"It's a little late to think about finding breakfast, isn't it?" I ask.

She nods. "There's also the matter of the perimeter breach on your secondary property. You might want to look into that before the pancakes."

"What?"

"The hall of mirrors. It's being used for dimension-hopping."

Well, fuck, of course. After I bought the ground and persuaded the traveling circus to leave behind the hall of mirrors for me, I'd sort of forgot about locking it up from anything but the physical realm. Even in an ordinary mirror-hall, all those reflections over and over could provide a focal point for a power that would be....

I take off running towards the ex- circus grounds. My twin stands where she is, smooths her hair down, picks a loose flyer off the ground. A Vote for Aeshma is a Vote for Change! it reads. She regards the colors of the slick, oily ink on the paper; then sets it back down on the sidewalk. When she walks away again, there's a patch of moss growing there.

Triumphant, I look up and yell, "THEY ARE ALIVE! ALIVE!"

t oh, dear

(bwah.)

"Dudes, is it an election year?"

"No."

"You sure?"

I sniff. "I'm the evil one, remember? If it was an election year, I'd know."

Considering our recent experiences, I'm reluctant to look into any more mirrors--but there isn't much choice. The ceiling and floor seem to be made of soft white light, and everything else is mirrors. Not wanting to create more trouble, I look at my fellow travelers. Which is when I see that Wishy-Washy is still holding the Shard in one hand, a flyer in the other.

"What's 'Autocratic' mean?" he asks.

"Why did you bring that with you?"

"I didn't, man. It was on the floor. Oh, you mean this dude? I kind of forgot about him, actually." He casually sets the Shard on the floor. It blinks and gives us a jagged glare, then runs down a corridor of mirrors.

"You mental incompetent! Why in the name of HGTV did you let him go?"

"My hand was cramping up."

This is the problem with truces. It's so rarely acceptable to kill the people you make them with.

"Still not home?"

"I fear not, my ursine friend," says the Do-Gooder, and although I detest his melodramatic phrasing I think he may be right.

"What did you just call me?"

"Hey, my clothes are on the right way again!" says Penny, and they are. It's far less cold here, as well.

"Hm."

"What's the 'Hm' for?" Penny asks. At least someone here recognizes my evil intelligence.

"We're in a hall of mirrors inside a mirror," I say. "This may not be a good thing."

"Smash the mirrors," says Wishy-Washy. "It worked for Conan."

"Smashing mirrors is what got us into our current difficulty," says the Do-Gooder. "Prudence is called for."

"Don't know her," says Wishy-Washy. "Hey, I think I might vote for this guy. He's for education, and more jobs, and something called 'trans-dimensional incursions by infernal creatures subservient to the Lord Mayor.'"

"I'm ignoring you," I say. "I'm open to suggestions."

"Go through the mirrors," suggests Edward.

"We may have to, but I'm reluctant to," I say.

"Why?" Penny asks.

"We are reflections at this point, more or less. And what is a reflection of a reflection?"

"The only way to check the back of your haircut?"

I really need some evil minions. They never try to be funny.

"My point is, I think we may be going deeper into the mirror dimension, rather than out. We have already traveled from a dangerous borderland to a chamber. I hesitate to guess what might be next."

"Do we have a choice?" asks the Do-Gooder.

"Perhaps. Let us investigate."

The ringing of my voice fades. I lower my arms and look down on my creations. I scratch my ear. An uncomfortable silence ensues.

The Cthonians writhe back and forth on the counter. As one, they raise their tentacles in greeting. I respond with a, "Hey."

The Hounds of Tindalos run to the corner, where the fridge and counter meet. One by one, they thud into the wall, each unable to figure out why they can't enter into the angle. Apparently their ability to travel through space and time is impaired by their gingerbreaded-ness.

The Deep Ones look at me expectantly. A smaller one, overcome with hunger, decides to bite off its hand. It croaks in pain and steamy-ginger-goodness fills the air. The rest of the pack smells this, and like something out of a Cousteau-esque nature documentary, fall upon their little brother like a school of pirhanna.

It apparently takes less than three seconds to skeletonize a gingerbread monster.

I turn away from the disturbing scene to look at the little gingerbread Nyarlathotep. The largest of all of the dessert demons, it stares back at me with its big tentacle of a head. A single eye on the tentacle blinks at me.

My heart pounds in my chest and my mouth goes dry. The room begins to feel too small and my body too hairy. The trees outside of the kitchen window begin to take on a sinster aspect. The knives and other instruments-de-cuisine mock me with their sharp shininess. The bottles of herbed oils and fragrant vinegars beckon to me, imploring me to drink their obviously poisonous contents.

I shake my head and grab a banana from the fruitbowl. I lunge onto the counter and pin the evil little bugger. Holding the fruit to its cyclopian eye, I yell, "STOP IT!"

Like being hit by a splash of cold water, the irrational fears fade. Dejected, Nyarlathotep pouts. Pretty impressive considering it doesn't have a discernable mouth.

I get off of the dark lord of the Cthulhu Mythos and confront the evil baked goods. "Okay, here's the drill. You don't make me crazy, and I don't eat you. Capish?"

The critters nod in unison.

"Now. What to do with you."

I yell out of the kitchen, "Honey? What should I do with a batch of ginger-demons?"

Without a missed beat, she responds. "Let them run for office."

I grunt. The Deep Ones all rub their chins speculatively. The Hounds nod amongst themselves. The genius Cthonians writhe in agreement. Ginger-Nyarlathotep scratches its butt with its head-tentacle, clearly uncertain. Eventually it wanders across the counter and grabs a magnetic notepad from the fridge. It scribbles a note and holds it up.

Is death, destruction and madness an okay platform?

I shrug. "Sure. Why not. It worked for Nixon."

t this can only end in pain. and crumbs

The outside of the mirror-hall doesn't look like much. I scrabble at the locks, then take my earring out of my ear and, using its point, scratch at the Weakest Chain spot (TM-- For When You're In A Hurry! The Spot Only You Know). The chains shatter. I can replace them later.

I run to the nearest entrance, and go in. I can hear voices not too distant. OK. Shit. OK. I can do this. I walk towards the voices.

There's a gang of people. I mean, I think they're people. I mean, most of them are people.

Hey, is that Penny?

I'm about to say, "Hi, you don't know me but I'm a fan of yours," when a piece of light skitters across my toes. It feels cool, and smooth, and sharp. "Ouch!" I say, instead.

"Eh? Did one of you just throw your voice?"

Penny shakes her head. "I have many skills--"

"Like Xena!" says Wishy-Washy.

"--but ventriloquism is not one of them."

"Then there is someone in the maze with us."

They don't appear to be hearing me. Wait. I squint-- yes. They too gleam with a faint oily, flat light-residue. They're not fully in this relam. The mirror hall is a box suspended between and among realm, and denizens can interact without fully leaving consciousness of their own realm; but you can only see people flatter or equally flat as you. The moving-piece-of-light was sharp enough to cut through to my dimensions, but they're still formatted in the manner of the place they came from.

Which is to say, I need to lose a dimension. Okay-- I suck in my stomach and think thin thoughts. A second later, I've shifted.

It's alway a weird feeling, going 2-D.

A young woman slides out of space, like paper coming off a roll and then standing upright. She stands in front of us, blinking. Her foot is bleeding.

"Whoa. How'd you do that?" I ask.