When Haruka came to, she was lying on what felt like a wooden floor. She took a deep breath, and immediately started coughing an wheezing from all of the dust that was floating in the air. “Holy crap, *cough* it’s *hack* dusty here. *chough, cough* Where *wheeze* the heck am I?” She took a look around; it was dark (and, as was previously noted, dusty) and there seemed to be a lot of unidentifiable clutter around her. Her first instinct was to think of it as some sort of cave, but the wooden floor ruled that out. Eventually, looking out, she saw a glimmer of light coming from behind what appeared to be… a curtain of some sort? As Haruka got closer, it appeared that it was indeed a curtain. A curtain that stretched of for what looked like at least 100 meters in each direction.
In her continued befuddlement, she asked herself aloud, “What the heck is this?” The last thing she expected was an answer.
“Hey!” It wasn’t a particularly threatening voice; in fact, it sounded extremely friendly, with a folksy American accent. In another context, Haruka might have welcomed such a voice. Right now, however, she was paranoid.
“What? Who said that?!”
“Me!”
This answer was not specific enough to calm Haruka down. “What?! Where are you?”
“I’m here! On the other side of the dust ruffle.”
“Huh?”
“I think you’ve confused her, Woody. I’m pretty sure it’s called a bed skirt,” came a voice with a Southern accent.
The response came not from Folksy American, but from a much gruffer voice. “You moron, how many times do I have to explain it? Andy’s a boy, therefore it is a bed kilt.”
“Skirt.”
“Kilt.”
“Skirt.”
“Kilt.”
“SKIRT!”
“KIL—”
“Hey, Slink, Potato Head. Knock it off,” said Folksy American, who Haruka assumed went by the name “Woody.” The voice then addressed her again. “Look, I doubt we’ll be able to explain anything if you stay under Andy’s bed like that, so why don’t you come on out, okay?”
“You want me to come out?”
“Yeah, most of the others are in the closet right now, and they’re waiting for you to come out so they’ll know they’ll be safe.”
“That’s right, nobody’s ever gonna come out that closet if y’all stay where you are,” Southern Accent rejoined.
Haruka wasn’t quite sure what to make of this. Curiosity finally overcame paranoia. “All right, I’m coming out,” she called as she pushed the curtain-like thing out of her way, half-expecting to be named the Grand Marshall of a Gay Pride parade.
“Hi, my name’s Woody,” said a cowboy with the Folksy American voice as he extended his hand, which Haruka accepted.
“Uh, nice to meet you, Woody. My name’s…” she briefly looked down and saw that she was still in her Senshi outfit. “Sailor Uranus.”
Five minutes later, she almost wished it had been a Gay Pride parade. It would have been much less bizarre than reality. Apparently, she had shrunk down to about a foot, and was now in the bedroom of a boy named Andy, and surrounded by toys. Toys that were alive.
There was Woody, the cowboy, who, as one of Andy’s two favorite toys, was one of the “leaders.” He was just as friendly and folksy as his voice had suggested. The two who had been arguing on the other side of the dust ruffle were Slink, a sort of dachshund with a metal coil where his body would otherwise be, and Mr. Potato Head, who was (unsurprisingly) a Mr. Potato Head.
The other “leader,” who had been keeping most of the other toys calm while they hid in the closet (which turned out to be a literal closet) was an action figure of an astronaut named Buzz Lightyear. He had a strong, deep baritone, extendable wings, a “laser” which consisted of a blinking light, three prerecorded phrases from the television show he was based on, and “karate chop action.”
The rest appeared to be a bit more relaxed (with the exception of a nervous-looking green dinosaur), but they still kept their distance; after all, they still didn’t know much about her.
And with the exception of her name, they didn’t seem to believe anything they said about her—in fact, they seemed to be trying to convince her that she was a toy herself.
“Look, I’m not a toy. I come from Japan—”
“And you should be proud of your Asian heritage, citizen,” replied Buzz. “I’m from Taiwan, myself.”
“I’m from China!” called a voice.
“Korea!”
“Mexico!”
“Mexico’s not in Asia!”
“Oh. I thought we were talking about restaurant styles.”
“And I was made right here in the U.S.A.,” finished Woody. “But don’t worry. As you can see, we accept people no matter what their country of origin is. After all, this is a nation of immigrants.” There was much agreement and nodding (from those who were physically capable of the task) at this statement.
Haruka put her head in her hands. “You have got to be kidding me.”
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(Posted Thu, 04 May 2006 01:36)
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