fact that he was, indeed, right here next to her, as warm and furry and snugly as she remembered. From his perch on the top of a shelving unit, Zipper thought he heard Foxglove purring, but couldn’t be sure. Cyan sat back in the rickety chair opposite of the lovebirds, pointedly ignoring Foxglove’s Public Display of Affection as he answered Dale’s question. “There really aren’t any others here that could follow out the Count’s decrees. At least, not without a major risk of failure. The three of us,” he indicated Strict and Arc behind him -- Strict’s extensive injuries were being tended to by his half-sister, who shot Monterey a dirty look every now and then, “are the only ones who can do his legwork. Dominic might be able to, but he’s so friggin’ nice that even the Count knows the spider’d just as likely let you escape.” Arc snorted. “That, and I don’t think that the Count wants to get to close to a wolf spider, regardless of how docile Dom might be. Part of that self-preservation deal, y’know?” Now it was Monterey’s turn to snort derisively. He leaned back against the wall near the front, having taken a position a good distance away from Strict and Arc, mainly to block Arc’s withering glares. “He’s gone by now,” he stated authoritatively. “Mentally, I mean. He was outta his gourd when he came after us. I dunno if he’s even gonna stick to his own erratic pattern, or go completely off the scales.” “If he thinks his wife is dead, he probably will,” Chip noted pensively. “From what you’ve told me, Terica -- the dummy of her, anyway -- was the keystone for what little sanity remained.” Everyone shifted, unsettled at the fact that the Count had go so far as to fashion a replica of Terica, to fill the void in his delicately woven delusions. Zipper and Cyan, though, shared an inward relief; they both realized that those objects in the attic were not the actual bodies of anyone, but far more likely to have been more mannequins that the Count crafted on his own, to fuel his own warped sense of the world. Ironically, it was as if some agreement which was not only unspoken, but also unacknowledged, existed between Monterey, Gadget, Cyan, and Zipper. They all knew about existence of those figures under the sheets, but none of them would bring up the subject. Almost as if they all subconsciously agreed that some things were better left unsaid, at the very least until this nightmare was far, far behind them. Cyan shook his head in despair. “I guess I should’ve seen this coming. The Count had to break at some point.” “Do you...” Gadget started, then hesitated. She looked up to Cyan. “Do you think he’ll take out his anger out the people living here?” Cyan knew what she was alluding to; while it was doubtfully that those figures in the attic were anything but dummies, they had never checked to be certain. “I don’t know,” he finally admitted. “I mean, if he was as nuts as you say he was, then anything is possible right now.” Strict grunted as Arc replaced one of his bandages. “Maybe he’ll slip back into the thought that she’s okay, again. I mean, c’mon, we’re talking about a fruit who went from havin’ a nonexistent wife to havin’ nonexistent kids.” Chip frowned. “I don’t feel comfortable trying to second-guess someone who’s in the throes of a madness like the Count. Professor Nimnul you could make some logical assumptions of, because while twisted, he still followed certain patterns. With the Count....” Chip trailed off and shook his head. Dale looked forlornly at the floor, that snapped his head up. “Hey! Dr. Speck is up on the roof! Maybe he could tell us what to do with the Count!” “Blimey Dale,” Monterey said, coming off the wall with a trace of hope, “that might be just what the doctor ordered -- so to speak.” “As much as I hate to throw cold water on your parade,” Chip announced morosely, “it’s not like we just have to worry about one guy, here.” “Whattaya you talkin’ ‘bout?” Strict queried. Chip smiled slightly. “We didn’t come here for sight-seeing, Strict. It was all part of a larger case. A criminal by the name of Osiris has been kidnaped by another group of criminals who happen to want him dead. Well, I take that back; from the way Raset was acting, Osiris will probably be tortured first, then killed.” “Osiris?” Arc asked. “So, he’s reformed or something? That’s why you’re after him?” Dale gave a short raspberry at the ludicrousity of the thought. “Nah, Arc -- this Osi guy is still the same two-bit crook he always was. He’d probably sell us to this lab here as soon as give us a friendly ‘howdy-doo.’” “And this other group,” Gadget added, “is pretty much the same way. Only they hate Osiris more than us.” “So...” Cyan started, “you’re out to save a hardened criminal from other hardened criminals?” Pretty much, Zipper affirmed with a chuckle. The three denizens of the Edge glanced at each other in mild confusion. Finally Cyan turned to face Chip, and spoke for his friends: “Why?” Chip gave Cyan a slightly baffled look, as if the other had inquired about the secret knowledge behind making a sandwich. “Because it’s the right thing to do,” Chip answered at length, puzzled. His tone made it crystal clear that he never even considered that any other option even existed. For their own part, the Edge trio were bewildered. The Rangers were risking their lives to save the life of someone who obviously wasn’t even worth rehabilitating? Someone who probably wanted them all dead, no less? It takes all kinds, they thought to themselves. “But, like I said,” Chip went on, “we were here looking for clues.” “For what?” Arc pitched. Normally she wasn’t all that interested in conversation, but these people had been the first ones to the Edge who could carry on a regular conversation in years, and she was surprised to find that she was actually enjoying it. “One of Raset’s goons,” Dale informed them. “Real nasty guy.” “Strong blighter, too,” Monterey put in, a bit darkly. “No telling how many necks he snapped before we meet him, either.” Zipper noticed from his vantage point something interesting; Foxglove wasn’t shivering. Surely she knew that Dale and Monterey were talking about Glyph, who had practically had her petrified with fear that night in the fishing shack when he kidnaped her. But Foxglove didn’t show the slightest trace of lingering fear, or even the slightest hint of nervousness. In it’s place, Zipper was shocked to see honest-to-goodness sadness. If Zipper didn’t know Foxglove better, he would have sworn that she felt sorry for her abductor. “His name was Glyph,” Chip informed their hosts. “He was--” “Oh,” Cyan interrupted, nodding. “You mean the giant armadillo up on the sixteenth floor. Huh. I was wondering what happened to him after he burrowed off.” The Rangers’ eyes grew to disproportionate sizes. “You knew him?” Gadget asked in surprise. “Well,” Cyan shrugged, “not personally. We just broke him out, is all.” “Broke him out?!” Chip exclaimed. “You mean that was you?” “Sharp, ain’t he?’ Strict chortled, then stopped, as it started to hurt. “But why?” Gadget asked. “Why did you want to free Glyph?” “We were paid to,” Cyan replied with a shrug. “At least, paid in the sense that the Count got us some new equipment. The Count acts as our agent, I guess you could say. He’ll tell us that someone on the outside wants some sort of listening device or remote camera, we whip it up, give it to the Count, who then hands it over to the client in exchange for various items and gear that he both pays us off which and ‘enriches’ his own house with.” “So...” Dale started, trying to keep on track with the others, “someone paid you guys to free Glyph?” He paused. “Any idea who?” Cyan shook his head. “The Count doesn’t bother telling us stuff like that.” He snorted and looked to Gadget. “All about keeping us in the dark, y’know?” Gadget shivered a bit in understanding and nodded. “I saw the guy once,” Arc mentioned causally, as if talking about last weekend’s football schedule. “I was in Castle Koo-Koo, doing our monthly maintenance check and diagnostics on the Count’s watchtower, and I spotted this guy talking with the Count in one of the rooms. Some lizard guy.” Chip felt himself grinding his teeth before he fully realized it. “A chameleon?” Arc thought for a moment. “I think so, yeah, actually. I figured he was just one of the Count’s contacts. He said he needed some muscle for the job, anyway.” “Whoa,” Monterey straightened up. “You heard ‘em, too?” “Well, duh,” Arc rolled her eyes. “Most of the rooms in that place are wired, and I was bored, so I flipped it on.” “Well, what’d they say?” Dale said, sitting up in anticipation. Foxglove beamed at him; he always knew just the right questions to ask. Arc shrugged, obviously more concerned with making sure her half-brother’s wounds were properly taken care of than relaying a dull conversation. “Just some boring posturing macho stuff. The Count talking about how his subjects loved him--” Strict and Cyan shook their heads “--and the like. The reptile really didn’t say that much, come to think of it, just about the price being worth it or something.” Chip was absent-mindedly tapping his knuckles against his opposite palm, his brain a bit off-kilter as his anger surfaced over failing to see the connection. Glyph mysteriously escapes from his cage -- who would have benefited most from it? Raset not only would have, but also did -- Chip berated himself for missing what he considered the obvious. After all, with Glyph on Raset’s side, the lizard could not only threaten Sewer Al, but back it up. He should have seen this the moment he knew that Raset had employed the giant armadillo! “Oh,” Arc added after a moment’s pause, snapping Chip free from his self-ruminations, “the Count did say something like ‘I would like to visit your dwelling for tea, but my wife is very ill, and requires constant care. Perhaps when it opens again in the summer.’ Or something stupid like that.” “Did the they actually mention where it was?” Chip asked, hoping for the best. But Arc shook her head. “Not so far as I could hear. The Count seemed intrigued by it, though, so it’s not just some hole in the wall.” “What do you mean?” Gadget asked. Strict spoke up. “The Count fancies himself as some high-born nobleman. He’s only interested in places of so-called culture.” Cyan nodded. “Of course, he’s mad, so we’re never really sure what counts as culture and what doesn’t.” The group fell into an uneasy silence, not sure which way to go. Strict and Arc weren’t too terribly worried. They had nothing really to lose. The Count’s watchtower wasn’t wired to anywhere near their little shack -- they had been extensively careful to ensue that. The Count was likely going through another mental breakdown as his little world tried to cope with the invasions, attack on his “wife,” and loss of his “daughter” -- again. The siblings surmised that the maddened mouse wouldn’t be coherent for a while, yet, and when he finally readjusted to his malfunctioning operating system, he’d seek them out to find the intruders. Strict was sorely tempted to betray Monterey over to his insane boss; that crack about Strict’s father still cut deep, regardless if Monterey actually meant anything behind it. But, he disliked the Count even more, and the coarse Aussie might still be useful, given that he was directly opposed to the Count, it seemed. Strict was confident he could leverage the animosity that the Count held for Monterey to his advantage. Arc, on the other hand, was more concerned in making sure her half-brother healed up. Monterey had probably banged the rat up worse than Arc had ever seen before, and the last thing she wanted was for her younger half-brother to egg the Ranger on into another fight, just to prove some juvenile machoism. Cyan was more keen as to the real danger, however. The Count had been balancing on a very narrow ledge for several years; only the fact that he believed his wife to be alive had been the lynchpin to his feeble grasp of reality. If the Count now believed that his wife had been “killed” in the escape that Gadget, Zipper, and Monterey made... well, trying to predict the actions of a psychotic mastermind was never advised, but Cyan felt pretty sure that all the possible outcomes were horrendously bad. He had never know Terica, but he felt a bit of relief that she wasn’t really lying up in the bed, but had merely been a facsimile. That relief was further boosted by the knowledge that it seemed likely that those other figures he had stumbled across had also, in fact, merely been skilled recreations, and not actually the husks of the Champions. Of course, he wouldn’t know for sure unless he snuck back into the mansion, crept up into the stillness of the attic, and pulled off the dustcloths to stare into those glassy, lifeless eyes.... Cyan shuddered. Even if they were fake, he’d never want to find out for sure. Not like that, at any rate. But for all of the his worrying, it was pittance completed to the heavy matters the weighed on the collective minds of the Rangers. Zipper kept a watch out of the cracks near the roof; this whole experience had him expecting to see an unruly mob marching towards the hut, complete with burning torches and rakes right out of the old "Frankenstein" film. Fortunately, he was wrong; all was quiet on the western front. A mob marching towards them would have been a welcome change of pace for Monterey; he far preferred straightforward problems that he could tangibly punch. But, he also knew that he was in no shape for another fight. Gadget had tended to the most grievous of his wounds, but what he really needed now was rest, and a tall glass of extra-thick cheese sauce. He glanced over at Strict again, and was reminded of another problem -- it was obvious that Strict wasn’t about to either forgive or forget about that comment Monterey had made considering the rat’s father. Monterey almost had to chuckle at the irony; Strict didn’t mind the fact that Monterey had nearly killed him, but he was incredibly bitter about one offhanded remark. Gadget’s own concerns, as always, were settled firmly on those besides herself. She just couldn’t get those people of the Edge out of her thoughts; that sight of Jar, looking utterly hopeless as he sat listlessly on the floor was still unnervingly sharp in her mind. She remembered dozens of others that she had met over her vigorous career as a Ranger, from the simplest informant to the most hardened criminal. Each and every single one of them had always had some complaint about their life. Someone had cheated them, or they didn’t do as well on that job interview as they thought, or the drapes clashed with the sofa... didn’t any of them realize how incredibly lucky they all had been? Gadget almost felt guilty for having such a wonderful, wonderful life. A loving and giving father, a chance to actually say goodbye to him, caring and close friends, a place to come home to, the ability to use both her hands without restrictions, the chance to try and make this world a better place for others... the list was unending. She steeled her resolve, then. These people deserved a better life. Everyone did. Somehow, she’d find a way to get everyone out of here, and into the sunshine of the world. That’s what Rangers do, she mentally affirmed. Dale and Foxglove weren’t so much as pondering possible complications as much as just basking in the ability to be together again. Dale had been scared to death that he had lost Foxglove for good, that the brightest light in his life had been snuffed out without so much as a warning. Just getting a chance to hold her close in his arms again and inhale the rich scent of her fur was highly intoxicating, and he relished in every moment of it. Foxglove, herself, was thinking a great deal more clearly now that she felt Dale’s arms wrapped around her. The security and warmth that his body lent her always seemed to magically lift away any traces of confusion or befuddlement that she may have been struggling under. Thanks to her snugly-kins presence, she was able to dwell fully on the enigmatic Glyph. That talk she had with him lingered within her mind, in particular the end of the discussion; how he had seemed to wrestle with something inside himself before turning away from her. Now that she had been returned safely to Dale’s protective embrace, Foxglove felt herself finally beginning to understand her feelings over the whole ordeal. She didn’t hate Glyph, or even fear him. She didn’t know what armadillos were actually like -- she had never met one before. But Glyph, she suspected, was like her. Foxglove recalled with vivid clarity how she had willfully and eagerly worked for Winifred, the would-be witch, and assisted in thefts and other crimes in the attempt to achieve that goal. It hadn’t been until Dale had entered her life through a happenstance encounter, him falling through the air as surly as she had fallen for him, that she had managed to escape to a better life. Now, as she looked at Glyph, she saw herself, in those years before she met Dale. Working with others out if a need for acceptance. She closed her eyes as she remembered the things she had called him before even knowing him: Evil. Monster. Horrible. As a bat, she had heard of those used against her without justification, and was now throughly ashamed that she had so callously treated another in that exact same manner. Dale wasn’t sure why Foxglove had snuggled up closer to him, but she seemed to need his strength now more than ever. He was only too happy to oblige. The only person in the room who was activily moving was Chip. He paced steadily, totally oblivious to his current surroundings as his analytical mind rebounded from one steadfast problem to another; finding Raset’s hideout, this Count character, how to handle Glyph, the compromised security of the Ranger tree, trying to save Osiris -- assuming the mouse was even still alive. Chip sighed deeply. No, he was sure Osiris was still kicking. Raset had struck Chip as the type to fully enjoy revenge, making sure that the victim had plenty of chances to plead their case, solely so Raset could cheerfully deny them all before handling down his verdict on the other’s guilt or innocence. But beyond that, things only became more complicated. They didn’t even know where to start looking for Raset. Stones City was huge for a human, and ten times more so for a mouse-sized adversary. Glyph’s size might eliminate a few places, but there was no guarantee that Glyph was staying with Raset all of the time. The Rangers also would have to find a way to deal with Glyph. The armored opponent was simply too much for them. Gadget might be able to construct something to even the odds, but even then, it was still a risky proposition picking a fight with an opponent that outweighed them by over 160 pounds. Sewer Al might be able to balance the scales, but nobody had any clue where the wizened ‘gator had gone to since that initial fight in his dwelling. And, of course, that wasn’t even counting Raset’s other allies, Horus and Lady Vitae. Chip wasn’t entirely sure, either, on where their loyalties laid. They seemed to be working with Raset willingly enough, and not under the influence of any brainwashing so far as he could tell. Osiris was genuinely shocked, however, that they would be working in tandem with Raset in order to kill the mouse. Too many enemies, Chip thought glumly, not enough allies. “We need some way to balance out Glyph,” he announced suddenly, as if some part of his brain had made its decision and was now about to run with it. “How?” Dale snorted. “That guy’s like fifteen Fat Cats all together. Both in size and meanness.” “He’s not that mean, Dale.” The Ranger’s stared at Foxglove -- *she,* of all people, had said that? “What?” the bat asked innocently. “Foxy, lass,” Monterey stated, “yer actually *defending’* that guy?” “Well, I wouldn’t say that,” Foxglove said a bit uncertainly. “I’m just... well... I just think that we shouldn’t be too judgmental of him.” “Foxglove,” Chip explained, “that *is* defending him.” “Oh.” She paused to think about this, then shrugged. “Then I guess I am.” Dale couldn’t help but smile at her. He had always been worried about her aversion to armadillos, and it seemed odd to him, considering how generally congenial she was to everyone else. Apparently, she just didn’t hold it in her heart to harbor a grudge. Dale gave her a proud kiss on the cheek, completely startling her. Foxglove blushed beneath her fur and scooted up even closer to Dale, her confidence in her decision bolstered. “He stopped by and talked to me,” she went on to explain. “And I don’t know for sure, but he seemed... distressed over something. I mean, I’ve heard you guys talk about Fat Cat and Nimnul, and you know how Victoria acts around her captives, but Glyph... Glyph seemed like he was doing this because he didn’t have any choice, or something. Like-- like he gave his word or something.” Gently, absent-mindedly, Foxglove’s wingtip brushed against the Indian charm around her neck; she was starting to wonder if it had helped her out of her own preconceived notions about armadillos -- Dale said it was supposed to drive away the evil spirits, and her unwarranted fear of armadillos certainly seemed to fall into that category. Dale’s eyes lit up as a thought fell into his brain. “Hey... Chip?” Chip looked to his best friend. “What?” “Remember how we were talking to Cyril upstairs, before? How she was kinda bummed because they had been such good friends and all?” “Yeah....” Chip said slowly, trying to see where Dale was going with this. “Well, it reminds me of this one comic I was reading before -- see, the villain was only helping out another villain because the first villain had a friend who needed medicine to live, see, and so--” “Oh,” Cyan interrupted, “you think that Glyph is going along with this Raset character because it will somehow help out Cyril?” Dale blinked at the interruption, but nodded. “Well, yeah.” Cyan nodded. “Okay, yeah, you’re right. At least it explains a few things.” “Come again?” Monterey asked. “The Count told us to leave all of the equipment we had set up to free Glyph in place, because we would need to use again soon thereafter,” Cyan replied, settling back. “He must have meant Cyril.” “Golly,” Gadget said, “so Glyph is working in return for Cyril’s own freedom?” “Well, it’ll be hard to accomplish that now,” Strict added from his corner. “Hmm?” Chip asked, turning to face that sitting rat. “The cops found that VCR we had rigged up inside the wall, to bypass the security cameras,” Strict answered. “Oh sure, we can still bust Cyril out, but they’ll know the second that the gate opens. No way we can patch a new bypass video feed to the security desk anytime soon.” Zipper squeaked up from the ceiling, then, reminding the rest of the Rangers that Cyril might be the best defense against Glyph. He brought up the case Dale had dubbed “Gorilla My Dreams” as proof. “Zipper’s right, Chip,” Gadget said in agreement. “Koo-Koo only helped Fat Cat because she thought Dale was in trouble. When she saw both Boots and Dale were okay, she knew she didn’t have to co-operate anymore with Fat Cat.” “So when Glyph sees that Cyril is already free,” Chip replied thoughtfully, “he’ll know he won’t have to help out Raset anymore.” “And take him out of the fight without anyone getting hurt,” Gadget noted with a bright smile. She liked it when that was the outcome. “Or better yet,” Monterey grinned, “the bloke might join our side.” “Maybe,” Chip said, though he didn’t seem convinced. “It’s a long shot, though, guys. This is all hinging on the fact that Glyph is helping out Raset in return for Cyril’s promised freedom.” “I think it’s worth it to try, Chip,” Foxglove softly said. “I... I’d vouch for Glyph in this case.” Foxglove putting her faith behind an armadillo that had kidnaped her not more than 36 hours ago, Chip thought to himself with amazement. And respect. Will wonders never cease? “Okay, then,” Chip shrugged and nodded, finally coming to a halt in his pacing. He turned to Cyan. “You think you wiretappers can spring Cyril’s cage door, then?” “Wiretappers,” Arc echoed from the back. She grinned. “I like that term.” “Yeah,” Strict added with a smug smile. “Good call, sis.” “Yeah, we can,” Cyan stated with a sigh, “but it won’t do any good. Last time we got Glyph out because the guards weren’t able to see us as we moved Glyph out of the lab, into the elevator, and down to the parking levels.” “It’s not like she can fit behind the walls, either,” Strict pointed out. “I mean, she could, but she couldn’t move around like we do.” “Wait a minute,” Chip suddenly said, his head snapping up in realization. “You said the Count had a watchtower, or something?” “Well, yeah,” Cyan confirmed. “It’s linked to a vast array of cameras and the like throughout the building.” “Around the floor of the animal labs?” “Yeah. We even put in a few more before Glyph was broken out.” Chip glanced around at the huge amount of video and audio equipment in the shack. “Gadget, do you think you could rig up a set of headphones like we have in the Ranger Relay Van?” Gadget glanced about and perked up. “Golly, Chip, I doubt it’ll be a problem.” She blushed lightly. “Uhm, that is, assuming the... ‘Wiretappers’ don’t mind me borrowing some of their equipment?” she asked politely of her hosts. The trio she addressed waved the matter aside. They found Gadget to be a refreshing breath of fresh air from the stale confines of their habitant. Letting her dip into their supplies was the least they could do in return for her unconscientious boosting of their morale. “What’d you have in mind?” Cyan asked Chip. “We’d have a better chance of getting Cyril out of we can keep track of the humans in the building,” Chip responded with a knowing grin. “And if they’re own system is on the blink.” “On the blink?” Arc asked, then it dawned on her. “Oh, I get it; we’ll disable their video cables at the security desk, right?” “Right,” Chip nodded. “We’ll base our operation out of the watchtower, where one of you Wiretappers--” Arc, Strict, and Cyan grinned; they really liked that name for their little group “--can monitor the whole situation. Dale and I will work with another one of you to free Cyril. Another group will disrupt the human’s own security system. We all keep in contact through the headphones. The person in the watchtower will act as the central nervous system, allowing us to stay a step ahead of the humans.” “Two problems, though,” Strict grumbled. “First, where are you gonna put Cyril?” Chip smiled. “We get her to the ground floor, and then slip into the walls through one of the plumbing access hallways.” “What?” Dale asked, completely at a loss. “It’s the hallway that leads behind the restrooms,” Chip replied, “so plumbers can get to the piping of all the sinks and toilets easily. The walls are wider down here on the ground floor, so Cyril can work her way through to the rear of the building and slip out that way. They’ll be expecting her to escape the say way as Glyph, so we’ll just use an alternate route.” “Okay, that’s settled, but that still leaves a major problem,” Strict started, but Chip held up his hand. “I know what you’re thinking,” the leader of the Rangers stated calmly. “How to use the watchtower when the Count is around, right?” “Well, yeah,” Strict chuckled. “He’s not the friendly sort when it comes to strangers using his private room and all.” “The Count won’t even know we’re there.” “Oh?” Cyan arced an eyebrow. “And how, exactly, do you intend to just slip into the watchtower without being noticed?” Chip grinned and was about reply when Foxglove suddenly sat up, alarmed. “Foxy?” Dale asked, hushed. Everyone, even the Wiretappers, went dead silent. Foxglove glanced all about. “I hear something,” she whispered in a low voice. “But I’m not sure if it’s just a common noise around here.” “What’s it sound like?” Cyan urged quietly. “Like--” Foxglove was interrupted by the source of the disturbance, as Count Carl von Castle forcefully kicked the door wide open and tossed in a large, unstoppered bottle. As a clear, colorless liquid splashed out around everyone in generous amounts, and a pungent odor filled the confining space of the shack, Zipper barely had time to fully comprehend that the Count was wearing some type crude, but protective, gas mask. The fumes were too intense for him to get much further, however, and he dropped to the floor with a thud to join the others in a forced slumber. Being at ground zero, the rest of the group never even stood a chance. “One of the advantages of living in the bowels of a research lab,” the Count explained to his unconscious victims, “is that there’s always plenty of chloramine to go around.”