The sun was setting in Westmarch. Along the downtown stretch of the city, old gas lamps that had stood for a century or more were being lit, just as they had everyday since their creation. Traffic sped up a bit as all the working residents realised it was time to return home for the day. The bare branches of the autumn trees along the central boulevards stood strong and unchanging in the evening light, every limb and bough accentuated in the soft shades of pink and orange that streaked across the painted sky. The moments crept by, one after another in steady succession as all the inhabitants snuck home to enjoy the company of their closest, loving companions.

Somehow, darkness came faster at the Uracil Centre. The sun did not set gracefully in the sky, illuminating all life in one precious point of its last fading light. It was simply there one minute and gone the next. Notably, time did not pass as rapidly. It preferred to all but stop and make Fordo squirm in anxiousness.

However, the sun had gone fully by the time dinner arrived in Fordo's room. By then, his very skin was crawling with impatience and the two hours that remained before his departure seemed years away. The evening nurse entered peppily, passing his bored form that lay on the bed and going to the counter to set down his tray. She grinned cheesily on her way out and seemed to hum something similar to the "Rubber Duckie Song". Slightly puzzled by this, Fordo rolled off the bed and went to the tray. As usual, he retrieved the Jell-O and cup of coffee then found a chair looking out the window to sit and eat.

He could see nothing outside for the darkness. On the other side, the cold November winds blew the courtyard trees and threatened the coming winter. Christ, this was dull. Fordo wanted only to leave this place and find somewhere that didn't require waiting around for something to happen. Life lost its purpose in the Centre, along with all the truth and beauty it once had. Now there was only conformity. This most likely wouldn't be that bad, but that was all there was. Why not just get a copy of My Antonia and read about prairie grass all the time? That would probably be more interesting.

He got up, dinner unattended, and scrounged the room for his sharpie again. He had finished even the finest lines of his right hand that afternoon and was halfway finished with the left. Retrieving it from his coat pocket, Fordo plunked down in the chair before the uneaten supper, kicked his feet up onto the table and continued to draw. He let his mind wander as he sketched while his eyes stayed focused on his palm.

For some reason, it meandered to the girl that had given him the cards. Strange, really. He could despise the Uracil Centre for its plethora of secrets and lies, then find so great an interest in a mysterious girl who's shadow didn't even match her story. How hypocritical of him. Cosmo would be ashamed of him. But who was she? How could someone show up randomly at precisely the moment she was most needed and then leave before anything about her was really known? His sharpie ran out of ink. Damn.

*

Another hour passed. The watch on Fordo's left wrist began to beep and he shut it off quickly to stop any conspicuousness he may give off. He got up casually and went into the water closet. He went to the mirror cabinet and removed his evening pills. Staying in there for the usual time required for a person to urinate, he flushed the pills and left the closet. He sauntered over to his bag and again checked for all of his belongings. Seeing as all was in order, Fordo tripped up onto the bed and swiftly removed the article from the ceiling. He folded it carefully, following the creases embedded into it, and carefully slipped it into the centre of Edgar Alan Poe's collected works. He tossed the box of tacks into his bag along with the majority of his books. Only Marx was left out, tossed onto the bed so as to seem inconspicuous. It was a trade paperback, after all. He even had an extra copy with him.

His bag fully packed and his evening tray slowly rotting, Fordo felt almost utterly prepared for his new journey. He pulled his coat up off of the floor and threw it across the chair he had recently used. The clock on the bedside table read eight-twenty. He had plenty of time to kill. Fordo tossed himself onto the bed and wretched Marx's regime out from under him.

He started to read the well-worn pages and thought deeply about the words. He was truly brilliant, Marx was. The whole idea of socialism was really brilliant. The only issue with it was the fact that people were inherently greedy. So long as people stayed self-obsessed, Marxism would fail. Naturally, it would also fail because capitalism was on the rise, but that could be stopped. All it would take was a few very determined people who desired its downfall. That could be arranged in time.

When he next glanced up at the clock he saw there were only five minutes before his departure. He quickly found a pen and underlined a line before laying it open on the bed. He walked over to the chair and grabbed his coat, throwing it on. Afterwards he picked up his bag and flung it over his shoulder. Three more minutes. Fordo checked the room for anything he'd left that wasn't the book on the bed. That would have to stay until the Uracilians came in the morning. He had a feeling no one would be looking for him prior to then. Two more minutes. He let himself into the water closet to hid for a small period of time. One more minute. It took less time to nuke frozen tacos than this was, despite the fact that the clock swore it was the same length.

*

8.40. Fordo left the water closet quickly and made his way to the corridor and towards Moscoe's office. As the girl had promised, the halls were empty and practically silent. He moved swiftly and cautiously, very aware of the fact that he had five minutes to get there. He could not be early to this one.

8.45. He opened Moscoe's door and slipped inside gingerly. The stars outside shone dimly onto Moscoe's desk and illuminated the room slightly. Fordo opened the top drawer and found the knife. Pulling it out slowly, Fordo headed towards the door. As he reached to the doorknob, it began to turn completely on its own. His eyes widened and he raced to find a hiding spot.

"He's still not eating?"

"It's not that he's not eating, sir. He is technically-"

"Surviving on Jell-O and coffee does not count as eating, Jessica."

"Of course, sir."

Moscoe went to his desk and sat down. "Is he showing any weakness by the lack of protein?"

The nurse stood before him. "None whatsoever, sir."

"What about the insomnia?"

"He's as strong as ever."

His weasel-like laugh rang throughout the room. "So we were right about him."

"It would appear so, sir."

"Good."

Fordo slipped out from his hideaway through the ajar door and into the corridor. 8.50. The halls before him were empty as the girl had sworn. He made his way about them and headed towards the door, Moscoe's words still in his mind. Ten minutes passed and he reached the door, turning the knob and entering the new passageway.

It was at this precise moment that the night nurse chose to remove his dinner tray.

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It came back! Huzzah! Yeah, I know you all-ready know what happens which does kind of destroy the dramatic ending (as Paige has pointed out ^.^) but TOO DAMN BAD. But you don't know what happens after next chapter, so HAH!!! I still hold some power in this world. As in...none...

Kirily Wood