[Raven's side]
Just as Raven was only a few nervous steps away from Mr. Witson, the mad inventor suddenly whirled around, his eyes gleaming like two caffeinated searchlights.
"Ah! Are you here to witness my blossoming love?" Mr. Witson beamed, arms stretched wide as if expecting applause—or maybe a hug.
Raven froze mid-stride, mouth half-open in horror.
'Blossoming love?' His internal voice practically screamed. 'How can it blossom when his unrequited love is dead?!'
He barely had time to shiver before Mr. Witson grabbed him by the hand—warm, slightly sweaty, and far too enthusiastic.
"Come, come!" Witson chirped with wild-eyed glee, dragging Raven toward the colossal contraption in the middle of the lab.
The machine loomed like an iron hydra, all blinking lights and buzzing coils, crowned with a rotating heart-shaped antenna and pink lace doilies taped to its sides like a psychotic Valentine's Day float.
Raven stared. The thing was humming—ominously—and smelled like hot glue and unresolved trauma.
"Allow me to introduce you to my greatest creation!" Mr. Witson sang. "The Avenger! Also known as... the Flame of Passionator 9000!"
Raven gulped, trying to keep his legs from giving out. His eyes darted back behind him, silently screaming for backup.
But the space where I'd been hiding?
Empty.
No twitchy wink. No chaotic grin. No moral support from the world's most unqualified tactician.
Just… air.
'Where's Otto?!' his thoughts spiraled into betrayal. 'Where did she go?!'
His eyes welled up with the first signs of betrayal-tears, the kind that only came from realizing your life was now in the hands of a man with a broken heart and a flamethrower decorated with lace doilies.
Mr. Witson stood beside his metallic monstrosity, gesturing grandly at its wires, vents, and what looked suspiciously like a repurposed espresso machine welded to the side.
"This—this is the culmination of grief and genius! The Flame of Passionator 9000! Designed to eliminate every last witch within a five-mile radius with precision and poetry!"
As he raved, Raven tiptoed behind him, sweat glistening on his forehead. His hand curled into a fist, trembling slightly. He raised it… and swung.
Whoosh!
Mr. Witson bent to inspect a loose wire at just the wrong moment, and Raven's fist sailed harmlessly through empty air.
Raven blinked. Tried again.
Whiff!
Mr. Witson spun around dramatically to make a point to an imaginary crowd. Raven stumbled back, pretending to cough.
Again.
Again.
Again.
Each time, Mr. Witson moved with uncanny, accidental agility, dodging every sneak attack like a man protected by the sheer chaos of his own madness.
Then Mr. Witson approached the main console. His hand hovered over a flashing red button beside a massive digital countdown now blinking ominously.
00:59.
00:58.
00:57.
"Behold!" he roared, slamming his palm on the dashboard. "In mere moments, my grief becomes righteous flame! My tears—converted to thermal energy! My anguish—translated into destructive poetry!"
Raven stared at the countdown, chest heaving.
Fifty-five seconds to catastrophe.
Fifty-five seconds to eternal shame.
Fifty-five seconds to becoming confetti.
His fists hung uselessly at his sides. His mind screamed. His knees trembled.
And all he had left… was panic.
And then—like a divine whisper slicing through the fog of impending doom—his Master's words echoed in Raven's head. Calm. Profound. And unmistakably slurred:
"If you think you can't do it, no worries. A sip of alcohol always solves the problem. Hiccup!"
It was the kind of advice carved into the annals of deeply questionable mentorship. But in this moment of crisis, Raven clung to it like a lifeline tossed from a sinking pirate ship.
Without hesitation, he reached into his coat and pulled out a dusty, ancient-looking bottle of wine. Where had it come from? Who knows. Inventory magic was less a science and more a suggestion.
He popped the cork out with his teeth. It made a sound not unlike a squirrel sneezing, and a thick, vinegary aroma escaped into the air, infiltrating his nostrils with the subtlety of a brick.
Raven pinched his nose and grimaced. "Why do people like to drink this stuff?" he muttered, eyes watering.
He peeked at Mr. Witson, who was now looming dramatically over the countdown panel, mumbling poetry and stroking a dangerously exposed wire.
Raven sighed. "But I don't have a choice."
And just like that, he tipped the bottle back and took a heroic swig—straight from the source. It burned like lava and regret, crashing down his throat. For a moment, he thought he might cry. Or scream. Or both.
Then it happened.
A flush rose in his cheeks like sunrise on Mount Doom. His pupils glistened with sudden clarity. His spine straightened with the posture of a man who had seen things—and could now punch them.
His heartbeat slowed. His thoughts aligned.
He was drunk.
He was ready.
Mr. Witson, now just a second away from pressing the final button, turned and blinked. "Wait—why is your face so red?"
Raven hiccupped. His eyelids drooped. His arms hung like wet noodles at his sides.
And then, with the majestic grace of a drunken monk from a forgotten wuxia film, Raven adjusted his stance, raised one trembling fist, and lunged.
POW!
The punch landed squarely across Mr. Witson's face. His body lifted off the ground like a sack of regret and crashed into the wall behind him with a sickly thump.
Silence fell. Sparks fizzled. The countdown continued.
Raven, still swaying, blinked once. His lips curled into a proud, tipsy smile.
And then—slowly, gently, with all the quiet dignity of a collapsing bookshelf—he crumpled to the floor face-first, arms splayed, snoring softly against the wood.
[Otto's side]
The crash was loud enough to rattle the rusted gutters. I jerked upright from behind my hiding spot, eyes darting toward the source—only to find both Mr. Witson and Raven sprawled dramatically across the floor.
Cautiously, I crept out from the shadows and made my way to the smoldering heap that was Mr. Witson. I knelt beside him, lowering my finger to hover just in front of his nose.
A faint puff of air.
"Yup," I murmured. "Still breathing. Unfortunately."
With a grunt, I shuffled over to Raven, who was face-down and very much not moving. I pressed my fingers to his neck, feeling the flutter of a chaotic pulse. "Uneven… but most definitely alive."
I gave him a gentle shove, and he flopped onto his back like a sack of regret. His face was a startling shade of red—deep, ripe tomato red.
I leaned in for a closer look—and immediately recoiled, gagging. "Ugh! Why does he smell like alcohol?!"
Then—before I could yell at his unconscious face with proper flair—a mechanical voice crackled behind me, cheerful as a ticking bomb wrapped in a valentine.
"T-minus thirty seconds to activation."
I froze.
"Right," I said stiffly, turning to face the love-fueled doomsday device.
"I forgot about that."
I dashed to the main console. I stretched my arms and said, "Okay. This should be easy-"
My eyes landed on the dashboard—and my soul promptly left my body.
It was a sea of buttons. Rows and rows of buttons. Red ones, green ones, blinking ones, and one that looked suspiciously like a doorbell.
There were symbols. Dials. One lever made entirely of spoons. A panel labeled "DO NOT TOUCH UNLESS YOU ARE A POET."
I stared.
The machine stared back.
"…Why," I whispered, "do inventors never label anything normally?"
The countdown blared.
T-minus twenty-five seconds.
"Alright," I muttered, cracking my knuckles. "Time to science the heck out of this."
I stared down at the mess of unlabeled buttons, gears, levers, one suspiciously furry knob, and a switch labeled "Emotional Damage Override." None of it made sense.
My finger hovered over a flashing green button. 'It looked… safe.'
"Green means go, right?" I muttered. "Like traffic lights. Or hope. Or salads."
I pressed it.
T-minus twenty-four seconds.
Suddenly, rock metal song blared from hidden speakers. Disco lights erupted from the walls. A smoke machine hissed to life. The Passionator 9000 began... spinning.
"Oh no," I whispered, ducking as glitter exploded from the ceiling. "I didn't break it, right?"
I smacked the next button. It honked like a goose. A mechanical arm popped out and slapped me with a rubber fish.
T-minus twenty seconds.
"THIS IS FINE," I said loudly, now dodging another robotic arm that attempted to place a tiara on my head. "I ain't a princess! And never will be!"
I yanked a lever shaped like a baguette.
Sirens wailed. Lights flashed red. The screen blinked with an ominous message:
"ACTIVATING: CUDDLE BEAM."
"Cuddle what now?"
A hatch on the machine's side burst open. From within, a cannonball-sized plush teddy bear fired at me with military precision.
Thud!
It hit me square in the chest and sent me sprawling backwards onto the floor, wheezing like a dying accordion.
T-minus fifteen seconds.
I pushed myself up, hair full of glitter, face full of plush stuffing.
"Mr. Witson," I gasped, glaring at his unconscious form, "what is this machine?! A death ray or an off-brand amusement park?!"
Desperate, I lunged for the nearest red button—heart-shaped, pulsing, dramatic—and slammed it with both hands.
Everything stopped.
The lights dimmed.
The music cut off.
The machine let out a mechanical sigh, like it had just finished a yoga class.
Even the Passionator 9000 shuddered and slowed, its spinning slowing to a halt.
Silence. Beautiful, hopeful silence.
I stood there, trembling, victorious. "I must be a genius!" I declared, already breaking into an overly confident victory dance.