Rock, hard place. Frying pan, fire. Pick whatever damn metaphor you want. I am the whipping boy and reality is the dude with the whip. Except… if it whips me then reality stops existing… so the reality is… wait… Maybe I’m beyond metaphors. “Oh fuck.” Tabitha sums it up far more succinctly than I ever could. We have a moment, maybe two. The forces before us are surprised to see us. The cultists behind us are just as stunned that we’re somehow still alive. “OK,” Hannah says. “How much ammo do we have left? We have to conserve—” “Shut up,” I snap. “Arthur!” Felicity sounds shocked. “The hell?” Hannah doesn’t really sound less shocked. “Just shut up and let me think.” I’m spinning, scanning for options. I can count my life expectancy in seconds. Reality’s isn’t much longer. “Off the path,” I yell. “I don’t think—” Hannah starts. “I’m the goddamn field lead!” I yell, grab her by the collar and heave. Then I’m in among the trees.
