Quill vs. WillowtheWhisp

Loft scratched behind his head. He itched; maybe he had picked up a flea somewhere. His eyes wandered around the battlefield, and his eyes snapped on the amazing contrast between the orange clouds and the soft, purple background. Pretty.

Something was buzzing around his ears. A bee? No, speech. Someone was talking. Bla bla bla bla death bla bla bla. He glanced briefly at the disturbance, before returning to staring at the clouds. He wondered if there was some kind of spell that could leech the color from them and paint them onto his clothes... wait, was that a plant that was talking to him?

He stared at it. Brown wooden skin. Green, leafy head. Bright, orange eyes. His mouth opened slightly, jaw hanging open. His blood began to pound, his eyes widening into saucer-like plates. He didn't do anything, though. Just stared. Five seconds. Seven seconds. Ten seconds.

Then, finally, he acted. Springing forwards, he sprinted towards the creature, his arms reaching wildly for it. "OH MAH GAWD UR SO CUUUUUUUTE!!! I'M TAKING YOU HOME WITH ME!!"

Leaves rained around Loft's head, spinning and spiralling through the air around him. He giggled, spinning delightedly around in circles. He spun faster and faster, watching the world's colors blur together into one great mess, and eventually toppled to the ground, laughing.

"We all fall down!" He giggled, looking up at the canopy of trees overhead. Leaves were still fluttering down around him, covering the ground under the tree with orange and red. He spread out his arms and legs, waving them back and forth amid the leaves.

"LEAF ANGEL!!! w00t!" He jumped up, and hugged the tree. "I wuv you, tree."

The arrow had, unfortunately, dislodged more than leaves. Its blast had cracked a small branch, and it teetered back and forth, barely staying connected to the trunk. The thin tree's jolting was simply too much for the branch to take. With a barely audible crack, it split from the tree, and it tumbled through the air.

Unfortunately for Loft, it tumbled straight onto his head.

"OW!" He screamed, hopping away from the tree. The tree thudded onto the ground, and he stumbled around randomly, hissing incomprehensibly. His head was pounding, burning, splitting, screaming, pain pain pain pain ow owoowowowoww...

He glared hatefully at the tree. "Stupid tree!" He yelled, and kicked it, hard, with his left foot. No other branches came tumbling down, but now his big toe was sporting a lovely bruise. A breeze stirred, the branches of the surrounding trees, and the sound of quaking leaves filled the air.

For Loft, the trees laughing at him was too much. He plunged his hand deep into his pack, and yanked out a shiny, Red Candle. He stomped over to the bully, and plunged the Candle deep into a squirrel's nest.

"This is much easier than setting fire to the rain."

Loft sighed happily, feeling the warmth wash over his face. He had withdrawn his hand from the fire, and was standing a few paces back from the burning tree. He watched it burn, the bright flames leaping across the dark backdrop of the darkening sky. The wind whistled through the trees, as the flames crackled and popped quietly.

He closed his eyes, fading into the world around him. The breeze lifted his hair, whispering softly in his ears. Whispering. A seamless flow of quiet noise, undisturbed, washing from all around him.

A break in the flow; a disturbance in the wind. A shrill whistle, heading straight for him-

Loft's eyes snapped open, and he leaped into the air, screaming those words of wisdom into the night air...

"DO A BARREL ROLL!!"

He landed catlike on the ground, and his head snapped towards the disturbance's source. Nothing. Just the trees, and the dark light of dusk. He turned around, and spotted what had nearly hit him. A wooden splinter.

His eye twitched. He grabbed it, spun on the spot, and glared viciously at the surrounding trees. "You think it's funny, do you?" He snarled, and stomped over to them. Meanwhile, the original tree had collapsed, its fire spreading to the nearby trees. "I'll... I'll show you!"

Remembering something he had seen on Dora's Guide for Surviving Stupidity, or DGSS for short, he reached down and felt the underbrush carefully.

He grinned. "Mr. Rain doesn't like you too much, does he, Mrs. Brush?" He leaned up, and snapped off a branch from a (not burning) tree, and set it aflame.

"Well, let's thank Mr. Rain, shall we?" And with that, he tossed the burning stick into the dry underbrush.

He wanted to stay and watch the meanies burn, but he frowned, looking down at his pack. "Awww," He said to his map of Hyrule, "does Mapa not like the hot-hot flame? That's okay," he said, "we can leave."

And, striding away from the burning woods, he ran, giggling, deeper into the trees.

Loft was running, always running, thicker and farther into the woods. He leaped over stray stones, ducked under branches, and swung across small creeks. All the while, the fire burned ever closer to his back. A voice, somewhere in the back of his head, somehow sounding very much like his travelling companion, was saying something about 'poetic justice' and 'dramatic irony,' but Loft wasn't listening to much to that voice.

No, he was more engrossed in the other voice. The one that was screaming about fire, fear, fire, pain, fire, death, and, oh yeah; fire. The one that, for some reason or another, sounded like his father.

Now, said his companion's voice dryly, why would that be? Why would the one screaming fearfully of fire sound like your father? I wonder.

Loft dove underneath a fallen tree, and hit the ground rolling, clambering up to his feet, desperate not to let the fire any closer. He pushed off a rock, and gasped fearfully as it shifted beneath him dangerously.

Oh yeah, maybe it's because you burned him to death.

Loft screamed, and began furiously pounding on his head. "Shut up shut up shut up SHU-"

His words were cut short as his unprotected head banged into a tree branch, and he crashed onto his back, his head slamming back against the ground. "Ow."

Well, that's what you get when you don't watch where you're going. You crash into things. Be thankful you weren't driving.

"And you yell at me for breaking the wall," Loft slurred, his head pounding under his wet fingers.

I was speaking of a wagon, the voice said archly, not any fanciful fabrication of yours.

Loft gasped through the smoke, the heat from the fire pounding against his face, his head throbbing painfully, and his heart galloping at a thousand miles a minute. He was going to hurt, hurt, burn like his daddy, and his skin would turn wall-black and shrivel and crack and his brain would bake and... and....

It was then that his two voices, the voice of fear, and the voice of reason, were joined by a third. Yet, this voice used no words. Instead, it was a feeling, an impulse that did not feel entirely his own, transmitted throughout the stars.

Loft's trembling fingers lifted to his mouth, and pushed past his lips. The taste of the earth, of sweat, flooded his taste buds, but he ignored them, inhaling slowly.

This song, the song he had learned from the moon during his incarceration, was a song of magic. When he had learned it, it had been two months after his father had thrown him in solitude. He didn't remember that night. He remembered his stomach aching, his throat and eyes burning, but other than that, there wasn't much in his head. He remembered walking to his tiny window, and staring into the full moon's shining surface.

Loft had awoken the next day, rocking against the wall, giggling to his empty cell, this song echoing through his mind.

Remembering this song slowed his heart and smoothed his erratic breathing patterns, an insane grin forming around his fingers. He began to blow, the whistled notes reverberating through the surrounding trees. They pierced through the dark light of dusk, their shrill tone mellowing to a soft and smooth quality, sighing across the slightly shining stars as they sailed softly across the Arena Lord's realm.

The Song of Healing gathered the ash and smoke from the destroyed plants and trees, pulling them through the atmosphere around the arena. The great black column of ash spiralled and shimmered across the twilight sky, and began to repair to repair that which was destroyed by the fire. The notes echoed through the night, and the fire was held still; it was not allowed to destroy while the Song was healing, and so it was held in place. No burning heat radiated around him, for the fire was not permitted to burn.

The third voice urged, and he pushed himself up, the notes still echoing from his mouth. He knew he must hurry, that when the song concluded the fire would rage on, yet his head was hurting and it was hard to move while playing. But, at the prodding of the voice, he stumbled through the woods.

It was like a dream, a still of the the world's end. The flames' tendrils, coiled throughout the sky and around the trees, held, like a snake ready to strike. As the flames exuded no heat, neither did they emit any light. The forest was dark, the setting sun providing little light amongst the trees. The flames looked just like a picture, a picture that Loft walked amongst, disturbing nothing.

Loft came to edge of the woods, to a great pit. The muddy ground was set with sharpened logs, pointing up at him threateningly. He sat on the pit's end, and lowered himself cautiously to the spikes below. His feet were set crooked on the spikes' angled bases, and he hugged one spike cautiously. Moving away from the platform cautiously, he grabbed one spike after another, and began to work his way across carefully.

Behind him, he heard crackling and popping. The song was over, the notes had faded. Reality had returned.

"22 bottles of Chu on the wall, 22 bottles of Chu... take one down, slog it around, 21 bottles of Chu on the wall." The slightly flat song echoed disconsolately through the nearby trees, their charred surfaces unmoving in the dark night. The sun had long since fallen, its bright orange light replaced by the quieter, serene glow of the moon. The stars hung low in the sky above the Arena, shimmering gracefully in their never-ending dance, shining high above a huddled figure off the edge of the Arena's platform, braced between several wooden spikes jutting out from the ground below.

Loft, for of course it was he, was drumming his fingers restlessly against the wooden spike he was leaning against. His form was mostly in shadow, the platform acting as a barrier between the soft light of the moon and himself. "21 bottles... of Chu on the wall... 21 bottles... of Chu...." He sighed, thunking his head against the spike. "So bored..."

He threw his head back, staring up at the night sky, up at the twinkling lights embedded in its velvety surface. "I wish something would just happen already!" He said, exasperated. His eyes darted up at the platform. "No!" He said, wrenching his head back around, to gaze up at the slightly shimmering barrier surrounding the bleachers instead. He would not go back up onto the platform. He would not. Last time he had been up there, he had nearly been burned. He shivered, though the night was not cold. He had absolutely no wish to go through that again. No, he would remain right here, until... until something interesting happened. Then, and only then, would he leave.

The seconds ticked by, the stars continuing their steady twinkling as the moon slowly followed its preset path across the heavens. Loft's foot began to tap, and he squeezed down on it with his other foot. His fingers began to tap, faster and more furiously than his foot, and he gasped, nervous energy exploding through his body as he struggled to combat the restless, spasmodic twitching. "Stop it!" He hissed, wrapping his limbs around himself.

His huddled form rocked back and forth, back and forth, again and again, until he screamed, jumping to his feet. "I can't take it anymore!" Loft cried, his voice echoing around the pit. He grabbed the platform's edge above him, hoisting himself up and over. He rolled onto his back, staring up at the moonlight above. "I can't take it anymore."

He closed his eyes, the moonlight nothing but a dim white glow amidst the black and swirling purple of his lids. He saw the stars, the moon, and the trees above, all painted on his lids in a perfect purple paintbrush, every little nuance carefully detailed, as if his eyes would never again open to see the original work.

Loft was tired with waiting. He was tired with sitting, hunched over, beside the platform. It was time for something exciting to happen, something fun, something to distract him. Something to relieve him, however temporarily, from the mind-crushing, never-ending boredom that he was experiencing.

But what? What could he do? The bleachers were empty, after all. There was almost nothing left of the trees, and he was still too scared of the fire to skip between them, as he would normally do. The mere thought of playing with those charred husks sent his mind spiralling down, down further into madness. Again he saw the great red beast, tearing its way through the woods as it pursued him restlessly. Again he saw its crackling tendrils beginning to surround him, its red limbs caressing the earth and sky above and below him. Again he saw its burning arms reach tenderly for him, ready to encompass him forever in its fiery embrace.

He gasped, his arms wrapped tightly around himself as he rocked back and forth, trying desperately to dispel the memory. The fire was gone. It couldn't hurt him anymore. The fire was gone. It couldn't hurt him anymore. He repeated the mantra, as if it were some kind of talisman against the fire's sudden resurgence, as if by stating the reality he could prevent the fantastic. He looked up, into the light of the moon, and it clicked. The fire was gone. The fire was gone. The fire was gone!

"Hehe... hehehe... heehehehee..." Loft rose, arms flopping to his sides as he came to his feet, the low giggles wracking his frame as he staggered forwards, his knives suddenly gleaming in his hands. "You think you can scare me?" His left hand pushed against the remains of an old, charred oak tree, and with a great creaking sound, it toppled slowly, crashing into the ground, stirring up a great cloud of ash.

The primordial fear of fire had kept him temporarily at bay, but now that threat had extinguished. Under the cold, harsh light of the moon, he saw his fear to be baseless. He kicked and smashed, sliced and cut, as the trees around him fell to the ground, all of them. "You lied to me!" He screamed, slamming against the last nearby tree. "You made me think I would burn!" It joined its solemn brethren on the ground, laying lifeless against the black earth.

His tantrum finished, Loft glared up at the barrier keeping him trapped in the Arena, its shimmering blue surface taunting him with semi-transparent images of the world beyond. "How do I get out of here?" He asked himself, idly twirling his knives. "There's not too much fun stuff left in here," he noted casually. "I miss the outside. There's so much interesting things out there, but here?" He glared sullenly at the charred remains of the trees, the vacated bleachers, the desert beyond the barrier, and the lifeless ground beneath him. "Everyone's stuffy and boring now," he pouted. "You guys used to be fun." He stomped on a tree trunk, grinding into the ground with his foot, watching it poof into a cloud of dark ash. "Now you're just stupid." He turned away from them, stomping towards the middle of the platform. "I don't want to play with you guys anymore."

Loft stomped through the ash, making little puffs of ash swirl around his feet before settling back into the earth. He tried to remember how he had gotten here, reaching his mind back through the hours, trying to see...

He skimmed over the long wait, the mind-numbing boredom that had persisted for far too long after sunfall, and saw a glint of red in his mind's eye. He passed by the fire, sticking his tongue out at as he delved deeper into his mind. He barrel-rolled over the tree's offensive, and danced with the leaves. Finally, he chased after-

His eyes snapped open. He had chased after a talking plant. A talking plant with a bow. A grin spread across his face, and he walked faster towards the centre of the Arena, a renewed spring in his step. A person, a real, live, plant person! So much for boring. He supposed, as he walked between the trees, that he could stand this place a little while longer.

---___---___---___---

The centre of the Arena. A small clearing, completely devoid of charred and cracked trees, and at the heart of this clearing sat a small figure, its brown coloring standing out sharply against the grey ash, covering the ground in its dead embrace and swirling dully in the air around them.

Plant-man. Loft's new source of entertainment was sitting there, just calmly sitting in one place. Loft couldn't wrap his mind around how that was possible; how could one be so still for so long? How could one not jump up and down, do a little jig, and dance underneath the moon? He himself had nearly twitched to death when he had tried it, and he could not understand why, if given the choice, anyone would subject themselves to anything so... so... boring. It bothered him for a moment, this mystery, but he shrugged it off. It must be a plant thing.

He was hidden behind a gnarled oak, charred and disfigured like the rest, but with more than enough mass to easily hide behind. He checked himself, and looked around himself carefully. He could feel them, connected by the magic of the song.

It had been a strange sensation, being split into six total parts. He had replicated himself before, of course, but he had never pushed himself to the limit. The most he had ever made had been... one. One copy, used in his escape from confinement; it had been a simple trick to use the clone as a decoy, hiding himself behind the door as it opened slowly, the girl's brown locks coming into view as he reached his hands for her throat-

He shook his head, and raised his fingers to his lips again. This had been the second part of his escape, the use of the Command Melody to control the clones created by the Elegy of Emptiness. He couldn't control them all at once, though. That would involve splitting his very essence into five pieces, and that would probably cause irreversible damage. It wasn't like he could just feel remorse or something and get instantly put back together. No, Loft didn't know what would happen. But, it might be fun to find out. Someday.

The statues encircled the clearing, placed far enough away from the sitting plant-man that he wouldn't hear the magical notes, yet close enough for the link not to dissolve. Loft had noticed, when circling the perimeter, that at a certain distance the spell began to lose its form. So, he had placed them accordingly.

Time for some fun. His fingers in his lips, he began to play softly. The Elegy of Emptiness had created a tingling sensation all throughout his body, but the Command Melody was altogether more dramatic. He was ripped from his body and pulled through a howling vortex of wind and blurring colours, and in less than an instant he was clone #2, positioned two clones to his body's left along the circle.

He smacked his lips, ready to begin. He lifted his head, still concealed behind two fallen trees, and called out to the plant-man, his voice echoing loudly throughout the still clearing. "Why Plant-man no move?" Loft asked.

He whistled the Command Melody again quickly, and he was clone #4, two clones to his body's right along the circle. "We were waiting and waiting for you," he sighed loudly, concealed carefully in a tree's niche.

"But you never came," said clone #2 after a brief pause, positioned one clone to his body's left along the circle. "Why didn't you come?" It asked again, from inside a hollowed-out log.

Loft giggled, the sounds rippling through the quiet space. "Home is where the heart is. My heart is right here," he said, tapping his chest, "going badump, badump all the time. That means that I'm right at home!" He grinned, delighted at his logic. Marcus would be proud, if he was here. Too bad he wasn't.

"Who am I? Hear my name and tremble, O lowly plant-thingy, for I am Loft! Born of the Seventh House of Starshine, and trained in the secret arts of the ninja under the moon's sheltering light."

He paused. "Well, not really," he admitted. "But it would be so cool if I was!"

After a few seconds of wishful thinking, and switching hosts, he opened his mouth again, his legs dangling off the edge of a tree. "Mr. Dante," Loft asked curiously, "can I ask you a question? If you're a plant, what do you eat?"

Loft's eyes widened, watching as Mr. Dante flew through the air, the ash kicking up from the ground by the force of his take-off and landing. He had to crane his neck to see where the little plant landed, outside the ring he had made. He thought about pouting, but decided against it. After all, that was a really cool trick. He flipped himself over, hanging upside-down from his tree branch, grinning at the inverted world.

"Whoa, Mr. Dante! You can fly!" Then he pouted, feeling his hair pulled to the earth as his arms swung carelessly below him. "Why can't I fly? I want to fly too!"

He tilted his head, thinking. "I prolly need pixie dust, though. Maybe I could sneak over to the Deku Tree and grab a fairy..."

Loft sniffed, feeling all the blood rush to his face. "But, I don't know where the Deku Tree is... Hey Mr. Dante!" He said cheerfully, swinging back up onto the tree branch and kicking his legs over the air absent-mindedly. "I got an idea! How about you take me to see the Deku Tree, so I can fly like you can." It would be an adventure, and Loft always loved adventures. He got so excited at the prospect of a journey with the little plant-man that his toes were wiggling with joy.

Loft frowned, hearing the screeching sounds of his clones being ripped apart. "Mr. Dante!" He said, scandalized. "You killed my me-alikes! Now that's just rude!"

He sniffed. "Those poor little me-alikes! You know, Mr. Dante, I even gave them all names! That was Billy Bo-nana-fo-filly-bropolly you just ripped apart! Oh, and his cousin John, but nobody cared about him too much. He was a wild little rascal!" Loft laughed. "You shoulda seen him at the reunions, Mr. Dante! Always pretending to be Susie Jane! Ugh, we had so much fun!"

Loft wiped a tear from his eye. "A-and you killed them! That's so m-mean of you, Mr. Dante! They never did nothing wrong to you, they was just talkin' for me, that's all! How could you kill them?"

He began to sob, wringing his hands in sorrow. "I raised them myself! I remember when they were just little clone-lings, all cute and sweet, with chubby little cheeks and devilish little unibrows!"

Loft cancelled the Command Melody completely, coming back to his original body, sitting hunched over inside a fallen tree. He wriggled out, dusted off the dirt and ash from his tunic, and stretched, yawning. "Ah well," he said lightly to himself, "time to whip out the good-old in-laws!"

Rolling behind a log, he put his fingers to his lips, quietly whistling the Elegy of Emptiness. "Bada bing," he whispered, stepping to the side and watching a statue remain in his place, "bada boom."

He raced behind another tree, this one several dozen yards from the last statue, and repeated the action, firmly nestled in the tree's roots. Giggling, he hid his original body at the top of a gnarled old tree, resting comfortably in its many branches.

He hummed the Command Melody, and his consciousness zoomed to one of the three clones that he had not just created. He wanted to give them time to adjust to their new life, after all. And those other three clones had been such good little clones, and they all were missing their cousins horribly. A visit from him would definitely cheer them up.

Loft opened his mouth to speak, but felt a wave of nausea overtake him. Swooning, he staggered against the side of a large rock, breathing heavily. Once the waves of swirly lines had left his vision, he shook his head, looking up. He had never used so much magic in such a short time before. He vaguely remembered Marcus lecturing him once on the consequences of using too much magical energy. Loft couldn't quite remember whether the result was spontaneous combustion or extreme exhaustion. Neither sounded like too much fun. Although, he mused, bursting into flames sounded pretty cool. He'd be like a phoenix, bursting suddenly into flames and running around, flapping his arms, and shrieking like the baddest of the bad.

He grinned. "Coooool. Burn me up, baby!"

Loft cleared his throat, and again addressed the clearing at large. "Say good-bye to Billy-bob-bohana-nana-bofilly-blibbity, Mr. Dante. Well, and John, but we don't really care about him too much. Anyway, I couldn't just take you destroying my me-alikes like that, so I made two more! Say hello to Susie and Rick! They're a couple, don'tcha know!"

He licked his lips, and said in a loud stage whisper, "it's actually good that you killed John. He was trying to steal Susie from Rick! Imagine! But now that he's out of the way, they're finally free to be together." He sighed loudly, placing his hands over his heart and fluttering his eyes. "Isn't it just so romantic?"

Loft was grinning into the settling ash, trying to discern where the Deku-man was hiding. "Oh Mr. Daaante, where are y-"

The rest of his sentence was cut off as his body seized up, his consciousness speeding through the air. Colours and sounds whipped by him as his spirit flew through the skies, and he would have marvelled at the freedom if he hadn't been irresistibly tugged towards his final destination. His own body.

Inter-host travel may have only lasted several moments, but to Loft's spirit it felt like much longer. The question was, he wondered, why he was being pulled back. In his experience, there were only three reasons why his spirit would leave a host.

One, the host was damaged. Two, the magical bond connecting the host to the original had been severed. Three, the original body had been damaged.

He hadn't strayed beyond the spell's limits. His clone hadn't received any damage. He doubted that the deku-man possessed any nullification magic. That only left one possibility. Mr. Dante was attacking his prone body.

Loft's spirit frowned as it reached its destination. How rude!

His head tilted back, inhaling as his spirit entered his body. Re-entry was an beautiful experience, body and soul rejoicing at their reunion. He had little opportunity to enjoy the re-assertion of the natural order, however. The tree that he was resting on was buckling under the assault of heavy winds, and he could feel the bruises where his head had been slammed into the tree trunk.

Loft slipped off the tree, away from the wind's source, landing on the ground with an 'oomph.' The winds had temporarily ceased, but Loft wasn't taking any chances. He kicked at the tree, and after a few moments it toppled to the ground, sending a great plume of ash into the air.

"Mr. Dante, could you please tell me something?" Loft said hoarsely, coughing from the ash. "Please, why am I here? Where am I? There's just desert; how do I go home? Why are you trying to hurt me? What's... what's going on?"

An Arena. He was in... an Arena. Loft remembered the stories that Marcus used to tell him, stories about ancient warriors killing each other to the amusement of the crowds. He looked around, almost as if he expected to see a rising set of filled seats, to hear the sounds of several thousand souls screaming for the deaths of the two warriors below. Yet, the bleachers surrounding their platform were nearly empty. The wind whistled wearily over the ash-gray marble, stone that had once been a gleaming white before being buried underneath a small forest's worth of ash.

Some people might have been thankful that there were no spectators to watch them die, betting and cheering on their deaths. Thankful, that there was no-one to witness their shame, their failure. Others would have been indignant at the lack of an audience, upset at the fact that there was no-one to scream their names.

Loft was furious, but not for the same reason. He hadn't chosen to come here, he had been plucked out from his perfectly nice nap-spot on some roof somewhere, completely unaware of what was happening. True, he had met this (frankly adorable) little talking plant, but that wasn't the point. Some deity had seen fit to toss him into the Arena, without explaining what was going on, and they hadn't even stuck around to watch! He was a gladiator, fighting for the amusement of an audience that hadn't bothered to show up. Loft, frankly, was pissed.

The little plant-man had fired an arrow at him. How rude. Loft dropped to the ground, hearing the shaft of wood whiz harmlessly over his head as he fell behind the overturned log.

He was fighting to the death for an audience that wasn't here. He wasn't going to play along; if this so-called Arena Lord wanted him to die, he could bloody well show up to watch.

He flipped his dagger in his hands. Loft didn't like being forced to do anything; he was a creature of chaos, and control didn't sit well with him. He was being strong-armed to fight this little plant-man, and Loft hated every second of it. He didn't want to fight, he had no reason to. All he wanted to do was to hug the little thing until it died from a lack of oxygen, then he was planning on skipping merrily through the burnt trees, singing about blue blessed butterflies. Instead, he was being given a direct order to fight. Like bloody hell he was.

He flipped the dagger again in his hands, pointing it directly at his chest. He wasn't going to obey, he wasn't going to follow these orders. Screw this. The dagger came up, and he yanked it down towards his heart.

His head split, and his hands shuddered to a stop before his chest. His mind was on fire, burning agony spreading through his mind like flaming tendrils of pain. His hands trembled, receiving three entirely different messages from his brain. Loft's mind warred with itself, three distinct wants battling for dominance inside his small skull.

'No,' one side of himself said, as his mind struggled with itself. 'I can't do this! I don't like pain, it hurts! I remember being cut once, it burned like super- cold ice; this will be much, much worse than the forest fire was, this will burn out my heart! Plant-man said it wouldn't last long, but I don't care! I can't take it! Put the dagger down!'

'But,' the other part of him said, 'I have to! I am not a dog, I do not fight on command. They cannot make me fight! Strike into my heart, end it now! Show them that I, and I alone, am in control!'

Finally, the third (and usually dominant) side of his mind said, 'I am a doggy, silly! Woof woof!'

The two opposing sides of his mind warred with themselves, the third merely skipping around and throwing huge chunks of wooden confetti onto them. Loft's mind ached, but eventually fear and panic won out in his mind. He was simply too scared of the pain, of the burning fire that would eat his heart if he plunged the freezing steel into it.

Loft let out an aggravated sigh. Well, if he wasn't going to die, what was he supposed to do? Run? No, he would only get shot in the back. Talk? The Deku was clearly done talking. That only left one option. As much as he hated the idea, he had been cornered. His only way out had been rendered an impossibility; he was simply too cowardly to do what must be done to evade control. Therefore, he would have to follow the rules and fight. Fight for the amusement of someone without the decency to show up.

Loft heard the swift pitter-patter of wooden feet on ashen ground, and something clicked inside him. Through the last couple of months, everything that Loft had done had been with Marcus. When someone was with Marcus, things tended to be more brainy than brawny. Fights were less of a high-speed adrenaline chase and more of a complicated 'how can I kill you best' game. That wasn't what Loft was built for. Loft was a do-er, plain and simple. The little pattering of feet made that connection as nothing else had done, not the clones, not the arrows, not even the burning forest. Fire coursed in his veins, the good kind of fire, thankfully, not the kill-you-dead fire, and Loft leaped into action.

The enemy was close; he was merely feet away from Loft's hiding place. Loft placed one hand on the trunk's top, and twirled gracefully through the air, his foot extended as he spun, kicking solidly at where the Deku's head must be. His other hand held his first dagger, ready to slice this wooden plant into kindling. If he was going to die, he was going to die fighting. Fighting the rules, fighting this Deku, fighting whatever force had landed him here, Loft didn't know, or care. The adrenaline pumped through his veins as he spun, and a flicker of a smile passed over his face.

"Ready to dance, Deku-boy?"