Contributing Author: Miles English
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WHAT? WHY ME?
Trey knew the voice immediately; it was Ryzm again. Honestly, Ryzm was probably the nicest of aphids so far. He was the only one who didn’t openly ridicule him, and the one who let him keep a real semblance of control over himself. But he was also probably the last aphid that Trey needed right now.
You think I’m nice?
Trey winced. “Oh, yeah. Sorry about the ‘he’s the last aphid I need right now’ stuff. You’re actually really–”
No, no. I get it, I really do, and I agree. I don’t even know why I’m here. I’m a speedster! Wait… hold on. What is that feeling? It’s weird. Tingly. Have you already started to synchronize with us?
“What do you mean, ‘synchronize’? All I’ve done is get tossed around. Doug literally just made me drink a Capri-Fun that was floating in the sewer.”
Sorry. We’re not all like Doug or Flamagan. This is a symbiotic relationship, you know. Here, I’ve got something to show you.
[APHID SYNCHRONIZATION]
- 10.03% | (G) Geneva, the Great Master of Clockwork
- 07.50% | (F) Flamagan the Magnificent
- 12.91% | (D) Doug, the Clandestine King
- 11.29% | (R) Æn Ryzm
- 00.12% | (N) The Nameless One
“This is supposed to tell me what, exactly?” Trey asked, analyzing the numbers in his head, trying not to think about the tripwires and lasers they still needed to cross. The numbers looked a little like one of his company’s sale’s reports, if he was being honest.
The more you work with us, the more connected you grow to our powers. Our connection naturally grows stronger over time, too.
“Okay?”
Buuuut none of that matters because this is the end. What do I know about sneaking past a bunch of traps? I never get the root-pull, and now twice in one day? The root-pull is supposed to be random, you know, but Mother says everything happens for a reason. I think the reason is that you’re supposed to die here–
“Hey, now, none of that!” said Trey. “If you’re here, then maybe… I’m the one who can do this. I even have an idea.”
That’s barely an idea. And it’s a terri–
Trey heard a deep mental sigh.
Well, it’s not like I have anything better. You should use the restroom first.
“Isn’t this sort of more important?”
Yeah, which is why you need to do this carefully, without doing the pee-pee dance. Whatever Doug says, you really didn’t wet yourself, but you will if we wait any longer. Doug erased your scent when he dried you off, but I don’t have that power. Please don’t pee your pants.
Trey eyed the door leading out of the warehouse nervously. What if some of those guards came back? But Ryzm did have a point; he really needed to go.
He found a door marked with one of those all-gender triangles, only it had a feathered tail and a rhino head coming off of it.
When he opened the door, he almost believed it was the wrong room. A plush sofa sat between two stand lamps in a little carpeted waiting area. Past that the stalls were floor-to-ceiling cubicles, made of a dark mahogany. The sinks were pure marble, there were three kinds of soaps, and little dishes with mints on them.
Hurry up! I’m going to back off for a bit to give you some privacy. Let me know when you’re done.
The go was glorious. Easily the best bathroom experience of his life. These guys did not skimp on the fancy toilet paper. Ten out of ten stars; would poop here again. Honestly, it almost made him want to turn to the dark side.
He washed his hands, popped a mint in his mouth, and then grabbed a handful and put them in his pocket.
The instant he left the bathroom Ryzm started talking again. Ok, we’re in luck. I talked to Geneva just now and they says they’ll manage transportation for us. You better thank the Mother that you somehow already managed to hit 10% Synchronization with them, by the way. So, anything that you grab will get pulled into her active inventory. I asked them to take over completely but they says they’re not allowed. Rules. Why? Why is the Penultimate Petal doing this to me?
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“We can do this,” said Trey, projecting more confidence than he felt. Something about Ryzm made him want to step up and be a hero.
You are a hero! Or you will be. When the other aphids show you how. For now… I guess let’s just try it.
Trey drew out the two-buttoned remote he’d taken from the far-too-muscular thug. Crossing his fingers, he pressed the yellow button and hoped for the best. He didn’t want to have to try to the red one. It kind of scared him.
It scares me, too, Trey.
Thankfully, the laser beams in the center of the room retracted, leaving the crate completely unguarded.
I can’t believe that worked. Oh, no it didn’t work. Geneva says only the lasers and explosives got disabled. What was your plan for getting past all the other traps?
“I was going to… run through them real quick,” said Trey.
When you die, try to get some of your blood on the crate. That might give Mother Plant enough energy to get a new Host at least.
“Thanks for the vote of confidence,” said Trey drily.
Sorry! See, this is why I shouldn’t get picked! And here I am again in self-pity when you’re the one who’s going to die. I’ll shut up now. Activating minor super speed and whatever damage resistance I can give you. Good luck!
Just then, the back door to the warehouse banged open. A very cross-looking cat-guy entered the room, followed by a more muscular and less monstrous man. He was very hairy and wore a chef’s apron, looking like a roided-up turkish Guy Fieri.
“Guard the door, Stew,” growled the cheetah man. “I’ll take care of the Host.”
The chef, Stew apparently, didn’t listen. He stepped forward and swung a ladle, which launched a wet substance like out of a slingshot. Midair it caught fire.
Trey remembered at the last second that he was actually fast enough to dodge this. He hit the deck, feeling the heat across his back as whatever it was sailed over him.
“What’s so hard about ‘guard the door’?” the cat-guy snapped. “Why was that difficult for you to understand?”
“You’re not the boss of me, Cheetah Brains. And I’m not letting you steal the glory of defeating the Host.”
Trey took off while the thugs were arguing.
“Get him!” a crispy, fried potato man yelled from the side of the warehouse.
Faster, Trey. That tater tot is coming in quick. He’ll catch you soon!
Trey tucked his head down and picked up his pace. About halfway across the room, he heard a click. Ryzm grabbed his leg muscles and jumped, forcefully yanking him up into the air, just in time to go over a saw blade flying at him from nowhere.
He looked back long enough to see the saw blade fly straight into the surprisingly fast Tater Tot, cutting straight through his golden midsection. His fried exterior wasn’t enough to save him.
Trey kept running. A machine gun opened fire on him from the ceiling. Giant axes swung down from ropes. The floor beneath his feet collapsed to reveal a twenty foot drop ending in spikes. Each time, Ryzm took control of his body just long enough to clumsily throw him out of the way.
A few of the traps, Trey navigated on his own. When another saw blade came at him, he remembered how fast he was now and dodged around it. After the first pitfall trap, he knew what to look for on the floor and just jumped the seven feet distance over it, as easy as a kid playing hopscotch.
With a warning from Ryzm, Trey ducked another fireball from Stew and dashed the last two feet to the crate. He slapped his hand down on it.
“P-PROCESSING,” said the crate.
Trey glanced nervously at the guards. Cheetah Brains and Stew were both hanging back, glaring at him and pacing like stalking lions. Neither one of them wanted to end up like Tater Tot and end up catching a trap meant for Trey.
“PROCESSING,” repeated the crate.
“The traps are all sprung,” said Cheetah Brains. “Let’s just go get him!”
“Be my guest. After you,” said Stew. “That’s not all of them. The real nasty traps take a second to warm up.”
“PROCESSING.”
The ground began to rumble. Then it burst. In plumes of concrete dust, a dozen mechanical forms erupted from the warehouse’s floor.
In seconds, the room was full of stainless steel robots, pristine and evil-looking. All of them were in the form of various insects. An eight-foot tall praying mantis looked down at Trey, reaching forward with pincers made of chainsaw blades. A shiny mirrored lady bug belched a glob of acid that burned through the one of the pendulum axe traps.
Cheetah Brains growled. He flexed his fingers and his claws grew larger. He charged, and the robots followed.
“Processing Complete. Initializing. Movement activated. This unit will follow the user,” said the crate in a more melodic voice. It sprang up, floating several inches above the ground like a hover-craft. “Please wait ten minutes for full initialization. Please supply scrap for additional abilities.”
Time to go, Trey!
Tray ran.
One of the traps had opened up a foot-wide rent in the warehouse walls. He reached it in a blur of movement, even faster than he’d been on the street, and squeezed his way through.
The second he was through, a storm of oppressive fire from the robots blew out the entire wall. The blast knocked him back, covering him with rubble, and he sent a thanks to Ryzm for the damage reduction. The crate followed through the now much bigger hole, bouncing along merrily.
“This unit has sustained damage. This unit is at 95% integrity. Please protect this unit from further damage,” it chirped.
Trey wrenched a chunk of rebar-reinforced concrete off of his legs, marveling at how he was barely bruised.
“Scrap acceptable. Integrating,” said the crate.
Trey didn’t wait to see what it did with it. He shot to his feet, then down the road.
He bolted towards the open road near the refinery. Sure, he might have a better chance of losing all the weird robots and goons in the crowded city streets, but that would expose the area–and people–to a lot of collateral damage. If he could outrun them without anyone else getting hurt, he wanted to try that first.
Wow. You’re actually starting to think like a hero, Trey. I should take notes.
He really put his heart into it and ran. A full out sprint, with no thought about conserving his energy or doing anything other than surviving for the next two seconds. How long had it been since he’d really run like this, without holding anything back?
Not since he was a kid.
He expected to feel winded after a few moments, but if anything he kept getting faster. Fifty, no sixty miles per hour. He glanced back. The crate was keeping up, although something weird was going on with it. It looked like it was trying to grow an arm?
Or maybe guns.
It dinged, “More scrap required.”
The robots and mutants were falling behind. He was doing it! He could outrun them!
Of course. OF COURSE! Just when I’m actually helping for once, I mean, my turn is suddenly up. Sorry, Trey! I hope we meet again. I really do. Is that weird?
[SYNCHRONIZATION UPDATE!]
- 11.29% >> 19.68% | (R) Æn Ryzm