It was in a state no longer shaken by surprise, barely disturbed at all with any care, that Nephrite sat upon the black-wrought chair before the big, grey youma. There could be no surprises anymore; only his accustomed understanding, hard-shelled and well-worn, reeling in the surprises like a fisherman reels in his line. Inspecting each one, tossing it into the boat, and waiting for the next. This was how Nephrite had always lived, and it was how he resolved to live now.

Three youma had opened the unseen door in his cell and led him out, into one of the Dark Kingdom's many unmistakable passages. But he had resolved against surprise, allowing himself to be led without protest by the youma, so obviously his guards. They had said little to him, treating him much as one would a neighbor's child, with a careful authority: wary yet undeniably, inexorably in command. It was while observing this touchy control that Nephrite had begun to think fast, his mind forming for him a picture, a theory, a history that he didn't know yet, but that came so easily he knew it had to be true. Saving him from perhaps the biggest surprise of them all.

And it had come when he was led up, without the help of magic (another surprise for Nephrite's boat), through halls and rooms filled with youma. Not the exquisitely bred females whom Beryl had fired out at the Senshi time out of mind, but workers. Rough-skinned males and females, toiling as they always did, speaking their violent, whimsical slang ("Suck the blood from tha' teeth, and look upon this turmish creature!"). Everywhere they were, and not an ounce of human blood among them. Or anywhere, save in Nephrite's own good self. It was as though someone had taken the Kingdom through a great sieve, leaving only this milling thousand, at work as though nothing at all had changed.

There were other things too, not quite surprises, but reeled into the boat and examined anyway by Nephrite-fisherman. The chill in the air was one. Caverns of this shape and size belonged in the very heart of the Kingdom, yet the coolness in their walls was that of the border tunnels, to which the arctic ice was wedded. And no magic. No traces of teleports, no levitation, no breath of Metallia could be felt or seen as Nephrite was paraded across a causeway and into the chamber.

And now he sat still, in the same position he'd settled into when the guards had motioned him to the chair. The grey youma sat before him, huge and thickset, three curved horns rising from his head in a crown. His upper body was completely naked, and he had on a pair of worn black trousers, cut wide at the ankles to make way for his broad, reptilian feet.

He had began talking as soon as Nephrite was seated, words coming out smooth and indifferent, just like the work that was being done in the caves beyond. He had spoken to Nephrite slowly, even civilly, an attitude that barely matched the story he was telling. Nephrite had listened to it all, barely registering its absurdity, finding himself knowing it all already. No surprise was too great now.

Yet if he had wondered whether his happenstance in the forest was a dream, then that left him with nothing to name this situation.

But it all fit. And if Nephrite had known such a thing could ever happen to the Kingdom, he would have anticipated it right down to the youma sitting before him. He recognized this creature whom they called "Sir." In the days just shy of his own death, Nephrite had seen the grey youma before. Tough but markedly lazy, the demon had been an excellent speaker, brilliant at directing his fellows and inciting them to acts which - were they in a kingdom where the word existed - would have been called rebellions. This was why Nephrite knew the grey youma; a troublemaker this one was.

Sir.

Sir had given him some sort of food, and Nephrite had taken to it in necessity, but also with a zeal which, as soon as it showed itself, Nephrite wished he'd kept in better check. As he ate, the bowl in his lap, a guard at either of his shoulders, Sir changed courses from recent history to the future. He was talking about food, how there would soon be none now that Metallia was gone. This, though, wasn't a surprise; Nephrite had guessed it when he had guessed everything else.

He was very good at that sort of thing.

As the youma spoke, and kept speaking, Nephrite paused in his eating to think of two things, neither being the chief subject at hand. It had disturbed him to hear what had become of Kunzite and Zoisite. Sir had related their conditions to him with a matter-of-factness that barely held tight the triumph hidden behind it. Nephrite, not terribly distressed about what happened to Kunzite or his little spy boy, nevertheless remembered the voice behind the wall, in the dark, and suddenly felt very uneasy about the hospitality he was currently being offered. Perhaps, after Sir had gotten to the point, Nephrite would be tossed back into the cell from which he came. And left there. Yet striking an even more sensitive chord (sensitive at least in Nephrite's mania of self-preservation) was this constant affirmation that Metallia had been destroyed. Nephrite, who had been taught so well by the stars, knew like his own heart the nature and flow of life-energy. And it seemed to him a contradiction of natural truth, a total absurdity, that Metallia should simply be scorched to nothing with the wave of a magic crystal. Metallia wasn't a thing like Beryl; it wasn't a thing at all. It was energy. One can't destroy energy.

Suddenly he realized that Sir was waiting for a reply.

"I am sorry," said Nephrite. "I am not the authority on such matters. Kunzite and Zoisite were the ones who kept their own stock; not I. You must speak to them."

Sir narrowed his black eyes. So far Nephrite had been told nothing of how they'd had to drag a body, its face black and its head near twisted off, from inside Kunzite's cell.

"Oh, I shall speak to them soon enough," said Sir. "But I know very well how closely the Shitennou worked. You were a package, all spoken of by one word. So surely if you know that your fellows did hoard food, you must know a little of the where's and when's."

Nephrite opened his mouth, but Sir spoke again.

"And to be sure, if you give us any knowledge, the benefits shall be as much thine as ours."

And then the demon fell suddenly silent, too late though to catch the muddy bit of youma-speak as it came from his mouth. Nephrite noticed it too, and wondered if Sir had only taken up the human affectation recently, like a new pair of shoes for the occasion. Surely it would be so much easier on his labour-seasoned tongue to let loose with the thee's and thy's and thou's.

Nevertheless, there was a proposition to be dealt with, and in it, Nephrite saw the first sweet light of escape. Time had been offered, and it was now his to be bought.

Almost immediately after eating, Zoisite's stomach clenched and he felt his bowels move in a way that threatened pain or - at the very least - humiliation. The door had cracked open soundlessly and the bowls slipped in with a motion so brief and unobtrusive, Zoisite wondered if perhaps some latent magic of his own had not summoned them. He had tried looking out the little barred window in the door, yet all he'd seen was the yellow lamp, its beams so bright and painful that Zoisite had to turn his smarting eyes back into the darkness of the cell. And eat.

Oh, and why now, why here, did he have to get sick? He should have known, as soon as he tasted that weak, fishy water, that something unpleasant was now swimming through his innards with only one purpose in its microscopic heart. But he had to eat; he couldn't refuse; though now as he clutched at his stomach and brought his knees to his chest, he thought perhaps it wouldn't be so bad to die of hunger.

And meanwhile, that oaf would not stop looking at him. That gangling figure was sitting at the opposite end of the cell, his own meal giving him no apparent trouble. How Zoisite hated him, with his lank, dark hair and his melancholy face, staring at him with such... such interest.

Why sick, why now? Zoisite hated sickness of any sort, but being ill in his own right - particularly in the company of others - was positively the worst. Kunzite-sama made it bearable enough; he would leave Zoisite alone as Zoisite wished to be, cared for at a distance by some discreet servant. But here there was no privacy, and no place but a drain by the wall where he could go if the pain became too great.

To make it that much more unbearable, the other finally spoke, "Are you well, Zoisite-sama?"

No, I am not, you thing. You loathsome thing, and what was your name? Zoisite could feel himself trembling slightly, cold perspiration forming on his brow, and he felt furious. He could feel his eyes grow hot and tears began to slick them over, making the lower half of everything blurry and myopic. No, I will not. I will not. He longed to be home, to lie down in the cool, clean sheets of his bed, to feel them grow warm as he listened to the storms outside and watched the lightning flash through the windows. He wanted Kunzite-sama to place cool hands on his face, to tell him to never mind and go to sleep. He wished for it harder and harder, the tears growing heavier in his eyes, his stomach giving another twist for spite. I will not. I will not.

The oaf, Momo-whatsit, was speaking again. But all he managed to say was, "Zoisite-sama-" before two things happened.

First, Zoisite rose from his place on floor, intent on striking his cellmate again, or if not striking, then saying something cruel and violent. But the farthest he got was to his feet, and instantly something fell upon him.

Two hard hands reached at him from behind, seizing him, twisting his arms behind his back. His eyes opened wide and the tears fell free, and he looked across at Momo-whatsit, who still sat upon the ground, his mouth agape and utterly frozen. And suddenly Zoisite noticed how brightly the oaf's face was lit up, so brightly that the little blacks of his eyes twinkled as he goggled at Zoisite's struggle. The door had been opened, that was why; the light from outside had now much more to shine through than a mere crack.

There were more hands on Zoisite now, but he still faced away from his attackers, unable to see them. He tried to wriggle free, but confusion slowed his movements. Should he resist? Kunzite-sama always warned him about acting before he knew the enemy. Yet they were holding him! And as if not wanting to be forgotten in this moment of deliberation, Zoisite's stomach chimed in with another lurch. Weakness and an urgent desire to double up made Zoisite cease his struggling.

Over his own shaking breath, he could hear the voice behind him, talking into his ear.

"Sweetly-neatly now, good. Sir wants a word with thee."

Youma! Zoisite looked down, intending to catch his cellmate's eye, whether in a plea for help or a rending glare - Zoisite hadn't time to decide - but he was no longer there. The spot where the fool been sitting moments before, gazing pie-eyed up at the spectacle, was empty.

Zoisite was twisted around, the hands turning him to face the other way. He looked up into the faces of his captors, two youma, both a head taller than he. The one who had spoken, his scales a flush magenta and his eyes a waxy, depthless green, had Zoisite locked in an iron-hard hug and, led by his duller-skinned companion, was dragging him in the direction of the shining doorway.

Well-timed as always, the parasite in Zoisite's stomach set his guts in motion once again. As they reached the threshold of the cell, Zoisite's feet half-dragging, half-walking, a stab of pain went through bowels and up into his stomach. He felt his insides clench, bubble, and squirm a few times in warning before the upward rush began. He tried to get away, more out of pre-vomit desperation than any deliberate act of prisoner escape. But it was too late. He made a terrible noise, and up it came, hot and acid and reeking of fish.

The guard gave a yelp of disgust, and Zoisite felt the arms around him disappear as he dropped to the ground. His throat and nose were burning, and as soon as he'd collected himself, another batch came up, mostly liquid this time, stinging even more than the first. He heaved dry once, twice, and felt as though he was going to die.

He was aware, as he huddled on the ground breathing the rank smell of his vomit, of the commotion around him, the shuffle of feet, exclamations of revulsion. There followed more urgent words, and the feet sped up. One caught Zoisite's hunched side and tripped and fell and lay motionless and heavy. Zoisite's eyes flew open; he sat up.

Before the yellow maw of the cell door, two silhouettes were framed, suddenly silent and unmoving. The first was the magenta youma, his form stretched up and rigid as though preparing for an attack. Yet he remained motionless, suspended as though on strings. But there were no strings holding him, only half of his short sword protruding from his belly. Clutching the other end of the sword, frozen in his strike, was the other silhouette, tall and gawky with tendrils of hair swinging limp from his head. Unmistakable was that profile with its too-high cheekbones, its long and doleful nose, yet Zoisite could scarcely believe he was seeing it.

And then the scene collapsed, or rather, the magenta youma did, as Momo-whatsit released the sword and the demon crumpled to join his fellow on the ground.

Zoisite rose to his knees and then, when his strength permitted him, to his feet, wiping his mouth with his hand. The air stank of all the worst things, inside things, stuff that should have stayed where it belonged.

His cellmate was walking towards him, wobbling slightly, one hand glistening in the light of the door with the youma's blood. His face was dark and half-hidden by the hair that had flipped forward as he struck. He approached Zoisite, his limbs shaking, his bony shoulders slouched as though exhausted. And as he stood before Zoisite, looking down at him with eyes like little caves below his brow, his lips opened and stretched into a smile. No, it was a grin; a great, curving grin that spread slowly and soundlessly across his face, revealing as it did so the rows of long, strong teeth. It was horrible, Zoisite thought, to be here in this place, smelling those inside smells, and to stare up at that wall of teeth.

Magic had pampered him, Nephrite thought, as the youma before and behind ushered him through the ribbed tunnels and down torch-lit stairwells. One forgets so quickly how huge the Dark Kingdom is when one can merely hop from one end to the other in a flash of light. Now he was getting a walking tour and, still not given a chance to clear the pebbles from his boots, was not enjoying it.

Yet he kept his eyes moving all the way, searching for any opportunity - a niche or a cave or a lapse in the guard - that would allow him to escape. He hadn't given much thought to his means of clearing the D-Point, or to his traversing the expanse of arctic ice that surrounded it (for surely the Kingdom had stolen an airplane along with the other things it had lifted from the human realm). No, first, he had to break free of Sir, and to that he was devoting all of his attention.

Suddenly, they halted.

They were in a massive, flat-floored junction, an open area whose walls were pitted on all sides with the openings of tunnels. In the centre of the expanse, a congregation of youma, massive ones this time, all males, was hacking at the floor with sharp metal picks. The chinks and clangs of their rhythmic blows seemed almost muffled by the size of the room; the sound was small as it reached Nephrite's ears.

He knew at once what was happening. He remembered the towered home of Kunzite and Zoisite, leaning out over the tangled swamps from which its foundation rose. Though Nephrite had never been inside that pointed, shadowy building, he had seen many times the lights in its windows, momentarily invisible as lightning from the sky above struck the spires and was guided to the ground to be used by the dwellers within. Yet what was that swamp, but the excess of Metallia's creations? And what was that sky, and that lightning, but the spillover of the Kingdom's living energy? They didn't exist anymore. Nephrite could see it all: the swamps dry and empty, and the low sky replaced by a ceiling of stone.

And here the youma were, hacking away, trying to get through that rock-solid canopy.

Nephrite watched them, fascinated. He could see in the arcs of their swings, and in the way their shoulders slumped, the weariness slowing them down. How long since that lot had eaten? He watched their rainbow hides moving, foraging for the most basic of needs. Digging for their dinner. Three feet, ten feet, twenty feet- who knew how deep those feeble picks would have to dig before they broke through to the bounty beneath? And what if there was no bounty? What if Kunzite and Zoisite had only hoarded enough for their own good selves? They weren't generous folk, after all.

And Nephrite, though usually one to consider himself an island of selfhood, could not help but feel a cruel pride on behalf of his former Kingdom. What revolution is this? he thought as he looked upon the falling picks and curved backs. Your mother dies at the hands of the enemy, and you think you can claim victory when you still need her milk?

In the cover of shadow, he watched the Sir's youma at work. They'd been at it for hours, digging with picks into the floor. They'd made a few feet's progress, but little did they know it would be another day or two before they cracked through the stone ceiling.

Yet here was something new. They'd brought in Nephrite. Yes, there he was, in his wrinkled grey uniform, that long shit-brown hair of his still looking good enough to eat. They'd brought him there for help. Where do we look, Nephrite? O help us, we don't know this part of the Kingdom. Where do we dig? Where do we look? Is there an easier way down?

There was, of course, an easier way down. But even if Nephrite knew of it, he would be slow to tell. Oh no, even from this safe distance, one could see Nephrite's thoughts plain on his face. He was trying to decide whether it would be better to take a bath or check up on the constellations after he managed to give Sir the slip. Far be it from you to lend anyone a hand, Nephrite, especially after last time.

Through with watching the dig, Jadeite turned away, flipping his yellow hair back from his eyes. He walked quietly down the unlit tunnel and - as he had a talent for doing - vanished into the dark.