Tunnels.

So. Many. Tunnels.

It never ended. Go around one corner and find another tunnel. Go around that corner, and surprise! Another tunnel! It was like being lost in a fun-house maze without the fun.

“Prairie dogs.” Karl snapped his armored fingers with a resounding clank.

Stan limped behind him, metallic boots muffled by the dirt of ages that had built up no the cement tiles. “What’s that, mate?”

Karl glanced back at him. “Prairie dogs. That’s what this feels like.”

Stan sighed heavily. “You’re making less sense than usual, Karl.”

“Am not.” Karl brushed his hand through the cobwebs hanging on the mosaic tile wall. “Prairie dogs dig tunnels for miles and miles. Make all sorts of trouble for farmers. They’re pests, but I always liked them. Imagined they had cozy little homes made up inside their tunnels. With rocking chairs on their underground front porches.”

“Karl, what are you even talking about?”

Karl stopped. “Prairie dogs.” He turned back to the young teenager. “You know.”

“No, I don’t know.” Stan sagged against the wall, resting the side of his face on the cool tile. “We haven’t got many prairies where I’m from.”

“Oh, right.” Karl scratched the back of his neck. “Well—they’re—dogs. Kind of. Maybe more like gophers.”

“What’s a gopher?” Stan scowled.

“Oi, Fish Face. Not helping me here.”

“Sorry.” The boy offered a tired smile. “I promise to do a better job on learning the indigenous burrowing mammals of the great plains.”

Karl flashed a grin at him and eyed the blue and white chestplate of Stan’s sub-armor. On the surface, it seemed untouched. Smooth. Clean. Like it always did. But underneath was a different story. Under that shiny protective surface of Kagami’s first layer, Stan had a gaping hole in his chest from where the soldier’s sword had punched clear through him.

Karl clenched his fingers until his armor squeaked in protest. The memory of the blood-stained blade shining in the sun as it thrust out of his best friend’s chest blazed a trail of rage and fear across his mind, like lightning stabbing the plains on a threatening spring night.

A rumbling feeling built in his stomach, trembling against his lungs. Not hunger. He knew what hunger felt like. This was something else. A knotted bundle of emotions, swirling and throbbing, making it hard to breathe, hard to think, hard to do anything but scream and smash.

Stan was hurt.

People were dead.

My fault.

He swallowed as hard as he could. The dizzying wave of emotion made his head spin.

“Prairie dogs.” He steered his thoughts back to something happy. “They make sounds like squeaky toys.”

“I think you’re making that up.”

“Am not.” He turned on his heel and pressed forward through the dank underground.

So much for underground tunnels being warm and cozy. These tunnels were dark and horrible, like the old crawlspace in his childhood home had been. He’d have rather faced a tornado than go down to that pit.

What if prairie dogs hated their tunnels?

Geez, that was a depressing thought. What if they hated being cramped up in the dark, smelly underground? What if their cozy little dens weren’t cozy at all? What if they were wet and stinky and full of shadows like the tunnels of Dupont Circle?

What if the cheerful, happy-sounding squeaks were actually cries for help?

Dude. The poor little guys. Maybe they just wanted a sandwich.

Sighing, he pressed forward in the darkness and stepped through a large doorway. A flashing fluorescent bulb overhead shone sputtering light on a large, open area within the tunnels. Cavernous and teeming with shadows, the massive open area stretched out before them on level cement tiles. The hiccuping light fixture sent out enough light to show the storefronts and counter tops that lined the chamber.

“What the heck?” Karl muttered.

Stan took position at his side, frowning. “Shops?” He turned his eyes upward and indicated the ceiling with his nose.

Karl followed his gaze.

A large crooked sign hung from the ceiling. “Dupont Circle Food Court” the sign exclaimed boldly in broken lettering.

“Food court?” Karl wrinkled his nose. “Like in the mall? Doesn’t look like a food court to me.”

“Maybe it did at one time.” Stan limped forward slowly with every pulse of light. “There are a few tables and chairs still.” He paused at one of the cheap plastic chairs and sank into it with a sigh of relief. “Good to sit down for a moment.”

The boy blew out a long breath and pressed a hand against his chest.

Karl eyed him and bit his lower lip. “Does it hurt?”

Stan blinked and looked up at him. “Not really. A twinge now and then, but….”

“But?”

Stan shrugged. “It’s a bit hard to breathe.”

Karl clenched his teeth. “Stay put. I’m going to take a look around.”

Stan nodded, and his eyes slipped shut. Karl turned away and pointed himself toward the storefronts, that roiling, twisting feeling from earlier surging back over him again more fiercely than before. It felt like a dozen burning fingers crawling up his back, poking sharp fingernails into his skin.

He rounded the corner of a shop that resembled a train car, big green letters announcing it as Pizza Express. With a gasp, Karl stopped and sagged against the wall, drawing slow, deep breaths and exhaling. He had to get a grip. Stan needed him. They had to get out of this maze of tunnels and back up to the surface. Who knew what damage Thallia’s soldiers had done while they were wandering around in the dark?

Karl leaned the back of his sweaty head against the cool wall and shut his eyes.

It’s all my fault.

If he hadn’t lost control, if he hadn’t freaked out, maybe the tunnels wouldn’t have collapsed. Maybe they wouldn’t be in this situation.

Since when did you even make earthquakes, dude?

He tapped on his chestplate absently. Not that he really knew what Shiren could or couldn’t do, but he’d never seen anything like what had happened on the street before. Once, maybe twice, when he’d gotten really angry at Sam, there might have been a rumble underfoot. But they lived in California. Little rumbles were so commonplace, nobody even noticed them. And it might not have even been him.

Though at the moment, it seemed likely.

His eyes burned, and he scrubbed his metal hand across his face. What was he doing? Crying now? Real manly. That was super tough. Maybe he’d been spending too much time around Ryan, and the Old Man’s warm-fuzzies were contagious.

But Stan was hurt.

And people were dead.

And it was his fault.

Karl shook himself.

“Focus.”

That’s what he had to do. He had to focus on the positive. He had to narrow his vision on what needed to be done right at that moment. No sense wallowing over things that couldn’t be helped. Regretting something didn’t make it possible go to back and change it. Regrets didn’t accomplish anything.

He forced his shoulders down and spun into the the pizza shop.

Tables covered in dust were scattered haphazardly around the inside of the shop, some chairs upright and others knocked over. The counter was in pieces. The menu board hung like a broken limb from the ceiling. The whole shop smelled like mold and dirt.

Their pizza probably sucked too.

The kitchen area was empty, save for the remnants of an old commercial refrigerator that had seen better days. The big stove looked like someone had used it for target practice. Even the fire extinguisher on the wall had dents in it. A first aid kit hung open, bandages scattered on the floor tiles like torn bits of paper. Any medicine that might have been inside was long gone.

The least they could have done was leave something to eat in the pantry, but it was empty. Well, except for a few irritable rats who scurried away when Karl stepped into their territory.

He scratched his nose, the dust he’d kicked up making him feel like a sneeze wanted to explode.

“Aha.” He spotted a door at the far end of the shop.

He jogged toward it and placed his hands on the bar, pressing as gently as he could. The door didn’t budge. He pushed with a bit more strength, but it didn’t move.

Great.

It was probably blocked on the other side. No other reason for it to stay closed when it was designed to open. He placed his hands carefully on the skin of the door and set his jaw.

Just one quick push.

That’s all it would take.

Let Shiren take over, and the door and whatever else was keeping it shut wouldn’t stand a chance.

Screams echoed in his ears. Particles of dust and specks of dirt chafed his skin where the edge of his armored battle gear stopped halfway up his neck. The sunlight turned the soldier’s blade ruby red with Stan’s blood.

Karl dropped his hands and stepped back from the door, his stomach somersaulting again.

What was wrong with him?

He clutched his stomach and bowed his head, gasping for breath as the invisible fingers dug into his spine like burning iron spikes. His head throbbed, and the room spun. Was his nose bleeding? He wiped his hand across his face, but he saw no blood. But his skin under his nose crawled, like blood trickled across it.

What was happening to him?

He rolled his head across his shoulders and shook himself.

“Get a grip.”

Knocking the door in probably wasn’t a good idea. It might cause another cave in. No need to kill anyone else with his recklessness.

His stomach clenched.

Karl swallowed the urge to choke on the bile that kept crawling up the back of his throat and hurried out of the pizza shop. He slowly wandered into the shadows, back to where Stan sat at the center of the food court. The boy cracked one eye open as Karl sat down across from him.

“Find anything?”

“Rats.”

“Blimey.”

“And a door.”

Stan opened both eyes. “An exit?”

“It’s blocked.”

“Buttons.”

Karl stared at his hands, opening and closing them. “I thought about knocking it down.”

Stan sighed and sat forward in his chair, resting his elbows on the table. “You know, Karl, it’s not your fault.”

Karl glanced up to meet the boy’s worried gaze, and he forced a grin across his face. “Of course, it’s not.”

Stan’s expression grew harder, the light in his eyes intensifying. “Then why are you blaming yourself?”

“I’m not.” Karl threw his arms behind his head and leaned back in the chair, pulling his eyes away from Stan.

“You are too.” Stan raised his eyebrows. “You’re in knots, mate.” Stan sat back. “And I don’t need Kagami to tell me that. I can see it all over you.”

Why does he always want to talk about the stuff I don’t want to talk about?

Karl chewed on his bottom lip.

“Come on.” Stan offered a half-smile. “Stop beating yourself up, would you? It could have happened to any of us. And surely you don’t think me getting a wee bit stabbed was your fault too.”

Geez, can’t we talk about Sam’s hair conditioner? That would be a lot easier. Karl lowered his arms and laid them on the table. “Can we not talk about this?”

Stan pursed his lips. “I think we ought to. I won’t have my best mate thinking ill of himself when he’s got no need to.”

Karl pushed his chair back. “Well, I don’t want to talk about it. You’re wrong. I’m not blaming myself for anything.” He brushed imaginary dust off his chestplate. “Can we get moving now?”

He won’t buy that.

The boy narrowed piercing blue eyes at him.

It didn’t matter if Stan bought it or not. They didn’t have time to sit around talking about whether or not it was Karl’s fault that the subway had caved in. It was obvious. It was totally his fault. Stan just wouldn’t admit it because he couldn’t believe anything bad about anyone.

“All right,” Stan said softly, standing up and rolling his shoulders carefully. “We can go.”

Did he actually buy it? Maybe I’m better at lying than I thought.

Stan pointed a finger at him. “But we’re not done talking about this.”

Crap. So much for that theory.

He rolled his eyes and started into the darkness where he could vaguely make out the shape of another tunnel.

Stan fell into step behind him, and for a long time there were no sounds but their feet clanking against the cement tiles.

“So,” Stan started.

“Stan, I don’t want to talk about it.”

“Sam’s leaving.”

Karl froze. So suddenly Stan nearly bumped into him.

Karl whirled around. “What do you mean?”

Stan looked up at him sadly. “Smithsonian offered him a job.”

Karl’s stomach turned over again. “Oh.” He looked down. “Oh, well, I guess that’s good. Isn’t it?”

Stan grimaced. “Is it?”

“Smithsonian. I mean, they’re important. Right?”

All the museums of the world seemed the same to him. Dusty old buildings full of dusty old junk and dustier old people. The Doc’s museum was only cool because it was in a castle.

“I suppose so,” Stan said. “It’s prestigious.”

“I don’t know what that means.”

“He’ll probably get a raise.”

“Ah.”

Karl scratched the back of his head again before he silently started walking again. The tunnels were still spinning, his stomach clenching, and the base of his spine burning.

“I don’t think I want him to go,” Stan mumbled. “He’s not a very nice person, but—I would miss him.”

“Yeah. I think I would too.”

“Really?”

Karl glanced back at him. “Yeah. Why wouldn’t I?” He smirked. “Putting glue in Ryan’s shampoo isn’t as funny.”

“No, I suppose not.” Stan smiled.

They fell silent as they continued through the darkness. Normally Stan would be chattering cheerfully. Heck, normally he’d have something to say, but his thoughts just felt muddled and gray. A confused jumble of emotion that he couldn’t sort out.

Worse.

He couldn’t ignore it. And he was the master of ignoring things. He could ignore anything for as long as it took. Once he’d ignored a rotten cheeseburger in his back pack until his English teacher called in a sewer leak somewhere in the school.

Blood-stained sword.

Shimmering in the sunlight.

Stan’s eyes, the same color as the sky, wide with shock and pain.

Karl shook himself. Why couldn’t he ignore this? Why couldn’t he just let it go? Sure, Stan got a little bit stabbed, but he was fine. Look at him. Walking around like nothing was wrong.

And, sure, he caused a massive cave in that probably killed hundreds of people. Big deal.

His eyes began to burn again.

Yeah, it is a big deal.

“I just don’t know how to reach him.”

Karl blinked and looked back at Stan again. “What?”

“Haven’t you been listening?”

“No, I’m ignoring you.”

Stan huffed.

“Don’t take it personal, Fish Face. I ignore everyone.”

“I’m not a cheeseburger, Karl.” Stan snorted. “I’ve been trying to call Sam on the armorlink.”

“Why?”

“To see where he is.”

Karl paused at the center of the corridor. “He can’t use the armorlink.”

“He did the other night.” Stan passed him, walking forward into the darkness. “Though I don’t think he knows that he did.”

“Figures. Even when he doesn’t know what he’s doing, he’s better at it than everybody else.” Karl followed Stan through the heavy curtain of shadows. “Hey, are you still getting that weird feeling from before?”

“What? The soldiers?” Stan stopped and looked around. “Aye. All over.”

Karl set his hands on his hips. “What does it feel like?”

Stan eyed him quietly. “Like I ate that smelly cheeseburger in your backpack.”

He nodded.

Stan faced him. “Karl, what’s wrong?”

The tightness and aching in his stomach, he could blame on the soldiers. Maybe he was sensing them too, and he just didn’t realize it. Karl normally didn’t sense things. But maybe there were so many of them—wherever they were—that even he could feel them.

The rest of it—the pain in his head, the base of his spine, the trembling in his lungs. That—he didn’t know. And asking about it would only make Stan worry. Stan had enough to worry about.

“I think I feel the soldiers too,” he said.

Stan sighed. “I wouldn’t doubt it. There are so many.”

“So where are they?”

Stan nodded ahead of them, down the hallway. “Somewhere down there.” He smiled. “So we can either keep looking for an exit, or we can go find the soldiers.”

Karl glanced at the ceiling. “Or we can look for an exit, and maybe we’ll find the soldiers too.”

“Aye.” Stan smiled. “That works.”

Karl nodded and took the lead again. They reached the end of the corridor, and Karl peeked his head around the corner.

Yay.

What a surprise.

More tunnels.

The prairie dogs didn’t know how good they had it.