Chaos reigned, and the survivalists eagerly unwrapped the kidskin from their crossbows. Phase one of Opal's plan was complete.

Well, I don't like the first bit and I don't know the last bit. So I'm really hoping the middle bit is exceptional.

Knock yourself out... Or rather, don't.

Everyone says that I have no sense of humor, then I construct a perfectly sound pun around a well-known psychological condition, and it is ignored.

Very well. I understand. Just ... shut up!

Oh, I'm crazy all right. I do have plenty of psychoses. Multiple personality, delusional dementia, OCD. I've got them all, but most of all, I'm crazy about you.

Now I can do the bolts," she slurred. "I've been trying to focus enough magic all week." The magic shifted and swirled, finally etching a picture in the air. It was a rough picture of Foaly, and he was laughing. I hate you, centaur!" screamed Opal, lunging toward, and then through, the insubstantial image. Her eyes rolled back into her head, and then she collapsed, snoring, on the floor. Artemis straightened his tie. Freud, he was certain, would have a field day with that.