jabberwock and the other were
fighting, burning each other alive with their furnace breath even
as they
reared up on their hind legs, raking and clawing at each other with their forelegs. Thwap!
A tail came around and laid Molly flat on the ground. She had time enough to see a jabberwock approach, its mouth opening wider and wider in the yawn-like motion that inevitably preceded a fire-shot from its throat before—
The scene dissolved and the lights came on. “Again!” she yelled.
She had to set aside her anger and resentment. She had to relax. If her time at the Millinery had taught her anything, it was that adrenaline made you impulsive, overanxious. It could trick you into doing something stupid. If she was to complete level Z, she had to stay calm. The HATBOX began its dizzying scan of possible locations and enemies. Molly took deep, even breaths and closed her eyes, opening them only when she heard the steady murmur of strangely accented voices, the clop-clop of hoofs on cement, the trundling of squeaky carriages. She was in a city—an ancient one, judging by the looks of things. Carriages like the ones rumbling past hadn’t been seen in Wonderland for generations. And as for horses, those beasts of burden were straight out of the history programs Molly was forced to study as part of the Millinery’s classroom curriculum. Amid the crush of pedestrians coming toward her: a man wearing greatcoat and bowler. She instinctively reached for the brim of her homburg, but he only dipped his head in greeting and continued past. The pedestrians, those in the carriages—they all seemed intent on their errands. But she wouldn’t be fooled. An attack was imminent. From what quarter, instigated by whom, she couldn’t say. But under no circumstances would she lessen her vigilance or— A voice rose above the street’s general clamor: “Read about the carnage in Piccadilly! Death and destruction in Piccadilly! Only a tuppence to read the latest reports!” A boy was selling newspapers on the corner. Molly walked up to him and he shoved a paper into her hand. The London Times? She’d heard Alyss talk of London. It was a city the Queen had visited during her exile from Wonderland.
“Two pence,” the boy said.
She didn’t have the leisure to find out what he wanted, snapped open a set of wrist-blades to spook him and—
Seeing that a trivial flick of the wrist produced such a blur of deadly copter blades, he sprinted off. But Molly didn’t want to draw too much attention to herself. Not yet. She quickly flicked shut the blades. The newspaper’s description of the carnage and destruction in Piccadilly read familiar. In the cheese shop hollowed out by an explosion, Molly recognized the aftermath of an orb generator. In witnesses’ clumsy attempts to describe a rifle that coughed bolts of light, she recognized Wonderland’s crystal shooter and its ammo of bright NRG rods produced by the frizzling together of certain gemstones. And as for the carcasses that looked like pin cushions with legs tucked underneath them, those were easy to identify—cannonball spiders in the death pose, their brief life spans having run their course, though not, according to the reporter, before the outsized creatures had taken scores of Londoners with them.
reared up on their hind legs, raking and clawing at each other with their forelegs. Thwap!
A tail came around and laid Molly flat on the ground. She had time enough to see a jabberwock approach, its mouth opening wider and wider in the yawn-like motion that inevitably preceded a fire-shot from its throat before—
The scene dissolved and the lights came on. “Again!” she yelled.
She had to set aside her anger and resentment. She had to relax. If her time at the Millinery had taught her anything, it was that adrenaline made you impulsive, overanxious. It could trick you into doing something stupid. If she was to complete level Z, she had to stay calm. The HATBOX began its dizzying scan of possible locations and enemies. Molly took deep, even breaths and closed her eyes, opening them only when she heard the steady murmur of strangely accented voices, the clop-clop of hoofs on cement, the trundling of squeaky carriages. She was in a city—an ancient one, judging by the looks of things. Carriages like the ones rumbling past hadn’t been seen in Wonderland for generations. And as for horses, those beasts of burden were straight out of the history programs Molly was forced to study as part of the Millinery’s classroom curriculum. Amid the crush of pedestrians coming toward her: a man wearing greatcoat and bowler. She instinctively reached for the brim of her homburg, but he only dipped his head in greeting and continued past. The pedestrians, those in the carriages—they all seemed intent on their errands. But she wouldn’t be fooled. An attack was imminent. From what quarter, instigated by whom, she couldn’t say. But under no circumstances would she lessen her vigilance or— A voice rose above the street’s general clamor: “Read about the carnage in Piccadilly! Death and destruction in Piccadilly! Only a tuppence to read the latest reports!” A boy was selling newspapers on the corner. Molly walked up to him and he shoved a paper into her hand. The London Times? She’d heard Alyss talk of London. It was a city the Queen had visited during her exile from Wonderland.
“Two pence,” the boy said.
She didn’t have the leisure to find out what he wanted, snapped open a set of wrist-blades to spook him and—
Seeing that a trivial flick of the wrist produced such a blur of deadly copter blades, he sprinted off. But Molly didn’t want to draw too much attention to herself. Not yet. She quickly flicked shut the blades. The newspaper’s description of the carnage and destruction in Piccadilly read familiar. In the cheese shop hollowed out by an explosion, Molly recognized the aftermath of an orb generator. In witnesses’ clumsy attempts to describe a rifle that coughed bolts of light, she recognized Wonderland’s crystal shooter and its ammo of bright NRG rods produced by the frizzling together of certain gemstones. And as for the carcasses that looked like pin cushions with legs tucked underneath them, those were easy to identify—cannonball spiders in the death pose, their brief life spans having run their course, though not, according to the reporter, before the outsized creatures had taken scores of Londoners with them.