Shattered Perceptions
Chapter Four
by Tim Francovich
Images of blackness danced through his head. At times, he thought he might be awake, but what he saw then convinced him that he was still dreaming. A man with a ram's head? Another old, old man who looked strangely... familiar, perhaps? Then there was a brief flash of light and Sam sank once more into the darkness.
Much later (or at least so it seemed), his head finally cleared. Before opening his eyes, Sam tried to gauge something about his whereabouts. He was lying on a soft surface of some kind, perhaps a bed. Somewhere he could hear someone grumbling under his breath amidst another clinking, clanking sound. Memories of home made Sam smile as he realized the sound was that of dishes being hand-washed.
"He is waking up, Lepton," said a voice. Sam opened his eyes. The voice had immediately made him lose his fear. It was an aged voice, full of years, yet strong.
The voice belonged to a man sitting beside Sam's bed. He was wrapped in a long brown robe with a hood that obscured his face in shadows. Sam could see the tip of the man's chin and a narrow, thin-lipped mouth.
They were inside what appeared to be a small shack, most likely within one of the extreme outer circles of the city Sam had seen from the air. Sam saw another small bed on the far side of the shack and two doors: one closed, apparently leading outside, and one open, through which the grumbling and dish-sounds had come.
The grumbler appeared in the doorway and Sam realized that not all his dreams had been imaginary. Walking up behind the old man was a tall, well-built man wiping his hands on a dish towel. His physique was impressive, definitely that of a warrior. The handgun and long dagger hanging at his belt further confirmed the assumption. But what was most unusual was his head: the man had the head of a ram: grayish hair, curved horns and long snout.
"'Bout stinkin' time," the ram-man muttered. "We got work to do."
Sam started upward, feeling a tingling in his gut. The old man reached out slim, four-fingered hand and motioned for him to relax. "Don't be afraid, Sam... isn't it? Lepton and I will not hurt you."
"How'd ya know mah name, sir?" Sam asked, running a hand down his chest and stomach. He vaguely remembered Spiral stabbing at him and was surprised not to find a vicious gash anywhere on his body.
"You have said much in your sleep since you crashed into the ground right outside our hut," the old man replied. "But have no worries. I think you will find that we are fighting on the same side: against Spiral and Mojo V. Quite the lucky circumstance that landed you on our doorstep, I must say."
Sam thought he caught a twinge of sarcasm or irony in the man's voice in the last statement, but he was more concerned with vital details. "So ah am in Mojoworld?" he asked. "So who are you?"
"You *are* in Mojoworld, yes," the old man answered. "And I... I am known as the Rebel."
"You're part of the rebellion against Mojo, then?" Sam asked, sitting up on the edge of the bed.
"Boy, he ain't just a part of the rebellion," Lepton snorted. "He's..."
"Later, my friend," the old man interrupted. "Now, Sam. Lepton and I would greatly appreciate any information you can give us about a friend of yours named... Shatterstar."