Beck traced a finger along the walls and frowned – the mass of gore he was smudging off had come from him. Now that they’d voted to heal him up, a new batch of the stuff coursed through him, and he could feel it pulsing in his neck.

Beck looked into the democracy chamber, and seven pairs of eyes stared back. He allowed himself to exhale when he saw the fat aunt still lying stiff on the floor (it hadn’t all been for nothing).

He spread out his arms and made a ta-da noise, adding to the effect by swirling the wordcount around in a blur.

“For all you pussies who just up and walked out, I’ve appointed myself the audience representative,” he announced, more to the audience than the characters. “If I catch you fuckers trying to do anything uninteresting like that again, you best believe I’m gonna do something about it.”

They just kept staring. A couple of them sighed, while others rolled their eyes. What would it take to motivate these people to act like goddamn characters in a goddamn story?

“Which one of you took my gun?” he asked.

Haralda stepped forward, hands on hips. The dark circles under her eyes had completely receded. She looked about twenty years younger, shining like that.

She said, “Right, you. Come with me.”

Beck inspected the floor for a weapon, but he didn’t fancy his chances with a blunted ice pick. Power didn’t mean very much when everybody just got back up when you shot them! Anybody would freeze up if they emptied a clip into a guy who just kept walking, so it wasn’t exactly Beck’s fault they got the better of him.

He smirked and said, “As long as you’re sure that’s the most interesting thing we could be doing right now.”

In reply, she grabbed him by the collar of his polo and dragged him across the room, stopping to haul along Saheel and Eirlys as well. This steamroller of a woman brought them into an alcove round the corner, rudely ignoring his protests.

The alcove’s curved roof forced Beck and Eirlys to hunch over, the lantern between them flickering funny shapes onto the wall. The air here was warmly stagnant.

“Sit down,” barked Haralda.

Saheel plonked himself straight on the stone, while Eirlys leaned against the wall until she’d levered herself to the floor.

“Beck,” said Haralda.

“What?” He held out his hands. “I just got these all clean and you want me to get them dirty again?”

“Do not talk back to me, young man,” she boomed, raising her clipboard. It activated some primal fear of middle-aged women that had been instilled in him during nursery.

“Alright, you kissless spinster,” he said, dropping. Ugh, now his hands were covered in dust.

Suddenly, she whacked him on the head.

“Hey, what the--”

WHACK. Fuck, he thought he heard his skull crack!

“You will only speak when spoken to,” said Haralda. “Do you understand?”

“Yes, miss,” chorused the three, and then they looked at each other in shock. How was she calling back all of these long-forgotten behaviours? What a witch!

“Now why have I brought you here?” she asked.

“Because--” Beck started.

WHACK. Jesus Christ, when she thumped him like that, it sounded like a cannon going off. He could handle the weird glasses bitch spooning out his guts with an ice pick, but this? This was torture.

“Raise your hand for permission to speak,” she barked. “Those are the new rules for our democracy meetings. I expect you to learn them.”

Beck raised his hand, and when she nodded, he said, “How in the fuck did you decide that? Who appointed you, Stalin?”

WHACK.

“Under that authority,” she said. “And under the authority of the audience representative.”

“Oi!” he raised his hand. “Get your own goddamn role!”

“Do you think an audience can keep track of eight people constantly jostling each other about? Need I remind you of your disorderly conduct prior to Greer’s death?”

Beck shook his head. Alright, maybe it would be easier for the audience to read. He’d just have to put his hand up when people got too derailed talking about silly feelings (and other bullshit).

Saheel put his hand up. “I understand why he’s here, miss… did I seriously just say miss… but why me and Eirlys?”

“That’s Madame Gunmetal to you. You know perfectly well why you’re here, Saheel! Really now, after all you spouted off about ‘being a hero’ and ‘knowing better than to kill’? We had quite a lot of fun with that ice pick, didn’t we?”

Saheel frowned.

Eirlys swung one of her arms up, long enough to almost scrape the ceiling with her fingertips. “But Madame Gunmetal, miss, Saheel was just acting in self-defense.”

“I don’t care who started it!” she boomed. “By your logic, I’d have an excuse to kill you, seeing as you had a bit of an episode on my teammate!”

“I…” she stammered.

WHACK. Eirlys curled up, nursing the bump on her head.

“I expect you to treat your fellow characters with respect,” said Haralda. “That means no shooting, no maiming, and absolutely no shovelling of intestines! Is that clear?”

Team Fear raised their hands and snivelled, “Yes, Madame Gunmetal.”

What fucking suck-ups.

Beck shot his hand up. Just because he’d been scared of his teachers in Nursery didn’t mean he hadn’t put them through hell for the rest of his schooling life.

“Madame Cun(t)metal?” he piped up.

She folded her arms, shadows from the lantern painting murder on her face.

She said, “I hope you’re not about to tell me that I wasn’t clear, Beck.”

“Mr. Miller, please. And yeah, I’m still a little unclear about one tiny fucking detail. It’s probably not important.”

She leaned down, stooping over him to the point that he was extremely glad she was wearing a cardigan. She raised her clipboard like artillery.

“Enlighten me, Mr. Miller,” she hissed.

He erected his arm like the neck of an angry swan. “How is it respectable for you to whack us around with a clipboard, Madame Gunmetal?”

She stepped backwards, filling up the corridor, and posed menacingly, like a bouncer in a dark alley.

“If you don’t think that’s fair,” she said, “Then you’re welcome to try and whack me back. Just remember, you’ve already shot me once.”

Saheel whimpered, huddling up to Eirlys, who refused to take her gaze off this JCB of a schoolteacher. The stone seemed to drop twenty degrees, freezing Beck’s bum. He shivered. He’d only felt like this before when he accidentally locked himself in a cage with a tiger. This was real staring death in the face shit.

He raised his hand, and said, “Nah, we’re good. Audience wouldn’t wanna see a guy fight a woman.”

“Good,” said Haralda, ticking a chain of boxes off her clipboard. “Before we go back, I want to see some apologies, alright?”

“Yes, Miss,” they chorused.

“Sorry for emptying my rifle in you, priesty boy,” said Beck, extending his hand. “I actually… I kinda like your style.”

“I forgive you.” Saheel gripped him. “I apologise for lodging an ice pick in your throat. It did make me somewhat of a hypocrite.”

Eirlys awkwardly planted her hand over the two of them. “I’m sorry for torturing you, Beck. I’m not really a people person.”

Beck shrugged. “I’m sure you dipshits were just trying to be interesting. Don’t sweat it.”

Haralda clapped her hands together just once, and said,

“Good. Now that everyone’s on the same page, we can get down to democracy.”