Even though he sort of wanted to glance back up the stairs to where Jan and Konstantin were, Noah made himself look determinedly forward as he headed down the steps. He was supposed to do this alone, and anyway, he didn't need anyone's help. It was a test, he was sure, and he intended to pass.

The worn stone steps descending into the earth were practically medieval, a stark contrast to the sleek high-tech equipment in the room in which he'd spilled out of some kind of stasis pod. From The Matrix to Lord of the Rings. Torches lit the passageway, and if he looked at the walls, he thought he could make out a shallow indentation to the side where the stone had been worn down by many hands over a long time. How old was this place? How long had this organization been here, working secretly to protect the world from evil?

He'd vaguely envisioned a room filled with shelves when Konstantin had explained that there were stone blocks there, but when he stepped through the doorway at the bottom of the stairs, he found that the blocks in question lined the walls of the room, like tiles. The torches that lit the room didn't do much to dispel the gloom, and in spite of the flames and the heat outside, the air was cool and still and smelled of dust and dampness, like the hall outside the basement boiler room at school. He found himself walking as quietly as he could, afraid to break the churchlike hush.

Each of the tiles on the walls indeed bore a stylized symbol of a weapon. That was a bow, this a spear; he reached out to touch one that looked like a buster sword, massive and weighty. When his fingers touched the stone, though, there was a kind of buzzing sensation that shivered unpleasantly down into his bones, and he snatched his hand back with a gasp that seemed to echo in the cave.

THAT'S NOT YOURS, a voice said into his ear, quiet and close, deep and growling, a voice with a weird quality that Noah could only think of as sticky. He whirled, looking for its source, remembering only belatedly that Konstantin and Jan had told him that his weapon would talk to him telepathically. "Are - are you there?" he asked, willing his voice not to shake.

I'M OVER HERE. The voice seemed to be coming from his left. Could a telepathic voice even have a direction? This one seemed to. Anyway, it was telling him where it was. He moved slowly towards the wall from which he'd "heard" the voice. Which of these tiles was it? For that matter, where were the weapons themselves? Were the tiles the fronts to some kind of drawer from which he would be taking his controller?

HERE, the voice instructed patiently. PICK ME UP. I BEEN WAITING FOR YOU. I BEEN GOOD.

Noah suppressed a little unsettled shiver. He could do this. He extended his left hand, but stopped before he touched any of the tiles. How would he know? On a hunch, he closed his eyes and just let himself reach for the wall, trusting intuition or the owner of the voice to guide him. His fingers came in contact with stone; this time, the nasty buzzing was absent, and he flattened his hand against the tile, feeling the carved lines of the glyph press cool and distinct into his palm.

GOOD BOY, said the voice. GET ME DOWN. I BEEN WAITING.

Noah opened his eyes and moved his hand enough to get a look at the symbol on the tile he'd found. A knife of some sort, it looked like. He couldn't see a handle or an obvious place to pull the tile away from the wall, but when he got his nails into the crack between the knife tile and the one above it, it came loose with deceptive ease, practically falling off the wall.

He didn't squeak with something that definitely wasn't panic and caught it somehow. Even as his hand closed around the squared edges, it altered, blurring in the way that tired eyes lost focus, and when the fuzziness cleared, he found himself holding something else. The handle fit perfectly into his hand, warm and contoured, comfortable, as though it had been made for him. Maybe it had. The blade itself was large, heavy and rectangular with rounded corners, reminding him of nothing more than a meat cleaver; the resemblance was emphasized by the red-hued stuff that webbed glistening across the sides of the blade, the bony spine that ran along its top edge, the ribcage-like structure that cradled the metal near its base.

It was creepy. It was definitely creepy.

IF YOU'RE GOING TO BE MY HANDLER, said the voice, YOU BETTER HOLD MY LEASH FIRM AND KEEP A STRONG ARM. I PULL, BOY. YOU GOT MY COLLAR. BUT YOU CAN'T CHOKE WHAT DON'T BREATHE.

"Um," Noah said, unnerved. He could hear it in his head now, panting softly and wetly like a big, pleased dog. He could feel it, pleased with itself and possibly with him. On a trial basis, anyway. This was his weapon? This ... might not be quite as cool as he'd expected it to be. "I'm Noah," he said stupidly.

I'M LAZARUS, the cleaver replied. HI. I THINK I WILL LIKE YOU. From a hole at the top of the handle, something pink and glistening and decidedly tonguelike flopped out and over Noah's hand and wrist.

Noah definitely squeaked this time. He wasn't totally sure why he didn't drop the cleaver, but his fingers seemed to be locked in place. He felt, somehow, like it would be a huge mistake to let go.

I WILL LIKE YOU, Lazarus decided. He fuzzed out again, leaving Noah blinking and empty-handed, but his left arm still felt heavy; when he lifted it, he found a heavy, rust-stained chain wrapped firmly around his wrist, looped through itself. A choke chain. It felt dry, at least. He really, really hoped that was just rust.

I'M HUNGRY, Lazarus interrupted Noah's train of thought. YOU'RE HUNGRY TOO. LET'S GO EAT. The thought of eating was accompanied by a low gurgle and a kind of anticipatory ferocity.

"O ... okay." Noah touched the chain gingerly with his fingers. He really would have preferred a Tamagotchi.

The jealous, rumbling growl that met that thought made him swiftly bury it and resolve not to think about that again. Ever.