The door slid shut, leaving the four of them alone in the profoundly uninteresting room. A long, heavy silence fell. Gilda, having nothing else to do, sat on her unsupportive bed and began methodically sharpening her axe. The soft shing, shing, shing of the whetstone was sharp and angry in the quiet room, each stroke a protest against the forced inaction. Sparks flew from the steel.
Zazu, finding a comfortable corner, attempted to meditate but found the room's flawless perfection to be deeply distracting. A mind needs imperfection to find its balance, and this place had none. Pip, meanwhile, was pacing the ten-foot length of the room like a caged animal, muttering about invisible traps and the psychological horror of clean surfaces.
Finally, he couldn't take it anymore. He stopped directly in front of Gilda. "So," he said, his voice a low, desperate hiss. "Wanna go see the town?"
