You are in a dark and twisting corridor where all the cross passages look alike.  Will you 
choose the path to Paramount and Star Trek?  Decker and Star Traks?  Meneks and 
BorgSpace?  Or will you wander until the darkness claims your bones?

			Choose Your Own Adventure

	A dust storm covered half the planet, hiding the globe-spanning desert under a 
soft blanket of red and yellow.  Once upon a time, perhaps, the planet had held an 
equatorial-girding ocean as evidenced by the salt pan remnants which crusted the edges 
of vast basins, visible even from space.  However, something had happened early in the 
planet's personal history to veer the climate from wet to dry, leaving behind little more 
than cold, lifeless sand forever hazing the atmosphere and marching along as dunes 
thousands of kilometers in length.
	The metal-poor, yellow dwarf system mirrored the fate of its dust-laden terrestrial 
- potential never attained.  The two gas giants were anemic; and even the asteroids were 
mere chunks of basalt or loosely bound conglomerates, lacking in the exotic elements that 
might attract prospectors to the otherwise out-of-the-way location.  However, despite 
these deficiencies, the largest moon of the trio which orbited the sand planet had 
supported some sort of base for the last five thousand years.
	It was towards that base Cube #347 trekked; and, more specifically, a patch of 
'fuzzy' space which proceeded the moon in its orbit by 9,740 kilometers.
	The phenomenon was designated Spatial Anomaly #901 within the Borg 
catalogue.  An odd 'crack' in space-time allowed the viewer to peer across many hundreds 
of light years, a peephole that just happened to focus upon the Borg installation of 
Unimatrix 004.  Although the origination - natural or artificial - of the anomaly was 
unknown, indicators suggested it to have been present well before construction of the 
unimatrix.  The phenomenon was limited and strictly one-way:  it provided a passive 
window upon Unimatrix 004 and nothing else.  For this reason, the five millennia of 
bases had functioned as spyposts, a succession of interested parties keeping an eye upon 
the Borg.
	The Collective was well aware of the spy activity.  However, due to distance, 
unidirectional nature of the phenomenon, and lack of any other redeeming qualities to the 
system of Spatial Anomaly #901, the bases were largely ignored.  Such was not to say 
that the Collective did not send a cube or three to 'sample' the current denizens (and 
destroy infrastructure) every couple decades, just that the spyposts ranked very low on 
the priority scale of the Greater Consciousness.
	Cube #347 spent several hours gazing through the lens of Spatial Anomaly #901 
before turning attention to the moon base.  The detour was not strictly necessary, but 
there was almost a procrastinatory quality to the cube's actions, as if the sub-collective 
within was hesitant about pursuing a certain course of action and attempting to 
manufacture excuses to delay the inevitable.
	The spypost was abandoned.  However, it appeared as if the latest inhabitants had 
recently (and hurriedly) left upon their own violation, not evicted by Borg patrol.  Several 
automated ore shuttles, little more than canisters mated to an insystem engine and piloted 
by a simple computer, were in orbit about the moon.  Each vessel was splashed with 
bright red paint formed into species #7255 runes warning of 'demon' and 'haunted'.  The 
largest of the base's underground chambers had been blasted open to vacuum; and time 
had been taken to laser into the regolith itself the same symbols, the glass-fused rocks 
contrasting sharply with the moon's dusty surface.
	Species #7255 was well known for its superstitious attitude, as well as a 
propensity to leave behind booby traps and hexes to befuddle aggressors or scavengers.  
In this case, no snares, physical or otherwise, were in evidence, unless one counted the 
many magical charms set against unknown 'demons' to confine the fiends to the moon.  
As Borg do not believe in such illogical concepts as 'demon', the warnings were ignored 
by Cube #347.
	The scavenging opportunities were slim.  A cursory examination of the surface 
showed that despite the haste of species #7255 to leave, anything of potential value to the 
sub-collective had been removed, else ruined by exposure to vacuum.  In orbit, the six ore 
shuttles were tractored aboard (well, five shuttles, one 'accidentally' exploding in the 
process) and the contents examined.  One of the small vessels held the grisly remains of 
seven species #7255 individuals, and the others sported a hodgepodge of items, ranging 
from paperback books to clothing to electronics.  All the disparate items (including 
bodies) were united by being torn, ripped, or smashed, as appropriate, and covered with 
additional warnings against possession, hauntings, and other supernatural infestation.
	Prosaically, the shuttles and their contents were sorted as to utility.  Most material 
was sent directly to replicator replication, although one or two drones spirited away small 
items in fulfillment of their personal neuroses.  Task complete, Cube #347 continued on 
its way, leaving behind the storm-wreathed desert planet.

			*	*	*	*	*

	The large vats of Nanite Assembly Room #5 rose above Assimilation's head.  
Most quietly hummed and burbled to themselves, careful blends of nutrients being 
converted into the vast bulk of nanites Cube #347 was required to have available, even if 
they were rarely used.  Here and there a vat was idled for regularly scheduled 
maintenance and cleaning, magnetic 'Out Of Order' signs advertising the temporary 
nonfunctionality.  It was towards these vats Assimilation was directing his attention.
	{82 of 203, where are you?} queried Assimilation again.  As before, no answer 
was received.  The internal sensors for this portion of the cube were among the many 
systems hovering in that gray area between working and broken that engineering would 
repair when the hierarchy completed higher priority tasks.  The best the computer could 
tell Assimilation was that 82 of 203 was in Nanite Assembly Room #5.  
	The location was where the drone in question was supposed to be, his task that of 
scrubbing downtimed vats.  However, something had come up whereupon 82 of 203, and, 
more specifically, an assembly grafted to his chassis, was required elsewhere.  82 of 203 
had not acknowledged the reassignment, nor responded in any manner to demands for his 
presence, and so Assimilation had taken leave of the oh-so-exciting thrill of staring at 
drying paint to search out the errant drone.  82 of 203's propensity to narrow his link with 
the sub-collective was well known, the equivalent of sticking one's fingers in one's ears 
and humming loudly, and usually occurred when he was engaged in illicit actions.
	Assimilation spied a pair of damp dishwashing gloves, a yellow raincoat, and a 
well-used brush hanging on a rung of a vat access ladder.  Nearby coiled a hose, its 
nozzle end submerged in a bucket of greasy-looking water.  The damp outline of 
footprints, humid cube air retarding evaporation, led towards the back of the vat, a space 
against the wall conveniently out of sight of the few cameras which overlooked the room.
	"82 of 203, report!" called Assimilation outloud.  He was rewarded by the echo of 
his own voice.  "This continued pursuit of your obsession is lowering assimilation 
hierarchy's already nonexistent productivity and may force me to have to do something to 
correct it."  The words were delivered with a lackluster tone telegraphing the effort which 
would be required by Assimilation to make good on his anemic threat.
	The circumference of the vat was rounded, bringing into view the narrow corridor 
which separated vats from bulkhead.  A small card table was present, upon which were 
set a selection of soaps and corrosion inhibitor products, along with a pile of damp 
towels.  Lacking was 82 of 203.
	Assimilation's brow furled in confusion; and even more so as the computer 
continued to insist that 82 of 203's signature was somewhere within the nanite assembly 
room.  A glance downward found the trail of footprints, a track that led to the table and a 
drying puddle that suggested 82 of 203 had spent some time standing in place.  Then the 
footprints continued, pausing in front of an open wall panel...and that was it.
	The transporter log was accessed.  Nothing was reported to have been beamed in 
or out of Nanite Assembly Room #5, nor adjacent locations.
	Could 82 of 203 have been snatched by intruders?  Maybe a Q?  Which, of 
course, begged the question /why/ 82 of 203, not exactly a paragon of intellect or 
efficiency, would be the target of hypothetical drone-nappers.  Perhaps a spatial anomaly 
had simply removed him from existence?  Perhaps made him invisible or phased him in 
relationship to the surrounding reality?  However, if 82 of 203 was truly gone, why did 
the computer insist he remained onboard?  Before Assimilation was willing to take the 
effort to raise an alarm it was necessary to gather all circumstantial evidence.
	One piece of evidence lay discarded upon the ground.  Assimilation stooped to 
pick up the flimsy paperback book, its low-quality paper pages rustling against each 
other.  It was of the 'Choose You Own Adventure' genre, a medium 82 of 203 was partial 
to, whereupon the reader was provided a scene, then given a choice at the end how he or 
she would proceed and to what page to subsequently turn in order to continue the 
adventure.  In a universe which included complex, evolving entertainment programs 
overseen by high-order AIs and able to be cast from a holoprojectors for added reality, 
the concept of a book with static choices was exceedingly primitive.  
	The book's cover was a vivid affair consisting of stylized demons dancing around 
a steaming cauldron inside of which was tied a busty, fearful maiden; and in the 
background charged a knight on a horse, mace raised overhead.  Even though 
Assimilation could only perceive grays, it was obvious that those of a less color-
challenged nature would likely find the cover to be luridly colorful.
	Also on the cover was the species #7255 rune for 'haunted'.
	82 of 203 had been among the drones assigned to sort the species #7255 ore 
shuttles picked up several cycles ago.  Obviously not all the contents had been sent to 
replicator reclamation for processing.
	Which still did nothing to explain where 82 of 203 had disappeared.
	Assimilation panned right and left along the back-vat corridor one final time, just 
in case 82 of 203 might have reappeared, before focusing on the book.  Idly he flipped 
back the cover, accessed the species #7255 language files, then began to read:
	::You have chanced upon a book of darkness, a book of demons, yet also a book 
of color and heroic deed and light.  Within its pages lie redemption, or, perhaps, your 
death in a most horrific manner.  Your fate is in your hands...what do you choose?::
	The simple introduction was accompanied by a black and white illustration of 
knight and demon in the midst of an epic clash.  At the bottom of the page more words 
were present.  ::If you are content with your current life, else fear to pursue what could be 
a glorious (or gruesome) fate, close this book and walk away.  Else, you may continue by 
turning to page 3.::
	{Haven't you found 82 of 203 yet?} harshly inquired Delta of Assimilation.  {He, 
and that subassembly of his, would be /highly/ useful about now.  It is becoming a 
bit...sticky...at both my current locations.}
	{Still looking,} sighed Assimilation in response.  Gazing at the book, the head of 
the assimilation hierarchy shrugged, then turned the page.

	Assimilation regained awareness standing on a rutted dirt road surrounded by a 
dark forest of trees.  He had not so much lost consciousness, but rather felt as if the 
universe had collapsed then reformed in the time it took between one blink and the next.  
This new location was definitely not Cube #347, not unless 325 of 422's botanical 
experiments had reached Thorny-esque proportions, although at the same time it felt as if 
he remained connected to the sub-collective, albeit distanced by a one-way glass wall he 
could see though, but not be seen himself.
	A rattling snort prompted Assimilation to turn.  One hand, he discovered, was still 
holding 82 of 203's book; and the other was wrapped around a pair of leather cords or 
strings or something that led to a...horse?  If it wasn't a Terran horse, it was a stunning 
example of convergent evolution, because the only word which could be applied to the 
animal which dubiously eyed Assimilation was 'horse'.  As it swished its tail back and 
forth, Assimilation could not help but notice that there was a saddle attached to its back 
with what looked, in his opinion, a too small strap of leather.  There was also the 
complicated facial harness thing which was buckled to its head.
	Assimilation was not a horse person, having originated from a planet and society 
which had long ago left behind the beast of burden in favor of sane, safe, and reliable 
high-tech options.  In fact, the only places he had ever encountered an animal larger than 
a knee-high, yapping furball (Doctor's pet obsession did not count) was in picture books, 
on the tri-V, or at the zoo.
	Other incongruities than horse and forest slowly seeped into Assimilation's ken.  
Foremost among them, he was wearing chainmail, greaves, and other pieces of light 
armor suitable for a medieval faire or a pre-industrial revolution society.  An open-faced 
helmet rattled on his head; and a sword was sheathed at his waist.  Without a camera or 
another drone available to use as a 'mirror', Assimilation could only imagine that he 
looked quite silly, the trappings of a man-at-arms or knight buckled on a bulky Borg 
frame.  At least one thing had not changed:  this world was as gray a place as the cube.
	The horse snorted again.  Its ears swiveled.  A forehoof was stamped.  Tail 
swished back and forth although no flies were present.  Assimilation presumed it all 
meant something, but he had no clue how to translate.  Attention shifted to the paperback 
book.
	The cover fell open to reveal the third page.  A bold image of black and white was 
sketched thereupon, featuring the awkward figure of a knight in ill-fitting armor and 
whose face was indisputably that of Assimilation.  Also present was a prancing horse; 
and background swooshes and scratches were transformed into ranks of trees.  Before 
knight and horse, cutting through the forest, was a road.
	::You stand upon the verge of a grand quest!  There is only one direction, and it is 
forward,:: read the words at the bottom of the page.  ::The question is - how shall you 
proceed?  Shall it be upon the back of a noble steed, your faithful companion bearing you 
into adventure?  Or will you be content to walk, missing nothing as you stride confidently 
along the road which stretches before your feet?  To ride the horse, turn to page 7.  To 
walk, turn to page 11.::
	Frowning, Assimilation raised his head to regard the saddled beast whose reins he 
was holding.
	"Don't even think about it," spoke the horse, displaying a collection of large, 
yellowish teeth.  One foreleg was lifted in unmistakable threat.  "If you even /try/ to 
mount, you are going to get a hoof to the head.  The other one was bad enough, and you 
look like you are even /heavier/; and my medical insurance does not cover chiropractors."
	Assimilation was pretty sure that horses were not supposed to talk.   "What?" was 
all he could manage, the situation enough to shake him out of his normal doldrums.
	"Not /another/ one," bemoaned the horse.  "You didn't...the portal...well, crap."  
As if to stress the last word, the horse's tail lifted slightly, although that was the extent of 
the emphasis.
	"Portal?"  Assimilation was not quite grasping the situation.  Of course, to do so 
would have required more effort than he was used to exerting.  The fresh, unfiltered air 
was also threatening to cause him to sneeze in a most unBorg way, not to mention a 
buzzing insect thing was beginning to orbit his head.
	The horse exhaled a rattling breath.  "Portal.  Look, I'm just a horse, and so I don't 
even pretend to know how it all works.  Maybe I'm just a computer generated image amid 
a bunch of technological mumbo-jumbo, maybe it is all magic, maybe this is all the fever 
dream of some psi-endowed entity.  There are a lot of maybes, too many for my poor 
brain.  All /I/ know is that I'm supposed to stand here for whomever comes through the 
portal, then be a good little peon and take them to the castle if he or she or it decides upon 
the ride-the-horsey option.  However..." the horse squinted at Assimilation "...in this case 
I absolutely refuse.  You have two perfectly good feet that will take you to the castle on 
your own."
	Assimilation, still getting his mental and physical bearings, glanced around at the 
mention of the word 'castle'.  He stopped as in the misty distance, rising on a hill 
overlooking the forest, a large stone structure was spied.  It was too far away to discern 
details, even with technologically enhanced vision, other than to say that it looked 
foreboding.  "There was another like me?"
	The horse nodded its head up and down.  "Yes, only not so heavy looking.  I took 
him as far as the bridge before deciding that I valued my back more than my job."  A 
nose was pointed in the direction that led towards the castle.  "If you want to catch up 
with your buddy, I suggest you start walking.  And turn to page 11, else you'll never get 
anywhere."
	Assimilation dropped the reins.  Until another option presented that would explain 
the situation and, more importantly, allow him to return to Cube #347, it seemed easier to 
go with the flow.  He turned the page.

	Without a sense of intervening travel, Assimilation found himself before a bridge.  
Constructed of well-dressed stone, the bridge was wide and smooth, sufficient for two 
carts to pass side-by-side even as the road on either end was barely wide enough for one 
wagon.  The purpose of the overengineered bridge was unknown.  The stream it crossed 
was at most two meters wide and only knee-deep, sluggishly flowing over rocks at the 
bottom of a glorified ditch.  A good long-jumper could probably have leapt the obstacle; 
and there was certainly no reason for the traffic jam which confronted Assimilation.
	"I not think so," rumbled a large, ugly humanoid standing in the middle of the 
bridge, arms akimbo and tree trunk legs spread wide to form a living barricade.  "I may 
be troll, but I not stupid.  We all heard of billy goats.  I no care if you need to bring goats 
to market or not:  I no allow billy goats over my bridge."
	"But this is the only bridge between Yarrington and Skrat!  How else am I to go to 
market?" wailed a young man.  Dressed in ill-fitting trousers, shirt, and cloak, the man 
held a shepherd's crook in one hand and a sealed metal bucket in the other.  A small sack 
was tied to his belt.  Browsing a nearby bush, ignoring the commotion, were three black 
and white goats with short, backward curving horns.
	"You should have thought of that before you decided to bring goats to /my/ 
bridge.  No troll who value skin allow goats over bridge."  The troll swiveled his head to 
focus on Assimilation.  "One customer at a time.  You no cross bridge until I finish with 
Mr. I-Got-To-Get-Billy-Goats-To-Market here.  I thump you if you try."
	The man sighed in a dejected manner.  He turned to regard Assimilation.  "Hello 
there, sir.  I am sorry for the difficulties, but I must convince the troll to allow me to pass.  
Maybe you can help?"  The goats, finished stripping their bush of anything remotely 
edible, had moved to grazing an adjacent patch of grass.
	As a member of the assimilation hierarchy, Assimilation was no stranger to battle, 
although the rare times he had been deployed it was as part of a larger attachment that 
included tactical drones with their chassis-mounted weaponry.  For some odd reason, 
Assimilation had the distinct notion that the rules of wherever he was would not allow 
assimilation; and even if nanoprobes were successfully injected into the troll creature, 
there would be more than sufficient time for a 'thump'ing before the pacification effects 
initiated.  The lack of nanites stripped Assimilation of his single offensive ability, leaving 
him as a well armored, but otherwise inagile and unremarkable, Borg drone without even 
the fallback of allowing the rest of a sub-collective to do the thinking for him.
	"Perhaps you may slay the troll?" inquired the man, one hand gesturing 
meaningfully at Assimilation's waist.
	The sword.  Assimilation glanced dubiously down the forgotten weapon.  He had 
no clue how to use the thing, and it was as valuable to him as any long, metal stick might 
be.  The sword option was dismissed.  "Why do you not cross the stream?  It does not 
look to be much of an obstacle."
	Assimilation may as well told the man to jump off a cliff and attempt to fly by 
flapping his arms, for the expression on the shepherd's face was one of horror mixed with 
amusement.  "There be deadly fish in that stream!  With their razor-sharp teeth they 
might strip the flesh from my bones in seconds!" declared the man.
	A thought suddenly occurred to Assimilation.  82 of 203's book remained in a 
hand; and it obediently fell open to page 11, the pages to either side refusing to move 
despite the light wind.  Another monochrome drawing was present, one which again 
highlighted the Assimilation-featured knight, this time in conversation with a shepherd.  
Nearby stood three goats; and in the background was the bridge with its forbidding 
guardian.
	Words upon the page proclaimed, ::You find yourself at a bridge.  In the waters 
are the fearsome Flesh-Striping Fish of Frot.  On the bridge is a troll, refusing passage to 
all.  Still, you must somehow cross in order to continue your quest!  To make matters 
more complicated, a shepherd and his goats need to use the bridge as well.  As a valiant 
knight, you naturally agree to help the man and his charges.  You have several options - 
Fight the troll, turn to page 13.  Eschew the bridge and cross Frot Creek directly, turn to 
page 19.  Toss a goat at the troll and run across while the beast is distracted, turn to page 
27.::
	Assimilation frowned:  those were his only options?  Well, fighting was not a 
viable alternative; and running implied an agility and ability that a Borg did not possess, 
even one who was not additionally burdened by armor and sword.  That left a creek 
crossing.
	"Turn the page, mighty sir," said the man, "and decide your fate, and mine."  The 
goats had left off their grazing and crowded about the shepherd's legs.
	Bellowed the troll, "Yah!  I be getting bored."
	"What?" questioned Assimilation, pausing mid-motion.  "You know..."
	The man sighed, accent changing from something best described as vaguely 
medieval to thoroughly cosmopolitan, "Look fellow, you met the horse, right, even if you 
didn't decide to ride him?  This is all part of some vast game.  Go with the flow.  You'll 
either come out right, or you'll die some horrible death.  That is just the way it works.  I 
have to stand here with my goats all the day, waiting for someone to come along; and 
Joey out there has to act the big bad troll, although we all know he is actually a softy 
when it comes to puppies and butterflies."
	"But not goats.  Me will still try to thump your head if you try page 13, though," 
added the troll, obviously catching the conversation despite his location.  "You do not 
look like you would put up the fight like the other fellow."
	"82 of 203 passed here?" asked Assimilation, raising his voice and directing it at 
the troll.
	Joey shrugged.  "You mean guy like you that the horse dumped here?  Yah.  All 
answers are at castle, so he had to come by here.  Turn the page already...I things to do."
	"Us too!" bleated the goats.
	Assimilation made his choice.  Unlike last time, there was no fade-out.
	"Oh, stream crossing!  I haven't done one of those in a while!" exclaimed the man, 
somehow knowing Assimilation's selection despite not having been told.  "Come on, let's 
go."  With a jaunty whistle, he waved at the troll and led his goats to a skinny dirt path 
that intersected the stream.
	On the bridge, Joey left his belligerent stance to lean against the downstream 
stone parapets and watch the forthcoming action.
	Assimilation cautiously followed after shepherd, distrusting his footing.  Once at 
the bank of the presumed Frot Creek, he stared into the clear, turbulence-free water.  No 
fish were present, Flesh-Striping or otherwise, although a leaf or two lazily spun through 
unseen eddies.  Pivoting slightly, Assimilation peered downstream, looking for a downed 
tree trunk, maybe planks and a hammer, perhaps another bridge, anything to pass over the 
too-innocent water.  As he did so, the bank under his left foot crumbled, upsetting his 
balance and sending him stumbling into the creek.
	With a rather spectacular splash, Assimilation found himself standing midstream, 
water muttering to itself as it flowed around his thighs.
	"No think you and you billy goats getting across this time, Bud," commented Joey 
from his lofty stone perch.  "That happen just like that one fella-girl eight encounters 
back."
	"That /was/ a bit messy, wasn't it?" brightly replied Bud as his goats baa'ed 
loudly.
	Assimilation held still.  In the water, small fish, the approximate size of an open 
hand, were appearing.  They were tall in the dorsal-to-belly dimension and skinny side-
to-side.  They also appeared to be mostly head, with emphasis on a mouth full of sharp 
teeth, fins and tail attached as a mere afterthought.  After circling a few times, the largest 
of the gathered fish turned to attack Assimilation's shin where the knight's armor did not 
cover.
	And bounced off.  The fish swam in a tight figure-eight, mouth open as if it had 
tasted something bad.  Initializing a polarization filter to counteract the water's glare, 
Assimilation could see that several of the fish's teeth had broke.  He himself had felt 
nothing of the bite.  Pausing, the fish tilted on its side slightly, enough to bring one eye to 
bear to stare up at the drone in barely concealed malice.  After holding the unfishy pose 
several long seconds, it returned to its normal stance; and as if that was a signal, all the 
fish lunged towards Assimilation's legs.
	Nothing.  Assimilation felt nothing.  His body armor, capable of providing 
protection against high-tech weaponry, was more than sufficient to ward the gnashing 
jaws of the Flesh-Striping Fish of Frot.  The water boiled about Assimilation's legs, but 
he remained unscathed.
	"Wow!  I've never seen /that/ before!" exclaimed Bud.
	The shepherd's goats were more practical concerning the development.  After 
breaking from a huddle whereupon low volume bleats had been exchanged, the three 
beasts approached Assimilation's location.  Then, one at a time, each jumped, displaying 
that infamous goat ability, hooves using the drone's head and shoulders as an 
intermediate springboard on their way to the far side of Frot Creek.
	Assimilation had the distinct impression that the animals could have leapt the 
stream without using him as a stepping stone,
	On the bridge, Joey applauded, great thumps as massive hands were clapped 
together.
	So as not to be left behind, Bud charged the creek.  At the last moment he shoved 
his crook into the ground, using it as an assist to vault across to the opposite bank.
	Judging his use standing in the water to be at an end, Assimilation waded ashore.  
In the stream, the swarm of toothy fish vanished as quickly as it had initially appeared.
	Bud smiled as he approached the wet Assimilation.  Obviously unaware of the 
dangers a Borg normally represented, he took one of the drone's unresisting hands and 
began shaking it.  "Many thanks, fine sir!  This is one of the few times I and my goats 
have successfully crossed the stream sans bridge.  Usually it is all screams and blood and 
gore; and once the candidate is washed away, I have to go back to my normal place and 
wait for the next person.  At any rate, this fine bucket of paint is your reward for a job 
well done!"
	"We also say well done!" chorused the goats in unison.  "Fun!"
	The handle of the metal bucket the shepherd had been carried was placed over 
Assimilation's still outstretched arm.  Before he could comment on the increasingly 
surreal situation or inquire as to the nature of the gift, the scene faded.

	Assimilation found himself walking along the road.  As before, there was no 
sense of transition:  it was as if someone had turned the page, and changed the scenery 
along with it.  The outstretched branches of the forest which bordered the road created a 
dark tangle, occasional gaps marking a fallen tree yet to be replaced by its younger 
brethren.  Within those breaks the mysterious castle loomed on its hill, markedly closer.
	The forest abruptly opened along one side of the road, creating a cleared glade.  
Whereas someone knowledgeable in meadows might expect ragged grasses, saplings 
mounting a vegetative invasion from the edges, branches, leaves, perhaps a few flowers, 
this particular area looked as if it had been recently mowed.  Miniature daisies dotted the 
glade.  It was the concept of a forest meadow as dreamed by someone who had never 
seen such except as a carefully manicured picnic spot found within the 'wild' section of a 
city park.  As Assimilation fell in this latter category, it was not the vegetative 
incongruities which drew his attention, but another out of place object.
	In the middle of the glade was a woman and an easel.  A smock was the woman's 
primary garb, obscuring the clothing underneath and covered by splatters of (gray) paint.  
Upon the easel before her was a half-completed picture of the castle.  The woman was 
staring dejectedly at her painting, a look of anguish upon her face.
	Assimilation was a Borg.  Borg are very good at dismissing absurd situations, 
classifying them as irrelevant.  Therefore, after a single, disinterested glace in which his 
plodding pace did not alter, Assimilation focused his attention fully to the road and the 
castle goal presumably at the end.
	"Woe is me!" called the woman loudly as the drone passed her.  As a mournful 
statement it failed, delivery a near shout.  As if realizing her faux pas, the woman began 
to theatrically sob; and while her next "Woe is me!" was more natural, it still lacked the 
wavering notes expected by someone who was truly crying.  "Oh, woe is me!  The demon 
overlord who rules this fair land does not wish me to paint."
	Assimilation abruptly smacked face-first into a transparent wall.  Not a forcefield, 
it was as if someone had set down an invisible pane of duralloy to prevent forward 
progress along the road.  He tentatively reached out a hand to touch the unseen barrier.
	"Woe is me...who can help poor me?"
	With a sigh, Assimilation turned to face the besmocked woman.
	The painter stood with arms crossed, a pointed glare to her expression which left 
no doubt as to whom the question had been directed.  There were tear tracks down her 
cheeks, but that was the only sign of her supposed distress, neither face nor stance 
supporting a state of misery.  Perhaps in a perfect world Assimilation would have 
followed the obvious prompt by asking "What is wrong, fair maiden?", but Assimilation 
was Assimilation and the forest was certainly not perfect.  Without waiting for her cue, 
the woman began to talk.
	"Oh, handsome" - a pause as eyes narrowed - "knight.  My name is Marie, and I 
am but a poor painter commissioned to create a small masterpiece suitable for hanging in 
the least of manor rooms.  I have been painting all morning.  Unbeknownst to me, as I 
have finished with a brush, cleaned it, then set it out on the grass to dry, a robber bird, 
obviously bewitched by the demon overlord, has swooped down and stolen it.  Normally 
it would be of little consequence, as I have many brushes, but in this case I only brought a 
few with me.  All my brushes have been stolen except for this last, unsuitable instrument 
fit only for coarse work on a very large canvas, else painting the side of a house."
	From a pocket of her smock, Marie withdrew a paintbrush.  Leaving her easel, she 
stalked towards the road and Assimilation, brandishing the brush like a weapon.  It was 
broad and ugly, bristles uneven, something, as aptly described, much more likely to be 
found in the hand of a house painter than a purveyor of canvas and oil.  "Sir, I desperately 
need my brushes back so that I may complete this oh-so-important commission.  Over 
there is the robber bird; and over there are my brushes.  I know that you will do the right 
thing."  The last was delivered with much more a sense of threat (and an unvoiced "or 
else") than maidenly plea.
	Despite himself, Assimilation followed the pointing paintbrush to behold the 
problem for himself.  "Over there" was a tree; and upon a moderately high branch sat a 
large, sleek bird of silvered feathers with black highlights.  As if sensing he was the 
center of attention, the bird perked up and began to strut along his limb, puffing out his 
feathers to make himself seem bigger, more important.  Upon his limb stage were the 
brushes, displayed like trophies with unbristled ends stuck into holes to prevent 
accidental dislodgement.  Reaching the trunk, the bird halted his swaggering walk, 
turning to regard Borg and painter with bright eyes before squawking a musically harsh 
cry that sounded of mocking laughter.
	Of the tree itself, it was just, well, a tree, by Assimilation's estimation.  There was 
a trunk and branches and leaves.  Presumably the leaves were green, although many other 
pigments imparting a vast spectrum of colors were also used by the vegetative kingdom 
for photosynthesis.  However, given the situation and the unreal world, it was almost a 
given for the leaves to follow stereotype.  There were knobs and folds upon the bark of 
the trunk which together created a ladder for the moderately agile to access the bird's 
branch.  Such might have been an attractive solution for a nonBorg knight to assist the 
maiden painter, but then the impulsive would-be savior would not have noticed what 
Assimilation knew was incorrect unless a certain bloodvine Thorny had relatives:  an odd 
quivering of the branches which had nothing to do with wind or bouncing bird.
	"You are the chatty one, aren't you?" commented Marie acidly, breaking into 
Assimilation's perusal of bird and tree.  "Well, compared to the last one that passed this 
way, I suppose I should be grateful.  Yak, yak, yak...the other one would /not/ shut up."
	"82 of 203 was here?" asked Assimilation.
	Marie snorted.  "I don't know about any 82 of 203, just another fellow like you, 
except not such a silent, gloomy Gus.  He was quite eager to assist me."  The painter's 
words were pointed, as was the gaze which deliberately traveled downward to fix upon 
the book Assimilation held tightly in one hand before returning back to the drone's face.
	"Oh," said Assimilation.  Once more he considered turning his back on the 
situation and continuing along the track.  However, there was the wee problem of the 
invisible barrier, not to mention that it was always easier to let another think for him, 
even if that other in this case was a book.  Therefore, arm slightly hindered by the bucket 
swinging from it, Assimilation raised the book and allowed it to fall open to page 19.
	::What a dilemma you find yourself in!  Upon the knoll and in the castle the goal 
of your quest awaits, yet upon the road you have found a damsel in distress.::  
Assimilation halted reading to glance at the 'damsel in distress', but swiftly returned to the 
task at hand as Marie's hand tightened around the ugly paintbrush.  ::The day soon to fall 
into twilight, then night, lends an urgency to your decision, as not even you want to be 
upon these haunted roads after darkness.  Before you are several options - (1) dismiss the 
damsel's troubles and continue upon your quest, turn to page 25; (2) climb the tree and 
retrieve the treasure, turn to page 33; (3) attack the tree, turn to page 11; or (4) loan the 
damsel your sword and cowardly stand by as she fixes the problem herself, turn to page 
47.::
	On the page opposite the choices, the attending picture centered upon 
Assimilation-knight and Marie.  As they discussed undoubtedly important issues while 
standing within the glade, trees leaned inward with barely restrained menace.  There were 
more than a few eyes peering forth from the darkness, but only two of them belonged to 
the robber bird strutting from his treasure bedecked branch.
	Marie waved the paintbrush and demanded irritatedly, "Have you made a decision 
yet, oh talking wonder?  I have to finish my commission, and I need those brushes up 
there to do it."
	Assimilation ignored the painter's words as he contemplated his options.  While 
continuing was attractive, he had an odd feeling that it was not the correct solution.  He 
was unsure what a wrong decision would bring, but 82 of 203's preferred genre tended to 
be full of dead ends, with emphasis on the 'dead'.  Climbing the tree was out of question, 
as was using the sword to attack it.  That left the final option.  
Decision made, Assimilation fumbled at the sword belt, finally unbuckling it such 
that it fell to the ground.  He awkwardly stooped, hands already full of book and bucket, 
to pick up the belt before thrusting it at Marie.  "Here.  Use this to fix your own 
problem."
	Marie's demeanor abruptly changed as she took the proffered item, drawing the 
sword and discarding the belt.  The easy manner she held the weapon suggested she knew 
how to use it.  However, she did not immediately launch an attack upon the tree or the 
robber bird, instead stood in place, thoughtfully hefting the sword even as her other hand 
continued to hold the paintbrush.  "This is good, except it isn't quite the right tool for the 
job.  Say, I think I recognize that bucket you hold from somewhere...may I take a look?"
	The change in topic, not to mention attitude, stunned Assimilation, although he 
quickly recovered.  With a shrug, he set the bucket on the ground before his feet.  
"Whatever," he replied, content as only a Borg can be when someone else is doing the 
thinking.
	"Wonderful!" enthused Marie as she set down the sword and withdrew a small, 
metal object from her smock.  Using the object as a lever, the painter proceeded to open 
the top of the bucket, revealing a goopy gray substance within.  "Oh, just what I thought!  
This will help immensely!"
	"It is just paint," said Assimilation authoritatively.  In this situation, he was on 
firm ground.  "It is generic gray #7."  Within the bucket, the paint swirled, as if it were 
slowly stirring itself.  As it did so, the hue subtly altered.  "No, it is bulkhead #3.  Er, 
maybe gunmetal gray #52?"
	"Gray?" questioned the woman.  "I suppose it look that way to you...but this is 
special paint.  Oh, how it is special!  Let me demonstrate."  Marie dipped the large brush 
into the paint, then swiftly withdrew it and flicked the bristles in the general direction of 
her easel.  Despite the distance between her and canvas, the paint unerringly hit its target.  
However, the half-completed castle was not defaced by the action...far from it.  Where 
the paint splattered, /color/ blossomed, and suddenly Assimilation was aware of the 
subtle browns and blacks and understated reds that comprised the fortification's stonework.  
The colors were a beacon in an otherwise gray world, a visual siren call.  Assimilation 
could do little but stare, mouth agape.
	"Ah!  I was right!  This is a can of Popolute's Fantastic Paint.  Expensive as hell, 
but it adds a touch of realism to any painting it is applied, as well as has a couple of other 
special properties."
	Assimilation ignored the words, entranced by the runnels of color.  Where it was 
dripping off the easel, the grass underneath was revealing its color, one drop at a time.  
An errant daisy was half white-and-yellow and half gray.
	"Hello?  Anyone there?" asked Marie as she interposed herself between 
Assimilation and the picture.  The drone blinked.  "Look, if I can use a bit of paint?  It'll 
help immensely with my little problem."  Without waiting for an answer, the woman 
pivoted, arrowing for the pile of canvas and pigments which accompanies any painter, 
snagging a spare drop cloth and returning to the abandoned sword.
	The cloth was shaken out and spread over the sword.  Muttering something about 
needing a bit of substance to do this right, Marie knelt down on the ground and dipped 
the large brush into the paint bucket.  Dragging his attention away from the colored 
canvas, Assimilation forced himself to watch the painter's actions.
	Despite the clumsy size of her brush, Marie was swiftly creating something upon 
her backdrop.  That something was crude, little more than a sketch in paint, but there was 
a sense of sharpness to the serrated blade as it was roughed in, then a woodiness to the 
handle which was added.  One part of Assimilation noted that no paint stuck to the brush.  
However, the greater majority of Assimilation's attention was entranced with the 
splotches of color which bloomed with each errant gray drop.
	"There we go," said Marie in satisfaction as she stood up.  As she flipped the 
bucket's lid back into place and began to pound it secure with her brush's handle, she 
continued, "It'll take a moment for the magic or psi or whatever the process is to stabilize, 
but it'll...there we go!"
	The air above the painted cloth shimmered like a heat mirage.  As it did so, the 
painted cloth began to shrink around the sword, molding itself to the shape.  A sudden 
flash of bright light obscured the scene, but when sight returned, cloth and sword were 
gone.  In their place was a sharp limb pruning saw (fully colored!) with extendible 
handle.
	Marie smiled as she stood, wiping her hands against her smock.  She picked up 
the bucket and slung the handle over a protrusion to Assimilation's body armor.  Then she 
patted the drone's shoulder, clearly unaware or uncaring the danger represented by a 
Borg.  "And /that/ is the right tool for the job, my mostly silent knight.  My daddy was an 
arborist and part-time hedge manicurist; and I grew up helping him.  Except for the fact I 
like painting better than tree trimming, I might have made a career out of it.  So, in thanks 
I give will give you the brush I do not need as I go reclaim the others from that annoying 
robber bird."
	The oversized paintbrush was wedged into a tangle of hoses near the bucket; and 
with a satisfied smirk, Marie scooped the pruning saw off the ground and strode forth to 
do battle against her feathered and leafed foes.  Assimilation thought he saw the target 
tree quiver in a manner which had nothing to do with the breeze.  However, before he 
could voice the questions about the paint which were suddenly demanding to be asked, 
the scene faded.

	The castle loomed, a baleful edifice of dark stone with all the charisma of a rabid 
vulture.  It was a foreboding structure, a fairytale keep only in the sense that if dragons 
and damsels and knights were involved, reality would dictate the first to be happy to 
snack on the latter two.  Ringing the castle was a wide moat full of murky water of 
unknown depth, occasional swirls hinting at hidden creatures beneath.  However, to swim 
the moat was unnecessary, for the drawbridge was down.
	Unfortunately, a portcullis was also present, preventing access into the inner 
bailey of the castle.
	Assimilation stood at the edge of the bridge, peering upward at the crenulations 
far overhead.  As when he had stared into the darkness behind the portcullis, he saw no 
one, either in visual or infrared frequencies; and similarly he had yet to spot electronic 
surveillance.  Despite a lack of obvious observers, Assimilation had the distinct feeling 
he was being watched.
	It did not help that the drawing that accompanied this particular page of 82 of 
203's book showed not only the castle, but a pair of bodiless eyes glaring down upon 
Assimilation-knight.
	The signs affixed beside the entranceway - "Solicitors Will Be Fed To Moat 
Monster" and "Scream For Service" - also failed to inspire confidence.
	"I wouldn't continue on, if I were you," whispered a voice in Assimilation's ear.  
"It isn't worth it.  I'd be forced to kill you, and then I'd feel guilty for doing so."  The 
pronouncement was followed by a long sigh.
	Assimilation pivoted, then took a step backwards as he was confronted by the 
picture-promised pair of eyes.  Those eyes looked more sad than angry, however, and a 
body slowly faded into view to join them.  Fully revealed, the gate guardian had the 
appearance of an angel, sort of.  The body was humanoid, at any rate, and if the wings 
had more in common with a butterfly instead of a bird, at least they were present.  There 
was even a halo hovering over the guardian's head, although it was equally obvious it was 
made of aluminum foil and held in place via a velcro headband-and-wire construction.  
However, it was the rare angel who wore jeans and a t-shirt featuring a large lizard 
making an obscene gesture; and nor did the relevant literature often feature heavenly-
esque beings wielding a flechette gun.
	Perhaps it was less angel and more demon?
	Perhaps it was even the demon overlord Assimilation had been warned about 
during previous encounters?
	No...even Assimilation knew, down in his mostly surgically-removed gut, no 
demon overlord worthy of the title would dare be seen in public sporting wings with little 
smiley face patterns upon them.
	"I need to go inside," said Assimilation simply as he turned and began to advance 
across the drawbridge.
	There was the sound of wings beating air, then the guardian angel was in front of 
Assimilation, blocking his passage.  "Look, fellow, it isn't worth it!  I know what is inside 
and what is at stake!  If you are successful, you'll free Him!"
	Assimilation moved right, left, then right again, brushing past the blockage.  "Yes, 
I'll free 82 of 203.  That appears to be my goal.  It is a stupid goal, but 82 of 203's books 
are not exactly founts of intellectual plotting.  Then, maybe, we'll both go back to where 
we belong."
	"That's not what I meant," fumed the angel's voice from behind Assimilation.  
There was a click, followed by the pressure of a gun barrel being pressed against the 
juncture of neck and shoulder where body armor was thin out of necessity to allow head 
movement.  "Halt!"
	Assimilation complied.
	Silence reigned, interrupted only by the *gloop* of bubbles breaking in the moat.  
The gun barrel shook slightly against armor, then was withdrawn.  "Well, crap...I hate 
this part.  You haven't made a decision yet, have you?  I can't continue unless you make a 
decision.  Could you read your options and turn to the appropriate page?  I need to know 
if I have to make an appointment with my shrink for the purposes of unburdening myself 
with too much self-inflicted and utterly unnecessary guilt."
	Lifting the book to reading height, Assimilation sighed.  He was becoming bored 
with this action-hero nightmare.  It did not matter if it was all a hallucination due to 
massive body injury, abduction by an omniscient being, or other cause, he wished it 
would end.  The words upon the page, as always, both described the situation using 
unnecessarily exciting superlatives and provided a limited menu of options - 
	::You, mighty knight, stand before your goal, the Creepy Castle of the Demon 
Overlord!  Within lies your foe, whom you must meet in epic combat in order to redeem 
your prize!  Unfortunately, the gate guardian blocks your righteous pathway to victory.  
What ever will you do?  You may (1) do nothing, turn to page 53; (2) wrestle the angel's 
weapon away and turn it against him, turn to page 25; or (3) give up your quest as 
hopeless and simply walk away, turn to page 41.::
	Assimilation stared down at the book, lifted his head to glance at the guardian 
angel out of the corner of his eye, then returned focus to the book.  He turned the page.
	"Well," demanded the angel, "have you chosen?  Have you?"
	"Yes," answered Assimilation as he turned around to face his adversary
	"Then /do/ something!"  The angel was braced, ready to be attacked.  As no 
assault was forthcoming, eyes narrowed.  "What did you choose?"  His head was craned 
to look at the book, but Assimilation had already closed it.  "Come on, what was it?  The 
decisions change each time, you know, at least mine do.  It all depends what route you 
took to get here, and the whimsy of whomever runs this outfit.  Was it 'attack by psi 
power'?  Maybe 'charm the moat monsters to attack the guardian'?  You don't have the 
horse, so anything with 'trample' in it is out."
	As Assimilation continued to do absolutely nothing - an easy choice, in his 
opinion - the guardian, on the other hand, became increasingly agitated.  He began to 
pace, spitting out one farfetched decision the drone may have made after another, waving 
gun and fluttering wings as Assimilation's perfect nonexpression continued to provide no 
enlightenment as to the actual choice.  Even the unseen denizens of the moat seemed to 
have left the vicinity of the building tantrum, for no more bubbles nor swirls could be 
seen near the drawbridge.
	Finally the angel screamed in Assimilation's face, "What did you choose?!"
	Assimilation continued to act out his choice, which was to say he did nothing.
	"AAAAAAHHHHHH!!" shrieked the guardian.  Gun was thrown at the moat, 
where it disappeared with a wet *plop*.  Reaching into a jeans pocket, the angel 
withdrew a small device.  As the thing was held to the guardian's head, it quickly became 
clear that it was a phone.  Several buttons on a small lighted panel were punched.
	Nearly a minute passed in absolute silence except for the impatient tapping of a 
foot and flutter of one wing.
	"This is Cal," spoke the angel into the communicator.  "Uhum.  Yes, sure.  Look, 
could you put my therapist on the line?  It is an emergency.  I feel I am about to have a 
psychotic break of some sort."  Pause.  "Yes, yes, I know it is the third time this week, 
but this guy, he is /totally/ disrupting my karma and I can feel all the neuroses in my head 
screaming to be let out."  Pause.  "Look, if I don't talk to my shrink, I feel I may do 
something that'll really set back my personal program, like kill the guy."  Pause.  "Yes, 
I'll hold...but don't take too long."
	Cal glanced up at Assimilation, made a 'just a moment' gesture, then returned to 
staring at the wood of the drawbridge.  Faint hold music could be heard.  Finally it halted, 
replaced by a murmuring to which Cal responded.  The conversation quickly devolved 
into the complex language of psychotherapy as imperfectly understood by an overworried 
variant of the hypochondriac.
	Seeing the guardian angel thusly occupied, Assimilation shrugged to himself.  He 
turned on heel, peered once more up at the high stone walls of the castle, then began to 
advance on the portcullis.  The gate rose as he approached; and into the keep proper he 
went.

	Click.  Click.  Click.  Assimilation returned to full awareness with the echo of 
rubberized metal on stone, each footfall producing the distinctive sound.  He slowed, then 
stopped.  Before him stretched a polished floor which may have been a vast singular 
slate, else so cunningly constructed as to render the seams between individual stones 
invisible.  Sufficient ambient light was present to see, but it was of a flat quality that both 
blurred detail and conferred an aura of unreality.  Neither walls nor ceiling were visible; 
and Assimilation was unsurprised to find implanted sensors specifically designed to 
measure distance to be returning the Borg equivalent of "Syntax error - need more input."
	Suddenly a single spotlight illuminated the gloom.  Beyond its cone of influence it 
cast no light, no shadow.  It focused upon an object hanging without visible support about 
three meters above the floor.  Without any other obvious goal, Assimilation internally 
shrugged and resumed his trek, this time angling towards the light.  As he approached, 
the identity of the object was revealed.
	It was a painting, oil on canvas, trapped within an overly massive gilt frame.  The 
being featured in the painting was posed in the multiverse-wide classical style of 
'aristocrat sitting on chair while holding small pet'.  Species was ambiguous at best, for 
both man and animal, little able to be definitely said except the former was one of the 
large humanoid guild outwardly distinguishable only by cranial ornamentation, and the 
latter was small and hairy and probably possessed the intellect of a banana.  The man 
held a stern expression in his dark eyes as he gazed sightlessly down upon the Borg.
	When the painting began to speak, Assimilation was not overly surprised.  After 
all, thus far he had encountered talking horses and goats, not to mention mobile trees and 
a guardian angel with a sufficiently large collection of neuroses to make the drones of 
Cube #347 seem the pinnacle of sanity.  The painting's lips did not move, yet there was 
no other origination for the pleasant baritone voice which intruded into the silence of the 
impossible room.
	"Welcome, mighty warrior.  The facade you see before you is myself, the true 
lord of this castle and surrounding lands.  I wish I could greet you in a more personable 
manner, but as you may have gathered in your travels, a bane has been cast upon the 
realm.  My part in the long, sad story is to have been trapped within this canvas."
	Assimilation gazed up at the painting.  The grays which made up the whole were 
finely detailed.  One could almost see the hairball pet panting and imagine the silky 
smooth feeling of the lord's fine fabric.  Assimilation distantly wondered if the real colors 
of the painting would be as lush as his grayscale vision suggested.  "The lord.  The 
demon overlord?" he queried, that the only 'lord' he had heard mentioned.
	A bass chuckle filled the air.  "Demon?  I am no demon!  True, neither am I a 
saint, but nor is any reigning lord who wishes to retain a title."  There was a pause.  The 
question asked had not been precisely answered.  "But such fine points are irrelevant.  
You, grand knight, have come upon a quest!  Although trapped, I retain the power to gaze 
out over my realm and see all there is to see.  You are seeking a lost comrade.  If you 
help me, I have it within my power to help you."
	The expression on Assimilation's face remained neutral as he waited.  If the 
painted lord was expecting an immediate pledge of assistance, he was doomed to 
disappointment.  While some members of the imperfectly assimilated sub-collective of 
Cube #347 would have happily responded to the obvious cue, Assimilation was not 
among them.
	"Ahem," continued the lord after several minutes of awkward silence.  "Um, sir 
knight, you have upon your person the tools which will free me.  I speak of the magical 
paint and the brush you have acquired during your travels.  You have brought them 
before me; and now I reveal their power-"
	"The paint endows reality to the inanimate.  And colors everything it touches," 
interrupted Assimilation.
	Several heartbeats passed before the painting's voice spoke.  "Er, yes.  And you 
know this how?"
	Assimilation held up 82 of 203's book.  Unlike previous encounters, the narrative 
was exceedingly long, regulating options and obligatory drawing to a page yet to be 
turned.  The unknown author had probably thought it dramatic to delay the climatic 
decision point.  "It says so in the second paragraph."
	"So it does.  Well, the first part, anyway.  I'm unsure what you mean about the 
'color' bit.  At any rate, could you please /stop/ reading ahead for a moment?  You are 
ruining all my best lines."  Assimilation closed the book.  "Thank you.  As I was 
saying...oh, hellfire.  To restore me to me to power and rescue your comrade, you need to 
paint me out of my cage."
	From nowhere and everywhere, dramatic music, heavy on the French horn and 
bass drum, rose to a thundering crescendo.  It was accompanied by a roaring gust of wind 
that forced Assimilation to narrow his whole eye to a slit.  Both abruptly ceased.  Two 
new spotlights blazed forth to sunder the room's darkness, one highlighting a figure tied 
to a pole and the other a standing humanoid shape.  Diabolical laughter shivered the air.
	"HA HA HA HA," chortled the shape, each braying syllable enunciated 
separately.  Stilted words followed, pronounced as if read off an unseen cue card.  "Now 
all my plans are come to fruition.  HA HA HA HA HA.  And you cannot stop me."
	The figure posed...that was the only description.  It (or, rather, obviously and 
disturbingly, he) was a classical interpretation of a demon, at least if one's demon was a 
satyr, complete with horns, goatee, and a long, barbed tail.  He held a pitchfork in one 
hand.  A cape, the only article of clothing, fluttered in an unfelt wind.  If Assimilation 
could have perceived color, he knew the demon's skin would have been red.
	Tied to his pole, 82 of 203 made loud "ungh-ungh" noises around a gag and tried 
to (futilely) break himself from his bonds.  As expected considering the unknown rules 
which governed this 'Choose You Own Adventure' land, the intradrone link remained 
little more than an uninformative carrier signal.
	The demon overlord shifted his posture slightly to one which better emphasized 
his horns.  He was clearly waiting for something.  Eyes shifted slightly towards the 
painting.
	A throat-clearing sound originated from the painted lord.  "Ahem.  Now you see 
my nemesis.  I was put into my gilded cage by treachery.  Quick, make the proper 
decision to free me, and I will not only banish this foul fiend, but free your companion as 
well!"
	The dramatic music returned with a grand swell, then receded into the aural 
background.
	Assimilation was unimpressed with the theatrics.  Then again, not only was he 
Borg, but he had an admittedly pessimistic view of the universe in general.  With a shrug, 
the head of the assimilation hierarchy reopened 82 of 203's book and turned to the next 
page.  The left panel held the expected sketch, one which mirrored the spot lit venue set 
before him.  Words took up the remainder space, primarily describing the scene, but 
finally wending to the reader's options:
	::And now, valiant knight, you have triumphed through your trials to find yourself 
with your final choice!  The fate of worlds, of universes, rests upon your shoulders.  
What ever will you do?  You can (1) use magical paint and brush to free the trapped lord, 
turn to page 31; (2) dodge the demon, free your comrade, and together escape the castle, 
turn to page 53; (3) attack the demon, turn to page 23; or (4) cowardly turn on heel and 
exit the castle, leaving behind trapped lord, demon, and comrade, turn to page 71. ::
	82 of 203 rocked on his pole, but remained restrained.  His "ungh"ing had taken 
on a note of desperation.
	"Flee, coward...you know that you are no match for me," said the demonlord with 
scorn, tail languishly waving back and forth.
	Whispered the painting, "Free me!  Free me!  Free me!"  A faint, whining yip 
accompanied the plea.
	Assimilation dismissed the distractions, instead turning inward to consider the 
choices for himself.  As always, his decision-making was hampered by the lack of a sub-
collective to do the thinking for him.  While the easiest path was to just leave, the allure 
of the paint rode heavily upon Assimilation's thought processes.  The splash of vivid 
green where paint had splattered upon grass burned brightly in his memory, leading to a 
cascade of unanswerable questions.  What if the lord was freed?  Could he send 
Assimilation back to Cube #347?  What about the paint?  Would it work there as well?
	Of course, in the end, it was inevitable Assimilation would choose option #1, that 
the only one which featured use of paint and brush.
	Assimilation plucked the brush from his chassis, then approached the painting.  
Both demon and lord had ceased speaking in anticipation of the impending decision, 
although 82 of 203 had redoubled his abortive thrashings.  Assimilation set down bucket 
and swiftly levered open the top, but did not immediately dip the brush into the revealed 
paint.  "You will assist me?" demanded Assimilation to the castle lord.
	"Yes," hissed the painting.  "I will free your comrade.  I will banish this demon."
	"I do not care about the demon.  You will send 82 of 203 and myself back to Cube 
#347."  It was not a question.
	The lord was silent a few heartbeats, then answered, "It is within my power to 
return you to your place of origin.  I will do so."
	"Paint and brush will accompany me."
	A sense of confusion emanated from the painting.  "Um...sure.  You wish a 
souvenir?  I would think a demon head would be more appropriate to display your 
prowess, but your request is also within my power."
	"The paint and brush will continue to work."
	"Continue to work?  What the hell are you talking...er...sure...sure they will work.  
Whatever you want.  Now free me already."
	To one side, 82 of 203 had managed to loosen his head from the straps holding it 
in place and was frantically rubbing the gag against one shoulder in an attempt to remove 
it.
	Assimilation gazed at the painting one final time before dipping brush into paint.  
He raised the brush and began to run it over the canvas.  With each long stroke, color 
followed behind, the bright hues almost painful compared to the bordering grays.  The 
orange-eyed lord was wearing a tasteful dark blue jacket which contrasted sharply with 
the blond-red coat of his hairball pet.  Assimilation never noticed when he finished the 
canvas, and the fireworks and flames and other special effects which accompanied the 
lord's exit from his prison were mere background distractions, for the drone only had 
attention for brush and paint...the golden-silver gilt of the frame was beautifully 
engrossing.
	A growl and a sharp goad from internal diagnostics abruptly refocused 
Assimilation's attention.  Brow furled in annoyance, he looked downward where the jaws 
of an animal were clamped around his right shin.  The teeth had not quite penetrated 
armoring to impinge upon flesh beneath, but the attempt was sufficiently credible to 
trigger threat assessment subroutines.  Jaws were connected to the head of a creature that 
vaguely resembled the lord's pet, although the animal, waist-high at the shoulders, was 
neither small nor hairy.  However, eyes retained the lackluster sparkle of low intelligence 
possible only through extensive in-breeding.
	"You idiot!" spat 82 of 203.  Assimilation pivoted his head to regard the other 
drone.  Gag had finally been worked free from mouth, although the rest of 82 of 203 
remained well secured to the pole.  "You freed the actual demon!  The clues were so 
/obvious/!"
	The castle lord chuckled as he stepped into 82 of 203's spotlight.  In sharp 
contrast to his surroundings, the lord retained the colors revealed through the magic of 
brush and paint.  The dark blue suit suggested 'lawyer' or 'business professional' much 
more than 'demon'; and even the orange eyes were hardly demonic when considered 
against the variation present in the Borg species database.
	"I thank you, sir knight," said the revealed demon overlord, sarcasm heavy as he 
flashed a sharp-toothed (and perfectly white) smile.  The animal retained its grip on 
Assimilation's leg.  "I have been trapped in this labyrinth for far too many years to count, 
serving an overlong sentence given to me just because I desired to be Grand Ruler of All.  
Only if someone made all the 'right' choices could I be set free...my race always was a bit 
squeamish when it came to capital punishment, at least when applied to their own.  On 
the down side, my race, except for me, seems to have gone extinct quite awhile ago.  
However, on the up side, my race, except for me, seems to have gone extinct quite awhile 
ago.  None will be able to withstand me when I fully leave this cramped confine of 
technology and psi.  When I have claimed this galaxy for my own, all will bow to me and 
call me Lord Yris!"
	As the demon overlord chortled, the surroundings altered.  Shadowed room, 
painting, satyr were banished, replaced with rather boring metal walls and blinking lights.  
82 of 203 was no longer tied to a pole, but instead strapped securely to a metal 
latticework.  The gilt frame was now a cage imprisoning only empty shackles and 
dangling wires.  Some things did not change, and among them was the animal and Yris; 
and Assimilation retained both bucket and brush.
	"Boo-boo!" sharply called Yris.  "Let go the silly mechanical man...you can use 
him as a chew toy later."  Pressure from Boo-Boo's jaws lessened, then vanished, as the 
animal withdrew to stand next to his master.  Like Yris, Boo-Boo retained the color 
bequeathed by the paint.
	82 of 203 strained against his bonds, to no effect.  He relaxed.  "You will be 
assimilated, demon.  Resistance is futile."
	Assimilation sighed and shook his head.  Many things were futile, especially 
where it concerned Cube #347 and its imperfect sub-collective.  This was one of them.
	Yris seemed amused at 82 of 203's assertion, if his hearty belly laugh was any 
indication.  He finally stopped, wiping a tear from one eye.  "Oh, that was funny.  No, my 
cybernetic man, I think not.  Your companion realizes the truth, I think, and makes no 
move against me despite his relative freedom.  Understand, my race - Bambizo - were 
masters of the mind and the tech, and especially how to enhance the former with the 
latter.  I was a master among masters, which is why the others feared me.
	"Psi and technology were my prison.  Psi and technology were the key to free me.  
As I said, my race wasn't one for capital punishment, although torture was perfectly 
acceptable.  To assuage delicate sensitivities of morality and prevent my jail from 
becoming a tomb, a method of release was devised, one which relied upon a member of 
some pitiful non-Bambizo species to find the transporter portal, activate it, then be 
transferred to my subspace detention facility.  The subject then had to navigate its way 
through a psi-maze while making the appropriate choices that would lead to my release.  
To fail was to die and be ejected back to wherever the portal was located.  I suppose for 
any race with even a slight superstitious leaning, it all looked very mysterious, an 
individual vanishing, only to reappear clawed, chewed, burned, or otherwise rendered 
very dead.
	"Needless to say, I was entrapped for a long time, my body (and that of Boo-Boo) 
kept alive in suspended animation even as my mind was free to contemplate the long 
galactic revolutions.  Non-Bambizos are inherently less capable than Bambizos, and the 
quality of my potential saviors was less than spectacular.  Then again, the portal's 
'Choose Your Own Adventure' disguise didn't exactly lend itself to be attractive to 
intellectual giants.
	"And then you, my knight in tarnished armor, came along.  By accident.  I do not 
know what it is in your mental make-up to pass the challenges, but you did.  You 
acquired nanomachine gloop and applicator.  Once I was coated with the gloop, the little 
machines acted as mirrors, reflecting away the psi-shackles which kept me locked up, 
thus freeing me!
	"Of course, the high tech of which I speak is probably just so much babble to you, 
whatever intellect you possess unable to understand even the concept of 'nanomachine'.  
Well, no matter..."
	Yris talked.  And talked.  And talked and talked and talked.  He seemed to be in 
love with his voice, and his one-sided conversation was less that of a gloating 
megalomaniac revealing his dastardly plan for world domination to the trapped hero, but 
rather said megalomaniac ordering his mind by speaking outloud to a pet.  Neither 
Assimilation nor 82 of 203 were expected to answer any posed rhetorical question; and, 
in fact, Yris seemed to have forgotten the two Borg were even present.  Boo-Boo, 
obviously familiar with his master's moods, had laid down, muzzle on forelegs, a 
decidedly bored glaze to his eyes.
	Nanomachines.  Assimilation knew nanomachines.  Glancing once at Yris, who 
was now deep into a rant blaming long-dead acquaintances for his imprisonment, the 
head of the assimilation hierarchy transferred bucket from one limb to the other, then 
immersed his whole hand into the paint.
	The Borg have five nanite varieties, of which four are associated with different 
aspects of assimilation, and the fifth, the 5' nanoprobe, vital for maintenance, be the 
system in question a drone or a ship.  Except for its submicroscopic size, the Bambizo 
nanomachine was unlike that utilized by Collective.  Perhaps the Bambizo had 
constructed different nanite types, one of which was similar to the Borg 5' variety (no 
other race or civilization had perverted the technology to facilitate assimilation), but this 
particular nanite had precisely one function:  to boost or dampen a particular 'mental 
frequency'.
	The colors perceived by Assimilation were a byproduct of the Bambizo nanites' 
functionality.  The brilliant hues were similar in concept to a genetic engineer splicing a 
code for a florescent marking protein into a complex genetic sequence.  Just as 
fluorescence acts as a visual cue of success for an otherwise invisible process, so did the 
nanites react depending upon their functional state.  In this case, the nanomachines 
continually broadcast upon a psi-frequency commonly used for telepathic or empathic 
communication.  When in 'boost' mode, the nanites 'read' the angstrom value of the 
surface they were in contact with, sending the information to all receptive individuals.  In 
contrast, the 'dampen' mode prompted the nanites to filter underlying colors and 'grey out' 
their substrate.  Thereby the nanite mode of operation could be quickly determined 
depending upon the observed hue.  However, whereas a Bambizo engineer probably 
looked for the gray of dampening, Assimilation perceived the boost coloration.
	Assimilation understood the functioning of the Bambizo nanites within seconds.  
Despite a vastly different operating system and a species-owner whose native language 
had been dead for hundreds of millions of years, the nanites were able to 'translate' their 
status via utilization of Assimilation's own neural system.  The data was not perceived as 
words, or even images, but rather a pure /knowing/.  It was through this /knowing/ that 
Assimilation realized the Bambizo nanites had the most rudimentary of security systems, 
his position as head of a hierarchy whose bailiwick was nanomachines interpreted by the 
alien nanites as 'technician with full permissions'.
	Lifting his hand from the bucket, Assimilation gazed at the revealed colors.  True, 
the flesh of his limb retained the semi-necrotic mottled gray of assimilation, but now a 
subtle sheen of purple and green glistened on the epidermis as well.  Several diodes 
located just above his wrist shone a steady red.  Gloop dripped off fingertips and back 
into the bucket, but communication with the nanites could not be lost as long as skin 
contact was retained.
	The 'Choose Your Own Adventure' book, dropped when Assimilation had begun 
painting Yris' prison, caught the drone's eye.  Next to his feet, it was splayed open to the 
most recent page Assimilation had turned.  However, where previously that particular 
page had been blank except for the words ::You successfully free the lord.  The End::, it 
now sported several paragraphs and a new drawing.  The picture was in a very different 
style than those previous, featuring an Assimilation, minus the knightly armor, with a 
distinctively distorted stick-figure quality; and fluttering around the Borg figure were 
brief sketches which might, or might not, have been eyeballs and lips.  The writing itself 
was also quite different, the dictation direct and to the point, lacking in anything which 
might be considered fluff.  There was also precisely one option.
	"Are you listening to me?" demanded Yris, capturing Assimilation's attention and 
redirecting it away from the book.  "What do you think you are doing?"
	Assimilation sighed.  "Apparently saving the galaxy, and denying myself color, 
yet again."
	"Huh?" asked Yris.
	"Huh?" echoed 82 of 203.
	"Eruff?" whined Boo-Boo.
	Assimilation's paint-dipped hand faded to gray as the nanites accepted the order to 
change their status from 'boost' to 'dampen'.  Yris' orange eyes narrowed as the drone 
shifted his grip, then widened as the bucket was flung in his direction.  The self-styled 
Grand Ruler of All looked more stunned than grand as paint splashed into his face, thick 
runnels trickling down immaculate jacket and pants.  Not even Boo-Boo escaped, 
swatches of the animal's hair plastered to skin.
	"What in the five hells was /that/ for?" snarled Yris.  "The colloid the 
nanomachines are suspended in leaves a /horrible/ stain; and I highly doubt there are any 
decent dry cleaners near wherever the real-universe end of the transit portal is currently 
located.  And then there is Boo-Boo...he'll need a bath, and he /hates/ baths."
	Boo-Boo, having leapt back to his feet, was growling at Assimilation.
	Assimilation waited.  To his eyes, the Bambizo and his pet were already starting 
to fade, to loose their lovely vibrant colors.
	Yris lifted one arm to stare at a coat sleeve.  He grunted.  "Now I have to punish 
you, and your mechanical man friend as well, in order to display my displeasure.  See?  
Stains!"  The sleeve was waved.  "Or maybe some sort of bleaching!  My best suit, from 
a tailor long since turned to dust, turning gray!  Ruined!  I think a suitable punishment 
would be to lock your minds into my ex-prison...let's see how you like being a painting 
for the next several galactic revolutions.  Meanwhile, I'll leave this cubby behind for the 
real universe where I will take my place as Grand Ruler of All!"
	Yris lifted his arms in a dramatic pose.  This was where a real hero would charge 
the enemy, tackling the opponent and rolling with him on the ground in a wrestling 
contest where the fate of the galaxy, of the universe, was the prize.  Despite the fact that 
Assimilation's mass, including body armor and other added technologies, would likely tilt 
any hand-to-hand contest his way, the fact remained that Assimilation was no hero.  He 
had performed the option open to him, and now was content to wait.
	82 of 203, on the other hand, obviously wanted the hero gig.  His renewed 
struggles to free himself did not break his bonds, although it did upset the frame he was 
tied to.  He pitched ignobly to the floor, face first, still bound and now with the weight of 
heavy metal pinning him in place.
	Yris cast Assimilation and 82 of 203 a disdainful look, then theatrically snapped 
his fingers.  Nothing happened except Boo-Boo lifting his ears in anticipation.  Yris 
snapped his fingers again.  More nothing.  Frowning, he lifted both hands to his temples, 
closed his eyes, and proceeded to twist his face in what was either an expression of deep 
concentration or painful constipation.
	Somewhere among the surrounding machines, something beeped.
	Yris' eyes flew open.  "What did you do?" he screamed.  He was almost totally 
reduced to greytones, with the last vestiges of color vanishing before Assimilation's 
impartial stare.  "I...I...I can't reach the machines!  I can't tell them to do anything!"  The 
significance of the gray suddenly hit Yris.  "You, a primitive being, managed to reset the 
nanomachines!"  The whining accusation was akin to the disbelief a disruptor-toting 
soldier would feel when he finds his high-tech weapon rendered useless by a well thrown 
rock.
	"I think I'm stuck," mumbled 82 of 203 into the floor.  "What is happening?"
	Assimilation stooped down to pick up the 'Choose You Own Adventure' book, 
flipping it to the required page.  After reading the short entry, he set paint bucket on the 
ground and stepped over to stand next to 82 of 203.  "We will shortly be leaving."
	"What?"  82 of 203's voice was a bit loud.  "The fall seems to have damaged my 
hearing.  Could you speak up?"
	Meanwhile, Yris was rushing about the parameter of the room, frantically pushing 
buttons and reading scrolling displays.  Boo-Boo, the sudden excitement much more 
interesting than growling at two Borg, bounced along at his master's heels as a hairy 
tripping hazard.
	"Must reset node.  I must reset the node...unless I want to spend the rest of my 
years eating replicator paste and playing solitaire on the computer, I need to reset the 
simulation, return to my suspended animation prison, and wait another too many galactic 
revolutions for some idiot to successfully make the right choices," muttered Yris to 
himself.  He seemed to have completely forgotten about his two detainees, until Boo-Boo 
finally succeeded in sending the Bambizo crashing to the floor.
	Yris picked himself up from the near collision a Assimilation's leg.  Eyes 
narrowed.  "You...you I can do something with.  Namely, I can send you back to where 
you came from.  And good riddance."  Lurching over to a console, Yris spat out a curse 
concerning the inefficiencies of actually /typing/ in commands, as opposed to mentally 
telling the computers what to do.  Several buttons were pushed.  He turned to regard the 
two drones, a smirk on his face.  "And with you gone, all I have to do is finish the reset 
and send the portal towards a hopefully inhabited region of galaxy...."
	As the room faded, Assimilation waved with the hand still holding the book.
	"Oh-"  The remainder of the presumed expletive was lost as the suddenly wide-
eyed Yris was lunging forward, hands outstretched.  He was too late.
	A blink later and the familiar scenery of Nanite Assembly Room #5 reappeared.  
Assimilation lifted the 'Choose Your Own Adventure' book to peer at it.  Despite its 
status as a portal to a technologically maintained subspace pocket imprisoning a 
megalomaniac remnant from an extinct psi-endowed race, it still looked like a cheap 
paperback.  Reaching through the re-established link with Cube #347, his first action was 
to activate a transporter beam and send the offending object to replicator reclamation.  
While it was entirely possible nanites and matter disruptors were not up to the task of 
destroying the portal, at least it was out of sight.
	The head of the assimilation hierarchy sighed in relief:  making decisions was just 
too much work.  Sometimes it was much better to let others do the thinking.
	{Could I have a bit of help here?  I seem to be at the bottom of vat #4, and not 
only is it filled, but it is entering its agitation cycle.  AND I am still tied to a frame.  I 
cannot hold my breath forever,} appealed 82 of 203 into the re-established connection to 
the Cube #347 sub-collective.
	Captain's presence inserted itself into Assimilation's mind before the latter could 
do more than form the vague thought that his collection of gray paint swatches needed to 
be reorganized.  {We demand you tell us what is going on.  The computer insists you 
have been out of contact with this sub-collective and not on the cube for 3.2 hours.  You 
will transfer all your recent memory memes now.}
Yes, much better to let others do the thinking.

			*	*	*	*	*

	"That fixes that.  Mostly.  With all that is going on - Auditors taking over the 
Complex and releasing a quantum disease so as to force a Cancellation - you are /still/ 
trying to foul up my game?  What gives?" demanded the green-irised eyeball in extreme 
agitation.
	Winced the purple-lipsticked Critic, "Sorry?  Force of habit?  You can't really 
expect me to break a billion-year old habit...I just sort of saw the opportunity and, well, 
took it."
	"Sorry?  /Sorry/?  You almost broke the integrity of my piece!  And that piece is 
the /only thing/ that may or may not be a key factor to get us out of this mess!  Sorry?!"  
Iris' voice increased in volume with each 'sorry' until the hallways were ringing with its 
shouts.  The doors to several adjacent Board Rooms cracked open, allowing the denizens 
inside to nonchalantly peer out with the intense curiosity reserved for eavesdropping.
	"Hush," nervously urged Mouth in a low voice.  "Someone might hear."  That 
'someone' was not the neighboring Directors and Critics pretending to be taking breaks 
from their own Boards coincidental to the action in the hallway, but rather those of a 
darkly cowled and appendixy nature.
	Meanwhile, Orb had retrieved the paper Iris had been holding.  The Director's 
singular eye squinted as the object was examined, confusion apparent upon the face it did 
not possess.  "Lips...where did you get this?"
	"Get what?" said Lips defensively.
	Orb sighed.  "The paper, Lips.  Obviously every time you left the Room to sneeze, 
answer calls of nature, and so forth, you were actually writing on this page."
	"Could be," stated Lips.  "Not that I will absolutely admit to anything.  Nor can 
you prove it."
	Iris exclaimed, "And that /isn't/ your handwriting on the paper?"
	Mouth hissed again, "Hush!"
	"I need hands for handwriting," said Lips.  It immediately wilted as the patented 
Directors' Glare was aimed at it.  "There /is/ a distinct resemblance to my scrawling.  
Maybe."
	"The paper," repeated Orb again.  
As the brown-eyed Director tried to break into the budding argument between Iris 
and Lips, Mouth sidled over to examine the paper for itself.  Non-existent jaw dropped 
open in disbelief.  "Lips!" it bellowed, the shout of a Critic impossible to ignore.  Doors 
up and down the hallway abruptly slammed shut.  As if realizing its error and the distinct 
possibility that its noise would bring Auditors running whereas the clandestine argument 
might not, Mouth reduced its volume.  "/Lips/!  /Iris/!  Both of you, shut up for once!"
	Lips quieted, as did Iris.
	Orb took advantage of the silence to speak.  "Lips...where did you get the paper?  
I don't care what you wrote on it - don't start, Iris - I just want to know where you found 
it."
	"Have you been over near the Writers' Annex lately?" asked Lips.
	Both Directors and the other Critic winced.  After the foursome's last run-in with 
the Auditors, all had been laying low.  They had retreated to their assigned Board Room 
to disillusionarily play the Game even as other Boards continued to implode and rumors 
flew.  Between the apathetic pliancy of those susceptible to infection by the Auditor-
released quantum parasite and the threat of being Nothinged hanging over those whom 
were more or less immune, well, the Auditors no longer even pretended that they weren't 
attempting to force a Cancellation.  However, despite Ratings that lowered with each 
malfunctioning Board, as long as the mysterious Writers in their Annex could produce a 
product, a critical Rating threshold could be maintained.  As of late, the Auditors had 
turned their attention away from haranguing Directors, Critics, and other Complex 
production staff and focused upon the Writers.  As long as the doors to the Annex held....
	"They can't have broken through," said Iris.  "We /all/ would have known that!"
	"Not yet," agreed Lips.  "You see, I was over near the Writers' Annex-"
	Mouth thwapped the other Critic on the back of the head it didn't have.  "You 
/know/ that one Auditor has it in for you - all of us, actually, what with Iris' piece - but 
you especially after you sneezed on it.  If you are Nothinged, we'll have to continue on as 
a trio, and the Games /never/ work right if one doesn't keep the Director to Critic ratio 
balanced."
	Lips glared at Mouth.  Needless to say, it wasn't as scathing as it might have been 
if it had been done by a Director, but Lips came close.  "Geesh, Mouth.  You aren't my 
mommy, you know.  Anyway, I was over near the Writers' Annex, maybe snooping, but 
maybe I had a perfectly legitimate reason.  Well, those black cloaks haven't made it 
through the doors yet, but something must have happened recently because there was 
paper all over the place.  Most of it was covered with writing and such, but there were a 
few that had only a few words.  I grabbed a sheet, slapped on a bit of white-out, and 
maybe sort of tried writing my own story."
	"You weren't writing your own story, you were writing /my/ story," huffed Iris.
	"Your story is my story," countered Lips.
	"And /we/ are Directors and Critics," said Orb in a low volume, "and are /not/ 
supposed to be writing /anything/.  That is /not/ our job."
	Iris glared at its Critic counterpart, "It doesn't seem to remember that."
	"Geesh, it was just a few little words and a drawing or three.  The plot was 
already in play, so it isn't like I changed anything.  Much.  However, compared to /your/ 
pitiful literary and artistic efforts, I obviously rate a wee bit higher.  I can't believe you 
drew a stick figure."
	"It isn't like I had a lot of time to right your mess.  You were about to eliminate 
one of my sub-pieces!"
	"Was not!  You cannot prove anything!"
	"Was too and can too!"
	"Not!"
	"Too!"
	As Orb and Mouth looked at each other in exasperation over their colleagues' 
descent into petty argument, a Critic came jogging down the hallway.  Although there 
was no actual need for activities such as exercise among what were essentially 
unembodied body parts (well, except for the thighs, whom always had a tendency 
towards pudginess), there were always a few denizens with unusual hobbies.  As the 
Critic paused in the vicinity of the foursome in order to squirt water into itself from a 
water bottle, it hissed, "Auditors heading this way, including Mister Stained Robe.  
Thought you might like to know."  Message delivered, the Critic continued on its way, 
taking a sharp right near the end of the hallway to enter a Board Room.
	With the warning, Iris and Lips had halted their overloud discussion.  No words 
were necessary as the four scuttled towards the open door of their assigned Board Room.  
Orb folded and refolded the piece of paper which had triggered the more current derision 
until it was a compact wad, finally flourishing it magician-style to vanish it.
	"Lips," said Orb as the former began to push through the Board Room door, "I've 
something to ask of you."
	The Critic looked back over its unshoulder in suspicion.  "What?"
	"Perhaps you could continue your little visits to the Writers' Annex area?  Report 
on the progress of the Auditors?  After all, if the Writers' Annex goes...."  The words 
trailed off.  "Well, if the Writers' Annex goes before the climatic portion of the plot arc, 
and before a certain piece does or does not fulfill its destiny of its own free will - 
/without/ 'assistance' from a certain Critic - everything is toast."
	For a moment Lips looked especially, and uncharacteristically, grave.  "I can do 
that."  It paused, then added, "If the price is right."
	Mouth poked Lips hard.  "You'll do it for free.  Or else."
	Lips opened its mouth to argue, but then closed it again.  "Fine, fine," it sulkily 
mumbled.
	The Critics and Directors slipped into their Board Room, closing the door behind.