With a princess killer to catch, a host of fairy-tale characters to wrangle and a crumbling career to resurrect, fallen hotshot Agent Fields has his hands full. And that's before the case leads to a story-obsessed, dimension-hopping scientist, hellb...
The plan sounded so simple, in theory. So logical. So clearly the way to go.
And it was, on all three counts. With Embers quite possibly bleeding out, the portal seeming to grow larger with every passing minute (and intermittently spitting out an increasingly strange assortment of objects), and the two rogue scientists planning who-knew-what up in their broken lair, it was glaringly obvious that somebody had to get into the control room.
And it was equally obvious the only way to get there was across a distressingly vast expanse of wide open floorspace, in full view of a gun-wielding maniac. Then there was just the small matter of scaling the monster enclosure fortuitously positioned underneath said maniac's refuge, leaping up to the underside of the suspended structure (hoping like hell there was something to grab onto), somehow climbing up to and through one of the broken windows, and then overpowering the two men inside.
Simple, in theory. Now Fields just had to put the theory into practice.
"Rock-paper-scissors," said Peregrine.
They were crouched at the very edge of their shelter, at the point closest to the target. With an effort, Fields dragged his gaze away from the control room. "Huh?"
"I don't see why you should be the one to go. I'll rock-paper-scissors you for it. The winner does the run, and the loser covers them. Deal?"
Fields shook his head. "Peregrine, I've got about a foot on you, and no offence, but I'm pretty damn sure I can run faster. Me going is a no-brainer. You just make sure Radovic keeps his head down."
It was clear Peregrine wanted to protest, but the logic was irrefutable. "Fine," she muttered. "I just wish you'd carbed up properly. I should've dragged your skinny arse into that pizza place."
"Tell you what," replied Fields, setting himself into a runner's starting position, "if we get out of this, I'll take you to my favourite pizza place. Embers and Britney, too—my treat."
Peregrine flicked off the safety on her pistol. "You know, you might come to regret that offer—I love my carbs."
Fields managed to summon up a sickly grin. "I kinda figured. Ready?"
"Ready."
"Okay. See you soon." And just like that—heart in his mouth, pulse pounding in his ears, cold sweat on his forehead, but with a fierce, hard resolution deep in his guts (either that, or the burrito)—Fields launched himself into the open, into the firing line, and quite possibly, into oblivion.
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To find the control room empty. Quiet, gloomy in the late afternoon's waning light, and completely, utterly empty. Which left him feeling just a little miffed.
It had all been for nothing: his frantic, weaving, sinew-straining sprint across the hangar floor, his mad climb onto the enclosure, his desperate leap for the control room's underside, and his breathless, pants-rending scramble through the broken window, every nerve-end shrieking, every muscle tensed, time crawling by in slow-motion as he waited for the inevitable gunshot—the inevitable gunshot, which would tear his flesh, smash his bones, and shred his organs—the inevitable gunshot that never eventuated.
