“Where’s Steve?!” Hans screamed, barely maneuvering his jet off the path of a fidgeting tentacle. They had not counted on the alien bug blowing up into an abomination the size of ten cruise ships (maybe more… they had only been around to see it swallow that much) and throwing a fit like a roomful of teenage hormones (drunk on booze, privilege, and not much else), in under an hour like it’s on a tight schedule to cause as much nuisance as it could wreck. And all this while their Captain (that perpetually stoned donkey!) was holed up somewhere else in a mood of his own.
“He’s on the way!” Barry gasped, caught in a battle with one of the bug’s four wailing heads. “Said we should start bolting in together so he could just snap right on when he arrives!”
Hans blurted out a string of what-the-fuckeries echoed by the other three (yes, even Barry)—knowing their captain too well to believe that nonsense and already seeing tomorrow’s front page feature on the infamous headless robot who came within an inch of its life, but (thankfully and by some flukish miracle) still managed to save the day.