So I wasn’t kidding when I said the world dropped out from under me. As soon as I hit that ducking button, an explosion at the breech of the bizarre space barrel my drop pod called home went off, sending me hurtling downward in my Black Mirror knockoff of A Trip to the Moon.

I wish I could say my pod drove into the eyeball of the cheesy man far below me just as quickly as it did in the classic French short film, but I can’t. Partially, because the trip took a lot longer than a duck whose only experience with space travel came from movies and tv shows that tend to cut out the boring parts would expect, and partially because my stomach was so far up my ducking throat I didn’t think I’d ever be able to eat a fish again.

After I stopped screaming, I spent some time staring out my lone viewport in a state of shock while I ignored the Dumbass rambling inside my head. The view was… spectacular, to say the least. Below me, the dark side of the moon glittered with a network of connected lights that seemed to run the whole gamut of the visible spectrum, giving the impression I was looking at a disco ball with the dimmer switch turned way down. A network of platforms and ring-shaped space stations encircled the moon like a planetary eggshell, and a deluge of glowing dots seemed to move amongst them in a kind of extrasolar ballet.

I watched the space opera for the longest time, marveling at technology that had once only seemed possible in the encyclopedia of multimedia nonsense my implant had converted my brain into. It was wild, really. A network of orbital platforms was not only real, but it was breathtaking to take in.

My pod shuddered, shaking me out of my funk, and I felt another lurch in my stomach as it shot dangerously close to one of those glowing specks. It took several seconds for the sight to register, then I realized that all those dots moving about were spaceships. Thousands and thousands of egg-shaped spaceships. Gallic spaceships. And they all converged here.

For the Trials.

On a moon lit up like a dogdamn Christmas tree.

Lights meant structures. Cities meant people. And judging by the amount of lights I could see on this side of the moon alone, there were a whole hell of a lot people down there.

And suddenly, a task that seemed so simple in words—win the Trials, save Earth—felt incredibly complicated.

“Hey, Dumbass? Hehe.” I slipped in a weak laugh in an attempt to cover up the panic welling inside me. “Uh, what did you call this moon again?”

“Jeez, Flap! I just spent the past forty-five minutes going over our first scripted series of plays when we touch down, and the first thing to pop out of you, other than that load of literal crap you squeezed out during the drop—"

"Scripted plays? Just what are you getting on about now?"

"Scripted plays? Like, the game plan you come up with for the beginning of a match—before you have to really analyze what your opponents are doing and react? Like in football or basketball? Those are both Earth sports, by the way."

"I'm aware," I grunted. "But in case you forgot, I never played any of those sports on account of being a ducking pond duck and all!"

"Oh... right. Right. I forgot you were just a plain duck once and not this... um, weird thing you are now."

I grit my bill. "What's that supposed to mean?"

"Um, nothing. So... what about craterball? Did you ever watch craterball?"

"Never ducking heard of it."

"Oh, yeah. Right. Sorry. Wrong dimension. Anyway, did you know that ducks poop, like, every half hour by the way? Shit. That’s a dumb question. Well, of course you did. You’re a duck. My bad. Anyway, do want to know how I know I was talking for forty-five minutes?”

“Um, not really. But maybe it’s because you're a computer or something, Dumbass! I'm guessing you a have built-in clock that keeps track of whatever unit the chickens use to keep time.”

“Computer! I am no mere computer, my ducky friend. I am your gateway to power of the simulation! Now, I know I was talking for forty-five minutes because you squeezed out a turd and half while you were screaming like an abandoned eight-year-old slapping on his dad's aftershave. And I don’t know if you realize this, but you aren’t exactly sitting on the John right now—or wearing a diaper. We should get you some diapers in case you have another accident. Hmm. I wonder is they still put them in loot caches?”

“Okay, so I crapped my pants. Everyone does it once at least once in their lives. Sometimes Mr. Gilbert says you can't have a fourth bathroom break so you give it a rip thinking it's safe and a little mud comes out. Who gives a shit?!”

“Well, you do, obviously. Vladimir Pootin. Bumlog Millionaire. Damn, now I'm just pilfering. How about something original, duck, duck, doodie?”

“I get it, okay? I shit my damn pants! I’ll clean up whenever we get to—motherduck, you're a pain in my ass, you know that? I want to know one simple thing and you manipulate me into a pointless discussion about nothing. Answer the dogdamn question, Dumbass!” I snapped.

“First of all, a history on incontinence can be a sign of a major medical problem and, in case you forgot, I am your primary care physician. Your number two business is my number one business. Second, I can’t believe I used nanites to recycle the mess in your pants AND reintroduced the nutrients into your bloodstream—all out of the kindness of my heart, mind you. You didn't ask. And here you are, talking to me like I’m some common graphing calculator? And not even a TI-89. You’re treating me like the TI-82 they loan out to poor—”

“What’s the name of the ducking moon, you short-circuited cable box?!”

There was a long pause before Dumbass answered. And while long pauses are always awkward, when the thing that’s taking the pause is literally living inside your brain, well, it almost makes you feel guilty for causing it.

Almost.

I drew in a sharp breath, grunted, and said, “Well?!”

“Absolom, Flap. The moon is called Absolom. And, if you listen to me and don’t do anything stupid, we’re going to be spending a pretty significant amount of time there in three... two… one…”