It's the first month of winter. Already, the snow falls thickly down on the city of Detroit. Paul strolls precariously along the edge of a roof. His arms outstretched slightly, keeping his balance. The slippery slope is caked with frost and ice. His bare feet burn with the cold. Paul feels smug delight each time Pokey panics as he leans forward, almost tempting fate that would send him pummelling into the pavement below. He smiles; it's been a few days since Pokey has released him. And this is what he's doing.

And this. This is not what Pokey had in mind after releasing Paul. Sure, it's been a while into the Apotheosis, give or take a week; oh wait... it has been months, in fact, but yet all Paul has been doing was trying to test the limits of his new body. And challenging how long those clothes of his last. And it gets on Pokey's nerves that after months upon months of teaching, Paul is still absolutely resisting the moment he's free to roam. I can heal every injury you get. I can certainly see to it that the woes of frostbite will not get to you, but we still have some people left in Detroit to bless their weary souls with a fresh new start, Paul.

Paul more or less ignores Pokey's complaints as he peers down over into the streets. He begins to wobble as he inches his feet over the edge, balancing on his heels almost, arms rotating a little to keep his balance. If you'd asked him months ago if he'd be flirting with danger like this, 50 feet off the ground, he'd have told you you were mad. But there is an extraordinary thrill to having his metaphorical life in his own hands for once. For the first time in what felt like an eternity for Paul. "I told you, Pokey, I'm not helping you take over everything." He pulls himself back from the edge and flops on the roof tiles.

Paul, you know I am struggling to get the Hive moving, and you just had, to, be on a winter vacation solo. How about a winter vacation WITH the rest of the Hive? So you can HELP me bring them to those wayward, misguided fellows? Honestly, he feels so tired that the Hive had to become high maintenance in the blanket of white. Thanks to doctors and nurses in his midst, he knows what is happening, but regrowing fingers, toes, and sometimes limbs is getting very annoying. He reserves all that for Paul but now is made to share that power to keep the Hive together. Some don't succumb as much, oddly enough.

Rolling his eyes, Paul folds his arms behind his head and closes them briefly. Oh, of course, he's finally allowed out of his own damn head, and Pokey wants him to work. It wasn't his fault that he knew nothing about humanity. He's not willing to assist in killing whatever people are left here. "Look, you can't get the Hive to do anything in this weather. It's too cold. And Furthermore, you can't get me to do anything this winter. If you want anything productive, dress them in warmer clothes, or wait till Spring."

Too cold!? You are all not human anymore why— Preposterous. Since when did the elements phase them? Imagine stopping your song and dancing over being cold; that cannot be! Singing and dancing will help them BE WARM! The act of dancing will surely generate enough warmth to keep going! It shouldn't be an uphill task to keep moving to be warm.

"Not in this weather it don't. We don't even have central heating. We're like--- Jeeze!" How did Pokey have no understanding of the human body? Getting up, he shakes the snow from his clothes and trudges towards the fire escape. "We need warmer clothes, Pokey, and a place to shelter from the snow. Perhaps if you took the time to research us, you'd know this by now."

Hrumph! Humans are not reptiles for sure; you are mammals. How dare you insinuate that the very extent of my idiocy is as such, Paul!? Oh, he concedes defeat. Ugh. He'll have to pamper the Hive to avoid expending himself continuously. As if the Hive is always pampered in such conditions across timelines, he'll have to do what must be done. And the streets are at his disposal, given the hoards of humanity subjugated to his will. Now, to get the discerning eye of human fashionistas ... and his very own.

It had started slowly at first; those with boats slowly brought more and more people to the mainland. Hatchetfielders and Clivesdalians had subtly booked out hotel rooms, and ever so unnoticeably, the Apotheosis spread. Until it wasn't. Harmless flash mobs in the street. Meetups with extended family. Children playing together in the park. Lunch ladies adding a special blue sauce to the lunch meat. Casanovas lock lips with unsuspecting sweethearts, and particular Phantom of the Opera performances are conducted at twilight in the park.

Business people rush to work in the mornings, singing the same ditty on public transportation. People from all walks of life greet each other in such a sing-song manner that it lifts the spirits. Blue lollipops, blue bread, and new blue products spring up on the shelves. The grey street is covered in blue. Blue of the Apotheosis. Blue, even against the snow that now blanketed the city of Detroit. And such were the furs and jackets Pokey had directed the Hive to raid from the clothing stores, now tinged with some shades of blue. One had held up a particularly fancy furred long coat up to Paul... that was suspiciously dyed from top to bottom, dark royal blue, with distinctive pale blue furs lining it.

"For me?" Paul considered the coat with hesitance. He didn't want to be associated as their King.... he really didn't. But it was cold... Sighing, he takes the coat from the Infected... briefly studying their face to see if he recognized them. No... he hadn't met this person before. "Thank you...." Slipping it on, he gave a slight pat on the shoulder; it was hard to not treat these people like animals sometimes. Remember, they are people; they don't always act like people. He has to admit the coat is warmer. He wraps it around himself tighter. When Detroit realized something was wrong, it was too late to stop. More than half the population had joined the Hive into a dance upon the city. The riot police had tried to stop them, but they couldn't.

Some Infected wear the coats they took from the stores and whatever winter wear they could grab. Some already have coats; they grabbed them while infecting those who didn't sing. At least, probably. It seems Bill is handing out coats, getting himself a black coat with copious amounts of purple, wispy furs at the neckline. For now, part of the Hive hides in the alleyways for a "costume change," is what Pokey called it.

Alice warbles out a Laa Dee Dah Dah Day through chattering teeth as she approaches her father, lips painted blue as if it's a new lipstick brand. Or it could be the chill; her long blonde hair is covered with light snow. "Sleigh bells ring. Are you listening? In the lane, snow is glistening; what a beautiful sight; we're happy tonight, walking in a winter wonderland," She sings the Christmas tune with a smile.

What seems to be Bill, the bullet wound in his head having long healed with some scar tissue on his head, directs his brown eyes, ever so slightly lively, to his beloved daughter. Ah yes, how could he have forgotten about his little Al Pal? But he figured he'd need to sing back to express his love for his little girl. "Gone away is the bluebird, Here to stay is a new bird To sing a love song, while we stroll along Walking in a winter wonderland." He brings his own coat over to Alice to warm her up. That blue intruder should have gotten them winter coats sooner. Is he really allowing these shells with false minds to freeze? Bullshit. Does he need a kick to the head to know we are freezing? Rubbing his daughter's shoulders, soon enough, a similar coat to her size had been draped upon her shoulders like his own. He keeps her in his coat, like a chicken covering their chicks under their wings.

Alice smiles and leans into Bill's side, nestling her head against his shoulder. It's unclear if it's Pokey's strings being pulled to mimic idealist social interaction or her own affection for her father shining through. Paul watches this interaction with a sigh. He too is starting to lose track of how sentient his friends are. There is no life in Alice's eyes, yet she still smiles and sings. Occasionally, she plays on her phone to text her friends. Pokey seems to have not as much patience with the teenage Hive members as he does the children or adults. It'd almost make him laugh if he hadn't been trapped for six weeks. "Bill?" He calls out to him, giving a wave.

Bill's brown eyes... with smatterings of purple and orange, snap over to the Hive King. Or rather... oh crap, it's the Hive King, aka Paul Matthews, aka that younger guy at the office who always tells him how to operate the printer who is now the unfortunate person that leads the Hive. He quickly returns to looking at his teenage daughter after realizing he stared a little longer than he believed. Giving Alice's shoulders and ears another rub, more of composing himself to pretend he's still part of the Hive, he gives Paul a nod. Or was he supposed to react, oh dear, oh dear, oh dear... it's still working well. Keep it working. No blue intruder trying to look at him... yes good, sounds good. Better just in a sing-song thing for good measure. That's how they gotta... talk. "Hello Paul, what is going on? Where are we going?"

"Nowhere, I hope; hey, how are you and Alice holding up?" Paul lines his lips, clasping his hands and rocking back and forth a few times. Smalltalk was more awkward than before this Apotheosis bullshit. He offers an almost forced smile to Bill, his best friend. For a moment, he looks up into his eyes, trying to see if there's anything in them. Shouldn't he come to accept everyone is dead? He tells himself this, but he's unable to help but seek them out. Perhaps it's the familiarity. "No frostbite, I hope?" He tries, looking away with a sigh.

This is quite unlike Paul for almost 2 months, who was singing every single word ... but he guesses that Blue Intruder has something for Paul Matthews that makes Paul so very unique... as if he, the more competent, more fresh Bill, was not any more remarkable to stand by himself. And not require some blue freak to control how he should carry himself. Paul looks almost amicable, like earlier on at some point in the Apotheosis. Hmmm. Still, the Blue Intruder is probably somewhere waiting to see to reign him in again. He's not going to spend more time untangling him, the one and only true Bill, from the very clutches of some greedy, delusional asshole. Singing as best as one would in a musical movie, he offers his response. Well, the more lucid minds, the better, right? "Not a single teensy bit of it, Mister ... Paul. My Al Pal and I are doing most fine... now for Deb."

Deb? Didn't Bill hate Deb? or dislike her at the very least. Or perhaps Pokey is trying to create a picture-perfect happy family? He's noticed that with Charlotte and Sam, they're acting like a power couple. Sorting out their issues, songs full of sexual tension and drama. Geeze, Paul would barf if he had to sit through another song about how much they've hurt each other- ew- "I thought you hated Deb," He asks, fiddling with his fingers. "But it's good that she and Alice seem happy,"

What is wrong with Deb? Alice likes Deb, doesn't she? That's what he's seen for himself. And that's also how he looks for the poor girl in the crowd; he saw her alone the first time he saw the kid. He looks at Paul with slivers of genuine puzzlement about his statement. "Nonsense, Alice is always, always lovin' Deb. Seem happy? You can't really be doubting that, are you, Paul?" He almost forgot himself. He was so close to bringing his hands out, leaning over a bit, and staring at Paul through squints. Instead, he throws out one hand and swings it as if it were a gesture to explain something. Like doing wrist exercises, almost with the way it's swung.

There is something odd about Bill right now; Paul can see it. But you know what. That's a good thing, in his opinion. Sighing, he nods, shrugging his shoulders as if to mutually agree. Perhaps he's still recovering from his imprisonment. "Yeah, you're right.... um... never mind.... just... No, it's ok." He runs a hand through his dark hair, closing the blue coat. The Hive King looks away, a solemn look in his eye as he stares into the inner workings of the shop they've raided. Meanwhile, back at the main camp, there is a spark, then a sptzzz and a golden hole opens in the fabric of existence. Ted falls out and faceplants into the snow with a groan.

Indeed, that blue coat was not one they'd seen here... but oh well, survive, not get targeted by Blue Intruder and having to clear the gunk from his home again . He has a daughter and her girlfriend to look out for. In the main camp, a few Hive members stare at the Ted that had fallen outta from nowhere. Curious. Why would he fall from the sky? The familiar figure of Mr. Davidson walks over to greet Ted, who, at some point, swapped his tie with one thick yellow scarf. "What do you want, Ted?"

Ted momentarily mumbles wordlessly into the snow; what on earth had just happened? Pushing himself up, he kneels in the snow, staring up at Mr Davidson with an almost confuddled expression. One moment, Ted had been walking endlessly through a hazy mist, a white void with nothing buck wreckage. Until.... here he was... "... I want..... Fuck it's cold-- where are we?" He asks, raising a brow at his boss.

"Ted? Sing Ted sing." This is not quite right. The Hive speaks by song. How did he break the song? Perhaps his absence had him forgetting their very customs... "We are now in the wintry Detroit. Do not forget, we must always sing in perfect harmony."

"Oh-- right- Ahem ." Ted clears his throat for a moment before humming the familiar melody. It had felt like a moment, the fall, that is. How is it they'd gotten to Detroit so fast? Or was he falling for much longer than he thought? "How did we move so fast, Davidson? Did the snow come early this year?" He ignores the question and shoves his hands into his pockets, one yellow eye looking up at the long-haired man.

The boss of the tech support division of CCRP takes a good look at Ted for what seems like a good few seconds. The ticking of watches was barely drowned out by the humming of the rest of the Hive. Everyone knows what happened. They all know how their conquest was swift and fast, how they've amassed so many that they have begun to divide and conquer. "Oh, Ted, it has been 4 months since the Apotheosis graced our lands! And our Hive King has been nothing but most efficient in those months. Praise our Starlight. Praise our leading man for all he's done to unify the world under one melody: ours." However, he cannot help but regard the fabulous scarf that looks positively cozy on Ted himself. "Silly you, you found yourself a scarf; oh, you must be cold yourself that you got yourself a scarf on the way here. Part of us are fetching some coats to approach the barricade."

Four months? It's been four months? Ted looks away as he shuffles uncomfortably. He feels for the scarf around his neck; he'd found this a while ago, in the mist. He tries to comprehend what he's hearing. It's been 4 months. They're in Detroit. And they've conquered most of it.

"What barricade? There's a barricade?" He tilts his head inquisitively. Starlight? Oh, right, the Hive King, his best friend Paul. Paul Matthews, good old, dorkily dumb Paul. Ted remembers now their mission, to spread the melody, the song. "Right! Paul has managed all of this ? Hahaha, good on the Noodle,"

"There lies many streets away, a group of doubtful savages. They think they can stop the Apotheosis alone with their shields of sheer will. They all hope to evade paradise." It seems this little lost soul has finally remembered, and Mr Davidson is made to sag his shoulders in relief. It's hard to ignore the resolute guidance of the Singular Voice; this one processes the information slowly due to the cold. Sometimes, information in the Hive takes some time to trickle down, now that they were in more significant numbers than before. At certain times, or rather, on some issues, that is not always the case, as Mr Davidson tugs hard at the scarf to lift Ted up slightly, mildly seething. The voices of the Hive hiss into Ted's mind, admonishing him. Sure, there are a few of them with sarcasm in their veins. The Hive tends to have a way to deal with them. Still, in recent months, the Hive has gotten defensive over anything that may insult their Hive King. "He is the Hive King! Do not speak ill of him; you might just get another bullet in the other side."

Ted yelps with surprise; he grips Mr. Davidson's hands as he tries to pry them from his scarf. What the heck!? The voices shoot into Ted's mind like an ice pick, shrieking as he grips his hair. "OK! Ok sorry! I'm not speaking bad; he's my friend, sheesh!" Ted stamps harshly on his boss's foot before punching into his gut.

Mr. Davidson lets out an anguished screech as he lets go of the yellow scarf Ted wears upon himself. Holding his middle, he stumbles backward before glaring at Ted. He bares his teeth while blue goo leaks from the eyes, ears, nose, and mouth. "Ted, oh look, Ted, you didn't have to do that."

Ted stands tall as he smiles cockily. Yellow eyes glinting a gold sheen. Blue goo oozing from his own face pieces. Like his eyes and ears and other places. "I know, but I wanted to. Remember jackass. Don't fucking touch me." There is a slight snarl to his tone that was never there before.

"What did you just call me?" Now, does Ken Davidson truly get mad. They all have their differences, but usually, they can put it all aside in the name of harmony. But something seems off with this member of the Hive. "We dance and sing as a troupe. If you want to settle your differences, we..." As if there were a changing room right there and then, a twirl in the snow seems to yield a blue rose in the older man's teeth. "Settle that with tango."

Ted stares at the corrupt businessman like he's grown a second head. Is he- is he doing what he thinks he's doing? Ted takes a step backward. "I'm sorry, what? " Ted raises his fists as if in a boxing stance; there's only one way he was taught to fight, and it was dirty.

"Have you forgotten? We settle our unique differences with a dance-off, Ted. And tango is the best of all dances to do so. Isn't that right, all of you?" There is now a little crowd of the Hive, most certainly awaiting to see action. Something seems most off, but they stare anyway... of course, until prompted. "Tango! Tango! Tango!" Ken Davidson, after receiving most affirmation of the ways of their people, now turns to Ted, who looks most not in a ready position. Is it true that one could even forget the basic rules of dance in the Hive? Rose with thorns in hand, with some of that blue slime right where he had held it in his mouth, at least his mouth is free to talk a little more with his subordinate. "Ted, what are you waiting for? That is not how you hold yourself for a dance."

"Uuuh.." Ted feels his skin crawl at the thought of tangoing with his boss. Chuckling nervously, he raises his hands in mock surrender. Smoothing out his bush brush with his fingers. "You know what, you win confrienday. Don't get me wrong, I love singing and dancing as much as the next guy. Buuuuut not with you. Chow!" He waves off Ken with a wink and a fake salute before turning on his heel and trying to leave.

"Tango tango TANGO!" The small crowd does their best to close off Ted from exiting the mini ring they have made with themselves surrounding the commotion. "Get in and tango your heart out. No rejections! We wanna see it!" Ken simply stands there, most poised and ready to start. The rose is now in his mouth again, and he does a single wink as he gestures to Ted to come closer.

"Oh, you gotta be fucking kidding me! Move!" Ted tries to force himself through the crowd, but he's no big fellow. He's lanky and slippery but can't seem to squeeze his way through. Looking back at Ken, his eyes widen. Ah, shit- "Looook, sir, Mr. Davidson, we really don't gotta do this--" He gives his best smile and runs his hand through his gelled-back hair.

"It's part of the custom; you should know this as part of the Hive, Ted. Don't act all coy like this is the first day, Ted. It's all past the rehearsal stage, you know that." He seems to lick his lips... of the nicks and cuts from the thorns of the rose stalk itself. Someone ought to dethorn all the roses, but they always come with thorns. Despite this, he still gives that creepy fake smile, with his brilliant whites on display, that is either "he's not impressed" or the kind he gives Melissa.

"Hmph. Make me." He flips up his middle finger at Mr Davidson. Ted may have been a nuisance in the office and a bit of a prick. Hell, during work, he could sometimes be a kiss-ass. But this wasn't work. And if Mr. Davidson wanted to dance, oh Ted would give him a dance alright. "I dance when I wanna dance, pretty boy. Not when ya ask me to."

With that show of defiance, a pair of dance shoes materialized on Ken's feet as he started to bust his own moves. Bouncy, abrupt, clearly aiming to intimidate a little, of course missing a little of... it takes two to tango after all. It helped less in Ted's favor that the Hive started to whoop and cheer when Mr. Davidson started to dance. And why are some providing live percussion with their hands? (the snow and sleet are a slight problem for feet stomping, so some have conveniently taken up different parts of an invisible music sheet to set the tone.)

Oh, for goodness sake! All he wanted to do was find Paul... Charlotte, yeah... where was Charlotte? Ted clenches his fists and breaks out into his own dance. It's not quite a tango, but it's his own form of dance. He skirts around Mr Davidson and smugly presses his back to his before pushing off. The false confident grin plastered on his face.

Oh well, at least Ted did not back down; they would have shoved him back if he did so— someone with old bones has started to sing, and the rest cannot help but start singing along; both are dancing, but they aren't tangoin'. Somewhere amid the song, Mr Ken Davidson started humming the simple tune before picking it up immediately. "Takes two to tango, two to tango, two to really get the feeling of romance; let's do the tango, do the tango, do the dance of love."

Ok, the boss did have a good voice. Flipping off Mr Davidson for a second time, Ted grins chaotically. Every so often, his shoes kicked up a spray of snow. "You can sail on a ship by yourself, take a nap or a nip by yourself. You can get into debt on your own. There are lots of things you can do on your own." He snatches Mr. Davidson's tie and gives the older man a yank, stepping back slightly so he can conduct his own dip. That shit-eating grin hasn't left Ted's face.

The older man gives Ted a face of mild disapproval. For the record, only his wife, Carol, can choke him. "I appreciate you remembering something of my own mind, but not quite now, don't you think?" After that small interjection, he swings the rose at Ted's head while singing with a strained voice. "But it takes two to tango, two to tango, Two to really get the feeling of romance. Two to tango, two to tango, do the dance of love."

"You can croon to the moon by yourself, be a Rosemary Cloone by yourself." Ted snatches Ken's wrist, not letting him get that rose anywhere near himself. Pushing back, he pulls himself upright and tangos away from Mr Davidson. He had no desire to be anywhere near this man if he could help it. "Be like Bing, learn to sing and groan; there are many things you can do alone." He tries once again to force his way through the crowd. Gosh, take a hint.

Soon, the crowd starts to sing the chorus as a few people push Ted back in while Mr Davidson tries to dance a little closer. "But it takes two to tango, Two to tango, Two to really get the feeling of romance. Let's do the tango, Do the tango, Do the dance of, ONE MORE TIME!" In the distance, the other party is making their way back while humming their own tune, most of them in warm coats. But soon enough, they, too, start to hum that same melody and sing by themselves. "Two to tango, two to tango." "Bill" himself also tries to follow the crowd until he realizes from afar why they have started to chant a whole new song. " Two to tango, two to tango ... oh, someone is fighting."

The hairs on the back of Ted's neck stand on end as he stares into Mr. Davidson's blue eyes. He takes one step back, but as the older man grabs his arms to pull him close, Ted clutches back and slams his knee up right into Ken's balls. Once. Twice. Swinging his fist, he punches Ken in the jaw, decking him into the snow. Paul freezes momentarily beside Bill as he stares at the scene before him. Shit-- he takes Alice's arm to keep her from joining the crowd; looking up at Bill, he nearly gestures like he's ready to strangle someone. Of course. "What is going on here!?" He starts to storm over.

The crowd lets out a gasp. They have been kindly reminding Ted to dance correctly. As The Singular Voice once said, a dance-off is a most sacred moment that should be treated respectfully. Though there are certainly moments when the Hive will toy with violence, and had it not been the Hive King yelling out, they may have made a move sooner. Ken Davidson lies on the snow, shaking the snow off his face before wiping the rest of it off. He moves his jaws to check if it is most intact. Mr. Davidson would like to whine about his balls but instead just settles lying on his side to hold his middle and curl up. Soon enough, he is undoubtedly complaining. "Bill" holds onto his kid. It sure looks like The Hive King- Paul is furious. Wait a second, is that... Ted? Theodore Spankoffski, was it? Yeah, that guy, Ted... where had he gone for this long? Upon Paul walking on over, some of the Hive members speak up. Some point at Ted, some seem to be unaware of the actual situation. "He was not dancing the tango right, sir!" "We do not know, dear Paul; they were about to perform a dance-off!" "This one called you Noodle! Nothing but absolute disrespect!"

Ted shakes his hand a little, wringing out the pain in his knuckles. He's always wanted to do that. Looking over to Paul, he grins and waves, quickly shoving through to walk over to his best friend and slugging an arm around his neck, giving him a playful noogie. "There you are! Well, what do you know! Paul Matthews running the joint! Atta boy!" Paul's eyes widen as he freezes in indignation. Groaning lowly as he waits for Ted to get off him. "Teeeed." He grits his teeth.

"How dare he touch the Hive King!" "... do you think the Hive King perhaps favours him?" "Emma Perkins is the one the Hive King favours most!" "Pity she had to go the other way towards Ohio in Monroe." "Pity? She's spreading his good name for our Hive King." The Hive gets into quite the buzz, something a little rare if Pokey casts his gaze on over. Mr Davidson finally utters a word, the snow helping slightly with the awful pain in his groin. However, he is still visibly in pain but manages to use that half-ruined rose to point at Ted. "This Ted is a bad egg. He won't dance properly."

Of course, they just had to bring up again how Pokey sent Emma away. Paul knows he'll never forgive Pokey for this, but there is also a lot he won't forgive him for. Pulling himself away from Ted, he brushes himself off. Ted bristles and glares at Mr. Davidson and the rest of the Hive. How dare they call him a bad dancer. "Oh Fuck you!" He snaps at Ken, ready to storm over and kick his head in. Paul grips his hair as he sees the situation getting out of control. "Stop! Enough! All of you." Paul puts himself between Ted and his boss, an exasperated grin plastered over his face.

"I SHOULD—" Before Mr Davidson could say further, he finds himself shutting up on command from Paul himself. The chatters of the Hive soon die down as well, as they all stared at Paul in one fancy blue fur-lined coat. Those without coats soon realized that they were indeed... actually cold. The jitters they were having were not of an eagerness to move or to dance; they were the shivers of their own bodies against the biting wind. So it was not them losing inspiration to dance after all... they were always thinking of ways but unable to truly execute it. "Bill", after sticking Alice to Deb while draping a coat on Deb, starts over to pass costs around to the other side of the Hive that has yet to get sufficiently warm clothing to keep going. Apparently, some others who partook in the clothing heist have also grabbed shoes at that, too, for the ones who have danced till their shoes had given way. "Nah, a coat for you, a coat for you, and a coat for you and ... shoes and..."

Paul feels his shoulders sag as Bill seems to take over the responsibility of warming everyone. With the crowd pacified, he snatches Ted's arm and is about to ask him where the hell he's been. Paul's not seen Ted for months, though he could have just gotten lost in the crowd. However, the Hive King freezes when he sees the yellow eye shining next to Ted's other ordinary brown eye. ".... what happened to you?" Ted tilts his head with a cheeky grin, raising a confused brow. "I wish I knew, bucko."

"Bill" can't help but regard that bright yellow amongst the muted and blue colours. It stood out like an amber light in the distance... hold a second. He, too, seemed... seems a little bit in the know of things. By in the know... this one is partially lucid. At some parts, with the rest of the Hive. In some other parts..., he seems to be trying to think for himself... Interesting. Very interesting. And he loves a lucid sentience to keep track of, much like how he's half glad Paul is now sound. Hopefully, with little notice, he does the liberty to add some good ol' fluff in that one fluffless jacket he found... maybe the lucidity within might appreciate the extra warmth. Besides that magical scarf of his, quite the acquired style. Having snuck some gloves in the pockets, he stealthily drapes it over Ted's shoulders.

Ted pauses in his smart-ass tirade to look up at Bill, eyes wide with an uncanny surprise. Paul frowns, looking from Bill to Ted awkwardly. The local sleazeball snaps away from Bill with a gruff, grumbly thanks and begins to do up the jacket buttons. Frowning. Paul's shoulders sink slightly, patting Ted's shoulder gently. Before his hand slowly slips away to hang by his side. I'm dreaming this, aren't I? It was the only explanation. There is no way they are indeed here. Perhaps Paul is just desperate; maybe some part of him doesn't want to believe they are truly dead. "Keep up the good work... I... I need to go..." The need for seclusion drives Paul to turn on his heel and walk away. Heading to the tent, Pokey had the Hive set up for him.

Without a word, "Bill" keeps his hands in his pockets, pretending his first instinct would not have been to wave back and smile widely. Those purple and orange speckles in "Bill's" eyes just seem to shimmer as he watches Paul walk off briskly. He'd like to do something, but the force involved spread throughout this thing called the Hive... it is overwhelming for a young person like himself. Let alone the old guy who thinks himself to be Bill, too, whom he ushered to a slumber. He must do all he can to hold onto any form of anchors, truly lucid minds, of those not taken hostage by Blue Intruder . He slowly walks back, watching his footsteps as he slides a little on some ice. Where is salt when you need it?

Further off in the distance, Pokey, like usual, does his own thing where the wonders of Eldritch power make the impossible possible. He's always done this in every city they have touched with their song, in every town graced by the footsteps of the enlightened, in every district that now moves with them all in a beautiful symphony. Through the tent, it almost seems like Paul is pulled back to Starlight Theatre, where everything began. And oh does he sense, oh doth his ears hear the soft crunching of snow under the feet of his Starlight Starlet. Paul~

Ignoring the solitary voice, Paul closes the tent's fabric, ceiling the rift separating the mainland from Hatchetfield. It's one of the things that Pokey taught Paul how to do and one of the few things he's actually decided to use. Paul lets the blue-furred coat fall carelessly to the floor as he storms to the centre stage and climbs up, flopping into an armchair and burying his head into his hands. There is a strange relief in the solitude. There's not a soul left on this island. No one other than a few souls that the Hive failed to hunt down. As far as Paul knew, Emma's brother-in-law and her nephew were some of them. "You need to stop it."

Paul... I've told you, taught you, and repeated it all to you that it will not stop until the world sings and dances in euphoric bliss. As sweet as he always has been, only to Paul, Pokey happily chirps to Paul, where the snow melts upon the carpet, where Paul's clothes just barely, barely hold themselves together. The sleeves and pant legs' ends have long shown rips, tears, and dirt, now slightly damp with melted snow. Some semblance of a business jacket is doing its best to remain pristine, but it does look like it is not spared from the harshness of the environment. Tsk, stragglers, Paul, stragglers. They evade my song, Paul. Should we not weed out the garden? Winter has come, and they still will not come out to sing. How am I to sympathize with them if they wish to remain hidden too well, Paul?

Paul sneezes twice and rubs his nose on his sleeve. Somehow, the theatre was always warm. Was it the thermostat? Paul runs his hands up and down his arms, feeling the goosebumps breaking out at the sudden temperature change. The thought of Pokotho hunting down Tom and Tim sends a nauseous feeling into his gut. He didn't want that for them, especially Emma's family. "No... I don't want to do that. Just leave them be, please Pokey?" He tries not to beg. He's done enough of that while trapped under Pokotho's will. Clenching his fists, he steadies his tone. "I want you to stop pretending my friends are themselves."

Oh no, Paul is sneezing. Perhaps he truly underestimated the power of winter itself on the Hive. Sighing from the wings, he picks up that nice blue coat and shakes off the snow to flop it on Paul. Paul, you know it yourself, how long can they resist? We just need to be the seekers and win the game of hide-and-seek... not that I'm fond, but I'm sure you know how the spores work. Hmph. Does Paul know what it takes to be an actor? He's convinced he's run by how performance is done and the very art and essence of acting. Pretending to be another person is what he has mastered over centuries. Not even counting his tenure of mimicking mere animals.

"I honestly don't give a fuck." Didn't he ever get the hint? Can't Pokey see what he's doing? Paul hugs the coat closer. If he had any more dignity, he'd throw it away. But he didn't want to get sick. "They're not props, Pokey, they're people .... and they're my friend. I don't want you mimicking them and tricking me into thinking they're still there, ok?" It hurts, the familiarity yet alienation. The socialization yet the isolation. The grief yet seeing them every day. What's worse was that he was pretty sure to Pokotho, his friends were nothing but tools, using their bodies as a means to an end. It was a game, a musical. What did that make him then?

Paul, acting is, in fact, my forte. I can't help it myself. An invisible hand lightly brushed Paul's forehead as if to check on him for his temperature... those hands were cooling to the touch, just like before. As soon as that touch faded, however, the sweet voice hardened. Paul, they are there. They are together in the Hive, where almost everyone is privy to each other's thoughts. Except for some ... like you, I won't allow them to read your darkest little secrets.

He leans into the touch; he's beginning to get used to the feel of Pokey's hands. Something about them is soothing to him, but like always, he stiffens and pulls away, deliberately looking away from where he thinks Pokey stands. "Heh, is that just they'd know how much I hate you?"

This gets Pokey to chuckle slightly in a multitude of voices. Ah, why would he allow that sort of unrest? Besides, all they really know is to follow The Singular Voice. He'll take over if Paul is a bit "frightful" of the stage. Oh no, Paul, enough to know that Paul likes things in order; Paul does not like fights, and everyone must treat Paul with respect... that is just some of it. Unless you'd wish me to tell you all that the Hive knows of you...

A budding sense of anxiety takes root in Paul's chest. Shuffling uncomfortably in his chair, he shakes his head. No, he doesn't want to know what the Hive knows about him. Or at least what Pokey has them think they know about him. But there is one thing he does want to know. "Pokey, what am I? Why am I the leading man? I mean... I know why- but why-..." It's a tricky question. He struggles to find a way to ask it. "Why me? What makes me special over everyone else?"

Hm. Going all philosophical, Pokey hears. His answer is all the same: Paul is Paul. Paul is the Hive King; he has to be the Hive King. He chose Paul and, in all rights... only Paul Matthews. How shall I put it? One, there is no one else called Paul Matthews. He wanders unseen, looking at Paul in the comfy armchair just for Paul and Paul only. Being called Paul Matthews is special enough in its own right, is it not?

Oh wow, he can already feel the headache approaching. Paul tries to massage his forehead. Why did he always insist on being so difficult? "That's not an answer...." He grumbles. Leaning his head against the back of the armchair. He was tired.

What are you looking for in an answer, Paul? Alright, two, you are not a ... you are not loose. He's hardly done with his true answer, but he feels slightly annoyed, seeing how Paul looks so tense. Why don't you relax more now that you're home, Paul?

"I'm sorry. What --" Paul exclaims, getting to his feet furiously. Is that the reason? Is that seriously a reason. "Because I don't have sex!? " He pinches the bridge of his nose. Relax. Sure. Right. Of course, he can relax. Of course. It's SO easy to relax.

NO, THAT'S NOT WHAT I MEANT! He got distracted. Yes distracted. Paul is now like a tightly coiled spring, and Pokey feels the utter need to uncoil it. Oh, it hurts that he knows how to get Paul relaxed. He knows the thing with the shoulders. You're not relaxing your shoulders, Paul! No, it is NOT because you don't copulate; Number Two is that you are usually attractive. He finds himself still grabbing Paul's shoulders from behind and just rubbing it down with every squeeze he gives Paul's shoulders. Sometimes, he treats squeezing Paul's shoulders as something almost akin to squeezing a squeaky toy (by which most squeaky toys are an assault to the ears, so he merely refers to the action of pressing one).

"A-a-Attractive-- what are you-- what do--" His voice starts to cut off, losing his own train of thought. Finding himself silent as Pokey's hands tend to his tense joints. A pink flush covers his cheeks as Paul just lets it happen. Stop. Don't let him just-- nngh... Paul's eyes close a little; it feels nice. "You're attracted to me?" The man sighs out.

Wha— why would— number three is that you have very lovely eyes. Number four is that I just like you better than anyone else... He immediately proceeds to jump to the other reasons. In hindsight, perhaps he should look through his reasons for Paul and sort them in order. Seeing the man relax, however, makes him slightly happy... and he just cannot help but keep rubbing those shoulders.

Should this be worrying? It should, shouldn't it? It actually is. Paul is no psychologist, but doesn't it sound as if Pokey thinks he's in love with him? Or at least some sort of affection at least. Forcing himself to pull away from the touch, he looks back at Pokey, brows furrowing as he stares at him. "......" Or was he just saying these things to try and trick him? It was possible. But the sheer thought that this thing could possibly care for him was .... well..... strange.... but the more he thought of it, the more nervous he became. And soon enough, a sense of dread washed over Paul like a tidal wave.

Number 5, up till now, I still don't know what you want. Even when I thought I knew what you wanted, it seems that you're still trying to run from being happy hmmmm. I've never seen someone running away from the pursuit of happiness. He lets go of the shoulders, projecting his voice on the other side halfway into talking to Paul. He could sense how Paul is becoming all tense again. Well, he's an anxious little fellow most of the time. Oddly cute when he starts to do that particular thing he does in his panic. Paul, no one else is going to take any space in your home. I practically don't even take up space myself in your terms. And I'm not quite done with your question.

He freezes in place and turns around again, trying to show his back on Pokey, a tiny show of defiance. "Okay, Okay, Okay, Okay, Okay, Okay, Okay..." He takes a deep breath and taps his hands together. "My terms? How has any of this been on my terms? I didn't want this. You forced it on me; you trapped me in my mind for six weeks!"

Awwwwww, that cute thing he's doing almost makes him wanna give a head-pat. He does find himself giving Paul a gentle head-pat. Six weeks? Six weeks? Hmmm. Starlight He pauses a while, feeling that fluffy collar of the full-length fur coat on Paul, most happy with its deep royal blue colour. ...It has been about four months since then, not six weeks. You needed all the practical's to get used to it.

......... F-four months? It's been four months... has it? Really? Has it really been? How does Paul know if Pokey is just saying that or not? What is it-- what is it- is it-- oh no--- nononono.... please-... Paul slowly sways for a moment before dropping to his knees. Rocking back and forth as he tries to get a grip. The more he thinks about it, the more it makes sense. It'd been the first month of autumn when all this began... it was winter now. Why did Paul think it was only six weeks? "What did you do to me... why did you keep me in there that long- DON'T YOU KNOW WHAT YOU'VE DONE!?" He grips his hair, screaming out.

That outburst. Explosive, powerful delivery. It gave Pokey a little shock himself; he swore he felt himself jump out of his own body in such... exhilaration! Soon enough, when it sets in, he gathers himself back to talk to Paul. Paul, I'm sure I never hid it from you about the seasons. We even sang a little about the autumn and the songs of winter! And...what have I done? You mean what wonders the Hive has done to bring Michigan together as a state?

"No! We didn't sing about anything! You sang about it! You had no right to lock me up!! I've lost track of time!! I-- What if I'm mad!? Did you drive me insane? Why -- Oh god---" He covers his mouth, kneeling as he feels himself nearly throw up. Is this why he's no longer careful? Why he doesn't care if he gets hurt? For the first time, Paul is starting to realize his lack of self-preservation as of late. He shakes his head. "No.... these aren't wonders.... it's Hell ...."

You are not mad, Paul. I never thought of you as mad. If you are mad or insane, then there is no word that describes my constant state of self. He watches as Paul continues to scream at what seems to be a void. Did he really have Paul forget time itself? That is weird. Paul, if it helps, we could have a walk around outside so that you can adequately take in more of the winter season. Besides, you can't get mortally wounded now.

Attempting to recollect himself, Paul breathes in through his mouth and out through his nose. It's a technique the school counselor taught him in the third grade. Eventually, his rocking stops as he leans forward a little, resting his head on the coffee table. "Okay.... okay.... okay, okay.... okay....."

Come on, Paul, it is not that bad; being able to heal right away is a very good thing. He touches Paul's shoulders again, like trying to hold him in place, as he looks somewhat broken. Although again, the little thing he does is absolutely, tremendously too adoring to ignore, so he gently rubs the sides of Paul's arms while another hand of his pats Paul's head.

Paul's body gives in to physical affection. The poor office worker is beginning to wonder if there's some sort of pheromone Pokey gives off. How else can he explain why just.... touch has never had this effect on Paul before.... but again, the only people who touched him really were his parents, sometimes a handshake, or a shoulder pat from Bill.... or an arm slugged around his shoulders from Ted, but.... he's never been caressed like this...

Whatever we are doing is for the good of everyone. Everyone, especially you! The way Paul looks so delightfully relaxed, oh what joy does he sing from within... his proverbial heart of music. There are many emotions he expresses with his masked face, all rendered invisible to even Paul's eye at this moment. Save for maybe a few happy tunes by the tunes of La dee dah dah. That I promise you.

All of this for him... Pokey did all of this for him. To be happy? Is that really just what Pokey wants for him? To be happy? Couldn't he of chosen another method? How will this work out, really? Honestly? How? Paul looks up for a second, and for the briefest moment... he swears he can see the shape of a man... but no,... t-was just a trick of the light. "..... can you promise you won't hurt anyone?"

A hum seems to muse on that sentence. Why is Paul worried about that part exactly? One must die in order to experience the beautiful process of rebirth. It is how it works, how it is acted out, how it is executed. Define hurt. Those at the barricade won't start enjoying the bliss we have by themselves. You should've seen how they are in desperate denial at the very prospect of a new life of happiness.

"Yeah... it's because they're scared Pokey... I was scared.... so was everyone else..." Paul is glad he was not around to witness many deaths of his friends. But between poisoned by coffee, shot, or guts being ripped out. Paul worries that Pokey may not know how to kill humanely. "But they wouldn't be alive, not really, would they? I mean, is it even them in there?"

For once, Paul sees the light... not quite. Dear Paul, why do you have to care about that ? All Pokey cares about is Paul himself, not of anyone else. Plus, they have dallied enough for their next performance. Why should they fear death? Death is not the end like how some view it. It is a new beginning. To join our merry troupe, they do have to die first, you know that, Paul.

"Do I, though?" He doesn't feel as if he has the energy to argue with Pokey. Why is he avoiding the question? It's just a simple one, are they still mentally here? Yes or no? ".... I won't help,"

Why not? You said so they are scared, so we must bring them in to embrace the harmonious atmosphere. If we must humour alive in the human sense, of course not, I am not human. Paul and his I won't helps. For this long and still does Paul resist ever more so. He's trying his best to understand Paul in his entirety; no, did he not already understand Paul completely? What other information was he missing? Paul's very life script is a single page of his daily life. Why was Paul so ever, more so, difficult to have him on board and on script? Paul, I'm not taking away who they are; I'm just allowing them to live the best possible version of their lives with minimal grievances.

"But you didn't ask. Did you?" Paul snaps out with a little more grit. He sits up straighter. Something about Pokey's declaration that this is kindness, that he's helping humanity. It just rubs him the wrong way. He shakes his head and gets to his feet. Blood, blue goo, and everything else. Both things stain Paul's hands. "You just did all of this without even considering whether we wanted it. I don't want it. I never did. I don't care if I'm happy or not; I just wanted to be left alone, and that includes by you." He rubs his eyes for a moment. "Why did you send Emma away?"

Geez, what is wrong with Paul... fine, fine, maybe he does want Paul to have an actual focal point to focus on other than staring all around the place. Why does Paul insist on "asking"? He asked what they wanted, and he was giving it to them. Emma will help cover more ground for us, like how I've sent some more to conduct tours across the cities to spread love and the euphony of death and rebirth. That was the reply he settled on. He did not nearly sound as joyful; however, an edge of annoyance lingered on his tongue when speaking of Emma.

Deciding to change the subject to something more agreeable, Paul picks up his oversized blue coat and pulls it on. With Emma gone, there was nothing he truly cared for here.... does Bill and Charlotte count? Paul's not sure. "So, I'm the Hive King, that means they'll do as I tell them." He steps outside the tent and goes in search of Mr. Davidson. Paul doesn't know why Pokey seems to have chosen his boss as a strange sort of second in command. But he hopes he'll listen to him.

Looking on as Paul leaves from the portal to Detroit, Pokey decides to summon himself a crow-like creature with a mask over its head, much like a plague doctor humans speak of. That thing that arose from the royal blue goo soon flapped its wings to fly out through that tent to observe the scenery. They do as told; however, I can still make that final decision. Mr. Davidson was apparently hanging out with his wife Carol, serenading her as the rest of the Hive huddled out in their new coats and other winter wear they could get to seek the internal human need of warmth in the cold.

Paul's bare feet crunch in the snow, and his ankles burn from the freeze. But he pretends not to notice. The man tries to ignore Pokey's words as he approaches the group. For a moment, he couldn't help but consider them as penguins, with the way they huddled in a group. Why didn't they make tents for themselves? "Sir? Mr. Davidson? Everyone?" He waves his hands to try to get the Hive's attention. They all seem to stop what they're doing and look towards him eagerly. Paul takes a deep breath. "I want you all to come back to Hatchetfield, the ... conquest? Whatever, the conquest is over."

Mr. Davidson continues to hum in just strings of La dee dah dah, but to a certain oldies tune of a love song. That is before the Hive King speaks up, and now he, too, finds himself reminding Paul. "Paul? My King, but the barricade still stands. How can you leave your work unfinished, Paul? That's not the way to do business at all, Paul. You alone would know the drill yourself." Carol now gets off her husband's lap as he stands up and merrily skips over, despite the snow, to look at Paul dead in the eyes. That is not acceptable. How could Paul leave his work half-done? Paul gets all the time he needs to get the work done. "You alone have such the connection to our saviour after all. And there is no deadline to conquering the whole of Detroit~."

"Well, the saviour Pokotho can go shove his 'holy mission' up his ass. Fuck him. Fuck him hard with a chainsaw." Paul hopes this might get through to Mr. Davidson and the others. "We're not doing the rest of Detroit. It's over. Right now."

The Hive is silent for a minute or two. Maybe it was shorter, perhaps it was longer, but soon, the entire Hive ever so nicely says this in unison. "Paul, it's not over yet, Paul." To continue the rest of the talking, as a crow lands upon a power line, Mr. Davidson smiles ever so widely at Paul, as those dead eyes seem to sparkle with nothing but the shadow of the man himself. Even having the audacity to waggle his eyebrows at Paul. "You're being a bit open with that, aren't you, Paul? That's nice for a change, but... there's barely any part of Detroit left. You led us through with such ease; if not for the cold, we would've been done by now and would be able to heed your request."

Bristling Paul finds himself trying to correct Mr. Davidson. That's not what he said at all. He sends an unimpressed look to the rest of the Hive. "No-- What I meant-- we're not--- No! Look. Ignore that blue asshole in your head. Listen to me. Davidson. Listen. Just. Forget about the Barricade, ok? Forget about it."

"Good luck with forgetting; the Hive remembers that we have a barricade to storm, you know~ everyone knows we have some doubtful who never knew the taste of sweet, sweet happiness in their blood." The Hive seems to draw closer to Paul. They all want to enforce on Paul to finish what they have started. At least that's what's in their heads and shared minds. The Hive King sure is giving a conflicting signal, so they all implore. "Why leave them behind, Paul? Why deny them eternal bliss?" Mr. Davidson starts walking around Paul, thinking about the conflicting interests between their saviour and their prophet. Common sense has it to follow the saviour, but convincing the Hive King is equally vital. "Exactly, Paul, what's the matter? It's not like I gave you an impossible task; you're almost done with what is entrusted to you."

"This isn't bliss, it's hell." Paul tries to keep himself facing Mr. Davidson. He feels as if he's prey, a rabbit. Mr. Davidson is a predator. "Screw you. You always were a cheesy piece shit." That was it, he was leaving.

That's when Mr Davidson grips Paul's forearm with such strength, his smile never faltering. Almost like it shone along with the blinding white of the snow amidst the frenzied flurries of snowflakes falling from the sky. What came spilling from his mouth of blue goo was more abuse of Paul's name and an almost oddly familiar way of talking Paul will know too well. "No, Paul, we shall not leave Detroit until we let the citizens know that it's Christmas time, Paul. Every single one of them, Paul." A singular bluish crow with a white mask over its face and beak flies down to hop upon the snow towards the commotion.

With his whole body tensing, Paul tries to pull his arm away from Mr. Davidson. Ow... that hurt- Paul stares intently into the older man's eyes. Is that Pokey? Or- was it the Hive, or was it Pokey himself? Wringing his arm, he tries to get out of his grip. "I'm going home. You can do whatever the fuck you want. But I'm not doing it. Get off me." Paul tries to keep his tone steady and not get overly upset; that's what happened the last time.

The crow of blue sheen and white mask hops near Paul, intently staring at the scene before it. When. When will Paul do it, then? Still, Mr. Davidson obediently conveys his wishes to Paul, even if he may still be most unconvinced in bringing the Apotheosis around. "Not so fast, Paul. If you wish to make your way home, we must finish what we start in Detroit~ what sort of dance suits the Hive King best when negotiating?"

"Well, you can't make me do it. I'm the Hive King, and you know what--" Paul covers his mouth for a moment, trying to keep himself calm. If they said this, there'd be no telling what would happen to him. Snowdrops decorate his brown hair in little white flecks. "I renounce Pokey. The Apotheosis. All of you. I refuse to be part of it." Perhaps death would be better...

The whole Hive starts to plead with Paul regarding his confession the moment he ends his sentence. "That won't do Paul. That won't do. You died; you were reborn just like all of us! The Apotheosis is for everyone. Dance Hive King Dance!" At this point, the crow now hops right upon Paul's foot, looking at Paul with a strange, discerning look that should not be possible in bird terms. It lets out a short caw and stretches its wings a little before continuing its stare.

The already frightened man squeaks as he looks down at the bird. What the fuck... crows weren't blue. What was with that mask.... beak? Whatever... Paul tries to shake the crow off his foot. Looking up at the Hive fearfully. "I'm the only one who's alive by the looks of it! You are not reborn; you're just dead! Just die properly and leave me be!"

The crow proceeds to defy the laws of gravity by walking up Paul's back as if it were a floor before perching right on Paul's shoulder. Paul~ is Mr. Davidson giving you too much stress?

"Ah-" Paul stares up at the crow. Partially terrified Pokey might peck out his eyes for his transgressions. And it's with this fear that he freezes, his breath blowing against the blue plumage as he peers up into those eyes. "..."

He is giving you stress, isn't he? I shall let him just escort some of the Hive away to keep him slightly busy while you catch your cool. Or do you suggest a fate much worse? The crow looks at Paul in the eyes with its own glowing blue. He intends to get Paul on board to just be done with Detroit. Especially if Paul so wants to personally walk back to Hatchetfield despite how he always gets to sleep in Starlight Theatre.

His lips stammer as he tries to answer Pokey, shaking a little as he peers up at what he can finally see. Should he be more worried? Does this mean something? Why is Pokey a crow? Paul brushes these thoughts aside as he tries to focus. "I... just.... just make him get the Hive to go away... please...."

The feeling of warm breath upon these feathers, the way the mist fades away in the frigid air ... stop, no, no, no. He is a most upright fellow. Yes, he shall do what Paul says just to humour him. Detroit must receive its Apotheosis. Alright, for the time being... they shall be sent away. Why did you not say so? Besides, the Starlight Theatre is your space; you could've chosen to stay a little longer.

Can a voice be described as a sensation? It may be strange, but that is precisely how Paul would describe Pokotho's voice.... a sensation. Soothing, almost like warm water. "... because I didn't want them to hurt the people...."

He stares at Mr. Davidson while closing off Paul from the rest of the Hive. Almost immediately, Mr. Davidson turns away, singing a Christmas song as he gestures to the rest of the Hive to follow him. "It's Christmas time. There's no need to be afraid. At Christmas time, we let in light and banish shade. And in our world of plenty, we can spread a smile of joy. Throw your arms around the world at Christmas time..." Apparently, this crow is most capable of sighing, so it seems to sigh as he looks at Paul. Why was he like this? Why the worries at all? They really won't be hurting that much once they're with us, Paul.

"...... it's going to happen anyway, isn't it?" Paul asks, staring ahead blankly. He's glad to be left alone; he raises his hand to rub his forehead. How much longer can Paul delay this? Even if he manages to let the humans win, --- no-- People! People win.. even if.... they'd shoot him dead anyway. "What if I just never give the order?" How much longer till Pokey loses his patience and overtakes him again? It's only been three days....

Paul, do you remember the song you sang in that Clivesdale hospital? What was its name that I told you? Pokey, as the strange masked blue crow, seems to gently remind Paul about something. The song's title was enough, certainly.

"Inevitable?" Paul slowly brings his hands to his chest, clutching at the white fabric underneath his coat. Inevitable..... it was inevitable..... the melody plays softly in his mind.

It will be done. It must be done. Pokey will ensure Paul will be alright, no matter how terrible the situation can get. Paul is always a priority for anything that might need fixing, mainly healing from horrible wounds... like when Paul threw that grenade to the meteor and certainly nearly lost, at verily least, an arm and a leg. It was not the way to "break a leg," but there was the spirit. Yes, it is inevitable for us.

Perhaps it might be nice. Everything's been so stressful since the Apotheosis happened.... but had it ever been any less stressful before that? Every day in and out. Work, home, repeat. When was the last time Paul had taken a walk in the park? Or seen a movie, or even gone to a party? Anything... ".... It'll be quick, right?" The truth is, it'd been hard to be able to afford to be happy. It was exhausting enough to perform at his job. Paul learned from many trials and errors that he can have stability or happiness... but not both.

Paul's words seem to click something in Pokey. Sometimes, he likes to play for a while longer, and sometimes, he does not want to waste more time. But if Paul wishes to be quick with it, it does make some things easier. And he likes how eager Paul sounds to have it done . Anything to get his leading man in the spotlight. Allegro, Vivace, Presto, or Prestissimo— tsk, in layman's terms, fast to fastest, so how quickly do you wish to bring Christmas to Detroit?

Hesitantly raising a hand to the crow upon his shoulder, Paul strokes the chest feathers. Pokey's cold to the touch. But feels nice on his fingers. If they just get it over with, it'll all be over. Paul closes his eyes for a moment, almost resting them. He's so tired... "I don't know, I'm not a general or anything Pokey-"

Say the word, Paul; you get to decide how quick Detroit should receive happiness untold. I'm patient. I can wait for you to say it. Pokey leans in a little to the touch. Come to think of it, this was the first time Paul has managed to touch him. The cold from the chill makes him puff out his feathers. He feels how Paul strokes him.

"As soon as everyone is able, they're kinda cold right now... I don't want them to get frostbite..." Paul can't help but think about his friends. What if they get sick? He looks up Pokey. Staring a little bit. "Since when were you a crow?"

Paul, I can choose whichever form I want to be. But I much prefer the avian look. Pokey lifts his head up high, throwing out his chest, most proud about this look he has chosen to present himself to Paul. He's glad Paul noticed it, and he probably found it pleasant from how he felt the feathers. You see, because birds do sing. And so many songs they have... that I will out sing them for sure.

.... Out singing the birds? A crooked smile breaks out on Paul's face as he can't help but laugh. A giggle burst from his lips without meaning to. Why was that kind of adorable? "You're trying to out sing the birds?"

That is not important. I sing with the avian creatures each morning, but now, since we must await the Hive to warm up, you shall rest for the day. Pokey remains perched on Paul even as he breaks out into adoring giggles. Something in him wants to see Paul do it again. How may he express his desire to Paul other than stare at him? Yes, he has out sung the birds a few times, but more is needed to ensure one was on top-performing material. Does it amuse you that my vocal warm-ups are with the avians, Paul?

"It just sounds cute..." There's no other way to describe it other than cute. Does that mean Pokey comes to Hatchetfield other times too? When he's not causing an Apotheosis? A gust of wind blows through the camp, making Paul sneeze. He wipes his nose on his sleeve. "Why do you want me to rest? I'm fine." Sure, he hasn't eaten in days or had any coffee, but... he feels fine.

The crow stays silent while registering the Paul's sneeze, almost like Pokey himself has been blown away by the ... with a frazzle of feathers and some caws, he is back in his crow body. Paul thinks that's cute? That is only his daily ritual as the most distinguished Voice of them all. Look at your misty blue eyes, Paul. They are certainly fluttering themselves shut as we speak.

Misty blue... Paul's cheeks pinken a little, and looking away, he plays with his sleeves. Perhaps he doesn't want Pokey to see the smile he can't force down. Paul nods slowly; even as a bubbling warm sensation fills his chest, it is still met with an odd resistance. There's no way it wasn't... After everything.... "..... I think you might be right...."

Well, even without my astute skills in observation, I could not possibly miss that out with how you're barely able to stand. Come on now, back to Starlight Theatre. The moment you have sufficient resting, we will get it done as agreed and let you all take pilgrimage back to Hatchetfield. The way Paul's face briefly had a show of bashfulness before looking away... crows do not actively express emotions on their faces. Still, Pokey, hiding in the wings, is resting his face on his hands as he hums wistfully. That light-fitting feeling in his chest makes him flush blue himself. He must still find a most opportune time to have Paul know. After all, Paul was only finally finally managing to calm down just a bit.

The Hive King doesn't even seem to acknowledge as his body moves to follow Pokey's commands, but he doesn't protest either. Paul begins to head back to his tent, once again bridging the veil between two places. Slowly, sluggily, he makes his way backstage, where his bed awaits him. Laying his coat down over the bed, Paul removes the tattered jacket and the remains of his shirt. Hands hesitating at his belt for a moment. "Pokey, how many cities have you conquered in four months?"

10... maybe 12 cities? Why so, Paul? Now hopping upon the floor, having shaken off some of the snow that practically melted upon him, crow Pokey looks up at Paul almost innocently. No rush. He'll make himself go once Paul responds. Pokey will keep talking without the avian look. Paul is going to sleep as instructed after all. He should find a shirt for Paul soon; it almost looks like he's wearing a tattered table doily. An acquired taste but not his type of style.

"How did you manage to take over that many this quickly?" Deciding just to bite the bullet, Paul undoes his buckle and shimmy out of the trousers. Ironically, he feels less cold without his clothes on. Paul isn't sure if this is the first time he's been naked in front of Pokey before. Some of the memories from being enclosed are... a little fuzzy.... shuffling under the covers, he lays his head on the pillow.

The crow soon disappears out of sight; no sign of it, not even its feathers, but now just the Voice, the Singular Voice, permeating the space. I split the Hive across Michigan, is how. Oh, and... Never mind. Four months of such smooth sailing Apotheosis. Four beautiful months. Which might have destroyed that pair of shoes... he'll ask the Hive to fetch some boots for Paul, and he'll get to healing away frostbites for dear Paul. He now watches as Paul gets comfortable under the velvety softness of the blanket and the finest cotton most soothing for the skin. Is the bed still lovely?

If Paul's memory serves one thing correctly, he distinctly remembers that the Hive began to slow down soon after Paul's toes fell off for the first time. At least, it was the first time Pokey had let them slow down. And they hadn't picked up the pace until now. They had been healed back, of course. But already Paul could feel a strange numbing in his feet. "I like it, it's. Um... it's very comfortable..."

Good. I'll make sure it's very cushy and fit for a king. Don't worry about your feet; you'll be right as rain in the morning. The being gleefully remarks as he sees how Paul looked down to where his feet may be. Must have Paul comfortable. Must ensure Paul has a nice bed to lie in. Are you sure that the fabric is very comfortable on your skin?

Squirming in the bed, Paul curls up and pulls the blanket halfway over his head. Mumbling a little under his breath as he tries to will away a flushing in his cheeks. "Why are you being so nice to me?"

Ah yes, the bed-watching... time spent caring for his prophet is the best part of the Apotheosis. Look at how adoring it is when Paul enjoys the finest quality things, most suited for domestic comforts. That is a most adorable sight and also a treat to his ears to hear the small sounds of Paul as he attempts to make conversation harder with such a cosy layered blanket. Anything for you, Paul, anything for you. Don't be silly, Paul; I just want to be nice to you and just you. You are my wonderful little Hive King, shimmering little Starlight you.

"Why just me? Aren't there any others you'd like too? I mean.... Professor Hidgens was a willing candidate?" It was true; the old man had written an entire musical in his madness. Paul couldn't ever imagine having so much time on his hands. Only now, after everything was finished, would he. Hopefully, it'd be nice to have spare time. Paul begins to tap his hands together under the covers in thought. "Why do you call me that?"

The being of goo, meteor rock, and music emits an annoyed huff. To dare suggest that the old man Hidgens should be in Paul's place? Preposterous! Paul is the only main character he will ever be bothered about in The Apotheosis. He applauds Henry Hidgen's sheer enthusiasm to join, but the man in his star-studded eyes is not the one who could write musicals like he and sing the scores of songs he likes. No, it is not of an obsessive audience member, of the extras, who aspires to be his own playwright. The man who has piqued his curiosity from listening to him from day one is the one tucked under a royal blue duvet. This man, Paul Matthews, continues to fire more and more questions day after day. Is he, Pokotho, The Singular Voice, perhaps the one sitting for a test on a day-to-day basis? Perhaps. Perhaps. Paul is such a funny person sometimes; that's awfully cute. Oh, you know that you ARE the Hive King, don't you, Paul? That part is a fact throughout the Hive at this point.

It seems, however, that the man is already asleep. Paul's eyes are closed, and the rising and falling of his back underneath the covers have steadied into a rhythm. At least he's not shivering anymore. Slowly, colour comes back to his lips. The truth is, Paul has never been anything important before. As a child, he was called 'special,' but that is a coded word for what teachers would say behind his back. Or when they thought he couldn't hear him. 'There's something wrong with that boy.' 'Can't he just apply himself?' 'How can someone so smart be so stupid?'. He'd never forget the anxiety he felt as he got older, the pressure to meet the milestones.

Pokey only notices after he hears Paul's breath slow down, his soft exhalations being the only noise in the room besides his own. His Agonist now slumbers. He was about to explain his choice of words, but since Paul seems to have passed right out by himself, he starts to work right away to maintain him. Out of everyone in the Hive, healing is most prioritized to Paul. He never explicitly states this in the Hive; he expects all to understand that by now. Tsk... It's always the extremities, those that get afflicted by the cold. Of course, with what courses through the Hive, he will eventually heal all throughout their napping, wherever they may be. Blackened fingers regaining their healthy pink, hardened skin once more becoming soft and supple, missing digits growing back, functioning good as new.

Oh and of course, tuning back the feeble human vocal cords to ensure they can continue to sing the moment the morning sun hits. He ensures Paul is patched up fully before he focuses on the rest of the Hive. While he hums softly on to himself for the night, and possibly, for the Hive to listen in their own little collective dreams. Would you like to swing on a star? Carry moonbeams home in a jar? And be better off than you are. Or would you rather be a mule? A mule is an animal with long, funny ears. He kicks up at anything he hears. His back is brawny, but his brain is weak. He's just plain stupid with a stubborn streak. And by the way, if you hate going to school, You may grow up to be a mule. Or would you like to swing on a star? Carry moonbeams home in a jar? And be better off than you are. Or would you rather be...

"a-- mule--..." Paul murmurs softly in his sleep, breathing deftly in his dreaming state. ' You are as dumb as a mule! ' The voice of his school music teacher rings out furiously in his unconscious mind. Distinctly, he remembers being hit on the head with a music book before he was kicked out of the classroom.... These are problems with his dreams. Sometimes, they are awful memories.

Outside the tent, Ted follows "Bill" around like a lost puppy, accompanying Alice, Richie, Ruth, and Pete, who seem to trail after the tall man like ducklings. Ted tugs on Bill's sleeve. "Bill, Bill, Billy, Bill, Billboard, Billy, BillBillBillBillBillBill-"

Most of the Hive sleeps, dreams, nightmares, and everything between collide and coalesce. Most find their minds twisted together like strangling vines as members of cast in Paul's memories, a reconstruction of a Hatchetfield long past. Save for some of the Hive, most awake in the winter's chill, loitering about while Pokey hums tunes after tune by himself. "Bill" finds himself most awake. The warmth of his coat is cosy enough, but it is a pleasant stroll when no one else is wide awake to keep him in check... except... one, two, three, four, five other members of the Hive. One of whom was his co-worker, Ted. Ted with a single yellow eye and a broad smile on his face. Ted, who cannot stop teasing anyone he can. Ted who now chants his name like ringing a call bell numerous times over. He stops in his tracks as he looks down at Ted. Why is this half-lucid fellow trailing after him, and why are there five more... Awww, Alice, three more teenagers following him around? "Shhhh... what is it ?"

Ted's voice lowers at the command, and he stares up at Bill intently; Pete pauses when Ted does; the teen is looking half asleep, leaning on Ted's shoulder and staying there. Using his older brother as a kind of pillow. Engrossed in a new manga he's found in one of the looted stores, Richie walks right into Ted's back. "Oof-" Ted grunts as he's nearly knocked into Bill's chest. He smiles cheesily as he looks up at his friend. Ted had spent most of the day rounding up Pete and his friends, but as he stares up at Bill, he frowns a little when he sees his eyes. "Do you know where Charlotte is?"

He gets a little shocked when Ted is knocked into his own muscular chest. He just wanted to wander around in the snow without a care in the world, not chat. Then again, it's one of few minds not so addled by the terrible power of the blue shit. Now, what was it again, Charlotte ... Charlotte Sweetly! Yeah, the lady who keeps putting coffee in the sugar. Yes, that one...with her blue intestines swinging around without a care in the world... Hey, hey, heyyyy nooo Ted, don't give him that look. Don't you bore into his cocoa eyes with its orange and purple sprinkles, with that scrutinizing yellow of sour lemon candy. Stop staring so hard — " If I knew where Charlotte is, I'd be there by now. Why are you staring so hard at me? "

".... jeez, all you had to say was no...." He grumbles, folding his arms and smirking up at him cheekily. Adjusting his weight to support the equally lanky form that was Ted's little brother. Pete's longer hair hangs over his face as his glasses slide down his nose. Somehow, the nerd is already sleeping, standing up. Ted tilts his head as Alice slightly leans her weight into Bill's side. Why didn't the rugrats just stay at the camp? "Anyhow, what you doing out here by yourself?"

He always walked by himself, back when Ted was still in a trance induced by the blue shit. How Ted seems to be the way he is now, when he would have, by right, followed the rest of the Hive to their collective shut-eye, is beyond him. Sigh, the adolescents are all starting to slumber out here. But really, his own curiosity about this blue tent was piqued. But mainly, he wanted to stroll with himself for his own pondering. After each day of masquerading, entertaining that blue intruder. To be with his own thoughts. And Ted's mind, the actual sentience that is not of the mind-numbing hive mind, was hanging on a thread. It'll be good to bring the actual mind forth. " What brought you out here? Finding a chocolate bar for Peter in the middle of a city barely being a city? "

Ted shuffles uncomfortably, looking down with a grumble. It wasn't his fault that Bill was so darn approachable. At least it felt like a genuine conversation. Everyone else has just stared at Ted like he's grown a second head. Some ask him where he went to. All the sleazeball can do is answer honestly; he fell through a hole. And that was that. Even with the Hive having taken over, not much has changed. Ted always seems to sing the wrong lyrics and dance the wrong dance... Is there something he's just not getting? So what if he's not perfectly in sync or improvises his own choreography? What was wrong with that? At least Bill doesn't mind his presence compared to everyone else... "It's not weird, ok- Pete's got low blood sugar- Ack!" He yelps as Pete flops to the ground, forcing his older brother to hook his arms around his waist. "And All this dancing and jumping around hasn't been helping!" he may as well be shouting blasphemy- but oh, what the heck.

" Yeah, I know, but we are going in the wrong direction for candy bars, Ted. Yeah, sure, it's night alright, but whatcha say we take some unattended candy bars from an empty, abandoned store to get that settled, Hole Ranger? " Reading what is in people's minds is almost second nature to him. He can't say the same for the older one he forced into a nap, but just peering into people's heads is so easy. Plus, that more put-together kid called Pete has sung a few times about his absolute love for sweet things, so he figured it out as much. It really will not hurt just snacking, right? Like tiptoeing downstairs for late-night milk and cookies, except making their way through such crunchy snow into banged-up cafés and restaurants to just have some mouthfeel of something. At least he's dying for a taste of something that isn't finely frozen water from the sky— snow. " Or even something better than a chocolate bar, or like... you know, no one at the counter to judge us folk, so we could just walk in and strut right out like a boss... no raisin aficionados stopping us. "

Ruth perks up and looks between Bill and Ted. Chocolate? A grin breaks out over her face, and she begins to shake Richie; the other teen almost drops his Magna. Emitting a musical whine, he tries to shove his best friend off him. Things have been better for Richie, Ruth, and Pete since the Hive blessed them, at least in their opinion. Max Jägerman hasn't been bullying them anymore; by extension, everyone else has been nicer. And now Pete's big brother is taking them out for junk food? Yeessss! Ted flushes pink a little as he shuffles a bit. There was something different about Bill, but he just couldn't quite place it. It wasn't a bad difference, though.... it was just... Bill was so sure of himself lately. "I- yeah--, yeah, that sounds like a good idea, yeah... we're candy thieves. Here that Alice? Your dad's a masterful criminal." He snickers a laugh. Alice giggles with glowing blue eyes, nuzzling into Bill's arm.

"Bill" raises a gloved hand to ruffle the snow out of Alice's hair, smiling at his daughter, being so close to him for a change. Well, it certainly cannot hurt to grab a treat. Maybe even see what candy she likes and get her that. Some other kids are equally excited about the arrangement, too... it must mean he's doing the right thing. " Thieves? Criminals? Hmph! Everyone is busy sleeping and singing; who's gonna stop us? Just survivin' and globe-trotting, apparently. Who would've thought we'd be traveling across America on foot? Anyway, I know a place. Ya comin' or what. " Draping his arm across Alice's shoulder, he looks at Ted's flushed face with a dastardly smirk. A sneaky look in those strange eyes taunts slightly.

Ted stares as heat rushes upwards and smears itself into his cheeks. Oh no... uh oh... fuuucking god no- Clearing his throat, the sleazeball returns a grin, one of a ne'er-do-well if there ever was one. "I mean-- Sure! Right-- just a full-on vacation, right? Hahaha- I mean--- cities toppling, all the sorts-" He drapes Pete's arms around his shoulders. Trying to give his unconscious brother a piggyback ride. "A place you say?"

He has been paying attention to all the sights and sounds of Detroit. Simply a melting pot of everything... if only the blue intruder had not already Apotheosised the people. But well, he did see one of those small convenience stores, with its windows already bashed to smithereens and whatnot. There are probably some goodies, at least. Very convenient, as their name suggests. He was about to list the amazing things he had seen for months on end... they were kinda fun, but not fun when you're forced to play pretend with the thing that can't stand the power of the wondrously fantastic individuality. Blue intruder or, rather, old fart. " Yeah, those little shops that sell about everything easy to get. I haven't seen a supermarket, but I bet if I had known, I would've brought us there by now. You think those fruits by now would still be fresh if they even had a market? Winter's here after all... " He holds his chin as if deep in thought. "Bill" now starts to walk while holding his daughter's hand to wherever he had decided to walk to, now that he feels some level of sympathy for a teenager who needs the power of sugar to recharge.

The moonlight reflecting off the snow-covered street adds a semblance of visibility to the otherwise dark streets. The power has been cut off to Detroit weeks ago. And pretty soon, the heating after that. And it was very unclear how long the gas would hold out. But with how things are going, it wouldn't last much longer. Richie and Ruth scramble in through the decimated windows and shriek out a song of delight. Richie unlocks the door for the others, letting them inside. Ted frowns as he staggers inside, flopping Pete onto the checkout counter before kicking the snow off his shoes. "Hell if I know, Like, it's been weeks? I think anything fresh has probably been pillaged or rotted." Alice flees from Bill's side to join Ruth and Richie in racing the aisles. Teenagers will be teenagers... even Hive teenagers.

" Good thing then that candies last much better. If only sweets could be counted as a meal, I'd have them — " Ah yes, the candy, all displayed beautifully in the small aisles of this absolutely not heated establishment. Sure, it's not a candy store... come to think of it, there should be candy stores, but he won't want to stray too far from the rest to alert the Blue intrusive Shit God. So this small section in this little store is good enough. Yesssssssssssssss. Oh wait, there's chips, too. Ohohohohohoho. " ...so does your brother like chocolates? Cause we are in luck, and technically, I don't think we need sleep, but imagine the rest of them just taking alllll these goodies before we do. "

"Um, yeah, I guess? Anything with sugar? He's run out of his insulin pins... I... so..." Ted looks up at Bill, and for once, that cocky grin is missing.... is Ted actually... worried? Usually, Pete is able to manage his blood sugar by himself, but this is wildly out of the routine. Lightly, he begins to tap Pete's cheek, attempting to snap him out of his sleep. "....Pete-... Pete!.... Shit--" He doesn't even take the time to laugh at Bill's joke; he just keeps trying to urge his little brother awake.

Ted does not feel fine... it slightly affects his mood. He grabs a couple of chocolate bars and other candies before getting to Ted. " Sure it's not him sleeping soundly? " He squats right next to the teen while scrutinizing him before proceeding to prod at the tall teen's cheek with a candy bar.

Pete doesn't respond to the attempt to get his attention, but he's still breathing and hasn't been vomiting. At least there's that. Ted pulls the boy into a sitting position so his back is leaning on his older brother's chest; Ted glares at Bill a little. "No dickwad, he fainted. Just-- break that into small pieces so he can eat it." Alice is currently helping herself to a packet of jerky. Although she doesn't need to eat anymore, it's still an incredible sensation to have one's stomach full.

"Bill" pulls back the candy bar in question. The name-calling annoys him immensely. How very rude to call him that . " Really calling me dickwad... yeah yeah yeah Mr Hole-in-the-Floor... " He feels very uncomfortable as he fiddles with the candy bars in his hands. It might have your hairs standing on end like that moment of suspense in a horror show. That's what he thinks. The other kids seemed to be helping themselves to the goodies in this shop, that he knew for sure.

"Look, smart-ass, he could die from this!" Ted snaps, glaring furiously. One eye now leaking blue goo, but the other is glowing gold. Since when did Bill become such a jerk? At least, that's Ted's question. What the heck was going on? Wasn't the Apotheosis meant to make everyone happy? At least... well, Ted wasn't happy- But that was normal. He'd be an idiot to think anything would change for himself... "And I did fall through a hole- It was glowing on the inside. I was stuck there for, like, what-- months?"

" Well, what do you suppose we do if we don't know where the "insulin pills" are? I'm sure we can't saunter to the pharmacy and dig some out. And yeah, I know your story is pretty real, Ranger Koffski. " He did read Ted's mind. He really did, as usual. At least there was an exciting story to Ted from the surface he scraped at. He passed Ted the very broken-up chocolate packet pulverized a little by his hands as he continued to break the other candy bars.

Snatching the bar from Bill, he tears it open and takes a piece. Gently, Ted nudges Pete's lips open and slips a piece of chocolate between them into his mouth. Stroking his throat a bit to help him swallow. Repeating the process until the kid's eyes flutter and he begins to chew a bit. "It's ok, kiddo... I got you... ssh..."

He sits there, still breaking up the candy bars he snatched up. What exactly is Ted's deal? He definitely had brown eyes, never something this odd. He looks further to figure out the true story behind Ted's whole shenanigans. Still, he finds himself having to shut his eyes suddenly. Headache incoming, headache incoming... he can't dig that far in, apparently. But Ted Spankoffski... does he have some kind of history that may have to do with his yellow eye. He puts down the candy bars as he stands up to have a walk. " Tsk... ugh... geez, I'll just look out for those other little things, and Alice... "

Alice grabs a disposable camera off a shelf and brushes the dust off it. This was cool. Hanging it around her neck, she slips another piece of jerky into her mouth, walking over to Ruth, who is giggling madly, holding a woman's magazine. "Ruth, what are you looking at?" She sings and tilts her head; Ruth peers up at her and turns the book around, showing Alice a picture of a model in a bikini posing in a suggestive position. "Laa Dee Dah Dah Day~ pffft hehehehehe!" She snorts a giggle again and shoves it into her backpack. Alice offers her some jerky.

Oh, come on. Ok, fine, teenagers, they like to read that kinda stuff. To think a magazine like that can still exist in the cold. Guess he has found another thing that withstands winter. " What are you two doing? Where's the blue-haired one? Feed him, too, at least, Alice. Oh, and ... right, should've brought Deb along. " Instead of hurrying along, he also finds himself transfixed to the magazine. Bill never reads this stuff, so it's all new to him.

Even in the darkened store, the row of magazines stands untouched amid the mess. Perhaps during the looting, people were too busy grabbing supplies to think of porn. "Deb's sleeping, Dad.." Alice says, smiling up at her parent. She didn't want to wake her girlfriend when she saw Bill leaving their tent. So she'd tucked her in and followed after Dad. Ruth coos and wanders off a little, calling out to her best friend with almost bird-like chirps.

" Oh, right, sleeping. Not sure whether we'd bring back anything for Deb; you know how the rest just want some of the lion's share. The chirping one, where are you going, Missy? " He had thought maybe waking Deb up would be a much better outcome. He had not thought of bringing back food; who knows if Mr Davidson would howl his arse off and make them give up their goods. So while "Bill" ponders on (and now realizes that Ruth is now wandering off), wonderment wonders on with Richie. Like teens do when bored, they like to experiment with things a little. A bottle of Coca-Cola, a packet of classical Mentos Mints, one kooky mind, and a bad idea.

Richie looks over at Bill with a large grin, his eyes glowing a bright blue. He waves before continuing on with his fantastically stupid idea. He pours the Mentos into his mouth and opens the cola bottle, about to take a deep sip.

The pondering one now turns his head most quickly, having felt eyes boring into him. He moves rather quickly for someone of stocky stature, having grabbed the bottle of Coca-Cola most rapidly. " No... I'm guessing the name is Richard, no tricks right here now... "

The boy jumps, looking up at the man with surprise; usually, that never happens. Richie tilts his head questioningly. "Why?" He asks, grinning through the mouth full of mentos. Thunk , Crash. From within the storage room, followed by a muffled groaning and several ' fuuucking shiiiiit sonovabitch- ' of someone who's just hurt themselves and is trying not to scream. On the counter, Pete sits up straight, the chocolate having helped him retrieve his energy. Alice and Ruth freeze in place and begin to hone in on the direction of the sound. Richie tilts his head, and the teenagers simultaneously emit the blue slime from their mouths and eyes.

Putting a hand on Richie's shoulder, "Bill" was about to explain the inexplicable dangers of sugar and sodas when he felt that his gut instincts were probably right. He looks at Richie before he looks in the direction of the sound. " Richard, you stay with Ruth, my daughter, and probably Peter. Ted should still be outside right...? " He kindly guides the teen with a gooey mouthful of mentos mints back to the other stray children and his daughter. He looks around, noticing how Pete is awake after god knows how many candy bars entered that kid's system.

Pete slips off the counter and staggers over to his friends. Richie and Ruth hang on the lanky boy's arms; how he can support their weight is a mystery. Alice chitters her teeth but keeps to the others. They appear almost ready to attack... but they hold back. Ted steps back into the store; he'd gone outside for a smoke. What the heck was happening here? He raises a brow and makes his way over to Bill. " What's going on? " he whispers questioningly.

There seemed to be a little smoke in the convenience store rolling off "Bill"'s shoulders as he looked at the storage area. Ah yes. In a sea of singing zombies, sensing a functioning mind with their own feelings is a piece of cake. He tilts his head to look back at Ted, who had walked back in, glass crunching under Ted's shoes. " You sure had time for a puff... heard a little something in there, probably a storage room. Pretty distressed if ya ask me. Hmmmm... "

Rolling his eyes, Ted nudges his co-worker and saunters quite cockily up to the door. Pressing his ear to it like he could possibly hear inside. Perhaps Ted's just doing this to annoy Bill; who knows? Looking back at the other, he smiles a shit-eating grin. Then throws open the door. Bursting into song. "Love shack! Baby love sha-ACK!" The back of a fire hydrant connects with Ted's jaw, and his head flies back as his body crashes into the floor. Blue blood splattered onto the ceiling.

Sometimes, "Bill" needs a harsh reminder that Ted is still part of the Infected. Yeah, that's what they were called in Hatchetfield. But yikes. Nothing blue shit can't fix, but he is not prepared for his own skull being bashed. He motions to the teens to stay put as he tries to worm his way into this one's mind. Who this other person is. ...certainly need to carry Ted back for sure, he notes.

Her name is Morgo. And she's not been hiding out here for months just to get taken down by a bunch of Nerds, a TikTok Girl, and two gay dads- At least, that's what she's currently thinking. The kid seems about fourteen, with an Adventure Time logo on her jacket. And wildly wielding the fire hydrant, pointing the nozzle at Bill threateningly. "Fuck Off! You Singing Prick!"

" Girl I swear I had him under control; you didn't have to BASH HIS HEAD IN. " The tall, dark, handsome man stands cautiously by the doorway, not wanting to appear immediately. He still does not quite know his limits, but he surely wants his body intact and self-preservation to let him play it safe.

"He tried to infect me dumbass! How do I know you're not one of them?!" The child shouts back, readying her weapon for another attack. Ted gurgles on the floor, blue shit spilling everywhere like fucked up slushy. Pete quickly takes a step forward, wanting to retrieve his older brother, but Richie and Ruth stop him. "Ted!"

Gah, this mere kid, sure, she had a point, but he won't be singing unless he's stuck with the whole lot and, at the very least, just needs to follow the Hive along or break into dance to make up for it. Sighing as he motions Alice to hold back Pete... shit shit shit shit he does need to pull Ted back at least. " Well, I'm talking like really talking, and for the record, you just bashed that good kid's brother! I swear we just went out here for SOME goddamn food! Not like there's anything left but at least a snack is a something. And cigs and whatever the hell. Look, little miss, I swear, I'll just bring my friend along and leave you the fuck alone, ok? " Though, to be honest, he had the very temptation to just let her get infected for bashing Ted over the head. Like, okay, she won't know, but it means more blue shit will be used to fix Ted, and he has to drag back Ted's goddamn mind out of it.

Ruth and Richie's sneakers squeak on the tiles as they struggle to keep Pete back. The boy is stronger than he looks. That much is obvious. Alice has to lean with her elbow and shoulder into Pete's chest. The teenager growls . Baring his teeth and snapping at the younger girl. Morgo tries to slam the storeroom door shut again. "Yeah, right! Just get out!! Take what you want and Fuck Off!!" She shrieks, a few bangs and clangs of things being barricaded against the door. "Hhk-" Morgo breathes in quickly, leaning against the half-baked barricade. Her ankle hurts, and she's tempted to take off her shoe to check on it-

" How's the feeling of pain treating you, by the way? I'm a little curious. There was simply so much noise going on, and maybe if you did not make all that racket, we won't have noticed at all. " "Bill" holds Ted by the feet to just drag the poor guy outta that spot... to be frank, with the fact that she just had to use a violent means of dispatching zombies, all that blue shit is probably gonna get to her sooner than she'd think... assuming her hidey hole was not already tainted with the blue shit. " And my dear friend here won't have to had wandered into your spot and get his head split open. You know the heating's all off, so if you're alright with it, I could leave a coat or two as a peace offering. But also watch your step on the blue shit. "

Ted's body isn't that heavy; he weighs as much as a carton of eggs. A shimmering noise sounds as Ted is pulled through the shards of glass. Pete calms as his brother is retrieved. There's silence inside the room. Morgo thinks it is over. Is it smart to trust this guy? Probably not. How does she know he won't lead more singing dead to her hideout. "It doesn't hurt that much." She spits out a defiant tone. It is one of a kid trying to appear grown up. "And I don't need your help. .... But whatever- Sure! leave the coats, I guess!" A teenager forced into being an adult.... where are her parents?

The amount of glass he may need to remove later on... would the Blue Intruder probe into why Ted is in this state? Please do not figure out why; just heal him like how the Hive gets a healing every now and then... he'd cross all his fingers that the blue intruder just does not start questioning it. At this rate, "Bill" has seen all manners of grievous injury, just for whoever is concerned to have come back looking good as new. Still from under his own coat, he miraculously brings out two full-sized coats with much fluff on the hoodie. It does seem oddly similar to what "Bill" wears, but still, deep down, it was only a matter of time before the inevitable would get to her. Shattering her bubble is something that he wants to do, but she is only a teen. A scared teenager. " Got any mama and papa in there yourself? "

There's a soft silence from the other side of the door. It's a clear answer. Of course not. If "Bill" is able to see into Margo's mind, if her memories are visible to him, he'd know that she had been home sick the day schools had been infected. Her dad was a policeman on riot control.... her mom had kissed him when he came home. "...... I can take care of myself." She says carefully to him. "Since when can you lot talk? Like, normal talk?" Pete kneels down by Ted and puts his hand on his big bro's forehead. Ruth pokes Ted's jaw curiously. "Uuugggh----" Ted groans with pain, trying to shove the girl away.

He hesitates, knowing full well this is only the work of being the better Bill who has managed to maintain his own capabilities of casual chat. His purpose is not to disarm her; hopefully, she and his pals will not have to cross paths again. This shop is probably not ideal as a hangout spot. Well, as much as this is against what the Hive wants... she deserves to still live as herself. Still, a story is in order, a nice one for her. " Oh, about that, this glorious fellow has long forgotten when he's become like this. It seems it does not always work for some to enter what should be a dreamy ignorance in perpetual harmonia. Still, my advice is not touching the blue shit in the first place. "

Alice slips over and begins to tug on Bill's arm, looking up at him with a confused look. Why aren't they trying to spread the Apotheosis to this girl? Shouldn't they get going now? They go for the Barcade tomorrow, after all. She's tired. "Dad... we should head back to the glorious story." She says, a melodic warbling in her throat.

He looks down at Alice as she reminds him of what will come tomorrow. Right. He should quickly get the lot back before his daughter starts to question, and yes, Deb is back at base camp. Plus, Ted's head is probably almost open. He does not think to bid farewell to the poor kid as he nods his head at Alice. He replies, normally, without singing a tune. He has to keep that for tomorrow's extravaganza, where he may have to be singing until he feels his voice start to sound shrill like a rubber chicken. " Sure thing, Al Pal. Sure thing. I'll help Ted along, and you guys go ahead and chase yourselves to bed. " He walks over to Pete to reassure him that he can help with poor, concussed Ted. Pete is a strong fellow, but this better version of Bill here certainly has the muscles.

The eighteen-year-old nods, grabbing a few more packets of snacks from the shelves and shoveling them into her backpack. Then, she takes Ruth's hand as she and the boys leave the store. Ted stares up at Bill with an exhausted and bitchy expression. This is the quietest the man has ever been... and that's saying something. "....hhgghhh..." The sleazeball groans out; he feels like a pin cushion mixed with a pinata... neither is pleasant.....

Richie follows closely behind with his own stash of chips and candies. Something profound in him greatly misses these for sure. As the kids start to return to camp, "Bill" looks down at Ted, who seems to be slowly regaining his consciousness. Without waiting for Ted to say anything, he soon kneels to the side as he gingerly scoops the lanky fellow up. Shifting Ted slightly such that he'd just lean on him, "Bill" starts to mutter to himself, not expecting responses from Ted himself. " ... I guess we have to get you to that... that Peggy, Betty, Becca... that nurse. You did take a hard hit. "

Ted winces lightly. Ouch.... so much ouch... Raising a hand, he stares at a shard of glass poking out of his wrist. Geeze. Letting the limb flop, Ted just goes limp. It could be a remaining sense of assholyness, or maybe he's just that tired. Suppose he's lucky he might get out of being on the frontlines tomorrow.... unless Pokey wants the secondary characters to dance alongside Paul.... either way. In that case, Ted lets himself be carried, leaning his head against Bill's chest and listening for a heartbeat.

He did feel Ted shift himself in this princess-carry; he may have only known this from the tremendously sappy movies of old that old Bill watched. But anyway, amidst the stench of blood and the leaking blue coming from Ted's mouth and gaping wound, "Bill" slowly makes his way back. Soon enough, what's left of their little visit is the assortment of footprints, some streaked with blue, being covered up by fresh snowfall in the night.

————

The morning hit soon enough, as the Hive started to rise and shine with the hums of ad-lib in the air. Deb herself starts to hum a tune as she slowly wakes up. After a break for yawning and some rubbing of eyes, her eyes slowly opened.

Alice is cuddled up beside her under the blanket. Her girlfriend's hair is sprinkled with snowflakes as she breathes softly into Deb's shoulder, her arms wrapped around her.

As if seeing her girlfriend assuaged any worries she had, Deb soon sings to Alice to gently rouse her up, as if one could have concerns in the Hive. "Bill" was not to be found, for it is soon apparent that he may have spent his night accompanying Ted after the nurse, Becky Barnes, had tended to him. In uncanny parallel to this, in a blue tent of absolute splendor that led to Starlight Theatre itself, was the Singular Voice, urging a very sleepy someone most awake. Paul? Paul? Paaaaaul. Wake uuuup~

Paul moans into his pillow, rolling over onto his back a little as he's roused from his slumber. Rubbing his eyes as consciousness stirs into his mind. It's strange, but Paul could swear he's been sleeping heavier and heavier..... "Mmmmm...." He stretches out, and a few joints pop and crack. "Yeah?" It takes the office worker a few moments to recall yesterday's events, but when he does... it's not so bad...

Oooooooo his Paul's a-wakin', Paul's a-wakin,' who's awaking, his star of the show! Such giddiness fills the air as Pokey happily proclaims to Paul about the possible highlight of the day, yes, that one thing that he looks forward to. Today is the day we set off to Detroit's Barricade! Are you not excited, Paul?

Right... that's what he's agreed to, isn't it? .... Paul, take a moment to rub his head. Attempting to reassure himself that all is going to be ok. Pokey isn't... he's not all bad, right? He helped him yesterday; the anxiety attack had been averted. Could humanity be happier? ".... I'm actually a little nervous... I'm not George Washington Pokey."

Why of course you're not George Washington! You are Paul Matthews, my Rising Star; that's what you are! Out of sight to the human eye but not to the sterling theatrical director himself, Pokey prepares the lukewarm bath and fresh towels for Paul. The snowstorm has finally subsided slightly to yield pleasant chilly weather, which is ideal for setting off. And in Paul's favor, he did want Detroit to be over and done with so that he may actually be back in Hatchetfield as promised. Well, he promised Paul, but it doesn't mean the rest has stopped. He could have the other sections of the Hive continuing on... Well, we are singing the jolly tune on the way there, and we will be engaged in the caroling since it's near that thing, that festivities!

"Christmas?" He asks groggily, reaching over to the end of the bed and pulling over the long-furred coat. Dragging it over himself as a form of dressing gown. Slipping out of bed, the chilled wind blows up through the cracks of the floorboards. Paul shifts from foot to foot for a moment, though he soon gets used to it. "We're going to attack them with... Christmas songs?"

He might have made a little purr of joy when Paul took the coat over. He did have that coat fashioned out of some drab thing just for Paul. Out of a sense of playfulness, Pokey now manifests himself as a crow. Paul did see him yesterday like this, so it's about time he got used to it. Though a blue crow, he uses his wings like one would gesture with their hands, throwing them out as he reasonably "reasoned" with Paul. Why not? It is the season, and those songs have the right tone for winter, don't they? Silly Paul. Silly, lovable Paul. His little lummox of a human called Paul. Of course, those winter songs are ideal, especially now. They sang autumn-like songs when it was autumn, and now they sing winter melodies when the season is now winter. That is precisely how it should be done and shall be done.

Ok, that is a little too cute to be normal, Paul's lips curl into an unwilling smile. He doesn't want to encourage Pokey, but... honestly, he can't help it. Paul reaches out and hesitantly boops Pokey's beak; mainly, the man just wants to see if this is a physical form or an illusion. "I guess so... it's just a little unexpected..." Keeping his tone even, Paul tries to bite down a dreading guilt. It should be fine.... what can possibly go wrong?

Paul's hand comes into contact with Pokey's beak, earning Paul what was best described as an intense stare. If birds could blush, Pokey has oddly enough calmed down a little from the surprise contact from Paul. That action Paul did, the smile Paul had on his face, had the Eldritch maestro in awe. The intense stare was only visible when he started to hop around the bed and flap in pure theatrical expression. Paul, it is nearing the festival of the Chrysler; of course, it's expected.

"W-what---" The Hive King almost laughs at Pokotho's butchering of the word Christmas. Where on earth did he get Chrysler from? Paul swallows thickly as he waves his hand at the dramatic bird, trying to regain his attention. "Pokey... do you promise they'll be happier like this?"

Pokey stops the hopping as he fans out his tail and wings before closing them back up to listen to Paul's very own query... about the same exact thing. He seems to swing his head in a way that dramatically mimics the rolling of the eyes. Paul... like I always have been saying, they'll surely be happier living the dream. Humans, well usually, humans have such strong wants. When they do get to do what they want deep down in their soul, they'll certainly be happier, don't you think so, Paul? Though it seems for Paul, as far as he is concerned, Paul's happiness waxes and wanes like the Moon viewed from here on Earth. Why can't he just be happy... well, at least Paul has been cracking a smile or two in his presence. Paul is starting to warm up to him in just a fraction of a day. Yes, he should work towards that, working towards Paul being more comfortable with his presence. Did you have a look around? Everyone in the Hive is happy, Paul.

Paul fidgets absently with the sleeve of his coat. Averting his gaze from Pokey, he looks off into the glittering blue specks of crystal that seem embedded into the meteor. How long had they been there? Or had they only just begun to grow? Was it a natural phenomime or something Pokotho is willing to happen... ".....yeah, I guess they are...."

They certainly are, Paul. Each and every one of them is. There have been a few mishaps here and there with the various puppets, and it's not about the number of injuries he relieves them of. Indeed, he may be exaggerating, but beyond Paul, most puppets are obedient across timelines. But for months has one been changing the strings for Bill Woodward, brand new ones at that, and only recently had he been able to see... wildly unacceptable for himself, but decent performance for Bill Woodward. As for the horny bastard called Theodore Spankoffski, or just simply Ted, his head was bashed in apparently somewhere last night. He was positively covered in glass, like he was trying to play the part of a porcupine of glass. That missing puppet finally reappeared yesterday, which was timely, but fate seems to be favoring cruel surprises for Pokey lately. Maybe Webby has been throwing hexes at his play. Gah. He had to do his best to fix Ted before greeting Paul in the morning, and he hated fixing up the puppets outside their scheduled maintenance. But Ted is, after all, one of those charming little things that simply will not do well with marred visage. No matter how hard he tried, he could not get that yellow off Ted's eye. Truth be told, he was trying to conceal his bundle of nerves. These technical issues simply did not wish to leave. Though seeing Paul's smile had momentarily relieved him of those worries, it reminded him that he still could not be any less vigilant. So he gathered himself to be most jubilant lest Paul detected anything amiss. All are happy, Paul. And all are certainly awaiting for you to take the stage.

"Then, um... then I should probably get ready, shouldn't I?" He knows what he's doing, right? Or perhaps.... he just wants Pokey to think he sounds like he knows what he's doing. Maybe if Pokey believes it, Paul will believe it. For the third time this morning, he must assure himself he's doing the right thing. But... No. Enough... it's Inevitable... isn't it? He's got no choice...

Yes, you should get ready. Brush your teeth, get bathed, dry off, get dressed, and we'll set off once you're ready. The blue crow looks up to Paul, cocking its head to the side. He will follow Paul still; he has never truly left Paul's side after all. He hops right upon Paul's shoulder, letting out a sound that is not at all crow-like, a beautiful sound that is nothing like a "caw." A quick string of melodic chirping as if to soothe Paul's uneasiness.

With a squeak and a jump, Paul stares up at the crow. OH- The Hive King can't feel Pokey's claws through his jacket, for which he is grateful. Offering a hesitant smile, he obediently nods his head. Oh, dear... "Yeah, I'll get to doing that....." He begins to make his way down to the dressing room corridors.

Pokey proceeds to hop off Paul's shoulder to flap his wings a little before he settles with hopping along upon the floor; sure, a bird does that, but something about Pokey makes it feel as if one could sense his utter excitement. Paul's about to enter a bathroom with everything prepared just for him. Maybe... he's being nice, but he would just lay out the rest of Paul's clothes where Paul can reach for them. Enjoy your warm bath, Paul~, I know the weather outside can get frightful.

"Please don't start singing right now..." Paul sighs and closes the bathroom door behind him, letting the coat fall off his body and land directly over Pokey. He still doesn't like musicals. That has stayed the same.....

As the coat lands on Crow Pokey, he emits a muffled "oof." He had inadvertently followed Paul into the bathroom, resulting in this conundrum. He doesn't mind; this form is but to give Paul a focus, but he is still most capable of final preparations for the Hive... which most have all warmed up and are raring to go. Oh, Paul, I certainly like working out my vocal cords. Can't I just sing one song, please?

Sinking into the water, Paul sighs, letting himself close his eyes for a moment. Had Pokey given him baths during the last four months? He doesn't particularly smell.... but he's not sure. Paul runs his wet hands over his face, letting the warmth flow over his neck. "....Your songs are too loud for me, Pokey...."

He stays under the coat only out of courtesy; it's rude to peak, after all. At least he wants to give the impression that he can't see Paul... but even if he shuts his eyes, listening to Paul is practically enough for him, too. He hears how the water swishes as Paul enters the bath, how he sighs in relaxation, and how the water trickles off Paul's chin. Hehehe. ...Loud? They're lovely, Paul. And who says I only sing one decibel? How could my songs be loud? They're at an acceptable volume.

A bar of lavender-smelling soap rubs on a washcloth; Paul scrubs up his arms and his shoulders. Rubbing the scented soap on his neck and throat. "Yes they're loud, Pokey." He replies, a little snappier than he intends. Perhaps Pokey just can't hear what he hears. "I don't like musicals...." He winces a little as he runs a hand down his chest and feels.... hair..... ew...... Paul looks about helplessly for a moment. Was there a razor in here somewhere?

The sound of my voice is magnific, Paul~ everyone loves my voice. I'm sure my music will resonate with you, I'm certain. Being a god has its advantages. He may now be trapped oh so helplessly, muffled by the might of a furred coat, but he is also up in the rafters, overseeing the scenes. Hmmmm. He always ensured the best care for his Paul, always the best care. Hmmmm. Ah well, that instrument would be convenient to keep Paul in pristine condition. What songs do you wish to have me sing but at not the "loudness" you so proclaimed my songs to be?

"Oh... I don't know.... something soft, I guess... how about No Song?" The human talks back with a tint of sarcasm. Paul gets to his knees and reaches for the vanity drawer, pulling it open and feeling for anything he can use to shave. After his fingers wrap around something, Paul pulls out a vintage razor. Something that could cut a throat if a barber didn't have intricate hands. ".... And if the music doesn't? Grow into me, that is."

An unsatisfied, muffled "caw" comes from under the coat. Pokey still felt like he wanted to sing a song for Paul because he felt like it. Additionally, he was "confined" to the coat; it's not as if his voice would travel so easily out of the suffocating mass. So he starts to hum a little happy tune anyway. One that, by all measures, would make one feel like waking up to a drizzling summer morning with some sun through the rain. A whole phonograph appears next to the bath as if on cue. The needle drops on a record disc that had already manifested along with it. Oh dear. Please, Paul, I want to sing a song just for you.

Exhaustion seeps its way slowly back into Paul's bones. It was not something he had the strength to deal with right now. Leaning his head against the bath, Paul lets himself sink deeper, the water teasing at his lips. It's easier to just let Pokey do whatever than to try and argue with him. How bad would Pokey freak out if Paul pulled the phonograph into the water? Sitting up, Paul continues to clean himself. Using the razor blade to awkwardly shave away their hair. He just wishes he could afford some silence right now.

The phonograph plays that same tune as if the bird was not yet enough. Its sounds are muted compared to the stereo speakers one may be accustomed to today. The strumming of the guitar backed up with the bass, the accompaniment of the keyboard, and the beat provided by the drums. It seems to have a little...soul in it. Seems to be a highly familiar tune. What may shock Paul next is how a voice seems to start coming from the phonograph itself. And it was none other than... When I wake up in the morning, love. And the sunlight hurts my eyes .

A thin line of red appears on Paul's chest as he rinses the knife. Dew drops of blood seep from the cut. Paul doesn't speak to Pokey, but the song... it's pretty, he supposes. It soothes him. Tapping his hands together, he repeats his internal mantra in his head. Okay, okay, okay, okay, okay...... It helps. A repetitive sound renders everything else a calming hum, letting Paul focus.

And somethin' without warnin', love, bears heavily on my mind . By all means, crow or not, Pokey is grooving all too well from where he is. Should one look at the Hive, Mr. Davidson may have been leading the morning dance number while singing this song of the 70s. As Mr. Davidson picks out his wife from the crowd to dance with, Pokey, on his end, just so slightly turns up the volume just a little bit. Then I look at you... and the world's alright with me.

Effectively clean, Paul gives himself a wince with a bath jug. It reminds him of ancient Greek pottery, similar in shape but unusual in coloring. It's black and smooth, with white bumps forming a picture of what appears to be a Kraken... or something of the sort. "...... what's this?"

Just one look at you, and I know it's gonna be— For the Hive itself, all singing and dancing in preparation for what is to come, they all seem to stop in their tracks when the music cuts off. Huh, what is the matter? Why did the music just stop like that? Is The Singular Voice about to ask them to start from the top? Who is making the mistakes this time? Pokey cocks his head to the side. Oh, why ask Paul; he was about to continue singing. As the phonograph scratches to a stop, he halts his singing, just for that moment. ... that would be my brother, Paul. Can I finish my one song?

Climbing out of the tub and wrapping the blue towel around his waist, Paul begins to dry himself off. He almost thinks to ask Pokey who his brother is, buuuuut.... he sounds annoyed. "Um.... yeah, sure... you can do that...." He assures with an awkward smile, kneeling down to pick up the coat.

The crow that stayed obediently under the coat is shown to keep its eyes closed and standing most straight, poised to sing. As the phonograph screeched to life, so did the rest of the Hive in their morning wake-up routine. Mr Davidson pulls his wife up and twirls her on her feet for the following lyric. While the brass and drums took their cues to play on the phonograph, Paul was greeted with a bird with an impossible vocal range, demonstrating the same feat of mankind the original singer had once done: holding that note. A lovely day~ While holding his note, he peeks an eye open at Paul as if to see how Paul is watching him.

Paul is still kneeling there, seemingly amused by Pokey's bird form. He finds he's less intimidated by him being like this. And he feels better at seeing a face to put the voice to. After a moment, Paul reaches out and pats Pokey's crow head with two fingers. Getting up, he walks towards the door.

With that, it seems that Pokey has satisfied his quota for morning singing to see how Paul likes it. Immediately, the phonograph disappears and Pokey is happily hopping on towards the door. Ah ah... Paul, you seem to have a little cut yourself.

"It's just a scratch." The Hive King tries to brush off the concern, pulling his tattered trousers on. His shirt is ... oh gosh, it was worse than yesterday.... but he gets dressed. Making sure the coat is buttoned up tightly.

I'll get that patched in no time. Little scratches are easy. Such confidence from Pokey's crow form waves a wing as he looks up at Paul. Painlessly, the blue goo of Paul's own body starts to close up the little nicks from the shaving blade.

"Thank you." Color him crazy... but maybe he's not that bad? Paul thinks to himself, stepping out of the tent.

The crow soon hops on out too to perch on Paul's shoulder briefly, overlooking the quiet city's snowy landscape. He lets out a slight noise of affection before he sighs. Not to worry, Paul. Now... As the rest of the Hive now turns to Paul, all padded up and ready. Let's advance.

Morgo's breath comes out steamy as she trudges through the snow. An emergency exit axe pokes out of the school backpack she carries. Up ahead lies a line of piled cars and broken fences from one end of the road to the other. The teenager starts to pick up pace, keeping her mouth shut till she's right by the barricade. Peering through a hole. "Oi, anyone here?"

The barricade was jammed up with vehicles and the like, and other things like furniture and trash piled on top of each other. Covering them was a layer of snow, and upon the other side were the remains of Detroit's population in Midtown clustered at this area that would lead to the Detroit River. A gun cocks on the other side of this barricade. Someone is undoubtedly near it. And had placed a gun through that gap in the barricade. Like anyone else behind the barricade, they are afraid, but this one is particularly forming too close of a bond to the gun in his hand. "Stay away, or I'll shoot!"

"Hey, hey, hey, whoa- I'm not singing, dipshit-" She raises her hands frantically. Shit, all this way just to get her head blown off? That'd suck so hard right now. Morgo frowns and straightens her back. If they're just gonna shoot her, then she'd go down, flipping them off. The jackets "Bill" left her in the convivence store keep her safe from hypothermia, but there's no way they'd stop a bullet.

"HEY HEY HEY WOAH WOAH EASY DAVE IS THERE BLUE COMING OUT FROM HER MOUTH??" "No, but I HAVE MY DOUBTS!" "Easy!" There were now a few people doing their means to wrestle the gun out of the guy's hands before he did anything hasty. Another kind fellow now looks through the hole in the barricade, inspecting her visually. She looked like a rowdy little teen, surprised she'd even made it this far. "Not singing is a first, you come with anyone else? Sorry about Dave, I hope you understand, kiddo. But yeah, all by yourself?"

"No. I can take care of myself. I broke one's jaw last night." The teenager says proudly, folding her arms. It's obvious this kid is acting like they're tough shit. The axe blade pokes out from behind her head. It has dried blue shit on it's edges. Who knows how long Morgo had been out there by herself. But she was the first person they'd seen for months who wasn't singing.

The man sighs before he starts to make his way around, not without keeping a gun on himself. Some of the other survivors would be wearing foam earplugs. Still, today, he had to do guard duty at the barricade itself. Once he got around, not without having checked the surrounding area for any weird persons, he now gets to the girl on the other side. "Sounds like you're a tough one. My name's Ian. You could call me Mr. Ian; you sure are a youngster, aren't you?"

"Yeah, no, Ian is fine. And don't patronize me, old man. I'm 14." The kid has her fists clenched as she glares up at him. Morgo pulls her backpack off her shoulders and dumps it on the ground, opening it up and pulling out a can and a bottle of antibiotics. "I have more of these to trade and stuff."

"Heheheh... Medical supplies, smart. Zip it up, and you can show the wares later when inside. Better get in; after all, wouldn't want to be caught dead with any singin' round outside." Ian gestures to Morgo to follow him alongside a path they've made that serves as a means of way in and way out. Not that people would be doing much of it, only if they must try to get more resources.

"The Singing Dead?" She follows after him, squeezing through the narrow path. It's a tight fit, but luckily, Morgo can get through. Grunting, she brushes herself off and looks out over the inside of the wall. "I've seen em literally come back to life after dying.... so... zombies, I guess?"

"Yeah, the Singing Dead... the headshots really do not do much other than delayin' 'em. Sometimes, I wonder if having explosives would help, but we certainly can't get our hands on those." Once they get through the tight passage, they are now in a clearing, also slightly blanketed in snow. The only good thing was the lack of clouds in the sky, which made the sun's warmth somewhat welcoming. Before them was the sight of everyday life, the sight of life unspoiled by blue, devoid of song. Song and dance have long been associated with the disaster that descended upon Detroit seemingly overnight, so most placated themselves with just casual chat, helping each other with chores in the camp. People squeeze the water out of their laundry, some helping to keep the bonfires burning to warm up everyone, a few more preparing their rations to cook in a pot over their makeshift stove.

"Ever tried fireworks? I mean, that's what someone did in a Minecraft YouTube series I used to watch." Morgo scans the crowd for any uniforms. Were there police here? But only a café sign was placed outside one of the buildings with ' Hospital Here. ' Written in chalk. Another thing, there is a distinct lack of children. There are about twenty tops. And even then, they're mostly four years and younger. Morgo looks up at Ian, pulling her backpack back onto her shoulders. "So uh...they took the schools first?... Hey, will this stuff be enough to pay for me to stay?" Seagulls shriek up ahead; it's a familiar, oddly nostalgic noise. It's associated with Summer holidays and... trips to the beach. Morgo wonders if these people know they've backed themselves into a corner.

"Look at this point, everyone's gotta share everything... Money's not going to get us by as much..." He may not be the one who came up with the encampment. Still, the shrieks of birds by the bank, the nearly frozen river... he wonders how much of Detroit is really left if no one truly knows how one gets infected by the melody of death. "We'd have luck if we had our hands on that stuff, really; worst we could do is throw Molotov cocktails if we have alcohol to spare." Amidst the crowd, one lucky person who somehow had his hands on the possibly last fresh Granny Smith apple, or maybe this encampment did have some fruits stored someplace, speaks up a little boisterously. "They took the schools first? Ha! Nah... they took everything, kid."

"Blunt force objects also help." She says matter-of-factly, the gust of wind almost chills them to the bone. It's colder here near the water bank. At least she's being treated like an adult. The fourteen-year-old jumps and looks at the weird man with a tilt of her head. "Who the fuck are you?" Morgo asks, folding her arms, doing her best to appear no-nonsense.

"Oh, Morgo, don't worry about him; he's always like that." Ian tries to guide Morgo away from the older man in full body denim, barely braving the cold in a winter jacket. Ever since he entered the encampment, there's been a weirdness about him that bugs Ian, but he could not put a finger on it. This man was, after all, slightly helpful around these parts, like somehow hauling back food supplies like he was Santa Claus himself. But the man, biting into his green apple (he says it was for the vitamin Cs), stands up from where he sat and tilts his head to Morgo. "Who the fuck am I? Well, just know that you don't wanna, wanna, wanna, wanna, wanna fuck with me, tough missy you."

"Ah, ha ha ha.. ah hah... Funnyyy ," Morgo mimics in a high-pitched girly voice before flipping off the denim-clad man. She shrugs Ian's hand off her shoulder and keeps pace. Her whole body language is of someone who's been surviving alone for a while. Her shoulders were hunched but drawn back, walking with a fake heaviness that didn't match her size or age. At a distance, one might think she was a short man. A preputial frown on her face. It's a disguise, of course.... one to make herself seem as much trouble as possible... It's easy to forget in the mix of things, but the Singing Dead is not the only thing to fear. "So you just let anyone in?" Morgo asks Ian, snorting a cynical laugh.

The man nibbling on his green apple lets out a chuckle as he goes back to chatting with those lads about something crazy he's been on about. A cynical review of how effective the US military really is. He must probably be some guy who's very much against the US government. Weird, considering the man seems to know a few military guy stories himself. At least Ian believes that's what they took in. Still, he's been awfully helpful in so many ways and knows what to say to perk up the spirits in some manner ... though the look in his eyes is haunting... yeah he should not linger too long about Wiley; he has to show Morgo around. "Well, he's been very helpful in getting supplies, so... he might have his weird way of talking, but he is still pretty helpful given his age... we just got used to him. It isn't everyone's cup of tea, so there is no pressure in hanging around him."

Pulling down her hood, a bush of fluffy brown hair covers Morgo's eyes. She doesn't bother to brush it back. They reach the encampment area with an array of tents spread out over the vast space. As if the buildings surrounding them were already at mass capacity. The chatter of people, exhausted-looking people. Many seem worn to their bones, literally and metaphorically.... "How long have you been here?"

"Not too long before Uncle Wiley. I'm not the one running the place; Old Man Zac is the guy running it. I just happened to hang around at the right time." Ian looks around. They are running out of space for another tentage. Not that he doubts her ability to sleep alone, but it would be good if she could sleep with one of the families. Decisions, decisions... everyone here, parents, kids, some orphans... all seem beat from the snowstorm that just ended in the wee hours of the morning.

Morgo can barely keep a sharp comment trapped in her tongue. A seemingly contagious sound of wailing infants is guaranteed noise in this part. There are already a few shrieking their tiny lungs out. Breathing in a sigh, she nods as if she agrees with Ian and lines her lips. "Fortunate for that....."

"Oh well, let's get your place to stay sorted and then maybe grab some lunch. I guess welcome to your new home now." Ian pats Morgo on the shoulder before trudging a little through the snow to start checking around with the good folks about where Morgo could slip in and sleep well for the coming nights. This left Morgo to stand awkwardly and take in the winter scene of Detroit... Detroit is on the brink of possible collapse. Is there still any sign of hope left for all? ...in Ian's heart, there should be. There has got to be help coming by; it's not like being out of power, electricity, and gas is not noticeable at all. Passing by a building, he briefly mentions it for Morgo to know. "Old Man Zac lives up there in this building with some of his pals."

"Who's Old Man Zac?" Morgo pulls a smoke from her pocket and puts it in her mouth, lighting it up with one of the lighters she carries. At least one of the parents gives the fourteen-year-old a slight glare, ushering the little ones away from where they might accidentally secondhand smoke.

"Uhhhh... let's get a little further from the families, shall we?" He's not one to judge, but a kiddo like her smoking already? Well, he ought to just bring her away for common courtesy. No point nitpicking in the middle of harsh times. As he brings her someplace further away from the main camps, he continues on with what she wants to know. "Old Man Zac? Well, he and his pals had the Barricade set up. The old man is in his own building up there. Rarely comes down himself."

The name rings a bell. Buckets of fish line near the sidewalk, a tall wooden fence propped open with a generator as a group of teenagers carry what looks like Brook Trout. Morgo recognizes the species... she used to go fishing with her dad during the Summer. "So... no relation to Old Man Zackery?" She asks, bringing up the name of her dad's thorn in his side. "My dad was a cop."

"Uhhhh, why's that? Yeah, I think Old Man Zac... your dad was a cop, huh? But yeah, I did hear Old Man Zac can aim his shot well." He stops as soon as he thinks it is a good enough distance for this young girl to take her smoke. Wondering what the hell she has been through to even still survive. "That guy has to have medical attention; I hardly think he can walk down all the time. We were lucky to have a nurse lady to look after him." Someone watching the fish line by the icy waters, they must've bored a hole in the ice for this, starts to shout to whoever can hear them. A strange sight had caught his eye, a most peculiar sight. Signs of life? If a bunch of kids trying to cross the icy lake was to say anything, yeah, that was an odd sight indeed.

River nervously holds Stopwatch's hand, his little winter boots skidding. The ice creaks lowly beneath their feet as the small collective of littluns slowly approach the shoreline, where adults are beginning to gather, frantically yelling. The children are numerous enough to fill a small classroom; how did they get here without getting caught?

"What is happening..." Ian casts his gaze across the frozen river, catching sight of what the ones near the bank had been yelling about. What? "That's impossible; who's trying to cross the river bank like this?" He leaves Morgo behind to run up towards the river to have a closer look. Those ... they look like kids. Was the other side across Detroit River also devastated by the Singing Undead?

Boys, girls, from ages 4 to 14. All of them wearing warm but dirty blue coats and blue earmuffs. Scarves wrapped around their little necks. Some older ones have ice skates attached to their boots, sliding across the ice slowly. A woman begins to move past the crowd a little towards the ice. "They're going to fall through the ice-" She frets.

Some other men yelled to get some rope to throw the children to hold on, just in case the ice gave way under them. How... never mind, a miracle is a miracle. "HEY! Stop moving! The ice is going to crack! We'll throw you guys a rope to hold onto!"

The kids freeze in place, staring at the would-be rescuers with wide, almost unblinking eyes. River sneezes, a high-pitched little yelp. Stopwatch turns to wipe the six-year-olds nose with a hanky.

"Get the rope down here right now!" "Someone's gonna have to help pull 'em in!" "Why would they even walk across the river..." While countless able-bodied persons came forth to try and help the children upon the frozen lake, one of these kids plays with a rubber duck in hand, seemingly squeezing it like a stress toy. They are being held by another who stares up at the people on the bank as help is being rendered. This kid cocks their head as they look at the people up there curiously. "Hmmm, we finally found help. Does River need more scarves, Daniel?"

Daniel... or Stopwatch as everyone calls him, looks down at the duck child, then at River. Tilting his head in an anticlockwise way. A happy smile did not leave his face. "Uh, yeah, I think so..." He removes his scarf and puts it around the little one's neck.

"What on earth are stupid children doing on the frozen river—" "Shut up and help!" Some have started to get down to the river to try and help toss that rope across the thin ice. Ian fetches the ropes to secure upon the railings, wondering how they could have made such a treacherous trek across this exceedingly wide stretch of river. He does his best to unwind the ropes as quickly as possible, unaware that it left the main walls, keeping them safe from the Singing Undead with fewer people than usual.

A fine mist settles over the snowy streets beyond the Barricade. Whether it comes from the chilled water or the will of another being dictating the setting for the perfect story. Either way, it shields the figures moving forward towards the infrastructure. The sounds of footsteps in the snow in unison to anyone possibly listening; it sounds like marching. "God rest ye merry, gentlemen let nothing you dismay. Remember, Christ, our Saviour, was born on Christmas Day. To save us all from Satan's power when we were gone astray, O tidings of comfort and joy, comfort and joy, oh tidings of comfort and joy."

Scaling the Barricade, like a rock climber, a familiar figure in a black parka over the almost durable uniforms stained with blue goo and blood soon makes his way to the top alongside his agents. He takes a step to check the sturdiness of his footing. Sturdy stuff this wall is. His agents are ready as he too arms his assault rifle, deftly disengaging the locking mechanism. Deep breaths. Deep breaths. Deep breaths of the frigid air tickled at his nose and frozen his lungs. In the name of truth and love. This is in the name of the truth of love and strength of The Singular Voice.

John McNamara stands atop the Barricade, at a vantage point against those who resist the music. As his men stay quiet, as the Hive goes silent, still moving in, surely going into positions, the dishonored warrior starts to sing a short solo. Loud enough for all to hear his voice. Enough for Ian to turn his head towards the Barricade. It sounded like his voice was unnaturally amplified to go across to whoever was at the river bank. "Gooooood... rest ye merry gentlemen, Let nothing you dismay. Remember Christ our saviour, was born on Christmas Day. To Save us All from Sat'n's power when we were gone astray, Ohhhhh tidings of Comfort and Joy, Comfort and Joy—" For the last part of his solo stage, the hums of his agents start to supplement the music, and at this juncture, does the Hive chime right in to complete it most joyfully, much to the horrified screams of the survivors. "OOOOOHHHHH TIDINGS OF COMFORT AND JOYYYYYYYYY!"

The tiny feet touch the snow, and the children stare up at the adults who turn their backs to them. Staring at their doom in front of them. But not paying mind to the second doom just five feet away. Stopwatch's eyes glow blue as he takes a deep breath. Running forth as everything else stills, snowflakes floating, ceasing their fall. For everyone else, it is a split second. Ian had his hands upon his gun, bringing it up, and almost without explanation, it vanished. Others were experiencing similar losses, the knife that had been tucked into a belt moments ago now embedded into the side of its owner's neck. The once-loaded rifle backfires in Dave's hands, burning his face as he curses. "Dn, dn, dn, Dn, Bon, Bon, dn, dn, Dn, Bon, Bon!" High-pitched children erupt into an angelic carol. A rubber duck smacks into the back of Ian's head with an audible squeak.

He scrambles to find something else to defend himself before the rubber duck has him looking back at the children they had saved. The children were singing to the heavens and back. He immediately starts to run for it, going towards the makeshift armory they stored, hoping he could still pull out another weapon to defend himself with. He tries to scan the rushing crowd of screaming children and terrified adults for that kiddo he just brought in. "Morgo! MORGO!"

Outside, Paul covers his ears as the majority of the Hive up the volume of their song; he doesn't dare join the other members of the Hive as they push hastily through the passage by the wall that lets them inside the compound. It's okay... it's okay... okay... okay... okay... It won't hurt.... everyone will be happy afterward- look...look... He's Happy - Paul forces a smile to spread over his face as the screams and song stab into his brain like an ice pick shoved in through his ears. PIEP begins to open fire from the wall.

At John's commands, or rather, with Pokey directing from the wings, pulling at the strings to issue said commands, gunfire rained down upon the survivors scrambling for safety. They were dropping like flies under the merciless firepower of the former PEIP agents turned Hive arsenal. Ian, having been far back of the crowd, could only start to make a run for his life, dodging behind a building where bullets would surely not hit him. He could only hope Morgo had run off earlier as screams and singing echoed about the place. Well, in no time, to Pokey, new blood will be joining their ranks. O frabjous, frabjous day! Paul. What are we waiting for? He realized how Paul himself had still yet to enter the compound. That's no way for the Hive King to behave. Sure, Paul did not have the physicality to scale the Barricade to have a good view. Hmmm. Usually, having a front-row seat is ideal. However, today, he does want Paul to have a bird's eye view. And the top of this pile of junk next to John is the perfect balcony seat! Come, Paul. Let me take you to a good viewing spot.

Paul shakes his head. No.... please don't make him go up there. He doesn't want to see.... closing his eyes as he tries to lose himself in a self-induced trance, rocking himself back and forth as he repeats the words okay over and over again. "Okay... okay.. okay okay okay okay okay....." This was a bad idea; Paul begins to question himself on why he let Pokey talk him into this.... why did he even need to be here.... couldn't he just tell the Hive where to go and leave it at that?

Staring at Paul, Pokey the crow heaves a sigh and shakes his head. Well, he does not mind doing the heavy lifting if he must. With omnipresent power, he scoops up Paul, ensuring he is seated in the middle of his palm before he drops him off right next to John on the top of what was supposed to be the impenetrable Barricade. Meanwhile, his crow self flaps its wings to travel up before landing next to Paul with a caw.

"Ah!" The lanky man squeaks and his eyes shoot open as he flails momentarily. Standing rigid and tense on top of the Barricade. He wobbles for a moment before gaining balance. He-... he didn't know Pokey could do that.... looking out at the chaos, something sick churns in Paul's stomach. It's impossible to tell the infected from the survivors. The only clues are the poor souls being pounced upon and mauled. Some are stabbed, others are having their guts ripped out. Though mostly, they are being forced into a savage kiss. John McNamara's aim is impeccable, and his targets are specialized. Ian furiously bashes down the door of the armory shed, reaching for a rock to break a window. He barely takes aim before a bullet shoots straight through his arm. Pokey... had lied.

Sit down, Paul, just sit down and... watch the view of the Apotheosis by my side. The white snow is now tainted with a mix of crimson red and azure blue, of the dead and those reborn, as they soon rise up with blue goo flowing out of their mouths and a glassy look in their eyes. Smiles soon curled upon their lips, muttering the same melody the Hive has thus chosen to harmonize in. Ian now holds his arm; he's scooped up some of the still-white snow on the ground, pressing upon the wound to numb the pain...and, hopefully, stop the bleeding. Gosh, it hurts, oh god, it hurts.... The only thing good is that he had his legs, so he starts to run for it. There is no way he can charge through this madness... who knew that the Singing Dead would know how to do this? Watch as the Apotheosis takes hold of them, and they find themselves anew in the Hive's embrace. Also, would you look at the skyline ahead of the other side, Paul?

Paul can't tear his gaze away from the massacre happening before his eyes. He'd seen what Pokey could do, but never like this, never on this scale. There'd never been this many screams before, not that he could remember. Oh god..... he covers his mouth and nearly throws up. Leaning forward for a moment as he dry retches... Recovering, he stares at the crow. The warmth in his chest ceases to exist; instead, he feels something cold... rotting... and sick. " This is not what you said would happen-"

The crow scrutinizes Paul's disgust, blinking a few times before walking about to talk. It seems that Pokey is most annoyed that Paul has forgotten about what he's been saying about the Apotheosis the whole time. How could it be? Paul~ I've always said that death must occur before they can be reborn. I've always been telling you.

"You didn't tell me it'd be like this ..... I thought-- ... oh shit---" The human man shakes his head, tears running down his cheeks. But Pokey was right, wasn't he? He had told him that this would happen.... but he had made it sound so... wonderful. "This isn't the path to Happiness... this... Pokey, stop!"

Stop? Why stop? Whether it was the chill of the wind blowing through from the Detroit River or Pokey's cold electric blue eyes staring into Paul's soul, those words seemed to feel like icicles to Paul's throat. The crow's feathers seem to ruffle out slightly to make himself bigger than Paul. It is the path to Harmony, Paul. Complete consonance, utter concordance, and ultimately, leading to everyone being happier. They will all get to enjoy what they want under our new world order. No dissonance, no conflicts. All under one melody, Paul. Everyone gets to understand each other too...

The shaking man seems to shrink from the crow; there is no compassion or kindness in those words. Just ice-cold authority. Uncompromising and lacking in mercy. The sweetness he found before in Pokey's crow form drains from his heart. Callous... He is fucking callous. "Pokotho.... you're a fucking Liar! " Paul yells, standing straighter, removing the thick blue coat, and throwing it aside. The riverside wind cuts him like a knife, but he holds his dignity. Whatever is left of it. "I. Will Never help you again! Your Evil!!"

A guttural noise of aggression comes from that conspicuously blue crow. How dare Paul accuse him of spinning lies. What use would he have lying to Paul anyways? Oh of course, humans are sometimes resistant to change, but Paul? He was absolutely stubborn as far as he was concerned across timelines. Why is he such a hard nut to crack? Why was his heart so hard to read? Four months in, and he still can't wrap around why Paul wants to keep resisting paradise on Earth. Me a liar? OH, you have NOT heard me lying!

"And how am I to know that. You've done nothing but promise me things that aren't true! I'm not happy! This isn't world peace! It's War! You've dragged us into a War Pokey!" He screams at the Eldritch Horror with more force than he's ever done with anything before. How can this thing speak of good but only bring bad? Is it the nature of a god? Is this what it means to be a God? Contradictions and Hypocrisies? Lives ruined, and cities leveled in the name of Eternal Paradise? Damned all who dare question anything? Preaching kindness when his own nature is a cruel one? "...... I don't care what you do now, Pokey... but like you promised. Leave me in Hatchetfield. I don't want to be involved in this anymore--" BANG "...."... A sharp pain like he's been punched in the head silences Paul. The world spins.... then fades...

I CAN WIN; I ALWAYS DO! Paul is being unreasonable again. Honestly, if it wasn't Paul, Pokey would have long ensured he was assimilated correctly. But he wants a willing prophet, he wants... yes, he wants a willing prophet, and he is going to — ... A bullet bursts from the front of Paul's forehead. What he saw was the look of pain, surprise, and terror upon that face before his human crumples down next to John, who had stopped shooting suddenly. There was only one sound Pokey could cry out aloud across the entire Hive.

PAUL!