Seeing Dmitri's sour face, the Mystery Drummer let out an eerie laugh.
"Relax, I am on vacation. I just can't have you making more work for me than needed; memory wipes are hard, after all. I also definitely can't let you alert my coworkers, as a constantly ringing pager is not 'rock and roll' as these kids say."
"Why the need for air quotes? Aren't you in a rock band?"
"I am more of a jazz man, personally; but this was the best offer I found, upon arrival."
"Did you kill the previous drummer," Lead-foot asked, angrily.
"Inadvertently, yes. What does one expect me to do? He was the one who called my true name while trying to summon a succubus, of all things. Do I look like someone who can be summoned with two measly chickens and a grapefruit? Who do you take me for, A cheap escort!?!"
More chains rose from the ground but, having no target, they instead moved about like air dancers.
"You both have 2 questions a piece; use them wisely."
Lead-foot, realizing his error, took several deep breaths.
"What guarantee do we have that you really are on vacation?"
"None. You wouldn't even know if this was your first time meeting me. The same goes for that mortal you are hitching a ride on."
"Keep it calm... Keep it calm... You said wiping memories was hard, right? Unless you want me to give you significantly more work, you'd better keep your hands off little Juniper here!"
"Ha! Impudent! This is why I wanted to get away!"
The chains shook with joy, and Juniper was released.
"I like you! but never forget, I regularly eat ghosts for breakfast. Now, foolish mortal," the Mystery Drummer said before turning to Dmitri.
"State your questions, two."
Despite not having the thought speed of a person with powers, Dmitri worked overtime to get close to it. There were simply too many questions that needed answers here. Like who's the mastermind? Are they still living? How many other patients escaped? How much of this was even real? Is this all some elaborate tabletop game for the devil on vacation to get his kicks in-between shows?
Amidst this carousel of questions, one concern continually took center stage: the score to settle!
"What's the butcher look like, when he isn't shaking his head for the camera?"
"Excellent question, as I don't even need to speak for it! Follow me."
The Mystery Drummer lead the ghost and hero to the opposite edge of the exercise yard. The entrance to a white hallway was there, with even the number plates on the doors painted white. They crossed thirteen cells, each feeling like a step closer to the gallows.
"Um, excuse me. Could you tone down the mood a bit," Dmitri inquired.
"Oh, sorry. I am a sucker for big reveals."
The temperature returned to normal, and the spine tingling chill went away. However, the snow blindness-like symptoms from just being in this hall remained.
"So this is why they made it a spiral," Dmitri commented before opening the thirteenth cell door. Inside was a white room; with white walls, white ceiling, and white floor. It felt unsettling and, clearly, the original occupant agreed. Every inch of the cell was dented, their imprints suggesting a human head was used to perform the deed.
One particular spot was banged against quite frequently, as the imprint left behind contained detailed facial features.
"So this is what you look like, Happy Rabbit!"
"Excuse me," the other two asked.
"Ahem, I'll ask my next question now. Was this butcher the mastermind behind the riot?"
"I take it you don't want a simple yes or no."
The Mystery Drummer sighed, perhaps too dedicated to mystery to reveal one so easily.
"There are two individuals responsible for this riot. One was a staff member, blinded by the thought of promotion; the other was... of the same kind as this butcher."
Dmitri furrowed his brows, disturbed by the implications this Drummer had planted with a single turn of phrase.
Meanwhile, in the Juvenile wing, a thirteen year old boy crawled out from beneath a pile of corpses. Despite missing one hand and one eye, he was instantly recognizable due to the name on his tattered patient's uniform:
T. SWANSON
"Ugh, I can't wait any longer. Belly button lint, watch my 6."
Out from his belly appeared an ethereal being of striking familiarity. This being wore martial artist robes, had the appearance of an old man, and sported an antennae on his forehead.
Granted, he wasn't completely identical to Logan's grand master; this one was more youthful, and had bigger muscles.
"I swear, you have the worst patience. This is exactly what I warned you about before you ran into that butcher."
"Butcher, ha! He's never even encountered another contestant, before me!"
The young lad pumped his stump in the air, tearing a stitch. The grand master instinctively smacked him, but the hand passed right through the boy.
"Watch it! Those wounds are still tender."
"Speaking of wounds, why don't you install that storage eye you kept harping about on the road? I meet the requirements now."
The boy pointed to his empty eye socket, a malicious grin on his face.
"Oh, bless me; I couldn't ask for a better disciple! So addicted to punishment!"
They continued chatting in this fashion until reaching the toppled wine rack. Terry, overwhelmed by it all, stopped to admire his handiwork for a moment.
"Ha! They think they can lock us up? As long as I keep winning, nobody can contain me!"
"That's the spirit," his alien grand master said while clapping. The boy enjoyed this praise, puffing his chest out as if to receive a medal.
"Now, let's skedaddle; I can still sense that powerful entity, below."
"Good idea; last time was the last time I try punching above my weight level."
The boy then staggered out of the house, crossed the dirt road, and entered the forest...