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Chapter Two
Toto and Beanstalks
When she had started falling she was expecting to crash back onto the mirror. So it was with a great deal of surprise she found herself tumbling through blue and white light. She thought she saw glimpses of the Rambaldi mirror, but it was moving too quickly. She finally closed her eyes when she started to feel nauseous.
Then she landed on something and something landed on her. The impact caused her eyes to fly open and all she saw was blue and white. Once she realized it was Sark’s eyes and not the light she shoved him off of her. Rolling to her feet she stared at the surroundings which were undeniably not the castle. They were currently standing in the forest she had seen in the mirror. Only she wasn’t sure what it was a forest of, there were some pine trees and something that looked very much like large vines. She knew something was wrong, but she knew something was very wrong when Sark opened his mouth.
“I don’t believe we are in Kansas anymore, Toto.”
With so many thoughts racing through her head she just latched on to the first that came to her, “Toto? If anyone I’d be Dorothy. And you can’t quote ‘The Wizard of Oz’ with a British accent.”
Sark place a hand over his heart, “If I had a heart I’m sure that remark would cause me great pain.”
She tried stifling the hysterical giggle that wanted to come out. She was who knows where and Sark was quoting ‘The Wizard of Oz’. For some reason she found it hilarious. Her mirth was quickly stifled when she saw the rippling in the forest.
“I think this is…” she was about to say ‘how we got here’ when the rippling simply disappeared. “...ah, crap.”
“I concur with the sentiment although not your choice of wording.”
“Bite me.”
Sark arched an eyebrow, “Perhaps later. Right now though …” He cut off when a booming noise started above them. It was so loud they had to steady themselves or risk falling over.
It took a moment, but Sydney realized the booming wasn’t thunder but words.
‘…fo, fum. I smell the blood of an Englishman.’
Eyes almost popping out of her head she turned to look at Sark, who by now had his gun out.
“Don’t look at me, I’m Russian.”
She clapped her hand over her mouth to stop her laughter. Really she must have hit her head on something. Seeing Sark looking up the nearest ‘tree’ she followed his gaze and almost fell over. “Is that?”
“It can’t be.”
“But it looks like…”
“Not possible.”
What Sark thought was not possible looked to her like a giant foot followed by another giant foot as ‘something’ climbed down the ‘tree’ or should she start calling it a beanstalk.
“Obviously that’s not real.”
“Righhhhht, we’re having a shared delusional episode.”
“Do you have a better explanation, Agent Bristow?”
They stared at each other till she nodded to the gun he had pointed skyward, “I don’t think that’s going to be much help.”
“Brilliant.”
The giant was moving slowly, the waist now visible beneath the clouds. “We should probably… go somewhere… else.”
“Right.”
They both started to back up, neither one able to look away. ‘It’s a giant, climbing down a beanstalk.’ She didn’t know whether to start laughing or crying. Tripping over a stick she decided to start watching where she was going. Turning around she started walking briskly, eyes on the ground and only glancing over her shoulder occasionally. Sark walked quickly ahead of her; he didn’t have a long skirt and heels to walk in. Almost tripping again she kept her eyes on the ground. After a while she looked around and realized she couldn’t see Sark anymore.
She slowed but kept walking while glancing around for the smug Brit, Russian, whatever. Finally she tentatively called out, “Sark!” Nothing. “Sark!” She hissed again. And again nothing.
Then something moved off to her left. Something rather tall and bulky, so definitely not Sark. She looked frantically around for some kind of weapon finally latching onto a large branch. Hefting it in her hands she dodged behind a beanstalk, it smelled awful, and waited. When the tall, bulky ‘thing’ walked into her sight she knew her branch wasn’t going to be very useful.
It, he, was wearing badly patched leather armor, a bone was pierced through his nose, he had a rather severe under bite and most importantly, he was carrying a really large, heavy spiked mace. Her branch was so not going to help.
Suddenly he turned towards her and she cursed the whiteness of her dress.
“I am Mustard the Troll! You’re trespassing in the mighty Troll Kingdom!” He boomed and waved the mace in a manner meant to be threatening.
She gaped up at the troll, he was easily over six feet tall and probably closer to seven, but she was stuck on one thing. “You’re name’s Mustard?”
With a howl he lifted his mace and ran towards her.
Despite her dress she easily dodged out of the way. The mace tore a large chunk out of the beanstalk where her head had been. Mentally shrugging she hefted the branch and swung with all her might. She connected with his shoulder and the branch broke into pieces.
Dropping the broken branch she backed away as the troll shrugged his shoulders and turned towards her looking annoyed. This time he advanced slowly and she withdrew keeping her eyes on him the whole time.
The sound of a gunshot sounded over her shoulder and the troll stumbled back a bit, frowned and kept coming. Two more shots hit him center mass and he still came on. She continued back, the gunshots sounding closer to her. A hand touched her shoulder and she stopped as one more shot, sounding right in her ear, hit the troll in the middle of the eyes. A look of surprise crossed his face before he fell over backwards.
Everything was silent. She licked her lips, “We should check to see if he’s dead.”
“Go right ahead Agent Bristow.” Sark’s overly pleasant voice sounded in his ear.
She didn’t move. “Why don’t you check? You’ve got the gun.” And didn’t that just rankle.
“Why don’t you check while I cover you?” He smugly countered.
“Maybe we should just go.” She turned to look at Sark for the first time.
“If you insist.” He still held his gun loosely in his grip.
“Why don’t I hold on to the gun?” She calculated her chances on getting the gun away from him.
He swiftly holstered the gun and started walking. “Why don’t I.”
She grouchily started after him.
They walked and walked, the scenery around them not changing much. They were negotiating a steep incline and Sark casually offered her his hand as he looked at something. Looking in the same direction she absently took his hand and let him help her to level ground once more. There was a sign nailed to a beanstalk that read ‘Condemned Mould’. Sharing a quick disbelieving glance they continued on.
After more walking she came to a conclusion, she didn’t like it, but it was the logical choice. Licking her lips she paused, unsure how to phrase what she wanted to say, “Look I have no idea where we are or how we got here.” She paused mentally cringing at admitting that to Sark. Her eyes darted around trying to think.
“I have to admit I’m not entirely sure myself. All though clearly the Rambaldi mirror is the obvious source of our predicament.”
“Bastard.”
When Sark raised his eyebrow she corrected herself before she knew what she was doing, “Rambaldi, I meant.”
Seeing the smirk she wanted to scream. Instead she cursed the smug blonde in several different languages.
“I see your wording has improved.”
“Shut up and let me finish.”
“By all means.” Sark adopted a bored expression and waved his hand for her to go on.
Taking a deep breath she steeled herself and reminded herself this was the most logical course of action given the circumstances. “I’m proposing a truce until, well, until we’re back where we belong.” Having gotten that out she waited for Sark’s reaction.
He stood there stared at her intently for what seemed like forever. Just when she was about ready to give up he spoke.
“I told you we were destined to work together.” And there … was … that … smirk.
She had to clench her fists to keep from breaking the truce already. Then Sark was calling over his shoulder, “Coming … Dorothy?”
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