G.R.R. Tip #38:

Do everything in your power to make plans idiot proof. Just keep in mind that the world usually finds a way to build a better idiot.

“But I didn’t sign up for this.”

“Like they care.”

“But I’m fat. I have a delicate constitution. I’m not made for running and fighting, that’s why I applied for a security guard position.”

“Well, now you’re a manhunter like the rest of us. So finish checking in these crates, put them in the office and I’ll meet you out front.”

“What if we just…I don’t know, forget to show up?”

“Look, they haven’t caught him yet, and they’ve had nearly a thousand Centurions out looking for the Gnolaum. All they want is another group of eyes.”

“You’re sure about that?”

“Not really, but it sounds good and I want you to stop whining. Meet you in the lobby, so hurry it up.”

“Yeah, yeah,” he complained.

No one was left on the collection floor of the Fishes Archive Foundation, which seemed odd. The Centurion pushed the freight cart along the hallway, staring at all the vacant desks he passed. Not a soul. It was almost eerie. The writers and researchers had all gone to see what excitement they could find. The city was buzzing with whispers of another address from the Gnolaum. The being of prophecy that popped up at random locations around the city—shouting his proclamations and then vanishing before the authorities could capture him.

The hundred or more monitors, hanging from walls and ceilings, silently displayed stories from all over Clockworks. Riots, vandalism, and now ongoing demonstrations throughout the lower manufacturing districts. These were the after effects of the Gnolaum’s words. People were angry. Frustrated. Fed up. The Government and Church refused to address the citizens of Clockworks. They refused to counter what was being said, which was feeding this frenzy of frustration. Long range shots of Wendell’s face were now plastered all over the walls. He looked passionate. Convinced.

In just forty-eight hours, he’d become the poster child for the curious and rebellious. The Gnolaum, whether he was official or not, was now the center of attention.

The FAF was abuzz all day—articles being crafted and cross-referenced by historians, desperate to build a name for themselves. The problem was being able to connect their limited knowledge with something more substantial. No one really knew anything about this human male…and no one could get such information. Affidavits, recorded rumors and speculation…even official requests to the Temple of Nothing for prophetic clarification lay scattered across desktops. Any snippet that a gnome could grab, referring to the human Wendell P. Dipmier, was being collected, organized and catalogued. But it was all junk. That what was being whispered by the water coolers. It didn’t discourage the FAF fishes…it fascinated and motivated them.

All other projects had been frozen until further notice.

The Centurion pushed the cart along, until a particular photo caught his notice. It was one of Wendell, laughing while being surrounded by gnomes that looked poor. Nearly destitute. Dressed in tattered rags, they huddled around him in droves. Yet every one of them looked happy to be near the human.

“I don’t know what all the fuss is about,” the guard said to himself out loud, “He looks perfectly harmless.”

Well, it wasn’t for a Centurion to second guess or question orders. It didn’t matter if people were innocent or guilty—that was for other, smarter people to decide. Grunting, he shoved the cart around the corner and parked it in front of the library doors. He patted the largest crate in frustration.

“As much as I want to stay with you guys and watch Clockwork Idol tonight,….” he sighed. Clicking off the overhead lights, the chubby gnome shuffled down the hall. A moment later, he vanished into the elevator.

Wrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrr. The muffled sound hummed lightly through the office.

A screw from the corner of the largest crate turned. Twisting up and up, it finally wobbled and fell onto the floor.

Wrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrr. Out came a second, third…and with the fourth, the side wall collapsed onto the carpet.

Covered in sweat and gasping for air, Höbin rolled out onto the floor. With trembling fingers, he pulled the air mask from his face. For several minutes he fought to stay conscious. The moisture on his face dripped down his cheeks and collected in his beard. Nostrils flared as he gulped air greedily. That had been far too close for comfort.

Then again, he made it.

Rolling onto his side, he turned the knob were his left ear used to be—his cybernetic eye adjusting for the darkness. No heat signatures. He’d taken the risk, made a calculated guess and he was right. Wendell’s presence was too incredible for anyone to pass up—and the competitiveness of those seeking a fishes position drove everyone from the building. Even the cleaning crew was gone.

He chuckled out loud. “Well done, you old fart. You actually made it! You’re in.”

Grunting and holding onto the handle of the cart, Höbin pulled his metal leg from the box and dragged himself into an upright position. Opening the hidden compartment, he grabbed the screwdriver and got to work.

****

“This is not a wise idea,” Deloris said again, “and I don’t care if I sound like a broken record. I care about you, young man, and after yesterday’s attempt on your life, I…”

“Worry too much,” Wendell finished. Kneeling down, he gripped her trembling hands in his and smiled sweetly. “It’ll be ok.” He searched her face, “I promise.”

“You can’t promise what you don’t control,” she huffed. “You’ve been going at it for two days without rest,” she pleaded, squeezing his fingers, “let’s pack up and take this up again in a couple days. Then…”

“Then,” he stopped her, “it may be too late.” Without a word, he pulled her close and hugged her as workers swarmed around them. Nearly fifty workers, gathering the props and preparing for their next event. He squeezed tighter, “I’m so glad I met you.”

Deloris sighed and let her head rest against his shoulder. “Please, Wendell.”

Pulling away, he smiled brightly. “Think of this this way—the more I’m in the open, the more the government is looking for me and not my friends. That’s a good thing.”

“I guess so.”

“Ready to roll?” Shamas asked, jumping down from the van. “We have the routes planned and our eyes say there’s a bigger crowd than there was this afternoon.”

Wendell stood upright, “Didn’t think that was possible. It was a huge crowd in front of the loading docks.”

The bodyguard grinned, “The rough count was about thirty-five hundred. I think your idea of planting rumors is working better than we thought. Depending on where we set up, you could have more than five thousand citizen’s there in person…and who knows how many TV crews.”

“Then tell the crew to hop in and lets do this,” Wendell replied, “I’m going to grab something to eat for the ride.” With that, he jogged past smiling factory workers and into the warehouse.

“How can you sound and look so calm?” Deloris finally snapped. Her nostrils flared in frustration.

Shamas looked back, shocked. “Me?”

“Aren’t you supposed to be the bodyguard?” she glared at him. “Wendell’s bodyguard?”

“Yes ‘mam,” he said with a grin.

“Then why aren’t you doing your job!” she growled. “Someone almost killed him, yet again, and you’re acting as if it never happened. Now he wants to spend more time out in the open? You’ve all lost your mind!”

“He does get that standing ovation from people.”

“That’s not funny, Shamas.”

“Wasn’t intended to be, Deloris.” His smile never wavered, “Look, I agree with you. I really do, but can I stop him from going out there into the public’s eye? No. Can you? And for your information, I am doing my job. Just learned that I have to do it in a way that Wendell doesn’t notice—or he fights me.”

That got her attention. She cocked her head to the side, “You…have something up your sleeve, don’t you.” She studied his face, “Tell me.”

Guiding them both towards the closest van, he patted the metal machine. “Meet Betsy. Scapegoat #3.”

“Common tongue, please.”

Chuckling, “Wendell won’t get out of the line of fire, right? So we told him we’d create some decoys.”

“Right,” she said, “I know all that.”

“But that’s not good enough. Not by a long shot. All the Centurions have to do is cut us off and we’ve been had.” Working his way to the back of the van, he rolled up the service door, “That’s why all the vans come with a magic hat.”

“Magic…hat? What are you talking about?”

“If we have to get away in a hurry, all we have to do is get Wendell into one of these vans. Each driver has a layout map of the sewer pipes…,” his grin grew wider, “including the manholes.”

Deloris caught on, now smiling herself, “So if the van gets caught, it’ll be…”

“Empty. And to make sure we don’t lose him in the tunnels, I’ve made sure Otger is with Wendell to and from all events.”

She chuckled, “And Wendell doesn’t know this is going on?”

“Not a clue. He thinks Otger is his #1 fan and let’s the poor guy tag along.”

Deloris shook her head and patted the bodyguard lightly on the shoulder. “I take back my doubt. You’re good, Shamas. Very good.” Then laughing, “In fact, I think you’re my favorite person today.”

He smirked, “I aim to please.”

****

It was further up than the G.R.R. had dared to go. The food district. Smaller shops or family owned distribution centers nestled between the upper city and the warehouse districts. It was where the factory workers and the normals met. Two worlds, one city.

The numbers far exceeded the initial prediction. Thousands upon thousands gathered in the streets. Parents and children, students from University, shop owners, government workers—citizens from all walks of life pooled together in a sea of expectation. Of excitement. Bodies flooded the windows and balconies of surrounding buildings. Eyes searched eagerly for where the Gnolaum might appear  first to give his speech. Officers kept the traffic flowing, standing in the streets, waving vehicles on. Gnomes arriving by vehicles were forced to walk over a mile to joint the crowds.

Only media and local businesses were allowed to park nearby.

There was a great deal of speculation over the past two days. nearly a dozen speeches had been made by Wendell. The first few had been missed by the main media outlets, but they caught on soon enough, following the crowds and keeping their ears to the streets. Word was, the Gnolaum had a much to say about the people of Clockworks. Not only was he not afraid of their technology, he embraced it. Whispers and conversations flowed freely through the crowds.

“They say he’s completely against the Government.”

“That’s only because they have his friend. But why should he care about what happens to a vallen?”

“He supports the workers, you know. I think that’s refreshing. To worry about the little guys. Not that it matters much—but it’s nice to know he has feelings.”

“The Church is completely against all this. What does that mean?”

Not all the attendees were searching for answers or open with their agenda. Hundreds of normals stood off center, faces drawn, hands clenched in fists. Lives had been disrupted, the flow of goods slowed down. The great beast that provided comfort and prizes for those willing to work and pay the price had changed…and not for the better. Lesser citizens were demanding equal rights. More freedoms.  It was disgusting. Unthinkable. Eyes searched the crowds, windows and platforms. There were no smiles on these particular faces…and many hid weapons. A stick, a rock, or some other form of disposable tool of violence, faded in and out of view.

Centurions noticed, but said nothing.

“Let’s do this,” Wendell said on his com-link.

“Even with the doors locked and barricaded, you won’t have much time.”

“I understand,” he said, looking through the curtains. “Deloris?”

“Yes, dear?”

“Thank you. For being here with me. For helping, and…well, believing in me.” He took a deep, slow breath and started to slide the window open, “It means a lot to me.”

“Just be careful,” she said soberly.

“And remember where the vans are, Wendell,” chimed Shamas. “If it get’s to be too much, get to a van. Understood? We’ll get you out of here.”

“Got it.” He peered down and across the street, trying to locate the faux delivery vans. A cluster of them had been positioned on the far side of the crowds. Wow, he realized, there are a lot of gnomes out there! The High School debate team had never prepared him for something like this. Then again, he smirked to himself, I did get straight F’s. The crowds weren’t anything like the Trench Stadium, but  these citizens had specifically come to hear him talk. They came for his message. Or brain me.

Keeping the sheet wrapped tightly around him, he slowly slid the window all the way open. Bending down, he took a step out onto the ledge of the fire escape. He looked down between the metal grate and his legs went soft. “Couldn’t we have done this on top of the building?” he gasped, nervously grabbing the railing.

“Then you wouldn’t have an escape route,” Shamas replied in an even tone. “You’re the one calling the shots, Wendell. I just worked my job around your parameters.”

“Right,” he said, gulping. Fingers inched along the metal, until he found the rope tied in a loose knot. The invisible rope. “Man ‘o man, I should have requested the speech from a coffee shop.”

“You have time to call all this off,” Deloris replied, hopeful.

“No. I’m here.” he gulped again, “I’m ready.” Clenching his eyes tight, Not everyone will agree. Not everyone will understand. That’s ok, he reminded himself. Your job now is to share your heart. Let them decide what to do with it. He opened his eyes and whispered, “Go.”

“Cueing mic.”

Speakers, strategically placed on rooftops and in alleyways, popped on. The soft rush of Wendell’s breathing pulsed across the crowd. Thousands of eyes searching frantically for where the sound originated from. Several of the media vans had mobile cameras on top—crews rolling and panning the crowds. Other mixed with the citizens live, their equipment attached to shoulders.

“The world is changing,” he said softly, adjusting the small wire looped around his ear. “And not for the better. I don’t need to prove anything—you only have to look around you. Stop listening, for just a moment, to the words of your leaders…and look at their fruits.” Wendell paused for a moment as a soft murmuring trickled through the crowd. “Do their deeds match their promises? Think about it. Do your leaders fulfill their pledges? Do they honor their word? No? What excuses do they make to cover their corruption…or their neglect?”

The murmuring grew louder.

“Do you see it?” he grinned, “Of course you see it. We all see it. The question isn’t whether it exists. The question you have to ask yourself, is whether it affects you enough to want to change.”

Pulling the enchanted sheet from him, he threw it back into the window behind him. The effect was awesome. Gnomes looked up and gasped as Wendell flashed into view. It was a simple use of the invisibility spell, but a clever one. He forced himself to smile brightly as he quickly gripped the small metal railing to keep from flipping over the side. With all his strength, he ignored the vertigo and looked out across the crowd.

“That’s one of the first things I noticed about Clockworks when I arrived here. There is a division among the people of this incredible city.” He nodded and grinned wider, “I do think this city is incredible. Fascinating and awe-inspiring!” Gnomes beamed up at him. “But it’s also sick. From head to foot, Clockworks is saturated with the corrupt!”

A few from the crowd raised their fists and pumped them in affirmative.

Clarify it, Wendell. “But if you have a good life.” No, that’s not right. “A comfortable life,” better, “then why would you want things to change?” He watched the faces in the crowd contort. Some were already considering his words. “Some, I believe, are afraid that if opportunities were to be given to another, their own lives would be lessened. It’s foolishness, but others fear more. There are those who fear the loss of control over others. A loss of leverage and power that drives and forces, manipulates and threatens. Power they never should have obtained in the first place!” Wendell’s voice grew louder, “You have a Government that turns a blind eye to the pains and suffering of the poor. Your widows, your orphans, your elderly! A corrupt leadership that hides their horrible acts, inflicted upon millions of her citizens. Upon the very people who labor night and day to keep this civilization afloat.” Time to drop the bomb. “What is even worse, you have citizens  among us who hold their brothers and sisters down…”

He looked out over the crowd, which had fallen once more into silence, “For no other reason than their own gain!”

Normals stepped across the street and meshed with the main crowd.

“Why?” he pleaded, “Why is this the case, when the gnome race is so intelligent. Bursting with goodness and creativity? Why should there be a deprived people when your place could be among the leaders of this entire world?”

Gasps echoed through the crowd. That wasn’t something they were prepared for, but it was true. At least that was how Wendell saw it. Technology wasn’t a curse and it wasn’t evil. It was a tool. What mattered was the intent behind its use. Magic may be the norm in this world—but it was technology Wendell could understand.

“I’ll tell you why!” he yelled out. “It’s because there are gnomes who feel life should be one of ease. One of comfort. This isn’t bad, to want such things—but not at the cost of another. Not when you seek it and pursue it in spite of the sufferings of others around you!” His voice fell, “Not when you use the suffering of others for your own gain.”

“Wendell,” buzzed Shamas’s voice, “you’ve got company already. Centurions are on route. Plain clothes officers have already entered the building. We’ve shut down the elevators and blocked the stairwell, but that won’t delay them long.

“Please don’t think I’m against any of you. I’m not. Since I first arrived, it was my pleasure,” he hesitated, “no…my honor, to get to know people of this community. Good, honest, caring citizens that showed me the grace and brilliance of this race. Citizens who represented you all with dignity.” His eyes drifted to the shifting onlookers. Angry faces were working towards the fire escape. “But during my adventures as a Trench Pilot…”

A few from the crowd cheered out loud and those surrounding, laughed.

Wendell smirked, “Which was, without a doubt, the coolest experience I have ever had in my life,” more cheers, “but I was kidnapped.” His brows rolled forward, “Taken from my friends and thrown in one of the public garbage chutes.” For the first time, he leg go of the railing, caught up in the moment. “Now I’m assuming none of you have had the luxury of falling hundreds of stories to your death…and live to tell the tale, so let me enlighten you.” Spotty laughter from the crowd. “There is a world below. Right under where you now stand, to which gnomes, just like you, have been cast out and forgotten.” His eyes burned and he blinked several times. “Like garbage.”

He could hear the noise from several floors below. Officers kicking in doors, desperately looking for a way up to Wendell. Luckily Shamas had the forethought to have the fire escape ladders welded up. They’d have to come through the apartment door.

He looked out and spread his arms wide, shaking his fists, “Gnomes are NOT garbage!” He choked, “Yet I lived for days with men, women…and children, trapped below this city, scratching out a meager existence from the very waste you produce. Is this right? To allow this kind of treatment of your citizens? Your neighbors? Your kin?!? But this isn’t just about those left behind…” Wendell grit his teeth. He paused long enough to hear Deloris buzz in his ear. She prompted him with the next line of the speech.

“This is about change,” she said softly.

Wendell stood there, frozen, looking out over all the faces below. So many faces. So many lives. So many eyes, looking to me…for the truth. For the path they should follow. The weight of the world started to close in on him. He could feel the pressure on his shoulders, bearing down. They truly believe I’m the Gnolaum.

“The next line is ‘This is about change’,” she said again.

No, he thought—his mind racing and flipping through his experiences. The late talks with those trapped in the furnaces below. Hopes and lives dashed because of the cruelty of others. He’d also seen what other gnomes, like Philburt Bellows, were willing to sacrifice in secret. Amazing individuals who fought with all their might so more could put food on the table and to keep the innocent from drowning. But change would never come. Not when those who wear the boots stand on the necks of the people. He’d been lied to. I’ve been stepped on again, because they have leverage by threatening those I care about. Boots worn by leaders who didn’t care about the people. They only care about themselves.

THA-THUMP-THUMP!

“This is about a revolution,” he said aloud. The sentence rang out across the crowd below, echoing back from the surrounding buildings.

“WHAT?” Deloris squealed into the microphone.

The stress and pain—the pressure itself, slid from Wendell’s shoulders. He stood taller. “This is about standing up, together, and making yourself heard. Making yourself seen. Saying ‘no’ to those who want to sit by and lay the labors upon your backs! It’s time to stand up and shout that it’s no longer acceptable!”

“Wendell, what are you…” but Deloris’ voice was immediately drowned out by a thunderous cheer from the crowd below.

The normals had stopped. Frozen in place, faces stricken with fear. Wendell had hit a hot button. Gnomes around them erupted, letting out their pent up frustration and anger. One-by-one they backed out from the crowd. Fists rose high into the air by the thousands, tattered sleeves whipping in the breeze. Again the people cheered. This time they ended with a chant:

“GNOLAUM! GNOLAUM! GNOLAUM!”

“You just flipped our plan on its head, Wendell,” Deloris yelled angrily. “This isn’t the way…people are going to get hurt!”

“They’re already hurting, Deloris,” he replied, watching the grinning faces of the crowd. “It’s time for the other half to wake up.”

“They’re in, Wendell!” Shamas cried, “You need to…”

THA-THUMP-THUMP!

With a crash, the door to the apartment exploded open. Officers pushed into the room, weapons drawn, searching for a target.

Oh boy, Wendell gulped, feeling along the railing frantically. Where’s the rope? Where’s the….got it! Untying the knot, he took a firm grip, placed one foot up and pulled the rope taut. His stomach churned fiercely. Though he couldn’t see the rope itself, the end was attached to the huge crane positioned between the buildings.

At least he hoped it was.

“Wendell—jump!” Shamas cried, “Get to the vans, NOW!”

“There he is!” yelled a Centurion from the room.

“Grab him,” yelled another.

Tiny gloved hands reached through the window, grasping at Wendell’s black T-shirt. The smiley was screaming out loud.

But hands never grabbed him.

The glass of the window shattered, a small hole, speckled in red, appearing at its center. The closest officer fell back from the ledge, lifeless.

“ARGH!” Wendell stumbled, his left arm falling limply to his side. “I’ve been hit.”

It was several moments before the shot could be heard. There was no denying where it came from. Above the buildings, two levels up…a water tower in the distance exploded. First the crack of a firearm, then the explosion of a bomb. Flame bellowed out from the ledge like an angry dragon, black smoke rolling upwards. The flash of red and orange was short lived as water from the tower doused the flames and poured over the ledge.

“Wendell,” Shamas screamed, “GO NOW!”

Throwing himself over he side, and with a high-pitched scream, Wendell clung to the rope with his good hand. Spinning in an arch above the crowd below, onlookers were torn between watching the terrorist attack or the screaming Gnolaum banshee over their heads.

“How do I get dowwwwwwwnnnn?” Wendell screeched, focusing on his slipping grip.

“You have to let go!” Shamas said, bolting across the street, towards the vans himself. He kept Wendell’s swinging body in his peripheral vision. “Jump, on my mark.”

“Jump?!?”

“That’s what I said, Wendell—ready, set…”

“Wait!” he cried aloud, the vans quickly jumping up to meet him.

“JUMP!”

Oh spit. He suddenly realized this plan was never arranged for a graceful get away. Closing his eyes, Wendell let go of the rope. Gnomes jumped aside as his huge body flew past them…and into the side of a van.

His body bounced off the side and threw him back, onto the ground.

The crowd cheered.

“Owww,” he moaned, sliding to a full stop. Though he could feel the rough ground under his back, the mägoweave protected the flesh of his back and shoulders. The crowd, seeing him get up, jumped up and down with excitement.

Wendell raised a hand weakly and waved. “Guys, I have a bullet hole through my arm.”

“GET IN THE VAN!” Shamas yelled, shoving him from behind.

Otger slammed the door down in place after Wendell and they sped off. Four vans, identical in every way…except their contents. The gnome grinned. “That was a cool landing.”

Gritting his teeth, Wendell lifted the sleeve of the mägoweave. The blood had already started to clot in the hole. “Someone tried to kill me! Like, actually, literally kill me this time!!”

“What,” Shamas shouted into the com-link, “did you think this was some game?”

Wendell opened his mouth, but let it alone.

“Looks like we have company this time,” sounded a secondary voice.

Shamas caught sight of the pursuing vehicles in his rear-view mirror. Gnomes scattered as the black racers cut around vendors and statues of famous mayors in their attempt to gain ground. Red and yellow lights flashed. “Why don’t they have their sirens on?”

“No clue boss,” answered a driver, “What’s the plan.”

“Let’s try a pea-shell. Mix it up before we split. Confirmed?”

“Confirmed,” answered three other voices in unison.

Slamming on the breaks, the bodyguard dropped back into a single line with the other white vans. Wendell and Otger rolled and banged into the front of the cab. “Sorry,” Shamas said over the speaker, “we’re being pursued already—so we’re going to create a diversion. Hang onto something.”

Both Wendell and the gnome looked at the empty contained. The wall were smooth.

“To what?” Otget squeaked.

Weaving back and forth, the four vans created a figure eight pattern as they raced on. The maneuver was attempted each and every time a post or sign came into view, shielding the positions of the vans for just a few moments. This allowed Shamas a moment to reposition himself.

“Coming up on the hard left, boss,” said a voice.

“Right,” the bodyguard confirmed, “let’s do a flying fish, then split. Confirmed?”

“Confirmed,” answered three other voices in unison.

Wendell grabbed the gnomes forearm as they hit the turn.

The three empty vans fell back, then split off, each taking a different main road. Shamas made an instant hard right and floored it.

“Two cars in pursuit,” answered one of the drivers.

“Nothing on me,” answered the second.

“I have the third,” replied the last.

“Good job,” chuckled Shamas, “we’re in the…” but he stopped. His face became cold and fixed. His fingers toggled the speaker switch. “Get ready to bail, Otger.”

Wendell pushed himself upright and stared curious at the gnome. “What is he talking about?”

Otger crawled to the center of the floor and pulled on a small metal ring. The ring lifted a larger handle up. The gnome gripped it in both hands and pulled. “We’re about to have visitors. This is our way out. We have to run.” He frowned.

“You…knew about this?”

Otger nodded and tugged on the handle again.

The van slowed down.

“What’s the matter?”

Otger stood upright and tugged as hard as he could—but the handle wouldn’t turn. “It’s stuck.”

“Here, let me.” Leaning over, Wendell gripped the ring and pulled with all his might. It didn’t budge. “Uh oh.”

“You out?” Shamas whispered in Wendell’s ear.

“Uhhhh, not…exactly.”

“Well get out—now! We have a roadblock ahead.”

“We can’t. The thingy is jammed.”

The mic crackled, which what Wendell guessed were derogatory remarks of animal body parts. The van came to a complete stop. “Then stay quite,” Shamas whispered, “I’ll…” but he was cut off by shouting. The mic crackled again, this time so loudly, Wendell had to pull the earbud out altogether.

Otger stared at him nervously. “What’s wrong?”

“Company, I think,” he whispered back, holding a finger to his lips. The shouting got closer, slowly working to the back of the van. Reaching out, he tugged on the gnome to follow. They both slid silently towards the door. “When that door opens, clench your eyes as tight as you can. Keep your head down, ok?”

The gnome nodded, sweat now starting to bead on his upper lip and forehead.

Wendell forced himself to slow his breathing down. You can do this. We are not getting caught. His brows rolled forward. Not today. With that, he pulled his feet under him slowly and stood upright. The ceiling was low, but it was enough.

The latch on the door rattled. Behind it, he could hear muttering.

THA-THUMP-THUMP!

Calling the words to mind, Wendell was careful not to say them aloud. Come on, he sneered, come and get me. Fingers rolled into fists, knees bent. He’d never felt this way before, but one look at Otger and his terrified expression was all he needed. If you can.

With a sudden jerk, the rolling door shot upward. Spread across the ground , standing in aggressive stances were six plain clothed officers. Each had a firearm trained on Wendell. Shamas was nowhere to be seen.

“GET OUT!” demanded the lead Centurion.

Wendell grinned. Without blinking his mind focused on the light of the sun and what it was like to momentarily looking into its rays. “VÄLO!” he bellowed.

Light exploded from the back of the van, outward.

Weapons fell to the ground as gnomes slapped hands over their eyes, stumbling and banging into one another.

“Come on!” Wendell yelled. Jumping from the back of the van, he pulled Otger out and started running.

“Wait,” the gnome cried, pointing, “We need to go THAT way—put me down!”

Looking over his shoulder, Wendell caught a glance of Shamas dishing out a sucker punch against the main officer before running himself.

“There!” Otger pointed to a manhole near a clothing shop. Gnomes stared boldly at both of them as Wendell gripped the metal plate and heaved. Within moments, they were dropping down into the sludge of the city.

“Ungh!” Wendell gagged, “What IS that sme….”

The gnome shook his head, “You don’t want to know.”

Right. The less I know right now, probably the better. “Fine. Lead on.”

The tubes were large enough to move freely, but not enough to allow Wendell to stand upright. After an hour of pushing through the sludge, his back was sore—but he refuse to lean against the crusted walls or sit in what he imagined was the feces of his worst nightmares. At the end of hour two, he was forced to stop.

“How can you keep going through this?” he coughed, lifting the mägoweave shirt up over his mouth and nose. The smiley face had turned from a bright yellow to a sickly putrid green, large bags forming under its eyes. The pudgy gnome, however, looked completely unaffected by the revolting paste that clung to their skin and clothes. “Doesn’t this make you want to, well…blow chunks or something?”

Otger shrugged, “You forget I lived in the sewers and tunnels to make a living.” He pondered, “I guess you get used to it after a while.”

“Wow,” Wendell gagged. “Revolting, but, wow.”

They were soon met by a small series of ladders affixed to the cement walls. One by one, they climbed upward until Otger held up a hand.

“Hear that?”

They listened in silence. Through the metal plate above them, Wendell thought he could make out the sounds of engines and arguing voices. People were barking orders to one another. Softer voices complained, but they were followed by shouts.

“Where are we?” he asked quietly.

“Back at the warehouse. I think the Centurions discovered our base.”

Crap. Crap. Crap! Wendell slumped back against the wall, too tired to care. He’d deviated from the speech the G.R.R. had written for him. Have I made the authorities so mad, they’re retaliating? He grit his teeth. It was hard to feel bad about his words, though. Bellows and the rest of them hadn’t seen what he’d seen. Gone where he’d gone or experience the abuse of those trapped below. No, he justified himself, staring at Otger, I’m not the one at fault. It had to be said. But did it? Wouldn’t those like Bellows and the G.R.R. eventually rise up and counter the evil and injustice growing among the people?

“We can’t go up,” Otger whispered. His large ears twitched. “They’re searching the warehouses for you.”

“What about,” he started to respond, but the gnome held his finger to his lips.

“They’re…not arresting anyone. There are too many workers who are standing up to the authorities. I,” he smirked at Wendell, “think the Centurions are actually nervous. They’re just looking for you.”

Good news, he sighed.

“So where do we go? We’ll have to lay low for awhile.”

Wendell pondered. It wouldn’t be safe to go back to Morty’s warehouse—not yet. He didn’t want to bring trouble to any of his friends. That also meant he couldn’t go back to the G.R.R.  base or to Bellow’s mansion. No. There was only one place he could go now, where no one would follow them.

He looked at Otger and grinned. “I know a place we’ll be safe.”