Editing DbS (section)

== TWO ==
⚇乂⚇

'''SCHMIRTZFUDDLE DAGGERS'''

AND THEN I DIDN’T HEAR because I got knocked out. Lovely. If there was an embodiment of pain, it was the thing they’d shot me with. I mean, there aren’t enough words in the world to describe the pain and discomfort (Actually, on second thought, the word “ow” sums it up pretty well) that I felt in the moments after I had been shot. The thing they shot into me, as far as I could tell at the time, was something they would shoot into an animal to get it to go to sleep, in other words, a tranquilizing dart. (Later, I learned that it was manufactured in Germany, and was called a “''schmerzmittel'' spike”, or pain-making spike. Very suiting.)

I woke up in an actually well-lit room (Which was a surprise to me and probably the reader (that is, you), too, because in movies and stuff, the bad guys are always in the shadows and keep saying ominous things. Ex: “I’m your worst nightmare”, “Fear me, and I might consider sparing your life”, or even “I’m Batman”). There were a few lamps, and there were these lights you might see on the sides of a swimming pool’s walls. On my wrist I saw a bracelet-like thing that was, I suppose, to check my pulse and make sure I didn’t die by being injected with whatever was in that German spike.

It was a strange room, but the strangest of all was pacing in front of me. In my rickety wooden chair, the guy was around the same height as me, although I expected I’d be taller than him by the time I got out. With a black suit and a bald head, he was the equivalent of Kingpin, although much shorter.

On the wall was a TV that showed my vitals, although I couldn’t really read all of them since, you know, I wasn’t exactly a nurse or a doctor or someone who could read that kind of thing. All I could tell was that I was alive and that my pulse was pretty much normal. If you could say that about someone’s pulse after they’ve been syringed by a tranquilizer dart in the arm.

I guess that if the room was a little more dimly-lit, I could say that it looked like the type you’d see in a superhero movie, when the superhero is strapped to a chair, with the villains all around him with their way overdramatic evil laughs. In this case, I would be the superhero and the blobs of sadness around me would be the villains.

No, really, I’m being serious. There were a few guys around me (spoiler alert, they were the two guards I’d seen earlier, one of which was holding a blow dart shooter and a couple darts, this one I dubbed Thing One), but the one that stood out most was a shorter one, Kingpin, the boss. He had a goatee and something similar to eye shadow around his eyes, making him look exhausted, though by the way he paced, he must’ve been at least somewhat well-rested.

The other twin cracked his knuckles threateningly, biceps bulging. The two (that is, Thing One and Thing Two) gave me the stink-eye. If looks could kill. 

The pacing guy looked over at me, and, upon coming to the conclusion that I was alive, looked down at his nose at me (a feat, truly). His icy blue eyes and hooked nose certainly made him look threatening, although I’d faced worse enemies. He scoffed, a seemingly funny thought coming into his mind, and I could only imagine what it was. I mean, what do creeps who capture teenagers think of? Killing puppies? 

“Who’re you?” I asked, watching him wear out the carpet with his pacing.

“You wish to know who we are? Really, your agency should learn how to inform you better,” said he, not stopping his pacing

“Yeah, well, I didn’t exactly plan on meeting you,” I said, putting on a brave façade, even though I was more than a little afraid. Look, even James Bond must’ve gotten afraid sometimes, right? It’d not be very realistic if he didn’t, correct? Speaking of James Bond-

“The name’s Halifax. Tom Halifax,” the Minipin said smugly. Finally, some new information. 

See, all I knew was that he had two henchmen- and even that wasn’t for sure. Now I knew for sure that he had two henchmen, one with an odd birthmark on his neck, which was the only differentiation between the two, and I knew his name. 

“Right, good job, totally pulling that off,” I said, sarcasm practically dripping. He scowled, and continued pacing, getting steadily faster. 

“Like you could do better,” spat Minipin –I mean Tom-,rolling his eyes.

I’d like to know why all villains—and for that matter, most good guys and most characters in stories, are named Tom. There’s Tom Riddle, Tom Sawyer, Thomas the Tank Engine (he counts, right?)… etc, etc. Who decided to call all of these guys Tom?

“So, what’s your evil plan? Blow up Everest? Fill the ocean with oil?” I asked, scoffing, deciding that whatever this guy’s plan was, it was going to be foiled.

“You wish. What we’re doing is much worse. But I won’t tell you because of that,” said he nodding to my wrists which were bound behind the chair. I understood what he meant almost immediately, and gave a frown. I frowned a little, wondering why he had given his name. Surely he wasn’t that dim-witted… unless he was smarter than I thought and had changed his name…. 

''Never underestimate your enemy,'' I heard my friend, Rowan’s voice. ''But overestimating them is much, much, worse.'' 

I shook the thought of his wit out of my mind as he tripped on the carpet, giving a little scoff at his geniusness of knowing about the watch.

See, when you’re with a secret agency, company, etc, there’s perks. One of these aforementioned perks is that you get stuff. What ''I'' got is this little thing that looks like a watch, can tell time, but can do other stuff, too. It could taser people, contact the admins of the company, randomly burst into song… a lot of things. And at this particular moment, I was recording this meeting, and unfortunately for me, French Fries (Tom/Minipin) over there had noticed. 

Tom cackled, or at least tried to. He actually spluttered to a stop pretty fast. 

''Oh well,'' I thought ''there’ll be plenty of time to learn his plans later, as soon as I get out of this chair and victoriously defeat those guys and it’ll all be good.''

- - -

You know what, I wasn’t aware before this incident just how wrong it was possible for someone to be. The second I thrashed out, having cut the rope that bound my wrist, a roughly calloused hand landed on my shoulder. It seemed to be of Thing One—the first twin I’d seen, the one who stabbed me with the schmirtzfuddle spike, or whatever it was called.

Thing One was glaring at me with yellowed teeth, tartar caked on them rather thickly. His eyes were a dark brown upon closer inspection, like angry chocolate. The ceiling light cast a glare off of his head, its harsh halo of glowiness not doing anything for the guy’s complexion (that’s what my friend, who happens to be of utmost importance in the disguises community, said when I told her).

The hotel, being rather fancy, even in the basement, I could hear Thing One’s shoes- which, looking down, were soccer cleats- digging into the carpet, the deflating sound of the stuff quietly sounding every time Minipin put his foot down in his pacing and becoming louder as Thing One’s shoes’ toes dug into the carpet. The guy leaned over me, breath smelling of airplane food, staring into my soul. Or at least trying to, I’ve been told my soul is particularly hard to stare into.

Thing One snarled, like a rabid dog in my face, saying in a dangerous-sounding voice, “Watch it, kid. Stay still and this won’t hurt as much as it could.”

I had no idea what he meant, but his Brazilian-sounding accent—I’d never been much good at identifying different types of accents, to be fair—was menacing enough. I mean, how would you like to be stared down by the Hulk, who is threatening you in a Brazilian accent? Anyway, in that moment, I could only think of one thing to do- the logical thing.

So, of course, I did that. I punched Thing One in the face. Right in the nose. Hopefully breaking it. Well, I ''tried'' to. Instead, it resulted in me almost dying and landing face down on the floor, nose at an awkward angle, painfully throbbing. Yep, I’d broken my nose for the fourth time that year (it happened a lot). And for those of you who are keeping track, to see how many times I break a bone in this manuscript alone, this is the first time. I’m ninety percent sure there are more times I break a bone, just you wait.

In a matter of seconds, I was back on the chair, twist ties around my wrists. I could feel them cutting into my skin, their evil white-almost-translucent coloring, I imagined, seeping into my veins, trying to poison me. 

Everything was as it had been before I’d punched Thing One, except now a lot of things hurt, I couldn’t breathe through my nose, and my wrists were about rubbed raw because of the twist ties. That would only make it harder for me to escape, but not impossible.

If a talking raccoon in a movie had been able to escape from, like, any prison, why shouldn’t I be able to?

Fighting back the thoughts of “because you’re not a raccoon” and “because that thing was a genius and you are not”, I tried to look at the silver lining in this rather not silvery-lining situation.  

Trying to stay optimistic, I thought to myself ''Don’t worry. Just as Amy says, ‘The sun will come out tomorrow’.'' Obviously, the sun didn’t shine the next day. Probably. 

The next second, pain shot through my face. Who, on God’s green Earth, decided that it’d be a good idea to put the possible fate of the world in the hands of a kid about as prepared as a whale going skydiving?

I ended up still strapped to the chair (don’t forget the twist ties are still there) with a slapped face. I’m not even sure why I was slapped, but nobody understands villains generally speaking. 

Then the time I’d been waiting for came: Tom told me about what he was going to do to me. Honestly? I wasn’t very worried about it. It sounded implausible, impossible, and altogether ridiculous. Because something like that could ''never'' happen.

“You’ll wish you hadn’t come, boy,” snarled French Fries, and if I weren’t so sure his plan wouldn’t happen, I would have been scared.         	“Yeah, well, you’ll wish that you weren’t born,” I shot back, struggling to find a good response, but still trying to keep at least a small shred of my honor.

“Prepare for the torture of your life,” said French Fries, snapping his fingers, one of the guards coming up behind me (I figured it was Thing Two, since Thing One was still glaring). 

“Hook it up,” said French Fries, and I felt a motorcycle helmet roughly put on my head. I shook it, trying to get it off, to no avail. In a couple seconds, it was strapped on, much to my dismay. I wondered what this horrific device did, and I could only think of the worst possible things.

Maybe it was an explosive. A doomsday device. Maybe it played “Old MacDonald” over and over. That and/or other torturous things.

For the second time in an hour, I blacked out, a sharp thing jabbing into my neck. Just great.