He rubbed his eyes– where was he? Oh right, getting swallowed by a zombie.

WaIT

WHAT?

Bada-bump bada-bump bada-bump-

Sorry, that was him realizing that he might have over-worked his heart.

Shockingly, he was lying unpropitiously on the trimmed rug, and boy, he ached. Running marathons wasn't his talent, and unintentionally overexerting himself while sprinting for his life tended to overwhelm his body. His legs had incinerated. His posterior? Numb. Brain? On the verge of shutting down. But he was grateful all the same– Some experiences you didn't expect to survive.

Mac wanted to straighten up and bade this place goodbye. Just run like an untamed hooligan outside the palace, and mission accomplished. But if he moved from his supine position, he might collapse due to fatigue; That complicated things.

He lolled over on one side, trying not to puke. When the stomach's churning and grumbling grew steadily audible, it was time you took your meds seriously. Moreover, he felt ravished– Even plain digestives seemed celestial.

The temperature was natural. No creeping chill hanging in the air– nothing was tampering with Mac's brain. No undead jumping and shouting, Got you! Then why did he feel like somebody was watching him?

Mac got the answer two seconds later– Because a very dismayed huff echoed from behind. "I have him, sir. I repeat I have caught the misfit. Hallway 239, corridor 67. Send reinforcements as soon as possible. Over." A brash arm hefted him up. He didn't even have the strength to parry.

Bad.

He thought he'd detected a trace of bewilderment and sympathy in the guard's face, but it disappeared so quickly that he assumed it was a hallucination. But the only emotion which dominated the rest was a surge of recognition knitting his features– This was the same poor guy who'd suffered the abysmal groin kick. The one who'd been chasing him with such enthusiasm that Mac had considered getting caught.

The guard curiously examined him head to toe, like assessing the genuine worth of a can of soda before purchasing it in the supermarket. Mac's deteriorated condition must've shown since the guard frowned what appeared empathetically. Then, the man remembered that this was the same neurotic who'd brazenly hit his sensitive regions, and his expression morphed into a devilish satisfaction, a thirst to get his vengeance.

Worse.

"Let's take you to his majesty, shall we? Then we'll make you talk." The guard declared venomously. Mac nodded– fine, take him to the prince. Just away from that thing haunting this place. What could possibly go wrong?

The guard was taken aback at his willingness, yet he dragged him towards where Mac thought was the prince. They shuffled through foyers, baked under the sunlight gushing thanks to the infrequent ornate glass window. The trudged on so long that the carpet coating every inch of any available space felt rough and muddy from the previously creamlike texture– Bootprints and the damage left behind by sharp heels propped up like fireflies at night. Once or twice, they came across a servent, but since the duo looked way too unduly to intercept, nobody gave them as much as a glance.

"You've been dragging me on my delicate bottom for god-knows-how-long," Mac said. Not only would this bring a provocative change in the backdrop, but if things worked out well, maybe the guard would handle him with care. The guard traipsed without concern.

"In case you're wondering, the way you caress my collar to haul me isn't any gentler. My neck aches." If the guard heard his words, then he gave no sign of it.

"You can't torture me if I'm already dead before reaching wherever you want to go," Mac said as they neared another room, this one without doors. And only one room was never bolted– The central kitchen. A luxurious scent of baked pies and sandwiches slithered from the open room, wafting its way into his brain. When the food was calling the shots, it was time you knew that you were desperately craving. "I'm hungry. Can I please have-" Mac stopped. If his calculations were miraculously correct, then he was in royal trouble.

And, for the first time, he was right. The next second, the guard swept down a series of staircases and Mac? Bub. BHAH. Bub. BHAH. Thunk. Thud-thud-thud-thud-thud. Ouch.

Mid-way, the guard remarked, "You were saying?" This was the 25th century– The adults were getting sassier. Mac should have known what was on– Where there were important rooms, there were grander stairs. And three elevators, but who would pass the chance to butt him meticulously over stone, hard marble?

Kill me already.

After agonizingly slow progress, they made it to the bottom (Okay, enough with the puns). Strangely enough, his senses had awakened in the rigorous trials. On the downside, that developed the pain from tolerable to it hurts a freaking lot. Either the earth was trembling, or it was his other end rocking like a frightened mouse.

And after all those harrows, they still had a quarter of the palace grounds to go. At least that's what the astringent guard claimed.

It would be highly inappropriate for a mighty, all-the-country-wanted personality to let a mere brickwall-or-human guard humiliate him by summoning him in such a way, so that's what Mac did.

The duo trodded on, across the fields, by the moat's banks. They lapsed on soil, rock, limestone, and the uncommon gemstone. Dirt here, big stones there. Earthworms, tangling in his toes, grass biting his feet. Gravel massaging his gluteus maximus. Mud squirming places he didn't know mud could squirm inside– All in a day's work.

It mustn't have taken more than a couple of minutes, but it felt as if this was the most sustained three hundred years of his life. He didn't try to initiate a conversation with the guard since the ungrateful wretch didn't deserve his endearing presence. But he sure was inexplicably bored.

On a pleasant early morning stroll, there are not many things you can do tied up to the robotic impersonation of a human. It was at this moment when Mac realized that he fucked up. What had happened to Zey in the meantime? If he'd spent the whole of the night passed out on the unfair comfiness of the carpet in the middle of the hallway, it was impossible that for him to go unnoticed... unless...

Unless something had hidden him– Something big, dangerous, and powerful lurking beneath the shadows, waiting to pounce upon him. Something with a bloodthirsty desire to usurp him and annihilate Zey. But why? Why not finish him and check the task off the to-do list? Or maybe the cameras had malfunctioned...?

It also was this moment when he realized that where there should have been an infected, angry wound on his left thigh, there was a faded red scar shaped like a triangle. Frozen would be more accurate. The blood neither dribbled nor dried up. It seemed encased in semi-solid stance– it didn't draw any further, but even if he brutally scratched that area, it didn't smudge.

Otherwise, the mark seemed pretty harmless. Well, as harmless as a bleeding triangle on his left thigh could be.

They were now very near the moat– two dank steps and ploosh! Ballet with the zipping water. Now, you must be thinking– Isn't a moat supposed to be still? These are royals you're talking about, honey– They say a swishing abyss of water with currents reaching impossible speeds is a moat, then it is a moat.

That was the Seri– Named after the first queen of Nacery. It wasn't exactly a moat, but then again, you couldn't call it a river either. The geographical factors surrounding the palace had made the condition such that the Seri's water served as a reliable defense against the enemy during attacks since it was almost impenetrable thanks to the strange pounding currents. To swim in the Seri would be sheer, absolute madness. Moat? It was more like a raging river of fire.

The guard must've loathed his guts since the trek by the embankment dragged on. Maybe it was his imagination, but they progressed so slowly that it was a wonder the sun hadn't set yet.

It could have been the blasting heat. Or perhaps, the rumbling stomach? Even the recent encounters could amount to this. No matter where he averted his gaze, the sickly figure from the sixth turret would be simpering from the corner of his eye. It was terrifying– Not being able to see it fitly yet acknowledging its spiteful presence. Not knowing whether or not these were mere hallucinations. It was likely that he was just paranoid and cautious. Just as likely that his derisive suspicions were veritable.

But he did not complain. His strength had marginally returned, and though that wasn't a lot, it was sufficient enough for him not to pass out. Mac let the guard carry him in an undignified manner– He had no strength to protest.

Mac let out random groans, but apart from that, he confined his movement to the minimum. Where there was no food, there was no vitality. It was probably his protesting body, but suddenly he felt as if he'd been dumped in a carton of ice-cubes. Eh, that could be the early morning frost.

He closed his eyes for a second, dreading the oncoming meeting with the prince. Mac sighed dutifully.

He should have let his eyes be shut. Inches away from his face, a repugnant visage lopped its head to one side. She was bonier than before– the skin so sucked in that it appeared that the organs and flesh were missing. The dermal layer was draped over her as if multiple curtains had simultaneously unfurled. The hollowed sockets spat odious black plumes of mist. In the daylight, he noticed that her skin was tinted... green. It was only a little bit, but it was enough to make his stomach hurl. For some reason, her hair– or what was left of it– had been shampooed and conditioned. Imagine a punky rockstar with half the head shaven haphazardly with alien-like features, lots of wrinkles, and a horrible manicure. You got the picture.

He spluttered like a fool. The guard glanced behind his back, raised an eyebrow, apparently seeing nothing out of normal. The grip around his collar tightened.

You can't run from me forever, boy...

Intuition from food is dependable, but the one from fear is the best. All the tiredness evaporated, leaving a vigil, slightly belligerent Mac behind. He could swear he felt ecstatic. Hunger? Nah, he was good. Pain? What pain? Mac was ready to run marathons with ultra-speed.

But what he wasn't ready for was butt-shuffle instead of using what people regarded as feet. Running required him to stand up, but unfortunately, his legs, entwined in complicated knots, weren't the best tools in the shed. In a bid to create as much distance between him and the thing, he involuntarily lurched back. And that reflex cost him.

Many things happened at once. The steel grip on the collar loosened. The guard walked, unaware of what was going on behind his back. Some doves hooted for no reason. Stupid doves. The water stretched out its invisible hands and wended its way to Mac. Wading its path on him, it pulled him into the unforgiving currents– Wasted by a round of superior ballet lessons.