From the Desk Of Psycho Director-

Hello! Now, I know, a select handful of you are going, "What the CRAP, man!? What is this crap!? I was promised more of Cheating Death 101! Crap!" Now, might I remind you, first off, that this is not crap. Nay, I actually worked very hard on this, putting off irrelevent things such as homework and edjukashun to cater to you monkeys and your stylish dresswear.

Secondly, I am not abandoning my other lovechild of the 'Nauts. No again, CD101 actually has five (or was it four?) chapters all ready to go. They have their engines revved, their feet on the pedals, their faces set in a mask of determination, their collective fists clenched in anticipation of all of the epicness they have to bring... Then the racetrack said 'FU' and walked away in a glitchy mass of suck. That's a metaphor for the fact that my computer bloody well hates CD101. I don't know what's wrong with it. It'll eat other FUNfics like they're cheesy fries and butter... then spits out the crem de la crem like some picky French connesieur with a tummyache.

I HATE YOU TOO, COMPY. D8

And I remind you thirdly that, in the time you have taken to read this far, your toast had started to burn. That sucks, man.

So, until I manage to beat ol' compy into submission, here's one of the fics it didn't spit up at me. I actually like it a lot, aside from a few minor things I will point out when we get there, like a pessimistic tour guide with a cool hat.

On the brighter side of things, I'm not sick anymore. 8D Mentally sick, yes, but that one has much less coughing.

The room was dark that night, its only light source being the windows lining opposite walls, which allowed cutout views of pinprick stars and a glistening, silver moon. The moon was almost entirely full, but not quite, giving it a sort of oval shape. As bright as it was, the semi-round object cast the room in a pale blue-silver glow, the main beam of which fell directly from the skylights and shed a scale model of the windows’ outlines against the floor, desks, and computers which lined the large space.

There were about twenty computers in all inside the room, all in neat rows of rectangular desks that would have been revealed to be wood in the proper light, but for now just looked a deep purple. Their polished screens appeared as liquid black at that period in time, not even humming as their powerless monitors collected dust.

Well, that is, all except for one.

The one in question was glowing a pure white, the color casting a medium-length mop of hair aboard an average-sided head into a silhouette. Lines of small-print text dotted the pallid color, like raindrops against a sidewalk just before a sudden storm. Most were small, bringing with them lines upon lines of HTML text, which would have seemed like absolute gibberish to anyone loony enough to be waltzing by so late at night.

(In fact, even as the figure pondered over the words, a lonely clock outside the hall dutifully moved its minute hand up, making the time an even eleven at night.)

The figure was a man by the looks of him, with a recently outgrown shock of hair and a body that was just a bit too short. He was by no means skinny, or at least not terribly so, but calling him fat would have been an out-and-out lie. By the standard definition, most would have considered him cute, in a rather scruffy sort of way. Not much could be seen by the small amount of light, but it was clear by the bags below his blue eyes that he hadn’t slept in a while, or at least not well.

As the text continued to scroll up on the screen, writing itself as it went along, he reached for a small, porcelain bowl that sat beside the computer on the desk. His hands twitching very slightly, he pulled out a large, thin, ring-like fruit that glistened wet and slightly translucent in the light, aside from a few lines. It was almost three inches wide and only a fourth-inch thick, with a half-inch hole in the center. In other words, it was a piece of sliced pineapple.

“Alright, buddy, lets see what you’ve got on our guys,” the man muttered, his voice giving away that he couldn’t have been any older than sixteen, at best. The text had stopped flowing, to be replaced by a single, tiny pop-up. His mouse hovered over it, the tiny arrow tracing under the short statement. It read simply:

One (1) matching file found. Open?

Yes/No

The figure shoved the pineapple slice into his mouth, chewed thoughtfully, then clicked ‘yes’.

It was cold. That was the best way to describe the snowy plains and pine forests of Nova Scotia. Granted, Agents Nein, Vodello, and Aquato, the infamous Whispering Rock Branch, had been expecting cold when the word ‘Canada’ first slipped into their briefing. They did not, however, expect so much of it could and would be crammed into one area, especially with harsh wind and snow that went up beyond their knees. Plus, if Sasha’s predictions of the weather were right, a bad snowstorm was brewing rapidly in the gray, cloudy sky.

Sasha was wearing a leather coat eerily reminiscent of his famous black jacket, a snazzy dark green scarf, thin gloves, and black hiking boots. Milla was wearing a fashionable long red coat with minx-fur trim (irony, anyone?) and fluffy white earmuffs, but had neither proper gloves nor proper boots (though she did wear these cool, really shiny red boots and her usual white gloves). Raz thought coats were for sissies and went without, instead trusting his old dark jacket, green striped sweater, and aviator hat to keep him warm.

Milla and Sasha had to admit he was good at not whining; though they suspected he would crack soon.

“Brr… Someone should tell the sun to stop being so lazy and start doing its job!” Milla whined for them in her thick accent, wrapping her arms around her lithe frame. “I’m starting to know how a Popsicle feels.”

“Aw, it’s not that bad,” Raz pointed out—more out of determination to prove to them that he wasn’t cold than to assuage the older agent’s bad temperament. “You haven’t seen real cold since you’ve been to Lithuania.”

“Calm down, people. We’ll be arriving at the checkpoint shortly. Only a few more minutes’ walk yet. Just be grateful that we haven’t had to defend ourselves from enemy attacks.” This time, it was Sasha who spoke. Of all three of them, he was the only one who seemed in any way optimistic, which was strange. Then again, he did have a very warm coat, and winters back home for him weren’t exactly anything pleasant.

“Do we really have anything to worry about here?” Raz pointed out confidently, even as he slogged through nearly waist-high white powder. “All the bad guys, even if they are psychic, shun even the basic knowledge of it. It’s like playing with cheat codes, honestly.” He paused, then, as he hit a particularly soft spot in the snow and sunk to his navel. “…Agent Vodello, I’m stuck.” Sasha sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose. From behind him, Milla giggled at Raz’s undignified position, then trudged over to the young agent.

“That’s one of the things that worries me,” Sasha spoke up, his voice nearly lost in the rising wind. Agent Vodello, meanwhile, slid her hands below Raz’s arms, pushing them tight against his frame. Then, with a smile that was just a little too degrading, she lifted him up and out of the snowdrift like a small child (well, smaller). After that, with one hand against the seat of Raz’s pants and the other against his back, lifting him up and a few inches away from the frosty white, she slogged her way forward a few feet before answering Sasha.

“What do you mean, darling?” she asked blankly, once again employing one of her traditional nicknames. Sasha distastefully eyed her almost coddling of poor Raz—who either didn’t notice or didn’t care, presumably the latter—but didn’t address it.

“When one sense is down, the others are emphasized to make up for it. Someone who is a good enough fighter might not even need psychic abilities, even. That’s the problem. It’s too easy to underestimate someone unendowed. They might even be using that to their advantage.”

“They could also be using your paranoia to their advantage. Or this rock to their advantage! Or the earth!” Raz piped up sarcastically. Sasha ignored that, too.

“There’s just too many variables for my liking. We’re walking into enemy territory with no clue of any ultimate plans they could be working on, or traps they may have set… We barely even know their face plan! All we know is that some of them may be drugged, and they hate psychics, and that they’re a shady organization who think they’re… saints or something among those lines. We can’t even verify that all of them are psychically disabled. For all we know, we could be setting ourselves up! Ach! I’m getting worked up.” He rubbed his temple furiously, trying in vain to ward off a stress-acquired headache. However, he stopped when he felt a hand against his elbow, and heard a pair of footprints at his side. He looked down, only to see Razputin grinning warmly at him.

“Hey, hey. Don’t worry about it. If you’re right, and a bunch of baddies jump out right now, then who cares? We’re agents. They’re a bunch of crazy guys with vendettas. We can work through this. Even one of us could kick some ass. All three, and they’re toast.” Raz held a fist to his chin, his green eyes sparkling with determination. He looked so much like the poster boy for underdogs, with his sopping wet pants, oversized helmet, and determined grin, that Sasha couldn’t help but lightly grin back.

“…Maybe. Ah, sure, you’re right. I’m sure we could win in a fight. It’s just the suspense that’s starting to grate on my nerves.” He turned his head forward, then paused in thought. “Oh, and Razputin?”

“Yeah?”

“If I ever hear you say ‘ass’ again, my next psyblast won’t be aimed at our rivals.” Raz’s grin dropped off in an instant, to be replaced by a look of stunned shock.

“W-what? Aw, come on! You say it all the time!”

“Is that so, Sasha?” Milla asked, jokingly suspicious. Sasha smirked a millimeter wider, his headache gone.

“Hell no.”

“Gah! Salt in the wound!” Raz exclaimed, flailing his arms around dramatically. Snow bounced off his sleeves like fleas. “Mercy, people, mercy!” He struggled to run to catch up with them, but the snow hindered his movements, forcing him to kick, boot, and high-step his way past it, only to fall flat after just a few paces. Milla laughed, and even Sasha gave a tiny chuckle. He quickly forced his way back up again, spluttering out half-melted snow.

“Seriously, though, why are you all paranoid now? You must have had a billion missions like this before.” Sasha stopped at the serious question, considering it. Milla’s giggles died off as he became quiet, and she, too, watched for his answer. Sasha looked back at them; they stared back, with the open curiosity of children. He opened his mouth, ready to give a sarcastic answer. He even had one planned through, ready and set to slide out of his mouth.

“Because if anything happened to you two, I wouldn’t be able to forgive myself.” Sasha’s eyes widened a tiny bit, and he clamped his mouth shut. Okay, of all of the things he could have said, why had he said that? He was Sasha Nein; the famous, robotic Agent Nein, the kind of stoic and tight G-man that was a regular in True Psychic Tales and would shoot his own best friend without a second thought. For God’s sake… He must be more stressed than he had believed. He wondered how long it would be before he began spewing out every secret thought he had, from his Social Security number (5) to the frat parties he had attended back in collage.

“Sasha…” Milla breathed, thrown for a loop. Raz, however, just laughed.

“Is that all? You need to calm down a little, Agent Nein. Nothing’s happening, all right, unless you count the fact that I’m getting frostbite. But that’s not exactly a reason for inforgiveness or anything.” He grinned again, crossing his arms in a sort of childish triumph. Sasha cast his eyes away from behind his sunglasses, desperate for something else to focus on.

It was fortunate that he did, as he was the only one who saw when the first shot was fired. It was a regular pistol shot, but strangely mute. He made a mental note to investigate that later, even as he yelled to Agent Vodello.

“Milla, shield now!” he barked out, and it was fortunate he did. The Mental Minx didn’t question his random demand, noticing the surprise and urgency in his voice. Sasha wasn’t the type to give unnecessary orders, and she took it at face value and shielded. Because of that, the bullet ricocheted off the hot pink bubble and into the empty air, where it was lost.

Instantly, the forest shot to life. Sasha’s musing, which Raz had marked off as paranoid, was dead on, and the group was quickly ambushed. White robed men—and even a few women—dived out from the trees, their hair and skin being the only things that put them apart from the white ground. Ten… twenty… Sasha lost count, but he estimated somewhere around forty in all. What was worse, they had some sort of thick netting frame on the bottom of their shoes (not unlike snowshoes), which allowed them to stand nearly directly on top of the snow.

“Ninjas?” Raz yelped, and his question was not entirely inaccurate. The group certainly acted the part of ninjas, and even their uniforms had a vaguely Japanese-style design to them. Still, perhaps the word ‘ninja’ would be going too far. Sasha settled for the word ‘psychopaths’, then got into an attack position.

An awkward silence commenced, during which Raz, Milla, and Sasha got into a tight circle.

“No one mentioned ninjas,” Raz muttered to the other two agents.

“They’re not ninjas, sweetie,” Milla kindly reminded him. “They’re…”

“Insane,” Sasha interrupted simply. Milla just nodded, and a few more seconds passed. Finally, one of the psychopaths spoke up. He was a black man, further disproving them being Japanese ninjas, with short black hair and disturbingly kind brown eyes. He also had a moustache, beard, and glasses, which was pretty good-looking on him.

“You’re the hellspawns, are you not?” he boomed out, his voice loud and clear. This clearly was why he was the leader, or at least orator. “Those bound with unnatural, Satanic curses against His great Earth?”

“We’re psychic, if that’s what you mean,” Sasha responded coldly. The other man smiled, but there was nothing at all assuring or warm about it.

“Ah. Well, it matters not. A name alone cannot prevent the truth.”

“Hey, we’re not trying to prevent anything!” Raz exclaimed, stepping ahead a pace and into a spot of harder-packed snow, in which he only sank just above his knees. The leader of the psychopaths regarded him only briefly, raising a slight eyebrow at his clunky helmet, oversized goggles, and inadequate winter wear. To say Raz looked at all threatening would have been a joke.

“…I see. How persuasively they convert the young ones to their tainted ways. Concern yourself no longer with this. Do not continue your ways, child, and you shall be purged. Come with us, to the one true light.” He held out a hand, the palm looking worn, but welcoming. Raz, however, was having none of that.

“Hell no. You can take your offer and shove it. I’m staying right here.” For emphasis, he stomped his foot as best he could against the snow. From behind, Milla breathed a slight sigh of relief, hoping no one noticed. Sasha slid a bit deeper into his attack position, and another silence fell over the group. After about two seconds, the man sighed in an oddly forlorn way.

“So be it. I did not want to do this, but you have driven my hand. Men, attack.” The ninjas—who had been silent and motionless up until this point, like statues—suddenly sprang into action. With incredible speed, awe-inspiring dexterity, and obviously practiced teamwork, they charged the three agents.

Fortunately, the Whispering Rock Branch were also trained and previously-practiced. With just a simple nod of the head, they sprang in exact opposite directions of each other, pulling out levitation balls in the hopes that the glowing orbs would at least slightly hinder the snow’s wrath. Their defensive triangle broadened into an offensive field, with each agent tackling a small army’s worth of psychopaths. Blue, pink, and orange beams of psychonetic energy blasted out from all sides in a maneuver known simply as a ‘free-for-all’.

It was clear that, at first, Raz had the easiest time. Even with snow up to his waistline (which his levitation ball did virtually nothing to repel), he managed to dodge attacks with acrobatic grace. His orange-themed psychic attacks weren’t something to be sorry for, either, as the ninjas were unfortunate enough to learn. Even with their noticeably unnatural skills, they were no match for the raw power behind the psychokinetic moves.

(Of course, Raz would later learn that the ninjas were, in fact, holding back, both for his young age and the fact that killing was a sin—which did not hold true for the normal psychics, as they weren’t considered human to them.)

Sasha, were one to put his time on a scale of one to ten, would be about a six. He was holding the ninjas off bay well enough, and had put more than a few out of commission, but he was clearly outnumbered. Also, unlike with Raz, the ninjas were less generous to him. Their attacks were disturbingly kamikaze at points, made worse when they were coupled with weaponry. Sasha had just barely managed to get his shield up in time for many of them, and had already received a few nicks on his person.

Milla would be about equivalent to Sasha (even a little better, he’d grudgingly admit), but her concern was her weakness. While her partners held no qualms with lighting people on fire or shooting them, she shot to stun, pacifistic as always. This left her open for a few more attacks than Raz or Sasha, which she hastily moved to block. Her natural grace was evaporating quickly—a very bad sign. She kept darting glances back to Raz and Sasha, making sure they were okay. Sasha wanted to scream at her to focus on the battle in front of her. But he couldn’t, for he was busy focusing on the battle in front of himself.

Still, despite everything, one couldn’t help but admire the group’s syncopation. Their moves were adjusted for each other, carefully weaving around their own attacks and helping the others when it was needed. It was dance-like, it you chose to ignore the fallen bodies and occasion bloodstain on the white.

After a few seconds, Raz’s own situation worsened, as it dawned on the ninjas that he was no ordinary boy. Unanimous, but still without speaking, they dropped their handicaps, like a physical weight being taken off. That done, they charged, and Raz let out a yelp that would undoubtedly be made fun of t many Super Bowl parties after the mission was done.

Provided we live through it.

Raz was unnerved by the sudden thought, so devastating and final in its bluntness. In a disgracefully short period of time, their mission had gone from boring to life threatening. In a way, it was like a physical blow to his ego and body, and he mis-stepped. A ninja took this opportunity to jab at his kidneys, and he blocked it almost without thinking. Something about this—its suddenness, its subtlety, its possibilities—had him feeling afraid.

“Milla!” he yelled over the noise of the fighting, struggling to catch her attention, to ask her the question that scared him so.

Were they going to die?

“What is it?” she yelled back, not bothering to add a cutesy nickname to the end of the sentence. She was too absorbed in fighting for her life. Raz paused.

“…Watch your back,” he replied, his tone oddly empty. She nodded, and they fought on.

THE END. 8D No, I'm lying. There's more, but you're not special enough to see it yet. But, if you leave a comment... then you will have left a comment. What? You were expecting something more dramatic? Okay...

Me: -Holds an adorable puppy over one of the meatgrinders from the Meat Circus- COMMENT AND I DROP IT! 8D

You: Don't you mean, 'comment OR I'll drop it'?

Me: ...Why would people take time out of their lives to watch it get away? SEE THE CONCLUSION OF THE PUPPY'S FATE IN THE NEXT CHAPTER! YOU DON'T WANT TO MISS IT! Oh, and there's a bit of Psychonauts, too, I guess.