“Oh, I dunno, Miss Stardust.” Lazlo shot back with a snarky reply. “ You ever saw a security camera that has a question mark on it?”

Why were the oldest vigilantes always the most grumpiest? Hex at least wasn’t this much of an asshole to him, even though he threw him off a cliff. Don’t push your luck, Lazlo. She might throw you off a cliff. He then looked back at the screen and signed. What game was Hex trying to play with them? If only he had the resources of the Third Rail with them…….

No time for reminiscing. Lazlo looked towards the keyboard and pressed the # button. As soon as his finger touched it, the floor beneath begin to rumble. Lazlo swore. Of all the buttons he had to chose, of course bad luck guided him to pick the fucking self destruct sequence.

“ Don’t look at me. I didn’t know that was going to -”

The crack of concrete was the only warning he had before the ceiling caved in and began to fall onto him. He reached out towards Stardust, only to realise that his two legs were waving in the air. The floor had crumbled apart as well. Shrapnel flung through the air at break-neck speeds, slicing and biting into Lazlo’s skin and flesh. Gritting his teeth, he reached out into his right elbow, touching a tattoo, concentrating, visualizing, imagining -

Then, in a burst of light, Crane of Mache unfurled out, jabbing its beak and wings into the structure and holding it still. Lazlo straddled its neck, looking upwards to see the damage. Around him was a tangle of rebar, pipes and wires intertwined with concrete rubble, only held together by his trinket. It’d only hold for a while but a while was all he needed to get him and Stardust out of the base - 

There was a ripping of paper, a rumble that smashed apart his world, searing pain all in one instant before he welcomed the darkness. 

[hr] 


When Lazlo woke up, he wasn’t sure whether or not he was still sleeping. A void surrounded him. Everywhere he looked, there was only black. A short strangled laugh escaped his breath, a mixture of relief and fear at his survival. His laughter soon became winded coughing. 

" Stardust?" He whimpers out. " Miss....Stardust?"

No one. Only the stink of his sweat, the taste of iron on his lips and the stabbing pain in his chest - 

Wait, why was his chest hurting?  He feels around before he finally grabs ahold of it. A five foot long rod of rebar protruding through the center of his torso, smeared with stink and gut. He grunts, trying to pull himself up, but every movement only makes the hurt worse. He falls back down, both of his hands moving to clasp his aching forehead. 

But only one hand responds. It takes him a moment to realise that he has no left arm anymore. Or eyes for that matter. His left fingers pinch the pulp in his empty sockets. Well, he doesn’t need eyes. Or two arms. He’d gotten out of worse before. He’d manage with this. 

The aching in his head becomes a persistent ringing. Bloodloss. Right. Happens when you’re impaled by a metal spike and after you lose your arm. 

Moving. Right. He was still moving. Focus on that. If he was still moving, then, he was still alive. 

Think, Lazlo, think. You’ve got to have a trinket somewhere. 

But what use was manifesting a trinket if he couldn’t visualise it? There’s nothing he can do but wait until he bleeds out, or wait for someone to dig him up and then bleed out. He blinks uselessly, droplets of blood sliding down his cheeks. 

What can he create if he sees nothing? 

Then, it comes to him. 

[i]If I can make something immaterial into material, then, can I make something material into immaterial?  [/i]

The pounding in his head becomes like a drum. He’s losing time. There’s no time for caution. His right arm levers across his chest and grabs onto the rod, slick with his blood. 

[i]Your blood is the pigment. Your body the canvas. [/i]

He focuses on the gaping wound in his chest. Reshaping it. Moulding away the rebar. Sanding it down to its base concepts of reinforcement and structure. He feels it begin to flake away in his hand like an old oil painting. It doesn’t stop there. A rush of fear sprouts to him as he feels a sinking sensation, as if he’s stepped into a pool. Drowning again like when Hex threw him off the cliffside. The pounding in his head becomes a relentless screech. No. His hand is gone. He can still make it. Legs. Where are his legs. No, god, please - 

In the end, when the rubble is lifted up, all there is left of the Artistonancer is a circled-A scratched into the stone and the rent remains of his left arm. 

[hr] 

Wherever he is right now, he feels cold. Then, hot. Then, not. He stands up, palming his still-bleeding left stump. The hole in his chest is gone. That's good. The landscape around him is turbulent, a mosaic of colors endlessly blending and shifting from Baroque to Classical to Cubic landscapes, bending space and time and all notions of physical laws. 

[i]Where am I? [/i]