EXFLIBBERAGUIL WAS DROPPING.

Countdown had already switched to mere minutes.

Exflibberaguil could see the blue-green planet in detail now, noticing that it wasn’t as much green as it was brown. He was dressed in what looked like a white jumper and a pair of visor-equipped headphones. He pressed a button on the headphones, turning the visor translucent and slidding it down to cover his whole head.

Exflibberaguil’s dashboard currently looked very much like a car’s, only with extra dials and monitors. This was usually all he needed, if he hadn’t used up so much fuel. Auto-land was so much safer, but it required twice the amount of fuel than what Exflibberaguil had to offer. He braced himself when he called, “Full dashboard.”

Instantly, the displays that were showing bunny population turned to touch-screen buttons. The toucan chair grew a few joystick-shaped feathers, and was unlatched from the floor, allowing Exflibberaguil to fly to the higher screens. The toucan was connected to the visor-helmet by a wireless connection called bluetongue, allowing to sense a few strong commands like, ‘move left’ or ‘fly a bit higher’ without the words exiting from Exflibberaguil’s mouth.

Ferret was in an egg-shaped capsule, harnessed and ready for landing. Box had shut itself in a safe, as to (hopefully) not be damaged should Exflibberaguil die, because it still had to deliver the most important thing: it was Box’s fault.

The ship lurched again, plummeting further towards the planet.

Exflibberaguil cursed, commanding the toucan to fly to the top-right corner, where he twisted a dial to “orbit” mode. Flicking a few more switches, the ship finally steadied enough that Exflibberaguil didn’t feel like he was dropping so quickly. Exflibberaguil pressed another button and brownie batter was delivered to his mouth via a tube.

He sat back on the toucan, relaxing for just a moment.

It can out of nowhere. Well, that would be inaccurate but for the sake of suspense, it should be left at that.

Suddenly, a large blaring sound came from the speakers, multiple diagnosis of the problem popped up onto plasma displays. Exflibberaguil bolted up, the toucan flapping around confused from all the commands Exflibberaguil was sending it. He manually controlled the chair with a joystick.

A satellite. He was in the path of a satellite.

He had no time to think. Exflibberaguil rushed to the main dashboard, flicking switches and heading into a nosedive.

But the crash was inevitable.

It was only a small satellite, about the size of a large cardboard box. But the damage was done.

The speakers went wild, blaring “ERROR. 943. ERROR. 943. ERROR. 943. WING DAMAGE.” Exflibberaguil had planned another thirty minutes to safely land. But the crash affected everything.

His ferret was knocked into the wall of the capsule. It scratched the glass for a way out. The ship tumbled. Countdown was calculating the time until landing, calculating the new time until landing. The speakers continued to yell their commands, telling Exflibberaguil to flick switch 78V, press button YE9, and type 9err43 at the same time.

But one sound stood out from the rest.

“Five minutes,” Countdown declared, having finally calculated the new obstacle into the time limit.

“Five.”

Nick swore she would leave if nothing happened in the next five minutes,

She had been in the woods, munching on snacks, for half an hour already. What was she doing? Tomorrow was a school day. Of course, she could always call in a sick day—especially with Ms. Wooddell talking about cats, but her mom may find out about her non-existent allergy and have her tested. Having her bluff called would not be in her favor. Already though, Nick had come up with half a dozen potential excuses.

But one fact remained. She was in a forest because some shady hacker on a shady website told her to.

It suddenly occurred to her that this is how she would die.

It didn’t work out logically, of course. A kidnapper wouldn’t chat with you online, but some people were rather stupid. In fact, all murderers were, as Nick had always believed that killing people was the most stupid of actions in the world.

Smart people didn’t need to kill to get what they want. They use their brain, and think. Smart people were cunning, manipulative, even, but certainly not murderers. Murderers were people who weren’t smart enough to figure out a solution to their problem, like the kids in school who would lie that they accidently dropped their homework in water, rather than doing it or asking someone for help. Hell, even cheating would be smarter than lying.

Nick realized she would no longer look at one of those kids who always had excuses the same way ever again. But then again, she was one of those kids, except that she had no trouble with homework.

With a sigh, she looked back up at the glowing ‘M’. It was quite evident that nothing would be happening anytime soon. She wasn’t even expecting anything to happen at all; in fact she never was. But somehow Nick found herself in the woods, anticipating what would eventually lead to a long and boring night, or perhaps her death.

Typical.

“FOUR.”

“Excuse me?”

“Oh, I apologize, madam. You were saying?”

“Don’t madam me. I’m not that old. The disrespect these days!”

“I apologize. Large burger?”

“What, do I look like I need another large burger? I said a chicken salad for heaven’s sake!”

“So sorry. Would you like a receipt—”

But the woman already left for the other counter to pick up her food.

Timothy sighed. He had uttered the word “four” because it was the fourth time a person had come to him complaining about the sign. The woman had just been saying that the billboard placement was very stupid, and that she couldn’t read it. Timothy didn’t think anyone read billboards anymore, and doubted this woman was an exception. The woman just looked like the whining kind who would turn anything into a complaint.

Timothy looked at the sky again. Nothing.

It was all stupid. Some idiotic prank pulled by some stupid graffiti-inspired teenager who did parkour.

Timothy would take the sign down as soon as his shift ended.

“THREE.”

“I see.”

“What’s your verdict, doctor?”

“Donna, you make me sound like a judge. Are you sure we have three tests given to us for free?”

“Yes, doctor. They allow it for medical purposes.”

“Very well,” the doctor said, pausing dramatically before revealing the glass vial in his pocket. “We’ll use one chance and analyze this.”

“You took it home, doctor?” Donna said this without surprise.

“I had to make sure it wasn’t some part of a glowstick or something.”

“Was it?”

“Maybe one of those high-tech anti-fluid ones,” the doctor said with disgust, “the sort of thing you’d expect from a spoiled kid. I wonder if that dressmake had a child. Definitely had cats though. I could smell it off him. Anyway, to you think this could be some sort of new glow-in-the-dark toy?”

“We’ll see,” Donna said, shuffling for a paper in a manila folder, “You’ll need to fill out this form.”

The doctor took it, checking his watch. It was a slow day today, with only one appointment at four. Dammit, why couldn’t the people yesterday have come today? He sighed. At least he’d be able to fill the form. “You’re excused, Donna.”

Donna left with an air of immense importance.

The doctor gripped the little glass vial. He was being an idiot. There was nothing special about it. Only a shard of oddly shaped…oddly shaped…something.

Still…

“TWO.”

Just two more minutes and she would have caught that goddamn plane!

Just two minutes!

It was all that man’s fault. Mr. Finnick? Or was it Friedman? It didn’t matter.

Dammit, it was all his fault! Couldn’t he see that she was in a hurry? What was so important about the bug on line 458 anyway? Any idiot could fix it in two seconds! Why did it have to be her! Or maybe Mr. Freddell thought she looked like an idiot.

Mrs. Lucifay breathed in. So her plan was ruined. It was okay. She would just make another plan.

She ran through a maze of hallways, winding in an out of the airport security checks, finally arriving at the ticket booth.

“I need the next flight, same one as this,” she said, pushing the unused ticket across the counter, “Preferably tomorrow?”

The lady glared at Mrs. Lucifay, clearly implying that it was her job to decide whether or not Mrs. Lucifay would be getting on a plane tomorrow. “’plogize, miss, but the next plane would be on Tuesday.”

Mrs. Lucifay groaned. “Are you quite sure there isn’t one sooner?”

The lady glared harder. “Yes,” she said, obviously disliking Mrs. Lucifay’s doubt in her ability.

“Oh, I’ll take it.” She silently fretted about Marine, her daughter. She’d have to call Ms. Woodpecker, or was it Wooddeck? Seizing the new ticket offered to her by the lady, Mrs, Lucifay dashed to a vacant bench and dialed the number.

She was greeted by the answering machine.

“Oh, hello (I really feel a little silly talking to no one but a phone),” a slightly shaky, flustered voice said. A constant meowing was in the background.

“I’m afraid I wasn’t able to pick up. These telephones are all very scary. One doesn’t know if you’d be electrocuted one day. And such a shock may give me a nasty jump, and I don’t know if my heart could take it. But please send me a letter. I would love it. I wouldn’t bother leaving a—what is it called?—message. I’m not sure if I would dare use this ever again. Oh Max, please stop meowing and scratching the table—”

The tone beeped; the same sound used to mute curses such as those that were coming out of Mrs. Lucifay’s mouth.

She took another deep breath. She’d just call Marine. Marine was perfectly capable of staying at home herself. Mrs. Lucifay nodded to herself, trying to sooth her nerves.

Marine would stay at home, safe and sound.