(from Maniac Mansion Revisited, ch1, p3: "Bernard")

A shaft of light shone through the blinds at the window, illuminating the room within. It was decorated in a slightly strange but not displeasing way; the black carpet and white walls were particularly striking. Various posters were stuck up on the walls, and pictures hung in between them and in some cases, on top of them. If there was any large space in between frames, it was occupied by a mirror. The entire ceiling was covered in them. Even the picture frames themselves were mirrors, regardless of how this looked.

People might think upon first sighting this was a room for indulging in weird perverted sexual fantasies. In fact, nothing could be further from the truth. This was a room designed, quite simply, to prevent anyone from hiding or sneaking up on its occupants.

The occupants in question, a young man and woman of about nineteen, were lying in each other's arms in the double bed. That in itself wasn't particularly unusual. The fact that they were both fully clothed under the covers was a little strange, but as someone once remarked, it takes all sorts. It was the double-barrelled shotgun just visible under the pillows that would probably be considered odd, not to mention uncomfortable.

The sun continued its daily journey, unnoticed until it chose to shine right into the man's eyes, causing him to groan, stir and when this failed to make it go away, turn and bury his face in the pillow.

"Summun turn t'big light off," he mumbled. The female sat up. It was clear that she'd been awake for some time.

"It's called the sun, Syd," she said. There was an easy, tolerant tone to her voice that said that this was a fairly frequently made point between the two of them.

"Dun care wha's call Raze…make it go'way…"

The female rolled her eyes.

"You were the one who insisted on Venetian blinds." She swung a jeans-clad leg out of bed, pulling-perhaps accidentally-the covers off as she stood and made her way across the bedroom floor. This wasn't as easy as it sounds; various black plastic bags, black painted boards with nails sticking up and a very rusty bear trap had been placed in strategic locations on the black carpet. Any burglar who managed to sneak into that bedroom (bypassing the five heavy duty locks on the doors, the burglar alarm and the tripwires and resultant booby traps in the hall) and who managed to grab something and get out again probably deserved to keep it for sheer perseverance.

People found it hard to believe that Razor and Syd slept in the same bed, yet fully clothed. Most people had claimed this was a lie, at least until that whole incident with the hidden camera. The net result had been two and a half million dollars in compensation and damages for Razor and Syd, a higher rating of respect for them both (and everyone else who'd come out the Mansion) and a public, grovelling apology from The California Squawker. Oh, and two reporters with minor lesions.

The place they lived in was a pleasant-looking white house ten minutes from the beach. It was on a private road-both of them had made sure of that-and, all in all, a nice place to live.

"What are we doing up at this time?" Syd demanded grumpily. He stood, stretching as tall as he could before letting his hands drop.

A casual observer would probably have felt that something didn't quite fit. A less casual observer would have been able to pin this feeling down to around Syd's hands. An accurate-and fast-observer would have time to notice that Syd was missing the tip of the third finger on his left hand, as well as the little finger and a small chunk of flesh from underneath it, giving his palm a weird slanting look, and would probably need to run quite quickly after observing it. Syd was exceedingly touchy about people staring at him, at least for that reason.

"You already know the answer to that," Razor told him. "Some kind of field trip."

Syd yawned again.

"Right, right, yeah, field trip. Where to?"

"Across state somewhere. I dunno exactly; it's Michael's class that's going."

Syd shook his head.

"Beats me why he still goes to class, with all that cash he's got. Well, that we've all got."

Razor fixed him with a very pointed look that would have been a lot more effective if Syd hadn't chosen that moment to turn away and put his sunglasses on.

"Maybe he finds it easier to forget that way."

Syd didn't answer. Neither of them knew what had happened to the others in the Mansion-the survivors had never spoken of it, even to each other-but they did know that Michael had almost been committed to a mental asylum by his own parents; either they hadn't believed him or they hadn't fully appreciated it.

Well, Razor supposed you couldn't really blame them for that last one. You couldn't appreciate what it had been like unless you'd been there, and even if you had, there were things that other people had seen that you hadn't, and vice versa.

It had become something of an unwritten rule among the group. Don't speak of it to more than one person, don't speak of it to anyone who wasn't there and absolutely never speak of it to the press. But you always stuck together. You had to, because after an experience like that, all you had was each other. That was why Razor and Syd were going to accompany Michael and Wendy on this creative writing course with the new teacher-Larris, or some such name-and that was why they'd both gone with the others to keep Bernard company around a scientific institute…although now she thought about it, Razor remembered that there had been some rather heated arguments about that one.

She picked her way through the organised clutter towards the door. Syd would be of no use to anyone until he'd had a shower.

The hallway beyond the bedroom was large, expansive and followed the popular mirror theme. A couple of posters were hanging on the wall, one of the creature from the Alien movies and another that appeared to be a mess of psychedelic colours. The words Green T & The Sushi Platter were scrawled at the bottom, each letter a different shade of green and all glowing in the dark.

Although the house was a fairly typical style, it had been remodelled considerably. Doors had been knocked through every single wall in existence, including the outside ones, and the upstairs floor had been removed in places, creating an exceptionally high ceiling. The few rooms on the first floor that still remained were well kept, but hadn't been decorated or furnished since either Razor or Syd had moved in.

Razor kept walking, heading for the kitchen. Food wasn't exactly on her mind at that moment, but anything would do to keep busy.

That was always the underlying theme, somehow. Keep busy. Keep your mind well and truly occupied, and you might keep hold of your sanity.

She paused in the living room, mentally running through the contents of the refrigerator. Living apart had brought more problems and complications than she realised.

The kitchen itself was a pleasant, sunny room, with a six-foot fridge-freezer, an oven and as many cupboards and worksurfaces as could be fitted in by the architect. No microwave. Neither of them could face using a microwave again yet.

A gilt silver frame on a shelf in the living room caught her eye. The photograph inside it was of ten people standing on an immaculately kept lawn, in front of a house that, in comparison, was somewhat ramshackle.

Razor stared at the photo for a long time. As always, she got a feeling of deep unease. It wasn't easy looking at three people, all so full of life, and knowing that by that time next week they'd all be dead.

They'd taken it outside, just before they'd all entered the Mansion. Michael had set his camera up on a timer, taken the picture of them all and then pocketed the film. They'd had it developed and had one copy made for each of their respective apartments/houses/whatever you wanted to call them. Sandy and Dave had taken one with them as well, although that was just fine by Razor. If Dave Miller was even half as uneasy as her every time he laid eyes on that picture, Razor privately thought that it was no less than he deserved after what had happened.

Her ex's eyes stared out at her, laughing. Jason had one arm around her, and they were both grinning into the camera. So full of life, so full of daring.

So full of shit.

Abruptly she reached out and slammed the photo face down onto the shelf, then strode into the kitchen to get some breakfast.