Dearest weekend Admin, l hope the length of this post wouldn't cause any delays because there probably wouldn't be as many posts toady. If it does, l am very sorry. 

Day Zero

Back around in the old part of London, where the streets meander like an ancient river, where the street lamps are so faint they look like fireflies, where the houses seem to lean on each other for support and the people of this place look like they've seen a thousand lives. Here, between a  once noble theater that is long past its glory days and a apartment complex that would make the Empire State Building crane its neck to see the top, there is a tiny, almost invisible, French restaurant. This place has seen better days, its black and white checkered floor has been worn into a simple grey and the parmesan cheese is bordering on archaeological interest. This place is overseen by a single cook who is in fact Irish, not French, and he in turn only has one customer. This man turns up every Wednesday evening, he sits by the exact same table and orders the exact same thing. He never spoke a word, the cook knew what he wanted to order. He could never remember a time before the man started being his only customer, nor could he remember ever starting to know exactly what he wanted to order. The cook never thought about much things, anyways. What did they matter to him, a cook?

Exactly on time, the rusty bell above the door gives a half-hearted clang, as the man enters and sits at his usual table. He is dressed the same as always, a black trench coat, and a brown fedora, pulled nearly over his eyes. And as usual, the cook approached him as if any information could be gained from this interaction.

But, here, here in something not usual. The man slides a piece of paper onto the table. The cook is confused, frightened, too, but he picks up the paper. In a neat, solid hand, is written, “All of your French and Irish cooking books.” The cooks glances back to the man, as if he would explain it, but he is indifferent.

Uneasy, the cook trots back to the kitchen, glancing around and quickly gathering his few cooking books, One French, one Irish, one from culinary school, to name a few. He awkwardly stacks them onto the table.

“Here is what you ordered, sir.” He pauses, then adds, though it seems strange. “Enjoy your meal, sir.”

The man quietly exits with the books.

And the cook never set eyes on him again.

~~~~~~~~~~~~

Quill blinks tears from her eyes, wiping her eyes on her sleeve. “Isn’t this just beautiful? You have the whole beauty of the English language, in a single book! I mean, that’s simply mind blowing!”

“Mmm-hm.”

“No book is more important to humanity then this one! They should make this required reading in school!”

“Yep.”

“We should study this as our guide to life! We should--You’re not listening to me, are you?”

“Pretty much.”

Quill resists whacking a half-asleep Zeon over the head with all the beauty of the English language. She turns to Ashlee, hoping to start the lecture again, but alas, she is even more asleep than Zeon.

“If you keep that up, you’ll make the taxi driver fall asleep and crash us.” Zeon grumbles, glancing out the window as the dawn-lite traffic flashes by. Quill thought that rather unlikely, their driver had drove them all the way from Las Vegas to here without saying a word. He simply must be quiet, she has concluded.  Why they were in Las Vegas in the first place, they had no idea. “It’s just sort of, that feeling, you know? Where you’re one place and suddenly in in a completely unrelated place for no aparent reason?” That was the way Ashlee had explained it to Quill and Zeon, who could not relate to the feeling she was speaking of. They had thus caught a taxi to this strange address, which Ashlee had also explained vaguely was “Some sort of hotel tour of whatnot, you know they’re always fun?” Those words where meet with blanks stares, but the three of them had agreed to go anyways.

“Ashlee! Look, we’re here!” Quill shakes her shoulder, pointing out of the window. “Look at it!”

They tumble out of this taxi, thank and pay the driver, whom still hasn't said a word and pulls his brown fedora father over his eyes.

The place they face is old, but large and still in good keep. It is a grand hotel like building, with an impossibly long staircase and twisting columns. Here and there on the sides of the building, there are bits of graffiti, which reads philosophy and life advice. It look more or less deserted, and Quill is starting to have her doubts about this all. “Um…..Is this like….safe?” But Ashlee and Zeon are too far to hear her doubts, they're already far the stairs, talking. Quill bites her lip, frozen by uncertainty. Something tells her if she goes through those doors, she’s never coming out again.

“Hey, l'm hungry.”

Silence.

“Hungry, you hear?”

Nothing.

“HUNGRY.”

A brick wall could have offered more commentary. On that point, H.A.B. probably would have made a fairly good brick wall, if he wasn’t, you know, kind of human.

“Somedays l wonder why l don’t just eat you.” Spyro comments to his sleeping counterpart. “Oh, so then. l’ll just go strike up a conversation with a brick wall.”

Unfortunately, Spyro was hard pressed to find any brick wall, it appeared that the hotel building they had arrived at was made up of stone and drywall. No bricks. Annoyed, he weaves around

“Mwhahaha! Take that, you good-for-nothing--’

“No, you’re good for nothing. You’re what, an evil A.I.? Haha. Like there’s room in the world for your type. Go chew on some binary code.”

Jarvis is increasingly disturbed by Emerald's and Ultron's growing about to insult each other. She once thought she was rather good at insulting people, not a talent you’d exactly tell someone about, but it tends to be useful in the right places. But now, she is starting to feel out-insulted and most certainly doesn’t like it.

“Hey. You two quit it.” She snaps, irately. Emerald obliges, crossing her arms and glaring at Ultron. “This is stupid.” She grumbles. “We’re probably going to all die or something on this tour thingy. I bet it’s a joke.”

“Ooh, look there’s graffiti!” Paris practically faints from excitement. “And just look at that architecture, l’m sure it’s from the ‘40’s!” She twirls in place, nearly squealing in delight as the shirt of her dress billows out. Sydney thinks of quoting some obscure song from the ‘40’s. Just to spite Paris and decides not to.

“Ohhh, is that who l think that is?” Paris squeaks excitedly. Sydney squints at the entrance to the hotel, trying to make out the figure standing by the door. “Who do you mean?” She asks Paris, but Paris is not there. She seems to have disappeared in smoke, minus the smoke. Chills run up her spine. This place unnerves her. Paris shouldn’t have just disappeared like that.

Not unless…..a horrible thought flashes through her mind.

“Paris! Paris! Oh where are you? Don’t leave me! There’s something wrong here…..”

Shadowmoon (whom l shall from here on call Moon as not to confuse her with the other Shadow) was excited. No, she was far beyond that point and never coming back. Tara could tell the moment that Moon set eyes on the hotel pamphlet. She had talked of nothing for days on end, making up plans of what to do when they got there, what they would see, and generally running around in excitement.

“Ohmygoodnesslcan’tbelivethisisreallyhappening!” She gushes incoherently to Saphira and Richard, as they got ever closer to the hotel. The two of them exchanged glances. You might be skeptical of the information one can exchange in a single glance, but hundreds of books worth of information can be contained in a single quirk of the eyebrow, or widening of the eyes. Don’t believe me? Try to tell a complete stranger “Peace and love” by staring fixedly at them for a full half hour. Trust me, it works.

And in this single glance, other of them were wondering the same thing. What is wrong  with Moon? What has this place done to her before we even stepped foot in it?

l bet she’s been brainwashed. Saphira says by blinking an eye twice.

Then why hasn’t it affected it is? Richard asks by raising an eyebrow.

I don’t know. This is strange. She finally concludes, by glancing sideways.

By the time Nova and Novelist have shown up, a small crowd has gathered by the doors with “l think therefore l am” swirled in bright lime green. They are still firmly locked, without a single intention of letting anyone through.

“l see that everyone is being a sheep.” Nova comments.

“What?”

“The gathered party are exhibiting behavior mimicking that of a herd of sheep--”

“Yeah, l get it.”

Bolton weaves his way over to Beth, who waves shyly. Beside her, Swummer snickers quietly.

“Well, darling, l know many things. l can throw pies, pet kittens, hide bodies, laugh evilly while sharpening knives, you know.” MP whispers, glancing around at the rest of the gathered group.

Charybdis leans closer, eyes bright. “Hiding bodies? Tell me more….”

The rest of the appointed party, slowly trickles in, making up of, Scylla and Hallia. (“Why do you need to hide bodies, Chary?) Fia and Kestrel, (“Ooh, kittens! I love kittens!”) Shadow and Silvery, (“Bodies? That mean they have to be dead right--” “Hush, you didn’t hear a thing.”) Mirax, Sprankje, and Mrs. Elton (“Oh, my, dear, this place positively dreadful!”) Alexandra and Princess (Princess who?” Paris wanted to know. “That’s my name!” “Oh really? How boring.”) Sandra and Bookworm, Kate, Brian and Ellak, September, Estelle and last but not least, Brookeira. (“MP! What are you teaching Chary?”)

Suddenly, the doors start to ever so slowly creak open…..And before 82 CBer eyes can send nerve signals to 41 CBer brains, a quiet but powerful voice proclaims:

“The future is here. And it is filled with pudding.”

~~~~~~~~

Fin Day Zero. Death Toll: Mr. Nobody. Normally the “days” are actual day of the story, but this was getting way too long so l had to cut it off.

Also! Guess the murderer before it’s too late!

Nice job, TTT (that's a valid abbreviation, right?)! Also, awesome final line. A future filled with pudding doesn't sound too bad.

We're the kids of the future, whoa! We're the kids of the future, whoa! Everybody live 'cause the future is NOW! Na na na nanana. Na na na nanana.

Okay, I'll accept it because it's old Jonas Brothers.  Also, it's based on Meet the Robinsons. Anyway, I didn't know you liked architecture.

I like to surprise people. They think you can't love both belting "Wannabe" and admiring the architectural style of Frank Lloyd Wright. I prove them wrong.

Who?

The naysayers. The haters. Haters gonna hate hate hate hate hate, ya know?

Spice Girls AND Taylor Swift. That's when you know she means business.

Anyway, do I know any 40's songs? I don't think Annie works...I think "Get Ready" is from the 20's...when is Jersey Boys set? Aw, it's the sixties...Grease is the fifties...Oh, wait! Apparently Song of the South was released in 1946. Oh, this is perfect. Hey, Paris!

What?

*starts singing "Zip-A-Dee-Do-Dah"*

Great. 

Tada! I am really creeped out. Ahhhhh! I traveled across the multiverse for this. Wait, this is- ahahahhaha everyone is smiling creepily! Ooooh, the Brrom Closet! 

*Runs away from a giant spider* 

Ah!!! This is really good. Pudding you say? I like pudding.

42 CBers?! How did the amount increase so quickly?

Magic.

Magic doesn't exist. And you all are sheep HAHAHAHAHAHA!