As Dr. Tim lead the girls down the dark hall, he was confronted by a tall 13 year old boy sitting cross-legged on a levitating stone, clad in only leather shoes, plaid sweatpants and an American Indian chieftain feather headdress, with a set of devil horns poking up from his forehead and The Right Hand Of Doom protruding from his forearm. Never Explain sat and stared Death in the face.

The girls were startled by his sudden appearance, but Dr. Tim kept his unflappable stance.

“What do you want, Tom?” THX said, raising an eyebrow.

“I actually want to help this time.” I said. “The New Order is hot on your tail, I’m hold ‘em off.”

“Mk, thanks.” Dr. Tim said, “But I still have to pay you back for what you did.”

Dr. Tim swung a scythe, and left a steep gash in Never Explain’s chest. The laceration bled profusely, but Tom didn’t seem to care.

“Alright, I guess I deserved it. Now go.” He said.