The crow is no longer in the box but in the lab. The lab is decrepit, with holes being the only light to guide the crow.

The crow must pass through many whiling blades without being decapitated or cut to pieces.

Natural light was an oddity to the bird. The lights from above were so familiar, so homily, yet this light had ushered him forward stronger than hey thing else could. Food, water, safety, warmth, comfort; all these things and more awaited.

But not yet.

The plastic hall had come to an end, opening up to a metal room with whirring metal fans. The natural light had emanated from above, through a metal grate, a portion of the ceiling that had broken off.

On closer inspection of the room, the corvid could see how dingy and decrepit it was: the ceiling, walls, and floor were all being devoured by putrid red and brown rust. Of the two fan blades at the left and right ends of the wall opposite of the crow, one was rotating slowly, an old grey metal fan. The fan on the right was moving rapidly, yet the bird could make out hints of red and vomit inducing odor protruding from the contraption.

This room was like the other metal box rooms he had been in previously, having no visible entrance or exit except for the ones that he traversed. Except this room only seemed to have one area that served as an entrance or exit: the room he just escaped.

No. His mind had finally understood the pattern beckoning him. The foul odor and red color of the fan on the right would suggest death, and death was the path he had been leading the way.

Flying over to the fan, the wretched scent had become nauseating. Through the blades, the crow could see more fans down a shaft. Taking a moment to mentally prepare himself, perhaps the last moment he would ever know, the bird rushed through the fan.

Thud

He landed on the floor of the metal shaft, unharmed physically. Beyond him was another fan, this one looking less red. This time with just a leap, the crow passed through the fan, again unharmed, but only physically as he looked upon the source of the wafting, unbearable smell.

Before the third and final fan were the splattered remains of several crows. Heads, feathers, a slew of blood, and organs of all types painted the metal hall red with a little black, but no gray.

Making his through the guts and gore, the bird looked at the third fan, gyrating at speed so incomprehensible that it looked ready to break out of its restraints and tear the bird to pieces. If he jumped through the fan, he would meet the same fate as those below his feet, no doubt about it. Still, he had to proceed.

Desperate, the crow picked up a random organ and threw it at the fan. It did little to stop the pulsating monster. The bird threw in another organ, then a head, then a wing, all the while, the bird’s stomach growled louder than before.

Even though it seemed futile, the corvid continued to stick every object on the ground into the metal blades. Little by little, the fan began to slow down; as the area beyond the rotating blade became visible, the crow hopped through, only nicking his left wing.

As he walked through the vent, the black bird felt a rush of heat come over him. His stomach also continued to growl.