Rixy struggled weakly, but not having been in his body for some time, he wasn’t much for fighting off his little brother anymore. Unable to grip Kenny’s wrists, he struggled against the fists clenched against his frail bird chest, clutching the thin fabric of his pajama shirt. He struggled to breathe under even the slightest pressure. “Alright, alright, Kenny! I give!” he cried hoarsely, “Uncle!” But his brother wouldn’t let go until he answered the question. “I gave it to the girl,” Rixy finally confessed, hoping that she had enough of a head start to get to the saucer before Kenny could. He’d seen her learning from inside the saucer, and he knew as well as the saucer exactly who the pilot was.

  Still reeling with Rixy’s recent awakening, Dr. Vickers experienced an overwhelming wave of anxious surreality; his control slipping from him. “What girl?!” he demanded, wanting to hear her name explicitly, to be sure of something, even if he already knew. Mr. Englehorn had confirmed she had found something in the wash, and now she had somehow slipped past him, the sneaky little thief, and stolen the final piece from Richard’s very own hand. While her intercedence had awakened his brother, she had also managed to undermine his own life’s work, skulking around to lay claim to what was rightfully his; what he had been searching for over fifty years himself. The impudent young lady had somehow single-handedly stolen everything he had ever worked towards from him — without even trying! And Dr. Vickers wanted it back. That was all. He wanted it all back and he would get it. Miss Nash could not have gone too far.

  This tale has been pilfered from Royal Road. If found on Amazon, kindly file a report.

  “She called herself Jynx,” Rixy offered quizzically for discussion. “I thought it was a funny name for a nice girl, but what do I know?” He chuckled to himself and looked down at all the tubes stretching from various points.

  But Dr. Vickers remembered the matching motorcyclists bookending his morning errand, both in pink coveralls. The doctor realized that twice he had narrowly missed her and now she was getting away. They had the saucer, after all, and she had simply stopped by to pick up the key. No big deal.

  Rixy glanced through the various fluid-filled saline bags hanging from the rack above the wheelchair. “Say, Kenny, I'm parched. What's it take for a fella to get a drink of water?”

  Starting the artifact, if that is what they were planning, seemed like a decidedly terrible idea. He remembered the blue fireball careening towards them through the storm that night so many decades prior, and how relieved he had been that it had never actually exploded. If they did try to start it, and if it did explode, there might not be any evidence left this time.

  As fast as he could crouch to fetch his keys from the floor, Dr. Vickers was headed towards the door, leaving Rixy trapped in a desk chair in the aviary, still thirsty. “Hey, Kenny! Just…” he surveyed the tubes, leading to various liquids. “A little somethin' to wet my whistle?” Although some of the liquids were clear, he doubted that they tasted all that good. Throat slightly parched, he sang the refrain from an old cowboy cartoon, a thirsty cowpoke on a sagging old nag, creeping across the Technicolor-painted cartoon desert: “Cooool, clear water…” to the birds still flitting about the aviary. His own heart fluttered back sympathetically, crashing violently against the inside of his birdcage chest before falling still.