Ruins

3

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.