writing_shadows

Mike watched from behind the thick glass of the containment unit, his hands manipulating the beaker from the safety of thick rubber gloves. If there were even a tiny hole in either glove, it could spell disaster. Inside, he looked at the beaker carefully, marvelling at the fluid trapped inside. The cryptid’s venom was mysterious, a murky green that slipped in thick, viscous gloops around in the container. They had said Britain had only one poisonous snake. Michael Batman had proved them wrong.

Carefully he added the ammonia, the HUD display from the Mark XXVI guiding his hands to ensure the operation was performed smoothly. It was only when the clouds began to rise that he realised the Mark XXVI’s readouts were wrong, and he had just aerosolised a deadly neurotoxin.

Mike remained calm. The gloves were thick. But why was smoke coming out of the filter? How could the machine be faulty, it was made in Coventry! His eyes widened as he retracted his hands, launching into a field manoeuvre he had practised repeatedly since childhood.

“Gas! Gas!” In a moment the helmet flew off, Mike grasping his gasmask and slipping it over his head. He smiled in triumph as he hit the extractor fan, his noggin safely cocooned within. “MMm! Mmhehehehmmm emmemmmm!”

Mike took a step back, his feet catching on the fallen helmet behind him. He felt himself go, and realised with horror he was about to slip beneath the waters of his inappropriately-placed aquatic research pool. He felt the impact of the water, equalising the pressure in his nose as he plunged downward, grapping with the buckles and weights strapped to the Mark XXVI.

From his upside down vantage he could see the sparks and hear the crackles of electricity from within the Mark XXVI’s girdle-mounted power unit as the water flooded the electrics. He ignored them: he had long prepared for such potential problems with a canny application of voltage = current x resistance. The electric charge wouldn’t be enough to stop his heart.

It took almost twenty seconds, but Mike could hold his breath much longer. Gradually he pulled himself out of the tank, the remnants of the Mark XXVI safe at the bottom. He ripped off the gas mask, gasping for air and falling onto the floor. A cool breeze was blowing, chilling his wet hair, and he raised an eyebrow quizzically. He turned, his eyes widening as he caught a glimpse of his fate.

“Well, Mike my lad, you’ve got yourself into a pickle here.”

Somehow, he had left a copper pipe in the water tank. The electric charge had swept up it, electrical pulses transferring to the lab’s circuitry. The fuses that should have been in place were faulty, and the charge had struck the ridiculously oversized fan in the wind tunnel. The fan was now sucking him gently along the floor, toward his doom.

Mike rolled onto his back, watching as wooden crates flew through the air only to chop and splinter within the rotor’s maw. He shook his head in frustration, muttering as he looked for some way to turn the rotors off. The only way would be some form of metal… the cages! Thinking quickly, Mike swung his arms out, grabbing the nearest cage and hurling it into the spinning rotors of death. It caught, the rotors twisting the metal grotesquely before finally juddering to a halt.

Mike climbed to his feet, setting his hands on his hips. “Nice try, Monsieur Death, but I’m not buying it today.”

He turned, preparing to leave the lab and complain about the shoddy filters, when he heard the tiny, scratching patter of feet nearby. He turned, watching as a tide of vermin swept toward him. The cage had contained voles. Lots of voles. Killer voles of death.

Mike took up his pest-fighting stance. “Come on you little blighters,” he said. “Do your worst.”