Stifling, black smoke billows into both my cockpit and my lungs. The mission had been proceeding smoothly. Now, my plane’s full of holes and my glasses are smudged with soot.

  I can’t see. I can’t breathe. I can’t focus. I need to leave the cockpit as soon as possible. I press in what I think is the AUTO-PILOT button and relinquish the controls. The nose dips abruptly. I retake command of the yoke, wrestle it back into place, then try again. Second time's the charm. The autopilot system activates.

  Man, screw this. All this smoke’s gonna seep into my fit and ruin my whole shit. I’m quite aware how serious my situation is, but I can't help but worry. I mean, come on. Imperial Red double-breasted tactical jacket, Floral White tactical joggers, and Brandeis Blue tactical boots with the little Horsebit. All Gucci. All custom-made.

  And now it’s gonna smell like a bowling alley bathroom. I don't know if even Lee's gonna be able to clean it. Yeah, I know I’ve got thirteen other different colored versions of this outfit at home–but this one? This one’s my favorite.

  Intel informed me this was supposed to be a simple enough mission. Real low-stakes. I land on the island, disable the missile without alerting anyone, and leave. Child’s play.

  No sense in dwelling on it. I'll just have to be quick and pray Lee can work his magic when I return.

  With a newfound urgency, I undo my harness and jump to my feet. Bullets puncture the fuselage, each impact reverberating like thunder. That’s what? The third time they’ve shot at me? Good thing I’m flying low. Too low for the cabin pressure drop to pop me like a Fruit Gusher. Silver lining, I guess.

  But how many more hits can this thing take? I’m a remarkably skilled pilot–ask literally anyone back home–but I’ve got serious doubts about a smooth landing.

  Disoriented, I turn around and fumble blindly, searching, groping for–yes! My fingers land on the door handle. I try it. Nothing. It won’t budge. It’s locked.

  Fine.

  I grit my teeth, lift my leg, and kick the shit out of the cockpit door. After several good whacks, it finally gives with a very dramatic screech. A swirling cascade of darkness and chaos greets me on the other side.

  I need some gear from the back, but can’t see a damn thing. So I stumble forward, arms outstretched, waving my hands in front of me like I’m caressing a pair of invisible breasts.

  Nope, that’s not it. Not that either.

  My lungs burn. They feel like they’re being wrapped in barbed wire. Is this what Snoop Dogg always feels like?

  That’s a seat… a seatbelt… not that… definitely not that. I sift through the madness until my fingers close around thick, nylon straps. This feels like... yeah. My parachute. My lifeline. I slide the straps over my shoulders and cinch them tight as a precaution. I don’t think this plane is gonna hold together for much longer. The odds are stacking up against me.

  Shots continue rattling the hull–sharp, angry bursts echo through the cabin. I can’t see where they’re coming from. I can’t see who’s shooting at me. I can’t see what’s shooting at me. I can’t see shit. Luckily, they can’t see any better, which might be the sole thing keeping me alive right now.

  I make my way deeper into the cabin. I need my duffle bag. Another round of gunfire cuts through the air as I duck instinctively. It’s a good thing they miss—

  BOOM!

  A roaring explosion throws me off my feet. The engine spits out a final, shuddering groan, and then we begin to free-fall.

  The blast flings me backward, and I crash into the wall just as the plane's tail tears away with a shriek. A wall of wind rushes in. It grabs me like a hand and rips me straight through the gaping hole.

  Suddenly, there’s no floor. No walls. No plane. Just open sky and a whole lot of nothing between me and the ground.

  I plummet.

  A chunk of the fuselage, still clinging on by a hair, breaks free, hurtling toward me. It spins end over end, aiming straight for my neck. I twist midair, narrowly dodging it.

  The world cartwheels around me as I tumble out of control.

  Sky. Water. Sky. Water. Sky. Water. It’s all a blur. I can’t tell what’s up or down anymore. What I can tell is that I need to deploy my parachute–now–or the ground’s gonna leave a very unpleasant mark.

  Frantically, I reach for the release mechanism. My fingers slip, slick with sweat and ash. Come on… grab it!

  My fucking glasses aren’t helping. I hate them right now—can’t see a thing through the soot caked over the lenses. I have to squint just to barely make out shapes.

  I struggle mightily. Everything’s moving too fast! Way too fast! But I finally get a hold of it!

  If I survive, I’m gonna puke like there’s no tomorrow.

  I pull with everything I’ve got and, at last, the parachute deploying with a violent snap, wrests me upright. Unwelcome whiplash clocks me, but at least the falling has stopped.

  Phew. I’m still breathing. Somehow. For a second, I just float. Relief washes over me.

  I level out as best I can. Below me, the ocean stretches out, a deep, endless blue. Bits of plane dot the water behind me.

  Okay. Deeeep breath.

  Questions ricochet around my head. What the hell happened back there? How did they know I was coming? Did someone snitch? Do we have a mole in Intel?

  I spot the island up ahead–still quite a distance away, but hopefully reachable. With any luck, my parachute will hold out long enough to get me there.

  Oh no. I can’t hold it. The spinning catches up to me. I vomit, trying to avoid my clothes, but gravity has a cruel sense of humor.

  The wind hums in my ear. The ocean glistens in the light. I take a moment to wipe my glasses and enjoy the deceptive calm. But I feel like a sitting duck.

  The island stretches for miles, blanketed in a dense, green canopy. Narrow strips of sand trace the shoreline. It’s quite beautiful, honestly. If someone hadn’t just shot me down, I might've taken a moment to soak up the scenery. Maybe even work on my tan down by the beach.

  But that thought brings me back to reality.

  Who or what shot me down?

  At first, I presumed it was another plane, but I haven’t seen one. I look in every direction, but don’t even see contrails. Anything.

  Hopefully, "they" think I went down with the wreckage.

  As if to stress the irony, three sleek military combat drones emerge from beyond the horizon. Without missing a beat, they open fire. A full-on barrage of hot lead shreds my parachute like cheap tissue paper.

  That's just my luck. I survive being ripped out of an airplane merely for my one lifeline to become Swiss cheese.

  I sink like a rock.

  Luckily, they somehow miss me, but now I've officially lost my brakes. The island rushes up to meet me, fast and unforgiving. If I don’t hurry, they’re not gonna be able to recognize me from the paste I’m about to become.

  I barely manage to grapple onto the side of one of the drones as it howls past, the force nearly ripping my shoulder clean out of its socket. Hanging on for dear life, I scramble up its metal frame, fingers clawing for leverage. The drone bucks under my weight, protesting with mechanical whines.

  With a strained pull, I amputate one of its guns, sending a jolt through my already torched arm. I aim at the other two drones, firing with one hand while hanging on for dear life with the other. I make contact. The drone veers off course, slamming into its wingman, their collision ending in a pretty little explosion.

  But I’m not in the clear.

  This damn drone beneath me can’t support my weight, and we’re falling rapidly. Almost there, though. A few more yards.

  Ah, damn, this is gonna hurt.

  We smash into the shore, just narrowly making it. The drone and I tangle in the parachute, becoming a suffocating mess of flesh, titanium, fraying polyester, and sand.

  If I couldn’t see before, I sure as shit can’t now. The drone twitches beneath me. Its targeting system apparently still online. It fires. How has it not hit me at this point? I’d fire back, but unfortunately, I dropped the gun somewhere on the beach.

  I wrestle with the tangled material, layer after layer.

  More bullets. Closer this time.

  I struggle to break free. Heart pounding rapidly, the sound almost louder than the gunfire. I can’t even make heads or tails of what I’m dealing with.

  I’m sure we look like some poor family struggling to set up their tent during dad's one weekend a year he bothers to take off.

  But wait, is that a sliver of light?

  I desperately make my way through the fabric as best as I can. Finally, I free my head and lunge at the drone, tearing off its remaining gun. I disable it with its own weapon, emptying the magazine into its cold, unfeeling body.

  Just to be sure.

  I free myself from the remaining mess and gather my bearings.

  Phew. Quiet.

  Maybe they’re done shooting at me for a while. I toss the gun aside—I can’t afford to draw any more attention…assuming they don’t already know I’m here.

  Okay, time to find the base and infiltrate it. Where should I start looking? Where would someone hide a missile on this island? Duh. In the volcano, obviously.

  What, did I forget to mention the volcano? Smack dab in the middle of all this lush serenity stands a towering, lava-spewing behemoth dominating the landscape.

  I make my way toward the volcano, pushing through dense underbrush, until I spot two armed guards standing in front of a rusted metal door, nestled into the bottom of the mountain. Because that’s definitely not suspicious at all. I wonder what they could be hiding?

  I need to dispose of the guards, but all my silent weapons went down with my bag on the plane. Pistols with silencers, knives, poison darts… oh, even my Submariner watch—all decorating the ocean floor by now.

  So now what? How am I gonna get past these guards? Looks like it’s time to improvise a weapon. I study the area, surveilling the island’s natural arsenal.

  Selecting a thick, sturdy branch and a jagged rock, I fasten them into a makeshift spear, reinforcing it with nearby vines. I test its sharpness on the bark of a tree. It sinks in easily, confirming it’s sharp enough for those two jabronis.

  Further exploration yields large palm leaves. I loop several together between two slim trees growing side by side, creating a slingshot. I pull back on the leaves to test their elasticity. They snap with a satisfying boing boing. Perfect. This should do the trick.

  Okay, I’ve got one shot. If I miss, in all likelihood, I’m dead. No pressure.

  I bring the slingshot back as far as it’ll go, the sharpened branch locked in place. Steeling my nerves, I breathe in, aim at the guards, and release.

  The branch torpedoes through the air like a javelin from hell and impales both guards clean through their heads.

  Bullseye.

  The impact sends them crashing into the wall, where they hang, skewered like apples.

  I approach the door, observing the grim tableau I’ve created. The rusted metal door looms ahead. I grip the handle, push it open, and slip inside, closing the door behind me.

  Time to see what they’re hiding in this place. Time to disarm this missile.

  I scan the sprawling maze ahead. Sterile metal hallways. Branching paths. Flickering lights. Does this place have a directory? Would be nice if my phone could give me directions around a secret volcano base.

  WHACK!

  Something bludgeons the back of my head. Everything goes dark.

  With no idea how long I was out for, I regain consciousness—my head throbbing from whatever hit me.

  I blink through the pain and take in my surroundings. I’m in some kind of large, dimly lit industrial chamber. Pipes line the walls. Steam hisses from vents that haven’t been cleaned in decades.

  I can’t move. My arms and legs are bound tightly with thick rope. Another, even thicker, rope wraps around my torso, tethering me to something big, cold, and metallic. I don't exactly comprehend what I'm tied to.

  A narrow platform sits beneath me, suspended high, high above the ground, with a long walkway stretching forward into another room. Way above: a colossal door, the size of the entire chamber, that probably opens with some kind of... tucked in the far corner of the platform, half-hidden in shadows, rests a control console.

  I don’t see anyone. Guards. Scientists. Other than my futile attempts to break free, all I hear is the faint hum of machinery.

  I crane my neck, trying to get a better look behind me. I make out the words “HIGHLY RADIOACTIVE” stamped across the metal in faded letters. Guess I found the missile. That also answers the question of what I’m tied to.

  After what feels like hours in silence, a noise perforates the stillness—footsteps. Slow. Deliberate. Heading down the walkway toward me.

  A voice follows, dripping with mockery and rich timbre. “Well, well, what’s this?” the mysterious figure asks with a sneer. ”The legendary Blade McGraw, all tied up and unable to whip up one of his little do-dads to help him escape? How pathetic. How droll.”

  As he comes into the light, I lock eyes with him.

  Average height. Capable build. Confident stride. His uniform is crisp–clearly military, but I don’t recognize it. Medals gleam across his chest. Every inch of fabric looks tailored to intimidate. At his hip, a pristine leather belt holds a polished sheath. Just peeking out: the hilt of a knife.

  I raise an eyebrow. “Are you the new guy? You know, I’m pretty sure I took out your predecessor a few weeks ago. Old guy with the weird haircut?”

  He spits at me in disgust.

  Not just a little spit—no. Like a considerable amount of spit.

  Like enough spit for me to still be thinking about it. I can still hear the splat echoing in my head.

  I really hope he doesn’t come any closer—don’t want him to drool on me. Who is this bonehead anyway?

  Unfortunately, he keeps walking toward me. Of course he does.

  “You can call me Henchman,” he says, with an obnoxious level of pride. “And I’m actually glad you eliminated that old fool. He was holding me back. S.H.A.D.Y. has finally come to their senses and recognized my brilliance, promoting me to a title worthy of my status–General Henchman.”

  He pauses as if to let that land. It doesn’t.

  “And now I’ve captured the ever-elusive Blade. After this, they’ll surely give me another promotion.”

  He’s now close enough that I can read the gold nameplate pinned to his breast: Gen. Eric Henchman. This guy's a general?

  I scoff. “Listen, I honestly don’t give two shits who you are or what shiny title they gave you. Just tell me what you want so I can get on with my mission.”

  He fakes a laugh.

  “Your mission?” he asks, savoring the word. “You mean the one you’ve already failed? The one where you fly in undetected, sneak into my base, and disarm my missile without alerting anyone?” He leans in slightly and grins. “How exactly do you intend on doing that when you can’t even use your hands? You weren’t supposed to even make it this far. You’re just lucky that you survived your plane crashing.”

  Okay, I do give a shit that he knows all that. He knows everything. Now I’m sure there’s a mole. I can’t act concerned, though.

  “I don’t need hands to stop you or the missile,” I calmly inform him.

  This book's true home is on another platform. Check it out there for the real experience.

  He spits again. Does this guy hydrate at all? It’s clear he doesn’t believe me.

  I press on. “But I am curious as to who told you about my mission. Only a handful of people were given clearance.”

  He hesitates, realizing he’s said too much.

  “As much as I’d love to stay and tell you…” He trails off, clearly scraping for an answer. “I actually have other matters to attend to.”

  “Ooh, what kinds of things? Book club? Laundry? Can I come with you?” I ask with a shit-eating grin.

  He spits again and growls, “Have fun hanging there.”

  He turns and marches away.

  Alright, playtime’s over. Gotta figure a way outta this mess.

  First priority—cut these ropes if I’m gonna do anything. That’s gonna be a challenge when I can't move my arms or legs.

  Minutes crawl by as I rack my brain for solutions. What do I have? What can I use?

  Then it hits me. Inspiration.

  Henchman had a knife strapped to his belt. If I can reach it, I can slice these ropes. The question is, how do I reach it? Think, Blade. Think.

  My eyes drift to my right shoulder. A thought forms. Well, could I use a magnet to attract the knife blade? I mean, I could use... No, there has to be another way. Maybe I could make a magnet?

  I’ve got it.

  I swivel my neck around and zero in on one of the missile’s side panels–held together by four screws, one in each corner. They need to go.

  I stretch my neck farther than any human neck should be able to and clamp my teeth around the top-left screw. Metal meet enamel. It tastes fucking awful.

  I bite down hard and turn my head counterclockwise. The screw budges–a little.

  God, I hate how this feels. I keep turning; the screw frustratingly slips every other time. Come on, you slippery bastard. A few more turns…

  Almost there.

  Got it! I spit the screw out. It clatters down the chamber. One down, three more to go.

  The things I do for my country…

  Meanwhile, in a nearby surveillance room, a security guard watches Blade on one of the monitors. He squints, frowns, then types something on his keyboard. Blade’s feed enlarges on the central monitor.

  “Uh.. sir?” the guard calls out, voice edged with unease. “You should come take a look at this.”

  Henchman sighs audibly from across the room. Annoyed, he obliges and reluctantly walks over.

  “What? What is it?” he demands.

  The guard hesitates, his finger hovering near the screen.

  “It… uh… it looks like he…”

  Henchman’s eyes narrow. He sort of realizes what he’s seeing—sort of.

  Blade’s neck is pivoted around, his mouth working furiously against the missile casing.

  “...What the hell? Is he making out with my missile?!”

  Sweat beads down the guard’s forehead. He stammers, searching for any combination of words that might explain what they’re watching.

  Henchman doesn’t wait. Enraged, he throws his coffee cup to the ground. The cup boomerangs off the floor and nails him squarely on the knee. Scalding hot coffee trickles down his leg, leaving a dark stain on his pants.

  “Blaaade!” he roars, limping furiously out of the room.

  Back with Blade–

  I’m on the third screw. I hate everything. This is soooo taxing. What’s the appropriate comparison? Like tying a cherry-stem knot with your tongue repeatedly. Or chewing on uncooked fusilli pasta if the pasta was made of metal.

  I twist it loose and spit it into the chamber. Just one more. I only need the last one anyway.

  I bite down on the final screw head. It doesn’t move. Why? Why?! It’s stripped and won’t catch. Of course it is. Gah, I’m this close!

  My teeth beg for mercy. No way this is covered by my health insurance. What? You think working for the government comes with coverage for luxury bones like teeth? Please.

  There has to be another way to do this. I try everything: adjusting the angle, clenching even harder, asking nicely.

  After what feels like a lifetime, I manage to loosen the screw slightly. My jaw tightens, and it moves again. My molars feel like they’re about to crack under the strain, but it's moving.

  One…more…turn!

  I undo the last screw, lips clamped tight around it, breath ragged from my herculean effort. Carefully, I tuck the screw into the back left pocket of my mouth like a cough drop. For safekeeping.

  The now-free metal panel drops down the chamber, eventually clanging on the floor far below. The sound reverberates for an absurdly long time. Hopefully, no one hears it. It’s not like that panel was doing anything important.

  I swish the screw around with my tongue, tasting its cold, iron-alloy composition. It won’t be overly magnetic, but it’ll have to do.

  I return my focus to the exposed internals of the missile. A chaotic web of wires, microprocessors, and unfamiliar objects. I don’t have a clue what most of these things do, but one thing I do know—I need something with copper. My eyes land on a girthy bundle of wire. Jackpot.

  Unfortunately, I’m aware of only one way to get it. And I deeply, deeply don’t want to do this, but I guess I don’t have a choice.

  I corral several wires with my teeth, brace myself for what’s coming, and chomp down. They snap. A massive surge of electricity travels through my body.

  My body stiffens. A cartoonish wisp of smoke rises from my head as the shock momentarily overwhelms me. At least I’m pretty sure my insurance covers electric shocks—union fought for that one.

  Gritting through immense pain, I get started. One by one, I meticulously strip the wires of their tough plastic casing, using my teeth as a sort of potato peeler. Never thought I’d treat wire like string cheese.

  I guide the copper strands around the screw, tonguing them into place. This has gotta be one of the wettest contraptions I’ve ever made.

  Not quite done—one step left.

  All I need now is a battery.

  Oh, look–there’s one. Conveniently tucked underneath the same wires I just tore out—a dusty nine-volt feeding into a tiny LED timer. Who knew dismantling a missile with your mouth was gonna be this challenging?

  I stretch my neck, stretching every possible vertebrae, but this time, I can’t reach. My tongue snakes out, brushing against the battery’s metallic tang.

  I’m so close.

  I try to tongue it loose, grunting through the effort, to no avail.

  Then–“Stop!”

  The command echoes through the chamber like a gunshot.

  Startled, I bang my head into the side of the exposed panel, slightly wiggling the battery free from its housing. I was so locked in, I didn’t even hear him approaching.

  ”Stop whatever the hell you’re doing! Hey, I'm talking to you! Answer me, damn it!” Henchman’s whiny voice cuts through the air.

  I ignore him. I need to work promptly, or I’m gonna lose my chance.

  He’s getting closer and closer; his boots thud louder with each step.

  Come on, I’m nearly there. I can almost reach it! My tongue flicks wildly at the battery like an overeager teenager on prom night. Slowly, it begins to budge, inch by sultry inch.

  Henchman’s nearly here. Just a few more licks... then I'll reach the center of the Tootsie Pop.

  Got it.

  I dislodge the battery. Unfortunately, it falls straight down into my throat. I choke, sputter, then violently cough it up in that order. After a second of recovery, I get started on crafting my escape.

  He stops about ten paces away.

  “What do you expect to find in there?" he questions, motioning to the exposed missile.

  I face him, cool and collected. I keep my mouth shut, attempting to hide the various objects bursting from my lips. I don’t think he actually realizes.

  There.

  I finish wrapping the copper wire around the screw after tying it to the batteries' terminals, and connecting everything with an even longer piece of wire.

  Now complete, I spit the magnet out at him with every ounce of force I’ve got, keeping one end of the long wire looped around a molar. It soars through the air, not quite reaching him, but close enough.

  He has no idea what’s happening.

  The magnet pulls the knife straight from his belt, snatching it midair. He barely has time to react before I yank the wire back.

  The magnet-knife combo returns, slicing through the multiple layers of rope holding me hostage. I drop, but catch myself on the platform.

  Liberated, I rise and face him.

  I’m free, bitch.

  He freezes, momentarily slack-jawed. One minute I’m tied up, the next I’m free.

  “Shit,” is all he manages to spit out–well, that and more spit. Guy’s got a salivation issue. He needs a bib.

  I hastily secure the knife to the magnet using the remaining wire I’d stored under my tongue. Now, I’m free and armed. With a flick of my wrist, I swing it in front of me–my very own wire-knife. I lasso it above my head since that looks badass.

  Henchman panics, fumbling for his walkie-talkie.

  “Alpha Team—come to the hangar now!” he squawks.

  That could be a problem.

  “Blade has escaped!”

  Smash!

  A silver blur flashes through the air. His walkie explodes into a shower of debris. I retract the wire-knife with a whip, just inches from taking his nose off.

  He yelps and throws his arms over his face in terror. “No, please don’t!”

  I take a step forward. “You sure you’re a general? Besides, cooperate, and I’ll play nice,” I assure him, certain I now have the upper hand.

  “What do you want to know?” His voice cracks, the bravado from earlier gone.

  “Hmmm. Well, first off, I want you to tell me who you’re working for. I want you to tell me who leaked my mission details. I really want to know who is trying to kill hundreds of thousands of Patriots with this missile. Please tell me. Pretty please. I’ll be happy to give you your knife back if you don’t answer my questions.”

  I shoot Henchman a look–a look that he correctly interprets as I’m going to kill him if he doesn’t comply.

  “Okay, look…” he starts.

  But as soon as I’m about to finally get some information, red alarm lights flash overhead and sirens erupt.

  From the chamber speakers, an artificial female voice speaks: “We appreciate your cooperation with the following: self-destruction. T-minus ten minutes until missile self-destruction commences. T-minus ten minutes until self-destruction. Thank you.” She’s awfully cheery for a harbinger of death.

  That’s really not good.

  Henchman–still trying to catch up to reality–spits (again, way too much spit) in my direction.

  “What have you done?!” he screeches.

  What have I done?

  “What have I done?” I echo back.

  What does he think I’ve done? Does he think I’m trying to nuke myself?

  “I didn’t do anything,” I posit.

  It’s clear he doesn’t believe me.

  “It was supposed to strike the Patriot Isles, not destroy my base!” he barks, gesturing angrily toward the missile.

  Yeah? Why do you think I’m here in the first place, guy?

  He seems dejected, his shoulders slumping as if the weight of the situation is finally catching up with him. The prideful general is now a shell of his former self.

  He whispers to himself, “I’m so fucked,” but I’m an expert lip reader.

  After a moment, his spine stiffens again, and his anger seems to be returning. He’s returning to his original form.

  “You’ve ruined everything!” he exclaims.

  Back to blaming me.

  I exhale, patience running thin.

  “I did not set that thing off,” I respond, keeping my voice as even as possible. “I came here to stop it from hitting the Patriot Isles without alerting anyone. You think I want to start an international crisis, fail my mission, and blow myself up in the process?”

  Henchman chews on that rebuttal for a second. But hang on–if he didn’t set it off, who did? Is there someone else here trying to stop it? I don’t really have time to think about it.

  Just then, several heavily armed guards enter behind him, but strangely, none of them carry guns—instead, they wield a mishmash of assorted medieval weaponry.

  They look more like a bunch of cosplayers than guards, armed with a cleaver, halberd, pike, flail, and flamberge—what a peculiar assortment. This is Alpha Team?

  Henchman turns to address his men. “Hurry up and take care of Blade so we can all get out of here before this damn thing blows!” The urgency in his voice is palpable.

  The guards exchange uneasy looks, then start closing in.

  Without hesitation, Henchman’s cowardice shines through as he immediately attempts to flee, but I’m not about to let that happen. I block his exit with a throw of my wire-knife, embedding it in the platform in front of him.

  Startled, he lets out a strangled cry and, like a rat, scurries behind the control console in the corner of the platform, cowering in fear. I’ll worry about him later.

  Gotta focus on the immediate problem at hand. The guards are approaching. I hope they’ll come at me one at a time, but somehow I doubt I’ll get that luxury.

  The pike wielder lunges first, closely followed by the halberd. I evade the pike with a sidestep and swiftly throw my wire-knife into Mr. Pike's ankle. He cries out in pain, dropping to one knee.

  Before I can relish the moment, Mr. Halberd swings for my head with brutal force. I drop to the floor, letting his momentum work against him. Opportunely, I yank Pike's leg out from under him, and he crashes to the ground, his face meeting the cold steel of his own weapon with a sickening crunch..

  Halberd recovers, his eyes rabid, and launches a relentless barrage of swings. He comes dangerously close to my head a few times.

  With a hurried leg sweep, I trip Halberd, sending him tumbling to the ground. I can’t be bothered to keep calling him Halberd. Let’s just call him Hal for convenience’s sake.

  Hal hurries to his feet, and now Mr. Flamberge joins the party.

  Henchman, in the middle of all this mayhem, tries to get away once again, but I don’t give him the satisfaction. Another quick toss of my wire-knife blocks his escape. He scampers back to his hiding spot.

  I block the guards’ fresh attacks, but their unwavering assault pushes me back. Two blades come at me from different angles, requiring me to pull a Neo—you know, the "bullet-time" thing, scarcely avoiding their strikes. As I snap back upright, I briskly coil the wire around my forearm, tightening my grip for better control.

  Without warning, Mr. Flail launches his spiked weapon directly at my face. The heavy iron ball swings with terrifying speed. Instinct kicks in. I propel my wire-knife–its blade catches the chain mid-arc, entangling the two weapons in a perfect snare. Each of us gripping an end, the chain taut and trembling between us..

  He jerks hard.

  I jerk harder.

  He tries again, putting his all into it. Bad idea.

  I release my grip.

  Caught off guard, his flail careens wildly to the left. It’s momentum rips the wire-knife from the air, driving it straight into Mr. Cleave’s chest. The blade roots deep. Cleave collapses to the floor, hands clawing at the hilt as blood pours out.

  That’s two down.

  Three still remain, but I’m unarmed. Plenty of weapons lie scattered about, but reaching them won't be easy.

  I sense something hurtling toward me at an insane velocity—it’s Flamberge’s flamberge. Shit, I’m dead. Miraculously, I heave myself out of harm's way in time—the massive weapon missing my chest by mere centimeters.

  The blade wedges itself into the grated metal floor. I clamber toward it, grateful it landed close, but of course, it won’t move.

  Across the platform, Mr. Flail winds up for another offense, his gaze fixed on me. Need to find a way to block him–need something! I pull at the flamberge handle again, my muscles throbbing; it still won't budge, but I notice the grated floor beneath it shifts slightly upward.

  Flail throws. I need this thing now! With every fiber of strength, I continue straining, but to no avail. The flail’s spiked head races for me at breakneck speed. Damn it!

  Just as the barbed ball of death closes in, the floor beneath the flamberge gives way. Instinctively, I wrench the floor panel upward to deflect the incoming attack. The flail boomerangs off my improvised shield right back in front of him.

  The impact jolts the flamberge loose enough for me to seize the opportunity and yank it free.

  Got a weapon and a shield now, bitch.

  Mr. Flamberge scoops up his fallen comrade's cleave–guess we’ll call him Cleave Jr. now. Flail scoops up his own.

  The three remaining guards form a cautious triangle, inching closer as they attempt to entriangle me. I assume a defensive stance, ready for their approach. This is gonna be fun.

  Cleave Jr. strikes with the ferocity of his predecessor. I parry his blows with my floor shield, but before I can counter, both Flail and Hal join in. Their weapons swing in tandem–a blur. I twist, dip, and dodge with my nimble body.

  I can’t win this with force alone. I’m gonna have to get clever. I shift my focus to deception.

  With a forceful stomp on Flail's chain, I send him crashing to the ground. In a swift motion, I cast my shield high into the air. The two standing guards instinctively snap their heads upward, tracking its arc.

  Taking advantage of their lapse, I consequently drive the flamberge forward, slicing through Cleave Jr.’s neck. His head drops, followed by his body. Hal recognizes his impending doom, so he raises his weapon to block mine, but forgets the falling shield. It slams down into his skull with deadly force, sealing his fate.

  One assailant left.

  Mr. Flail struggles to untangle the wire-knife from his chain, grunting as he finally tears it free. He spins both weapons in tight, frenetic circles–trying to look imposing, I guess. (General Grievous-ass bitch.)

  But he’s unaware of the wire-knife's magnetism, and his two spinning weapons unwittingly begin to draw closer. They suddenly collide with a metallic clang. He curses and attempts to pry them apart, his focus wavering.

  Capitalizing on the confusion, I sling the flamberge at his chest. He senses my attack in the corner of his eye and manages to block it with his knotted mess of chain and wire.

  He lunges forward, desperate and reckless, his tangle of weapons now more hazard than help. I duck under a wild swing–just in time–noticing how his chain and wire start to snarl around his arms. He’s too tunnel-visioned to notice he’s practically gift-wrapped himself.

  I backpedal toward the open floor panel–the same one I pried loose with the flamberge. Flail charges. At the last second, I leap to the side. Flail doesn’t stop.

  With a final, startled squeal, he drops straight into the chasm.

  Thank you. Finally. They’re taken care of.

  But as I take a second to celebrate, Henchman rises from his hiding spot, pistol now aimed squarely at me.

  “You’ve had a gun this whole time?!” I can’t believe it.

  “I have a strict no-firearm policy in this section of the base,” he replies, voice tight, “to prevent mishaps of the nuclear variety–”

  His eyes flick to the missile, then back to me.

  “—But I don’t think that policy really matters anymore.”

  Right. That explains why his cosplay crew had those unique weapons instead of using actual firepower.

  But now I’ve got a gun pointed at me and time’s bleeding away. How do I get out of this? Think. Think. Think.

  I conjure a magnetic idea I’m not thrilled about, but if I want to survive, I have to do it.

  My jacket—the good one—houses a robust magnetic clasp that keeps my right shoulder pocket secure. Unfortunately, I don’t have time to make another magnet, but if I use this one from my jacket, I might be able to escape this place.

  But I loathe this idea.

  To get the magnet, I’ll have to intentionally tear my jacket—the good one! And it’s not just about the threads. It’s the jacket Major gave me—the first thing he ever gave me. I've had it for years. Worn it through hell and back. But damn it, I need to act!

  I sink my teeth into the clasp and subsequently my beautiful jacket, tearing the magnet free with a sickening rip. My soul hurts more than any part of my body.

  I’m sorry, Major. I doubt you even remember giving me this.

  I spit the magnet into my palm, jaw clenched.

  “What’s that?” Henchman demands. SO. MUCH. SPIT. This guy seriously needs to see a doctor.

  Anywho, time to give him an answer. I chuck the magnet straight at his head. Conveniently, it arcs directly over the entangled wire-knife and flail combo. As the magnet hovers above, it pulls the weapons upward. As it falls, it leads the weapons closer and closer to Henchman and his pistol.

  He squeezes the trigger.

  BANG!

  The bullet rockets down the barrel, only to find the blade of the wire-knife in its path. The collision causes the pistol to misfire and explode in his face. He screams in agony and crumples to the floor, twisting and writhing. The pain grips him.

  He ain’t getting up.

  From the chamber speakers, that damn cheery voice rings out again: “T-minus five minutes until missile self-destruction commences. T-minus five minutes until self-destruction. Thank you.”

  Alright. Now I gotta stop this damn missile from going off. The things I do for my country…