The Wabbit looked up at Lapinette from the floor of the Centrale Montemartini Museum. He was dwarfed by the machinery and knew it. A faint smile played around his face as if it didn't know whether to come or go. He shrugged. She shrugged back. Lapinette knew what he was thinking. He was thinking he didn't care about the next adventure. He was tired as the old machinery, and his limbs ached. At least the turbines were getting a rest. He waved to Lapinette and she waved back. "What shall we do now?" she called. The Wabbit shrugged again. "Paint the town red?" he quipped. She started down the stairs. "Got any red paint?" He blinked and she shimmered in the light and vanished. He'd been talking to himself again and he wondered if it was a touch of madness like the Mad March Hare. It was then that he heard it. A tinkering sound that came from the depths of the turbine. It seemed to be shouting "Let me out! I haven't been greased, and my system has seen no oil for eons." The Wabbit had quite enough of ghosts, either in or out of the machine. "Begone! You're merely a trope," he said. "A trope, am I?" said the voice, "Get me out or the trope will be on you." "Hah!" said the Wabbit and he made for the door. "Stop!" cried the voice and a shadow emerged - a shadow such as the Wabbit had never seen.
