This was supposed to be a relatively simple mission. So why do I have only five minutes to stop a nuclear missile from atomizing me? Five minutes is not a long time. And every second I spend thinking about how not long five minutes is, the time becomes even shorter.
If I can get the missile to launch and detonate mid-air, that might work. I’d probably avoid the fallout, but how do you even launch a missile? I must've been sick that day in physics class.
My eyes bounce around the chamber looking for some kind of big, obvious "MAKE ROCKET GO" switch.
Oh, right—that control console Henchman hid behind earlier. I bet that's my ticket. He's still moaning in pain where he fell.
Can you be quiet, please? I need to focus.
I dance around the bodies littering the floor until I spot a dusty monitor on the other end of the platform. It’s old. It comes with a clicky, yellowed keyboard. Where’s the mouse? And no touchscreen either.
The operating system is as barebones as it gets: white text on a black screen. Don’t they make missile controls for computer illiterates like me? The arrow keys are my only means of navigating the interface.
First step: open that huge launch bay door so the missile has somewhere to go. I crane my neck to admire its sheer scale—two slabs of reinforced steel, sealed tight—then return my gaze to the console.
The screen reads: DIAGNOSTICS, HYDRAULIC CONTROLS, FUEL, NAVIGATION, STORAGE, PNEUMATICS, SCHEMATICS.
What is half this shit?
I hit Enter on HYDRAULIC CONTROLS, naively hoping it’ll take me where I need to go. It doesn’t. Or… maybe it does? I can’t tell—none of the stuff on the screen makes any sense. I’m not even sure the door is operated by hydraulics.
I back out to the initial menu and notice something I missed before: a tiny NEXT PAGE prompt at the bottom.
Oh, good. A whole new set of confusing-ass options.
I flip to the next page. Then the next. And the next. And the next. Page after page after page. It never ends.
None of them say DOOR. I don't see HATCH, ACCESS, ENTRY—nothing even close.
I pound the keyboard in frustration. A small box appears in the top-right corner; a countdown timer reads just a little over three minutes remaining.
Gee, thanks for reminding me. But hey, pounding actually accomplished something.
Let's try my Neanderthal tactics again. I mash the keyboard until a new text prompt pops up in the center of the screen—a little magnifying glass to its left. A search bar!
This should make things much easier.
I start typing "door," but the computer stops me before I even begin.
Another pop-up. This time: YOU DO NOT HAVE ACCESS TO THE SEARCH FUNCTION. PLEASE CONTACT THE IT DEPARTMENT TO REQUEST ACCESS.
You've got to be fucking kidding me.
A familiar voice from above: "T-minus three minutes until missile self-destruction commences. T-minus three minutes until self-destruction. Thank you."
Yes, thank you. I hadn’t noticed the timer in the corner. Completely forgot that I'm about to be reduced to ashes. How many different ways are they going to remind me I'm gonna die?
I have confidence in myself, but what happens when reality barges in and tells confidence to beat it? Even if I do find the door controls, I still have to launch the damn missile and pray it flies high enough before it explodes. I don’t have any idea what the fallout radius of a nuke this size is, but I'm gonna go out on a limb and say: probably pretty big.
Mashing didn't work, so it's back to flipping. I feel like my labor’s being exploited.
Next page. Nothing. Next page. Wait—what is HENCHMAN'S LAUNCH PLAYLIST? Next page. I’m losing hope, but I can't give up; there are no other options. It’s me or nobody.
My eyes glaze over the screen. I wonder if I already passed the door controls without noticing. Not exactly the most retina-friendly interface.
Next page.
The timer keeps ticking. I try not to look at it, but my life is kinda on the line, so it's tricky not to be distracted.
Next page.
Next page.
WAIT.
Two-thirds of the way down the page: DOOR OPERATION.
I open the menu, and the computer greets me with a surprisingly simple choice: DOOR OPEN or DOOR CLOSED, with the closed option already highlighted. I switch to DOOR OPEN and hit Enter.
Another damn pop-up: PLEASE ENTER YOUR PASSWORD.
It's almost like they don't want me to save... well, me.
What could the stupid password be? There are like a trillion permutations, but I've gotta try some.
12345—nope.
00000—no.
Password—I thought that might work.
As a last-ditch Hail Mary, I type OPEN SESAME, aware it's a stupid-ass guess.
But then, a terrible, screeching, metal groan echoes above my head. A fragment of light pierces through. The door… is opening!
I blink at the screen. I can't believe OPEN SESAME worked. These absolute morons.
I can't believe the door is opening.
I can't believe the door is opening... so slowly!
The door is opening, but it’s opening with the speed of a government-funded construction project. I might die of old age before the damn thing opens.
Fuck! What now?
Maybe there's a way to extend the timer—give the door enough time to open and me enough time to figure out how to launch the missile.
But that means...
Next page.
Next page.
I reach the end. Nothing about timers. Nothing about overrides. But I didn't start at the beginning like I did when searching for the door controls, so I restart the whole process with much, much less time than before.
At least it should be a painless death. I won't feel a thing when I'm vaporized.
I’m so annoyed. I’ve already read all this!
A voice from above: "T-minus one minute until missile self-destruction commences. T-minus one minute until self-destruction. Thank you."
I know.
I KNOW.
I already have subtitles on. The countdown timer continues to tick.
Am I even truly comprehending anything? Everything’s starting to blur.
Wait—did that say TIMER? Nope, it says TIME. As in, it's literally an analog clock.
What octogenarian programmed this software? The sole reason a clock like this would be useful is if someone dropped their watch into the middle of the ocean.
I reach the final page again.
Thirty seconds left. I don't have time to worry about not having enough time.
It’s impossible to focus over the drumming of my heart through my entire body—three pulses for every second ticked away.
The words on the screen dance in a fury.
Focus. Measured breathing. I take a deep breath and concentrate, potentially for the last time.
Twenty seconds. I restart the search again.
Next page.
My fingers shake uncontrollably.
Ten seconds.
Next page.
TECHNICAL DOCUMENTS.
ADMINISTRATIVE DOCUMENTS.
PERSONNEL DOCUMENTS.
MISCELLANEOUS.
What the hell’s in MISCELLANEOUS?
Whatever it is, it's my last chance.
I press Enter.
Maybe it's divine intervention. Maybe it's pure luck. Either way, it's the correct choice.
On the third row down, the monitor displays: EXTEND TIMER COUNTDOWN?
Yes!
Five seconds.
Enter.
Four seconds.
EXTEND FOR HOW LONG?
The maximum amount!
Three seconds.
ARE YOU SURE?
Two seconds.
YES, I'm FUCKING sure!
One second.
I could squeeze a diamond out my ass right now if I clenched any harder, but it’s all for naught.
The countdown timer stops at 00:00 and flashes. I’m still here. I'm not dead.
Holy shit, I'm not dead!
The speakers crackle again, that same annoying voice: "Countdown extended. Countdown extended. A new countdown will commence momentarily."
The briefest of pauses.
"T-minus five minutes until missile self-destruction commences. T-minus five minutes until self-destruction. Thank you."
WHAT?!
FIVE MINUTES?! THAT'S WHAT WE STARTED WITH!
What an absolute lesson in futility.
You're telling me the maximum timer extension is only five fucking minutes? I need to find this programmer and give them a piece of my mind.
Screw it. Let's just extend it again.
No dice. Another bloody pop-up: MAXIMUM EXTENSION LIMIT REACHED.
I should be used to it by this point in my life, but how the hell am I so unlucky?
Okay. Okay. Okay. I bargain with myself.
There’s a way out of this, but I'm succumbing to the realization that this missile is going to explode. If I didn’t have the nuclear component to worry about, then I could at least potentially outrun the blast radius. I'd stand a chance at escaping. But now? Certain death.
In truth, that might be my best option at this point. If I can somehow remove the nuclear component quickly enough, maybe I can survive.
I remember where it is—my mind flashes to the "HIGHLY RADIOACTIVE" panel I was tied to earlier—but how am I gonna get to it? I’ve already conveniently removed the panel, but I don't have a way to climb up to it.
Do I dare go back to the menu mines and see if there's a way to remove it from the computer console? I just can't bring myself to do it—the time I'd waste, only to be stopped by some inevitable bitch-ass pop-up. I'll just have to find a way up instead.
I search for any footholds or any places to jump from but find nothing. What about some kind of grappling hook? Maybe if I had more time.
If I had some kind of adhesive, I could just climb the bitch. There's gotta be some around here.
Nothing nearby—maybe there’s some further in the base?
Is this really my best option? Running around looking for a glue stick? A search through my brain's filing cabinet turns up no alternatives, so I settle on my worst idea in the last few minutes.
I sneak one last glance at the timer in the corner—just under five minutes remain.
Piece of cake.
Find adhesive, scale the missile, remove the glowy stuff, and escape—all in under five minutes. So much for this being a simple mission. Someone owes me an explanation... and a beer.
I march my still-trembling ass down the singular path—the walkway Henchman and his lackeys came down. Making progress, I eventually find myself standing between two doors: one on my left and one on my right.
Which one do I choose? Right, I guess.
It's locked.
I‘ve gotta stop trusting my instincts today. Whatever seems like the proper choice, I'm doing the opposite.
I try the left door. Same fate.
I—BAM—JUST—BAM—WANT—BAM—SOME—BAM—GLUE—BAM!
The door caves in, and I lower my battering ram of a leg. You've got to be shitting me. It's a damn break room—adorned with a coffee machine, microwave, and tables with just the cutest little succulents you've ever seen. Inspirational wooden placards and posters decorate the space. Very cozy.
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I doubt this place'll yield any useful results, but I check anyway. I throw open cabinets and pull open drawers. No adhesive. Honestly, anything sticky will work at this point.
How about this? I open a larger cabinet, unlike the others, just to find half the dry ingredients for baking a cake. Great! Too bad my birthday's not for a few months.
There ain't shit in here, and I don't have time for a thorough search. Gotta try the other room.
I remember the other door is locked, so I dart out of my current room and slam my shoulder into the other door, but it doesn’t do what I hoped. THUD. Oww, that fucking hurt.
After a moment of recovery, I resort to ol' reliable—kicking it down.
The door eventually gives, revealing yet another break room. But this one's different: couches, a massive TV, even a massage chair. Do these guys do any work here?
These two rooms are such a funny contrast to the dankness of the chamber I just came from.
The only place that could possibly hide adhesive in here is the coat closet across the room. I throw the doors open, and—you won't believe what I find inside.
Coats. Obviously coats. Nothing in their pockets, either.
I can't keep wasting time searching room after room, hoping to find a needle in a haystack.
Wait—what if instead of finding an adhesive, I make some? A simple adhesive is easy enough to make with three common ingredients. Huh—my inner monologue is starting to sound like an infomercial.
Oh well, looks like my birthday’s coming early this year.
I race back to the left room, throw open the cake cabinet again, and take the flour and salt. Okay, now I need a bowl. I scan the room—no bowls. Just need something to... that'll work!
Sorry, plant.
I rip the cardamom plant out of its pot—the one sitting on top of the fridge—and fill the pot with water from the sink. Adding the proper proportions of flour and salt, I mix the ingredients in a circular motion with my rigid spatula hand. Elbow deep, I spin it round and round my forearm until the mixture thickens into a paste.
Voilà. Like a first grader showing off their art project, I'm proud of my accomplishment.
If I hadn’t already ripped my good jacket in the previous chapter... of my life... I‘d be furious at its current state—sleeve covered in goo, schmutz, and vomit lumps—but I'm throwing caution to the wind. At least I can likely still salvage my joggers and boots.
With my newly created glue-plant in hand, I dash back to the missile chamber.
Something feels different this time, though, but I'm so focused on the task at hand, I don't think about it for more than a second.
My attention is on the missile, now seemingly taller than it looked a minute ago.
No time for admiration.
I clamp the pot between my thighs and submerge both hands into the adhesive, rubbing them together to ensure maximum coverage. Shit, is this gonna cut it? I glance down at my hands... then at my boots. I let out a very long, exasperated sigh.
Crouching, I lower the pot to the ground. Then I gently dip the tips of my boots into the goo, ensuring every inch is coated.
With both hands and feet now sticky, I begin my ascent. My right palm presses against the cold exterior of the missile. Then the left. Then the right boot. Then the left.
Gradually, I crawl upward, one calculated move at a time.
Palm. Palm. Boot. Boot. Palm. Palm. Boot. Boot. Call me Spider-Man the way I’m climbing this shit.
I need to go quicker, though. I look down to see how far I've come—halfway there.
Pick up the pace, damn it. Palm. Palm. Faster. Boot. Boot. FASTER!
Shit, not that fast.
In my rush not to die, my left hand slips. Then my right.
I fall backward.
Goodbye, everyone.
But with my boots still clinging on, I catch myself mid-air. Flailing like I’m backstroking in an invisible swimming pool, I try to swing my body back to the missile, but gravity’s a cruel mistress.
Push forward, you heavy bastard!
No luck.
I push harder.
Still nothing.
My arms swing like a locomotive, but my boots won’t hold forever. My stomach churns. Vertigo rears its head.
What the fuck do I do? I’ve got nothing to grab onto. If I try to grab hold of myself, my hands'll just get stuck to my clothes. Fuck it. I gotta try something.
Praying it'll work and accepting my outfit's fate, I grip a handful of my sweet joggers and strain to pull myself up. Right hand. RIP. Left hand. RIP. Repeat.
The adhesive tears holes in the fabric as I struggle my way up... or down? I don’t know. My orientation is out of whack at the moment. Either way, I’m clawing my way back to the missile.
I’m almost there. Come on. Just a little more.
Gah! One final effort proves successful, and I manage to pull myself up completely.
After a second's reprieve, I continue my initial climb. The countdown didn't stop just because I did.
Palm (carefully). Palm (carefully). Boot (carefully). Boot (carefully). The exposed panel is only a few feet away now.
With one last push, I reach the ever-so-nostalgic sight of chewed-up copper wires. A phantom jolt surges through my body—an unpleasant reminder of earlier.
Okay, with birthday cake strangely still on my mind, I search through all those unknown objects for the yellow variety.
Absolutely nothing’s labeled. It's dark as all hell. I don't have any fucking time!
At this point, I’m gonna just start pushing buttons. What's the worst that could happen? I blow myself up? Honestly, I fail to see that as a more immediate threat.
Problem is, I don't even see any buttons. I pat my right hand around, searching for anything, until my fingers graze what feels like a button.
I press it, whatever it is.
A rectangular obelisk ejects from its slot—well, half of it anyway. Finally, something with a label—well, half of one.
U-235 FIS…
Ah, weapons-grade uranium. Never thought I'd be so happy to see you!
My still-slightly-sticky right hand should serve as a great vehicle for pulling it out, but the damn thing doesn't budge. I want one thing to work today.
Second time’s the charm, though. I yank it free, nearly launching myself backward in the process. The uranium all but slips out of my hand. I manage to hang on to it, but the adhesive on my boots gives out, and now the one thing keeping me from falling is my still-barely-holding-on left hand.
Dangling from just five glue-covered fingers, I remind myself who I'm doing this for.
Focus. Slow my breathing.
I can feel my grip weakening. I won’t be able to hold myself up forever. My right hand sure would be useful, but throwing this nuclear brick down doesn’t seem like the best idea.
My left pinky gives way, and I start sliding—gently at first, but accelerating rapidly. The sweat from my fingertips is turning the adhesive into a friction nightmare.
I'm sliding out of control. Three fingers. My shoulder stretches to its limit. I need to get back to the platform before I fall to my death.
With a final, desperate move, I pendulum my legs toward the missile and plant the soles of my boots against its side. The maneuver causes my remaining fingers to come free. Curling up like I'm about to cannonball into a swimming pool, I propel myself off the missile like Superman.
Taking flight, I aim for... Cleave Jr., I think. Kinda difficult to process everything right now. I land on him with a thud, his body making for a welcome cushion.
I manage to hold onto the uranium container and check its condition. It looks okay.
After picking myself up, a huge wave of relief washes over me. Now that it's no longer a nuclear missile, I might stand a chance of escaping.
Not her again: "T-minus three minutes until missile self-destruction commences. T-minus three minutes until self-destruction. Thank you."
It's always the "thank you" that gets me.
It's nearly impossible to hear her over the sound of the missile door still opening. It's barely halfway open. Glad I didn't wait.
With no other options, I return to the walkway and begin my escape. Blowing past the break rooms, I try the next door I see—thankfully, it’s already unlocked.
But guess what? It's a bathroom. Why are none of these doors labeled? First, the shit in the missile—now this. I guess they blew their labeling budget on the break room's ambiance.
I keep running and soon find myself facing one last door that leads to a stairwell. It goes up, which makes me think we're on the bottom floor—but that doesn't make any sense considering the missile chamber’s layout.
I was half-joking earlier, but now I'm sincerely starting to think this place is a maze. I guess it makes sense—they'd intentionally make it difficult for intruders to escape. I've seen setups like this before, but that doesn’t matter if there are less than three minutes left on the clock.
They could probably make more money marketing this place as an escape room.
I race up the stairs and fling open the first available door. Another hallway. I try door after door. Most are locked, impeding my progress. I kick them open, only to run into more dead ends.
Another hallway. More stairs. More dead-end rooms. Stairs that descend. Unlabeled bathrooms. Hallways. Stairs. Doors. Locked doors that won't even give after six kicks.
Wait, have I been here before? So many floors look identical. Dead end. Door. I’m not even cognizant of how high up I am. What if I find an exit and it’s at the tippy-top of the volcano?
Stop. Can’t think like that. There's a way. There always is.
But man, I’m lost as shit.
Wait—what's that sound? Voices? Maybe some base workers are still trying to escape? Or maybe armed guards who could easily kill me? At this point, I'll take my chances with anyone more familiar with the way out than I am.
As I get closer, the voices become clearer, and I can make out what they're saying—no, shouting, "Help!"
Maybe someone's stuck? If I help them, they might know how to escape—or I'll force them to show me if I have to.
Locked door. Dead end.
It's challenging to tell where the shouts are coming from. The hall plays tricks with its acoustics, making it sound like the voices are coming from every direction. Another intentional design choice, I’m sure. Still, I'm definitely getting closer. They’re getting louder and clearer.
One of the voices sounds like... a kid? What is going on? Now I seriously need to find them.
I thought this was going to be a simple mission.
I reach another door, but it’s different from the rest. It appears as if it’s heavily secured with an electronic lock. The shouts are coming from inside.
Thinking I’ll have to figure out a way to break in, I’m surprised when the door slides open smoothly like it's the U.S.S. Enterprise. Extremely bright fluorescent lights flood the room, momentarily blinding me. When my eyes adjust to the harsh shift, they go wide.
I don't think my eyes have ever been as wide as they are right now, and I don't think they ever will be again.
What the fuck? What in the actual fucking fuck am I looking at?
The room is a fairly large laboratory, but that's not the strange part. The back wall is lined with barred animal cages of varying sizes, stacked like a fucked-up Tetris level.
Inside the cages are... I genuinely can’t grasp what I’m looking at.
They’re animals, but I’m using that word very loosely here.
The largest cage holds a rhino. But the rhino has... a human face. Yeah, you read that right. It has the body and horn of a rhino, but that horn is coming out of a very stretched-out human face. And it looks natural, like it was born this way. Some sort of fucked-up hybrid.
I’ve heard of weird, incestuous shit going down in some of the Southern Isles, but I don't think even they could create something like this.
The creature's horn is wrapped in bubble wrap, presumably to prevent accidental impalings.
Above the rhino, there’s a human-faced parrot. Next to it, a lemur—same thing.
They all have human faces: a gecko, an owl, a bald eagle, a dog, a snake, even an eel swimming around in a plastic tank.
"Thank God! Please let us out."
"Help us!"
"Please! I don't wanna die!"
These are the voices I’ve been hearing.
Half-expecting no answer and hoping to wake up from this crazy fever dream, I ask, "Do any of you know how to get out of here?"
There’s a pause, then the bald eagle chimes in.
His voice is squeaky and nervous—real big, scared teenager energy—but still angsty as shit, like one would expect from a teenager. “Uh…yeah. Let us out, and we’ll show you.”
It… uh… he talked.
“Riiight,” I say, still unsure. “So I’m not imagining things. You were the ones I heard. Riiiight.”
I wonder if this is a side effect of getting knocked out earlier.
"Hurry! You heard the lady. We're gonna blow up!"
This eagle kid’s got guts for someone who probably hasn’t reached puberty yet.
"Okay. Okay. I'll let you all out," I declare.
Am I really trusting them to lead the way?
As I step into the room, the door slides shut behind me with a hiss. I whirl around and try to wedge my fingers between where the two sides meet, but it’s sealed tight.
I'll deal with that later. Right now, I’ve gotta be snappy and free these Animorphs.
Each cage is secured with heavy-duty padlocks and thick bars—way too thick to cut through quickly, even if I had the tools.
Bashing stuff has provided me with mixed results in the last few minutes, but hey, recency bias is a hell of a drug. The idea leaps to the front of my brain.
Something heavy could break the locks.
I look around—duh—the uranium in my right hand.
This is totally different, though. This isn't throwing. This is bashing. Real tactical stuff. I don't see anything better lying around, so it’ll have to do.
I dash to the far end of the lab where the cages are stacked.
"Stand back," I command with authority. They all obey.
I raise my arm high and bring the uranium down violently. With an ASMR-worthy clang, the lock on the eagle-kid’s cage snaps in one blow. The door swings open. He flaps his wings, soaring out with gusto.
"Oh, that feels great! I never get to fly,” he exclaims, full of breathless excitement. “Now let everyone else go. Then we’ll help you.”
Whatever you say, little shit.
I move on to the next cage, freeing the others one by one.
BASH!
BASH!
Some of the locks are stubborn. The one on the toad-woman's cage takes five solid swings.
They cheer me on, but holy shit, I'm exhausted. My arm's on fire, and I'm not even halfway done. I switch to my weaker left arm, which means it takes even longer to break through the locks.
"Who are you, by the way?" one of them asks.
"Can't really tell you that," I respond, mid-swing. “But I am here to stop the missile from going off, so don’t worry.“
Most of them seemed to trust my answer anyway—well, most.
The lemur-man, his voice soaked in attitude, "Wait, if you're here to stop a missile, why are they saying it's gonna explode in a couple of minutes?! You clearly haven’t done shit.”
Bold talk from someone I haven't freed yet.
"You have no idea what I've been through," I exasperatedly manage, winding up again. "Besides, thanks to me, it's no longer nuclear."
I jazz hands the uranium in his direction.
He squints. "What's that?"
"This?"
BASH!
"This is weapons-grade uranium."
BASH!
They shriek. What do they want from me?
Eagle Kid again: "What's your name?"
Even though he’s likely harmless, I still answer, "I can't tell you.”
“Why not?”
“It’s confidential.”
“Well, what should we call you then?”
“I guess… You can call me B.”
"Like a buzz buzz bee?" he asks, way too sincerely.
This is why I prefer to work alone.
BASH!
That's the last one. They’re free.
Now for the sliding door.
Several of the crossbreeds have already taken a crack at the door, but they’re met with the same fate I was.
How are we gonna get this stupid thing open?
Aha! I spot a mounted panel across the room. Wires snake from it into the wall behind the door. Security system. If I can overload it, it should disengage the lock.
I race over and kick off the access cover. Neatly wound wires twist around each other—a far cry from the jumbled mess inside the missile.
So, how do I overload it?
My eyes stop on the electric eel woman swimming in her tank.
I approach her. "What's your name?" I ask, trying to sound friendly. My motives are ulterior.
"I don't remember," she replies shakily.
What the hell did they do to these poor things?
"Well, I need your help if we're gonna get out of here."
She tilts her head and asks, "What do you need me for?" She sounds insulted.
"I need to overload that panel over there,” I respond, gesturing. “And you're… conveniently…made(?) of electricity.”
She opens her mouth like she’s about to refuse, but instead says, "Okay, what do you need me to do?"
Reassuringly, I lie. "Nothing really. It might hurt—but only a little. Are you okay with that?"
Still nervous, she answers, "I'm not sure."
With no time for her very warranted skepticism, I respond, "Sorry, I am."
I grab her by—well, I’m not exactly an expert on eel anatomy—and yank her out of the water, shoving her directly into the panel.
BRRRZZZTT!
We overload the panel, alongside ourselves. It’s a familiar, unpleasant sensation.
And what did we accomplish other than obtaining a nice case of second-degree burns? Absolute darkness.
All I managed to do was cut the power. The door remains shut, and now the creatures are freaking out even more.
Every once in a while, their animal sounds break through their human voices. Ever hear a bark-scream before?
It’s not absolute darkness, though. There’s the faintest glow coming from the far corner of the lab.
Bumping into a billion things on my way over, I stumble and feel for... a handle!
I pull it open to reveal a dim green light. Inside, there's a jar of fireflies. And after some suspicious squinting, I realize—yep—they also have human faces. Baby faces.
This is so fucked up.
I grab the jar and bring it back. As I pass, I throw another apology Eel Woman’s way.
We can see now, but that’s about it. We still don't have an escape plan.
"I'm open to ideas to get this thing open," I suggest. “Not like there’s a missile about to go off or anything.”
Maybe not the most motivating thing to say right now.
No takers—until Rhino Guy asks, "Can you get this off me?"
I raise the jar to his face. He’s staring at the bubble wrap around his horn. Nodding in understanding, I set down the jar and uranium, peel off the bubble wrap, pass the jar to Lemur Man, and then pick the uranium back up.
After telling us to stand clear, Rhino Guy charges the door, tearing through it like it’s construction paper. The hallway light floods the lab, allowing everybody to file out.
Okay, where's Eagle Kid? There.
I step over to him. "Alright, lead the way! Get us the hell out of here."
His face drops. Not as bravely, he admits, “Um… I don’t actually know where to go.”
My face mirrors his. I hate kids.
“I only said that so you’d let us out.”
He can tell I’m not happy with his answer.
“I’m sorry, but I had to do something!” he continues, thinking it’ll help his case.
I'm glad I freed them, but now we’re back to square one regarding our escape, and we’ve wasted precious time.
“Fine,” I tell myself. “Whatever. Fine. (It’s not fine.) But you’re gonna help me find the exit. You owe me that much at least.“
I turn and start in the opposite direction.
Rhino Guy pipes up, “What about the rest of us?”
“Oh, you’re all coming too. Your…features…might come in handy trying to get us out of this place.”
I don’t really want them tagging along, but it’s easier than standing around arguing with them. And no one argues with me.
So, I set off—hopefully in the correct direction. Eagle Kid reluctantly follows. Then Kangaroo Man. Then, one by one, everybody else joins in on our game of “Follow the Leader.”
The strongest ones carry their aquatic companions along with their tanks.
Great, now I'm Noah leading his flock to the ark. Whatever. As long as they don't get in the way.
We head down another corridor that leads to another set of stairs. Watching a rhino climb stairs is a sight, for sure.
Eventually, we find ourselves at a fork in the hall—one to the left and one to the right.
Okay, remember—the opposite of what I would usually do. Normally, I’d go right, so… we should go left. Unless... if my goal is to do the opposite of what my gut tells me, doesn’t that mean we should go right?
Eagle Kid decides for us. "Let's go down this one," he says, pointing to the hallway on the right.
So, naturally, we head left. I lead them forward. A lotta weird animal smells hitting me at the moment.
Up ahead is another chamber. A cramped steel walkway stretches over a seemingly bottomless pit, leading to a door on the far side. It’s a long drop for anyone who slips. Hello? OSHA?
With me in front and Eagle Kid flapping cautiously above, the door slams shut behind us again, cutting us off from the others. I spin around just in time to hear hooves and paws pounding uselessly on the sealed metal.
Someone's doing this on purpose. First the lab door, now this.
The walkway retracts, leaving us stranded on a dinky platform barely wide enough for two. The far door remains open. It’s closing at a snail’s pace. Seems like it's having power issues—probably from our overloading stunt.
I attempt to pry open the door, but no luck. The panicked cries on the other side get more desperate. I can’t afford to waste more time. Turning away, I focus on the still-open door ahead.
Noticing my shift in attention, Eagle Kid protests, “But…”
I cut him off. “I didn’t come here to free you guys.”
He hovers, stunned. “But…”
I snap at him. “I came here to stop the missile…which I kinda did. I didn’t even know any of you existed a few seconds ago. I’ve already done more than enough.”
Eagle Kid is dejected by my answer.
Realizing I upset him, I continue in a nicer tone. “They have another hallway to try. We don’t know. That might be the correct way to begin with.”
He seems to accept that, but then asks, “Can’t you try aga—?“
Nah. I don’t have time for this. I’ve gotta stop him in his tracks. “We need to get over there!” I point to the now half-closed door. “We don’t have time to argue about it!”
That shuts him up. Now I have peace to think for a second.
How the hell am I supposed to clear this gap? It’d be so convenient to have wings like this annoying brat. Wait a tick. This brat has wings. He's not gonna like my idea, though. Oh well. He’ll get over it.
"How good of a flyer are you?" I ask, eyeing him.
Meekly, he stammers, "I don't know. They barely let me out of my cage in the first place. Sometimes they let me fly if they're doing a test, but it's never for more than a few seconds."
Test? What the hell kind of place is this?
"Think you could fly me to the other side?"
Terror fills his eyes as he stares down into the chasm. "Uhh, I don't think so. No, I really don't think so.” His eyes travel from my head to my feet. “No offense, but you look super heavy."
Rude. But what if he's right? Not about my weight (yes, I called myself a heavy bastard earlier—what can I say, I was stressed), but about not being able to do it. Do I have any other options?
"I bet you can. I believe in you." Hopefully, some fake confidence will encourage him.
"No, really. I can't. Sorry, but I just can't." His eyes clamp shut, like that’ll make everything disappear.
I dial it back, this time in a much more gentle and reassuring voice. "Look, I can't do this without you. And if I don't get across, I'm going to die. Period. In a terrible, fiery explosion. Don't you think you could at least try? Please. If I'm too heavy, you can let me go. But please. I validate your feelings, but please just try."
Eagle Kid vigorously shakes his head like the little brat he is. "No, really, I can't. I can't!"
So much for that approach. In whatever the opposite of a gentle, reassuring voice is, I shout, "TOO DAMN BAD!"
The door’s nearly closed. I stretch out my left arm and grab his legs out of the air.
"HEY!" he cries, flailing.
With the uranium in my right hand, I prepare to take a leap of faith.
"WAIT! WAIT!"
Ignoring his protests, I advise him to flap hard, and we jump.
We glide across the gap like a far less graceful Mary Poppins. Narrowly making it to the other side, I pull us up. We squeeze through the crack in the door just as it seals shut behind us. I can't believe we made it.
Eagle Kid, however, isn't as celebratory. "You dick! I told you I couldn't. That really hurt!"
I’m already walking. No time to respond to bitching.
The base stretches on: more stairs, more locked doors, more unlocked doors, more hallways—and now I’ve got an annoying little chatterbox buzzing around me! If anyone’s a bee here, it’s him.
"Why can't you tell us your name? Is it embarrassing? Like, Wilbur or something. Why are your clothes ripped? Are you poor? Can’t you afford better clothes? Hello? Why won’t you answer me?"
Can we please get out of immediate danger before I entertain any dumbass questions?
I ask myself how much time we even have left. Even if we somehow avoid the explosion, this place is still going to collapse on us.
Door. Hallway. Dead end. Another annoying question.
I'm crashing out. This hallway looks the same as all the others… except for one glaring difference: four guards are standing at the end.
I freeze and shoot Eagle Kid a look—stay still. The guards haven’t seen us yet. Their backs are turned. We might be able to avoid detection if we're dead silent.
"What are you doing? We can't just stop!" Eagle Kid blurts out. He clearly didn't get my message.
His whining has the desired effect—for the guards, at least. They turn, revealing an unpleasant truth: they're armed. But, like, genuinely armed this time—with rifles, not some weeb weapons.
Alarmed, one guard points, “I think that’s that Blade guy they warned us about. What do we do?”
The other one responds, “Shoot him!”
“What about the bird?”
“Just fire!”
I'm honored they're talking about little ol’ me, but I’m no Stanley Yelnats; I hate holes, and I’m about to be filled with them. Need to find cover on the double.
There isn’t any—just another sliding door in the middle of the hall. But, hold on, if I can get it closed, it can act as a bullet sponge. Problem is... the guards are already raising their rifles.
How am I gonna close it? Think. Think!
There's a gearbox mounted on the ceiling, connected to the door. But how the hell do I reach it? I've already settled on not throwing the uranium, so what else?
Eagle Kid glances up at me, wide-eyed. "I think they're gonna shoot us."
Not if I have anything to say about it.
Sorry, kid.
I drop the uranium (still not throwing it) and snatch Eagle Kid out of the air, holding him like I'm about to hurl a javelin.
The guards take aim.
Eagle Kid’s protest comes fast and loud: "STOP GRABBING ME WITHOUT MY CONSENT!"
Ignoring his objection, I launch him at the gearbox—beak first. His terrified shriek fills the air before he collides with the machinery.
The guards fire.
I squeeze my eyes shut and welcome death… but it doesn't come. Instead, the door slams shut just as the gunfire reaches. The shots ricochet off the door.
Eagle Kid falls to the ground with a heavy THUD. I hope he's not injured.
I rush over to him. "Hey, you okay?" I ask, genuinely concerned.
His eyes spin like a washing machine. "Uh-huh. Super. Whatever you say, Santee Claus.”
He'll live.
Bird in my left hand, uranium in my right, I wonder where to go next. There was another flight of stairs back in the previous stairwell I haven’t checked yet.
So that's where I head—legs burning with every step, lungs fighting for breath. I’ve been sprinting non-stop for what feels like forever. Sure, my cardio could always be better, but I'm still in pretty damn good shape.
Another hallway. Door. Door. Locked door. Honestly, I’m amazed this missile hasn't gone off yet.
I glance down at Eagle Kid, still loopy from my little stunt, and can't help but wonder—are there other labs in this place? Other creatures like him? Were these things originally human? Why are they experimenting on them in the first place?
I wonder if Major knows anything about this. No—he would've briefed me if he had any idea.
This is the first mission, out of thousands, where Intel has failed me. That's why I need to find a way out of here—not just to survive, but also to figure out who dropped the fucking ball and who almost got me killed like a hundred times already.
Was it intentional? Was it a mistake?
With my impeccable track record, how can I not be paranoid? I mean, I'm not perfect, but my mission record has been... until now.
Sure, I've already blown the whole "not alerting anyone" part—but hey, I have succeeded in saving the lives of a bunch of people, so let’s not act like I haven’t done anything right.
BAM!
Dead end.
BAM!
Supply closet.
Another hallway.
Even if I die…
No, stop thinking like that! I’m not dying. I'm gonna make it!
Another door. This one feels… different, though. It’s unlocked.
I push it open. A gale of wind blasts me in the face, carrying the smell of fresh air. Blue sky. Outside. Holy shit.
I‘ve finally found the exit!
One problem: we're really, really high up, like I feared. Like top-of-the-volcano high.
Not great if you’re trying to escape with a concussed bird boy who can barely form a complete sentence, let alone fly us to safety. I need to think of another way to get us down.
Actually, now there are two problems (aside from the impending explosion). On the opposite side of the platform is another computer console, much like the one I previously struggled with. And you'll never guess who’s standing behind it.
Henchman!
He’s still alive.
At least… I think it's him. His face is so fucked up from earlier; it’s tricky to tell. A whole part of his left cheek is missing, exposing the inside bits you're not normally supposed to see.
I confirm it is that bonehead when I spot his golden nameplate still pinned to his uniform: Gen. Eric Henchman.
“Buh! This is such bullshit! Why, why, why?!” He notices me. “Ahh! Blade! You found me!” Or at least, I think that’s what he says—hard to tell with his two mouths.
Obviously, I’m pissed he’s still alive, and I know I don’t have the time for it, but I can't lie—I'm a little excited to continue our banter.
“Y’know,” I say, “thinking back—something was different in the missile chamber earlier. I now know what it was. I couldn't hear your bitch-ass crying over the sound of the launch bay doors opening. Besides, it turns out you’ve been busy locking doors behind me from the safety of your little computer there. But hey, why don’t you just use it to shut down the missile? Oh, are you having the same luck I did?”
“I don’t know why it won’t shut down! It should be working! We’re gonna lose it all! How’d you get past those doors?!” He steps forward. A chunk of his cheek falls off as he moves.
Gross! Put a Band-Aid on that shit.
“I’ve got a better question,” I hurl back. “Who are you working for?” Can’t hurt to try one more time.
“I don’t have to answer,” he unconfidently boasts. “You don’t have a weapon to threaten me with like last time. Sure, you’d probably win in a fight under normal circumstances, but not if you can’t defend yourself against this!”
He’s been doing a piss-poor job pretending there’s nothing behind his back this whole time. Finally deciding it’s time for the big reveal, he flashes a katana in front of his face.
A katana? Really? Who supplies these guys? Party City?
Disappointingly, he doesn’t seem like he wants to verbally spar any longer. Looks like we’re switching to the stabby and slashy kind. Hopefully, he’s just as exhausted.
And then, the moment I’ve been dreading comes. Her voice cuts through one last time, chipper as ever: “T-minus one minute until missile self-destruction commences. T-minus one minute until self-destruction. Thank you.”
