In the darkness, an unsuspecting observer might easily overlook the naked body that Williams drags behind him through the unlit corridors. He moves without haste or urgency, lost in thought, until he finally reaches the front door.
"And who's supposed to fix that?" he mutters irritably, noticing the shattered windowpane, but right away, a small chuckle escapes him, amused by his own involuntary, disgruntled-janitor reflex. Broken windowpanes are the least of his concerns now.
He opens the door quietly, surveying the square where soldiers and trucks bustle beyond the fence. "Storm’s coming."
He props the unconscious body against the wall just outside the door. This is as far as he can go; he has no authority over the square itself. He takes a final look at the naked man, shakes his head and turns around. Another joker in an endless game of jokers. "This should never have happened."
Suddenly, he turns his head, like a dog catching a sound undetectable to human ears. Someone has entered the building. He can sense it, as he senses everything within the school. Instantly, he fades into thin air, reappearing seconds later in front of an old cellar door two levels below. It’s a century-old rule: he is the Janitor, and everyone must pass by him. Intently he studies the doorknob, but it doesn’t move. He's too early, still. He allows his body to relax, letting the seconds and minutes wash over him, standing perfectly still while his mind races.
Of one thing he’s sure: tonight he has broken every vow and oath he’s ever taken. He should never have inserted himself directly into the events of this night. His sole duty is to observe. It has been for centuries. He’s the ĉeesti, The Witness, the last of an eons-old, illustrious family in an equally illustrious tradition. He silently apologizes to his father and all the fathers before them, but he alos know his father would have done the same. After all, it was his father who taught him the foundational principle of The Balance—that everyone deserves a fair chance. Somehow, though, that principle had eroded over time. Without his help, those four kids wouldn’t have stood a chance.
So there he stands, waiting in front of a closed cellar door, feeling no stress or panic—only a faint sense of regret and impending doom.
Suddenly he looks over his shoulder... he senses... yes, there—a small boy running through the corridor behind him. Although he sees him only faintly, as if through a milky, semi-transparent wall, he recognizes the boy immediately: it’s the same kid he welcomed to school 25 years ago, though even younger. He must have been truly desperate to end up in Mondo Krespusko and Williams hopes his daughter will find him soon. The very thought of them reuniting brings a smile to his face. Maxime Kwintens who would have thought? She and her father might make all the difference.
But then his smile fades, realizing the full weight of her tragedy. Poor girl. So much burden rests on her shoulders. It may be a blessing that she doesn’t even realize it. If only Balthazar could get it right this time. He has tried so many times, and so many times he has failed. So many have died in his arms, and so many tears he has shed. That giggling, disastrous Ardanta has caused so much harm, despite the best of intentions. If he could succeed just once, let it be now.
Finally, he hears something filtering through the thick oak door—a loud, exasperated panting. The handle turns, and when the door swings open, it reveals an enormous man stuck in the relatively narrow doorway, sweating profusely. William’s brow rises in surprise, multiplying the wrinkles on his forehead manyfold. One thing is clear: tonight, anything could happen.
The man is so absorbed in his struggle to free himself that he doesn’t even notice the janitor. Behind him, a muffled but familiar voice crackles with anger, and it isn’t long before Charles Monteque forces his way through the cork of soft flesh blocking the doorway. He emerges as if from a mud pool, gasping for air, finally freeing himself with a loud, sucking pop. "Out of the way, you fat blob."
The man sounds more amused than offended as he replies, "That's not very nice, is it? I can’t help that this door was built in a century when everyone was tiny."
Williams observes it all, a broad grin spreading across his face. “Well, Mr. Monteque, I have to say, you deserve an ‘A’ for effort. Even at this hour, you can’t resist the call of your beloved school. Your dedication is truly commendable. It’s both touching and deeply satisfying for a humble janitor like me.”
But before Gnat can formulate one of his signature sharp retorts, Longshot bursts out of the door like a cork out of a champagne bottle. Gnat and Williams barely manage to step aside in time as the journalist hurtles into the corridor, slamming into the opposite wall. Despite the brutal impact, Williams pays him no attention, his gaze fixed unwaveringly on the doorway, where yet another person appears.
“I knew it!” he shouts enthusiastically. “Kryn! It has been too long.”
“Williams, you don’t look a day older. Rolling stones gather no moss, as they say.”
“I wish that were true, Kryn. I turn 259 next week, and that’s not young, even for us. So few people left to celebrate with anymore.” They beam happily at each other for a moment, then suddenly...
"Your son-in-law is running around here somewhere." If this seems a strange remark to her companions, Gran shows no sign of surprise.
"I was afraid he might be. How is he? Did they hurt him?" Williams shakes his head.
“I’d say they have but on the other hand he seems more himself than he’s been in a long while. Can you imagine, Kryn—he can walk here.”
Gran smiles. “He’s a brave boy, William, always has been. You still remember him from when he first came here, of course. No teacher was—”
“Is this a retirement home reunion or something?” Gnat interrupts sharply. Evidently, his patience had evaporated.“We have to move on. It’s dangerous here. No time for old-people-catch-up.”
His words still echo through the corridor as everything begins to tremble. At first, only a light shudder, but within seconds, the windows shatter violently in their frames and it isn’t long before glass rains down along with large chunks of the ceiling, as everyone struggles to keep their balance. The effect on journalist Longshot is especially alarming: his massive, almost fluid body begins to shake in sync with the corridor, vibrating more intensely with each passing second. He’s losing control. His suit stretches to its breaking point. The flesh of his neck overgrows the collar of his shirt. He starts panting while he is strangled by his own clothing.
“Mister Pugno has arrived,” Williams states matter-of-factly.
“What?” Gran reacts. “Who?”
“Fred Flintstone,” Gnat hisses. “That Neanderthal will be the death of me someday.” Williams, unexpectedly stern, rebukes him.
“We don’t make light of that sort of thing, my young friend.”
“Pffff, big deal, wrinkle-man. That dude will bury us alive.” He points at Longshot, who’s now shaking so violently he seems on the verge of exploding, his face a deep shade of purple. “This will kill him.” He’s right—and Longshot isn’t the only one in lethal danger. Within minutes, they’ll all be buried under tons of brick and rubble, meeting an unheroic, pointless end.
And at that precise moment, Gnat proves—to himself and the world—that he doesn’t know himself at all. He starts running.
“I will end up a fucking life savior,” he mumbles to himself. But cursing himself or not, there he goes. He’ll save his friends and there’s only one way to do it: he has to find Fred.
“I’ll distract him,” he shouts over his shoulder. “Go to the science classroom.”
“But—” Williams shouts, “you don’t understand! I can transport us all together in a—” But Gnat doesn’t hear him anymore; he’s already turned the corner, shouting loudly, “Here I am, you stupid caveman! Are you allowed to play outside this late?” Much closer than they’d hoped, Fred’s answer booms, “I’ll crush you between my thumb and the wall like a filthy insect and after that I’ll bury you and puke on your grave!” Gnat takes a left, and much sooner than they'd like, the towering figure of Antonio Pugno passes down their corridor. Although Gran, Longshot, and Williams are fully exposed, he doesn’t notice them—his eyes are completely fixed on Gnat, who must be running full speed away from him.
Fred doesn’t run. He moves slowly and purposefully inside a slow-moving tornado of grit, broken tiles and bricks. He’s the eye of his own storm. It’s a mind-boggling sight.
As he has passed, the trembling slowly dies down. Gran scrambles to her feet, and Longshot starts breathing again.
“Brave boy,” Williams sighs. “Stupid, but brave.” He turns to Gran. “This is out of my hands now. We need to get to the science classroom. Now.”