The Head Elder surveyed the crowd at the dimly lit Creed ceremony hall when his eyes fell upon the focus of tonight’s event, Sarah. Sarah was dressed in her ritual attire: a maroon robe embroidered with black swirling patterns. She wore her caramel hair in soft, elegant curls, which pleased the Head Elder. He scrunched his nose every time he remembered her brother’s shaggy appearance almost eight years ago. It was one of the most atrocious things he’d ever seen during the Blood Oath. He shuddered at the thought. That man was a troublemaker.

Almost everyone present in the hall was dressed formally, a sea of gowns and suits. Her parents were sitting in the waiting room. Markus had headed out to grab a quick snack before the ceremony began. Terranis had accompanied him in search of some metallic treats. Sarah paced back and forth, staring at her silver watch, and then at the giant, old wooden doors. She picked up her phone and texted Tim quickly, her fingers a blur: Where r u? It starts in 30 mins!

An elderly woman walked delicately towards Sarah, dressed in the elaborate attire of the Elders. Her head was held high, and her beady eyes reflected the flaming torches in the room.

“Just a friendly reminder, all devices must be turned off during the ceremony,” she stated in a stern, hoarse voice. She eyed the phone with clear discontent. 

“Yes, Elder!” Sarah assured her. “I apologize. I’ll be sure to turn it off before it starts.” Were all the Elders that stern and strict? The Elder barely nodded her head before strolling away to join the rest of the Elders who were deep in conversation. In the middle of the group stood the Head Keeper Elder, frowning. Sarah wondered if it was even possible for him to acquire any more frown lines. Besides spiders, he was probably Tim’s greatest fear. They never seemed to get along, but Tim never shared the reason why — unless it was actually because Tim always appeared unkempt. It was a rather petty reason, in my opinion, she thought. Thinking back to her brother’s Blood Oath, the Head Elder had chewed him out for his appearance after it.

He should be here by now if he came right after work!

The doors creaked open. Sarah looked up hopefully, but it was Terranis who tramped into the room, followed by Grandfather Markus.

“Still no luck?” Terranis asked. He wore a polished walnut helmet with a single blood-red ruby centerpiece over his head and horns. Wooden bangles lined with rubies covered his wrists. Black swirls crept across his maroon poncho-like robes.

“No, he didn’t even reply to my first text! Why is he always doing that?!”

“I’m sure the boy is on his way,” Markus reassured her. “He gets off at five o’clock today. One hour is plenty of time for him to make it here.” He tried to pat down the wrinkles on his black slacks and monochrome-red striped polo shirt. He realized he had a few cookie crumbs around his lips and licked them off hastily.

“That’s just assuming that he doesn’t run into trouble!” she said, playing with the embroidery on her robes. “Knowing his luck …”

The shot evaporated off the wall. Wazp was holding Jenkins up by his arms and shoulders.

That was a perfect shot! How did he dodge it?! Tim thought in disbelief. He then remembered that the weapon he was using wasn’t his usual standard LRP 65, but a Derringer-style LRP from 1827 that his family carried for ceremonial purposes. Even though the barrel had rifling, it was handcrafted and slightly imperfect, causing errors in his shots.

“Careful-z where-z you’re-z aiming-z,” warned Wazp, waving the poor man around tauntingly. “You-z might-z hit-z zcaredy-z cat-z here-z.” Jenkins’ face turned green as he started to feel a bit sick.

“T-Tim!” Jenkins cried out.

He has a gun! Haley thought in surprise. 

“What the hell was that strange sound?!” Rodney asked with his face smooshed against the wall. No one answered him.

"They’ll hurt you way more than they’ll hurt him," Tim asserted.

“S-so it’s still going to h-hurt?” Jenkins stuttered, nervous at the notion of pain.

“Don’t worry,” Tim reassured him. “It’ll only feel like a paintball to you… Maybe.”

“I’ve never been hit by a paintball before!”

“I-z can-z make-z it-z zo-z that-z you-z only-z hurt-z him-z,” said Wazp, waving him around again.

“Pft!” Tim scoffed. “What is it with you bad guys taking hostages every time!” 

“That’z the-z point-z, fulu-z!” Wazp replied mockingly. “You-z have-z a-z handicap-z, zo-z why-z can’t-z I-z?”

“Let him go!” Tim commanded. “I’m the one you’re after! A hostage will only slow you down at this point.”

“You-z think-z I’m-z a-z fulu-z? Drop-z your-z weapon-z or I’ll-z cruzh-z hiz head-z!” Wazp threatened.

“Eep!” Jenkins cried out in terror, too scared to flail.

Tim knew he had to distract the Blood somehow before things got out of hand.

“So, Buzz Bo—”

“The-z name’z Wazp-z, oozpad-z mynah-z!” Wazp buzzed in frustration.

That was easy, thought Tim. “Wazp-z?” he continued, questioning him mockingly.

“It’z Wazp-z!” the Blood declared. “Why-z did-z you-z add-z a-z ‘z’ at-z the-z end-z?!”

“You added a ‘z’ to the end,” Tim argued.

“No-z I-z didn’t-z! Why-z doez everyone-z zay-z that-z?!” Wazp tossed Jenkins into a pile of trash in his irritation. “Oopz!” he said, feeling foolish. Wazp dove to retrieve his hostage, but Tim used this as an opportunity to strike, shooting at Wazp immediately. Wazp may have been a cumbersome target on the ground, but in the air, there was no denying he had a lethal elegance about him, nimbly dodging and striking at almost the same time. “I’m-z a-z leaf-z on-z the-z wind-z!” Wazp proudly proclaimed. 

Tim called back, “There is no way a broke bug like you saw that movie! Now get back down here!” He fired another potshot at Wazp. Once again, his shot was slightly off-kilter; Tim cursed under his breath.

“Make-z me-z!” Wazp taunted Tim with a buzzing razzberry as he fluidly dodged another shot. Suddenly, Tim was struck with inspiration for an insult that would really get under Wazp’s metallic skin.

‘Hey! Wazp! Your father was a hornet, and your mother smelt of propane!” he brazenly taunted Wazp in an exasperated accent. The Blood suddenly dove towards Tim, buzzing with rage. Yep, that got his attention, he thought as he made a run for the rental store. It was at that moment that Tim remembered one of Housten’s rules for “keeping your butt out of the fire”. Rule No. 4: “Remember, your goal is to get the Blood into a confined space. This way, even if you miss, the vapors will still react with them and slow them down.” 

Tim proceeded to kick the front door down; the open sign still dangling in place, refusing to fall off. Wazp was getting ever closer as he kicked the door a few more times until, finally, it burst open. As he rushed into the abandoned business, Tim took a brief pause to see if he was still being followed, only for Wazp to crash through the dust-coated windows like a metallic bull in a china shop.

Amidst the mayhem, Jenkins crawled towards Haley. “Get out of here, Scarecrow!” Haley calmly ordered Jenkins. “Go get help!”

“J.K.! Go call the cops already!” Rodney echoed with his face still pressed against the wall.

But the man wouldn’t listen. “You’re coming with me!” he replied as he tugged at another needle.

“Jenkins …” said Haley. For once, she couldn’t hide her mixed feelings at the moment.

But as he started to tug at the needle, the sharp pain surged once again through his fingertips. Jenkins realized that if he continued at this pace, his hands would be rendered useless. Upon looking at the base of his arm, he suddenly got an idea. Jenkins tore a piece of cloth from his sleeve. He wrapped it around the base of the needle and started to pull, but it continued to put up a fight. In his moment of desperation, Jenkins summoned every ounce of strength he could muster until the needle yielded, finally coming loose. Jenkins dropped the needle beside him, panicking as he looked at the rest of the projectiles that were still holding the others in place; three more to go before he could free the others.