[Episode 8] Boy in the Bunker: I Am Not Bee Vomit

Interesting Fact:  Only 33 truly apocalyptic events have occurred in the known multiverse. Commonly imagined causes like nuclear fallout, flesh-eating bacteria, and atmospheric removal are not as efficient at destroying worlds as most beings believe.

Aside from obliterating a planet into chunks the size of ping-pong balls, it's nearly impossible to wipe out all life on a given world. Scientists have no explanation for the multiverse's stubborn refusal to admit defeat. Somehow, life always seems to find a way.

When Mito, Dolly, and Rob Skythrust land on a barren world, they have no choice but to investigate the strange boy in the bunker.

Announcer: Welcome to the Crack – the wound between worlds, the rift amongst the stars, the only news network that brings you every story from every reality. You're watching, the CBW Channel.

Mito: Welcome to the CBW Channel. My name is Mito'ca'hondria, lead reporter and resident expert on chosen ones. Long time viewers may notice something strange about my appearance. Viewers who don't notice anything odd should check their psychic receptors. If you aren't tuned in, how will you ever see my lovely face?

Rob: I'm Rob Skythrust, resident expert on all things manly. For sentients without telepathic capabilities, don't worry. We'll describe everything as it happens so you won't miss a beat.

Mito: The strangeness I'm referring to is, of course, my missing headwear. As lead reporter, I wear a shiny silver top hat denoting my position. In an effort to begin a more egalitarian era of leadership, I have decided that Rob can wear my sparkly hat.

Rob: This really is unnecessary. I know how much this means to you, Mito.

Mito: Wear the hat, Rob.

Mito: You can also wear the sparkly navigation high heels. They're self-sizing.

Rob: You could not pay me to wear those shoes, but I'll hold the leash. Oh. You hooked an actual dog leash to them, instead of the usual rope. That's going to make life so much easier.

Mito: As we wait for our last reporter to join us, lets… um…

Rob: Let's go to the weather. Skies are overcast in the crack between worlds, with a chance of purpling as we move into the evening hours. If our crack between worlds had a sun, it would not be shining. The atmosphere currently appears to be daydreaming about rain. Should it take the leap, we will be sure to report this momentous occurrence.

Mito: Elsewhere in the multiverse, it is raining, snowing, or hailing. Some places are undergoing volcanic activity, and others are experiencing massive solar storms. We can all be certain that somewhere, some time, everyone is experiencing every type of weather at once.

Rob: Temporal storms are also a concern. They seem to be hitting years at random. Just last week, we were almost swept into the timestream. Wait, I see Dolly! No, sorry. That's Cathy from infomercials. Uh… I'm sure, uh…

Mito: Today we're testing a new segment called 'The Word of the Day.' Viewers, let us know if you enjoyed this segment by writing, chiseling, or otherwise inscribing your opinion onto a flat surface, burning it, and then feeding the ash to the nearest pigeon. Remember, the shadow people are on strike, so it's dirty, strike-breaking pigeons or nothing. Rob, what's our word of the day?

Rob: Stall. To delay, hinder, or impede the progression of action. S-t-a-l-l, if you use the standard 37^th Latin script alphabet.

Mito: And now, our sponsor!

Rob: Already? I mean, yes!

Rob: Picture this, viewers. In the years since the evil one slaughtered your family, you've worked tirelessly to orchestrate his downfall. The fight for justice has pushed you to your limits. You've done things you never could've imagined, crossed boundaries you thought were uncrossable. At long last, you pin the evil one to the wall and press a knife to his throat. And then he laughs.

Rob: He laughs. He doesn't think you have the guts to murder in cold blood. You're too noble for that.

Mito: If this scenario sounds familiar, you aren't alone. Millions of main characters, love interests, and hilarious sidekicks suffer this fate every day. If your image is too squeaky clean for wholesale murder, try Llama cigarettes.

Rob: Llama cigarettes are the chosen cigarette of anti-heroes, troubled bad boys, and rebels without a care. They are scientifically proven to increase your coolness by 26%. Remember, scary people smoke Llamas.

Mito: Mr. Stanton, our boss, is currently making a strange hacking sound. Were he of feline ancestry, I would assume he was coughing up a hairball. Unfortunately for his employees, Mr. Stanton is a dragon.

Rob: He doesn't look much like a dragon. He's small enough to fit in my palm, and his scales have a pearly fuchsia finish that seems to change color with the shifting of the light. If I had to put my finger on it, I'd say the spectacles balanced on his snout tend to tip the scales from monster to adorable.

Mito: While many people have the urge to coo when they see Mr. Staton stamp his little paws, he is still a dragon capable of lighting the studio on fire. Again.

Rob: And as our boss, he can dock our pay. Rent is due on the first, and he'll evict me if I'm late again.

Mito: Not that we're complaining. Living in a company town is so convenient. In a single conversation, we can talk to our boss, landlord, police-dragon, supermarket manager, and justice of the peace. I could go on and on about Mr. Stanton's passion for civic leadership, but his tail is twirling. It's time to move on to tonight's story.

Mito: I snag my shiny silver lead reporter hat back from Rob and raise my hand in the general direction of the ceiling. I'm not being slow. I'm being deliberate. I wouldn't want to land us in the wrong universe. Besides, with those temporal storms running amok, time travelers can't be too careful. Today we are aiming for Universe 11 in the year 4089.

Rob: She's coming! I can hear Dolly's orthopedic shuffling racing down the hallway.

Mito: As Rob and I begin to de-materialize, Dolly hurries into view. She lunges for Rob's outstretched hand just as we leave the studio. As the new world forms around us, Dolly presses a wrinkled hand to her heaving chest.

Rob: Dolly chokes on the dry, dusty wind as I appraise our new surroundings. Somehow, I have ended up with the sparkly lead reporter hat on my head. I don't want it. I'm not sure why Mito thinks I should be honored to wear the shiny, silver top hat, but she's always been an oddball. I tighten the chin straps anyway. I may not want this hat, but I won't let the wind blow it away.

Mito: The wind buffets my face as I scan the horizon. There's nothing here. No towns. No trees. Not even a hill to break up the flat, endless vista. I'd love to call it a desert, but this place isn't even worthy of that distinction. It's as if a giant has taken a scouring pad to the land. It has been scraped and scrubbed and sanded until not even the dirt dares make a home on this surface.

Dolly: Very poetic, dear. My oh my, that wind is blowing up a storm.

Mito: Dolly, where were you?! We stalled as long as we could, but we almost had to leave without you.

Rob: You know what Mr. Stanton does to people who don't show up for work. I don't actually have any idea what the consequences of a call-out are, but I'm assuming it involves both fire and evictions.

Mito: I'm trying to be nicer, Rob, so I'll call you an optimist instead of an idiot. Seriously, Dolly, what were you thinking?

Dolly: I'd tell you if I could get a word in edge-wise. I had a pie baking. You know how the oven in the breakroom has been on the fritz? The poor thing finally bit the dust. I was so distracted, I lost track of time.

Rob: What kind of pie?

Mito: Rob! That's not important. [pause] Strawberry rhubarb?

Dolly: It doesn't matter now. I had to give it to the pigeons. All that wibbly, wobbly baking temperature ruined it.

Mito: I frown to myself. I have watched Dolly make a thousand pies. As a princess, I never was taught much about food preparation, but Dolly is a genius in the kitchen. I've seen her rescue countless abominations our coworkers created. Cathy from infomercials once swapped the salt and sugar, and Dolly still managed to turn it into an edible cobbler. Surely even a broken oven would be no match for Dolly's baking prowess.

Dolly: Aren't you a sweetheart. I love the support, dear, but don't we have a story to report?

Mito: I narrow my eyes. Perhaps the pigeons have been bullying Dolly. It would be just like those dirty strikebreakers to steal an old woman's pie. If they stole my pie, I'd be much too embarrassed to admit the truth either.

Rob: As I watch Mito muse about the fate of Dolly's pie, I wonder why we have to narrate our every thought.

Dolly: As I watch Rob watch Mito, I wonder how hard it is to transfer to a different show. I'd be an excellent baker on Diced, the show where chefs from around the multiverse compete to turn unusual ingredients into gourmet cuisine.

Mito: Reluctantly, I drop my interrogation. This conversation has gotten a bit out of hand, and we really do have a story to report.

Rob: We set off for our final destination. Hopefully it won't be too far. The sparkly navigation shoes are pulling on the leash, but I see no sign of a dwelling on the horizon.

Mito: I landed us on the right planet. It'll be there. We've barely started walking. It's just cold, dry, and dusty. I swear, that stupid wind is sucking all the moisture out of my skin. I'm turning into a raisin. I can't wait to use my moisturizer tonight. You should try it, Rob. You might look amazing now, but as soon as you age past 25, it stops being so effortless. It's only a bit of lotion, a cleanser, a facemask…

Rob: How many steps are in this routine?

Mito: Seventeen. Don't make that face. Skin care is self-care. Just imagine what Dolly would look like if she'd started moisturizing when she was my age.

Dolly: I did, Mito. You wouldn't believe the lengths I went to preserve my youth.

Rob: It sounds a bit disturbing when you say it like that, Dolly. I keep having to remind myself that we grew up in different universes. There's no way you were slathering yourself in the blood of virgins like some of the crazy witches I decapitated back home.

Dolly: Certainly not. That wouldn't work at all. I mostly used slime secreted by snails. Mucin, they called it. Much more practical than virgin blood.

Mito: Snail slime? Ewww. Whoop!

Rob: Viewers should know, Mito just tripped on air and faceplanted onto the featureless ground.

Mito: I did not trip on nothing. There's clearly some kind of invisible object.

Dolly: Y'all were getting along so nicely. Don't start bickering now.

Mito: I am Mito'ca'hondria, powerhoose of Cellaria. I do not trip over air.

Rob: So you're admitting you tripped on your own feet.

Mito: That's not- uggh. I'll prove it to you. Look, I was right here and then… Yes! Viewers, please excuse my victorious shriek, but I just found the object. It appears to be some sort of invisible hatch. The sparkly navigation high heels have stopped walking, so this must be the right place. As Rob watches doubtfully, I find the invisible handle.

Dolly: Try twisting it, Mitochondria.

Rob: With an audible hiss-

Mito: I found it. I narrate it.

Rob: I have the sparkly hat.

Mito: That doesn't mean you get to narrate all the cool bits.

Rob: Really? Can I get that in writing?

Dolly: With an audible hiss, the hatch springs open. Inside is a ladder that is not invisible. Oof. My bones hurt just looking at it. Rob, you go down first. I'll squash Mito if I fall into her.

Mito: By rights, the person who found the mysterious invisible hatch should get to go first, but I'm not petty enough to complain. Really, I'm being incredibly gracious by allowing Rob this opportunity. He should thank me.

Rob: I think you guys should hurry down here. It's, uh, I'm not sure how to describe this.

Dolly: I grab the cold, metallic rungs and carefully lower myself. Mito descends last, making sure to shut the hatch as she goes. None of us know why there's an invisible hatch in the middle of a barren wasteland, but it's good manners to shut the door behind you. The ladder is longer than I expected. Just as I start wondering if I shouldn't have stayed outside, my feet hit the floor.

Mito: Inside is a room that can only be described as a bunker. Machinery beeps on every wall, and dozens of cords sag from the ceiling. Rob stares panicked at the mass of hardware. I can't blame him. Cellaria had every technological advancement imaginable, but Rob's home world is primitive. They didn't even have steam engines by the time he left. He's clearly never seen a server room.

Rob: We didn't need technology. We had magic.

Dolly: All the best societies have both. Don't you fret your pretty head, Rob. They'll catch up. All that stuff on the walls is a computer. Probably one large one.

Rob: A computer? Like that thing we watch cat videos on?

Dolly: Mito, maybe you should let someone else start introducing the technology.

Mito: I showed Rob all the important parts. It's not my fault he only remembers the cat videos. I couldn't not show him that compilation of kittens doing acrobatics.

Rob: Shh. There's someone coming.

Mito: I fall quiet and scan the room. I don't hear anything, but Rob's ears might be a teensy bit better than mine. I blame hunting. While he was creeping around the forest with his bow and arrows, I was learning galactic history at the most prestigious school in Cellaria.

Rob: This is what you call 'falling quiet?' You know your mouth has to stop moving before you can even start to be considered quiet. There's probably a reason no one has ever taken you hunting. Oh. It's a child.

Dolly: Oooh! Just look at the little tyke. Oh, aren't you precious. Those chubby cheeks! That ruffled hair. Heavens to Betsy, I could just eat you up.

Mito: Figuratively, I tell the little boy. I've never been one to squeal over children, but this one is distinctly adorable. I suddenly understand the urge.

Rob: Don't mind them. They're crazy. What's your name, little man?

Mito: The boy stares at Rob. Perhaps he's scared.

Boy: I am not scared.

Dolly: That's great, honey. We don't want to hurt you. Where are your parents?

Boy: Gone. Where are your creators?

Mito: Tragically dead, for the most part. We're reporters from the CBW Channel. Is there an adult we can talk to?

Boy: No.

Mito: I look at my fellow reporters, doing my best to share my unease. Interviewing minors without the permission of parents or guardians is never wise. Some civilizations are awfully strict about the protection of minors. Unless they're a chosen one, it's best to steer clear. I eye this boy. He doesn't look like a chosen one, but he is all alone in a mysterious, underground server room. That usually doesn't happen to normal people.

Mito: Dolly, Rob, do you think we should proceed?

Rob: Shouldn't the lead reporter make that decision?

Mito: I'm trying to be more egalitarian.

Dolly: Don't mind them. Those two will argue till the cows come home if I let them. Why are you here, honey?

Boy: Why do you keep calling me bee vomit?

Dolly: Bee vomit? Oh, you mean honey. It's just an endearment. Don't you have honey on this world? I suppose there aren't enough flowers to keep them going, huh?

Boy: There were bees. Now there are none.

Rob: What happened?

Boy: Humans created an artificial intelligence. They thought it would save them. It did not.

Mito: Uh-oh.

Rob: Uh-oh?

Mito: You really need to develop better instincts. Without a keen reporter's intuition, you won't last a year in the Crack.

Rob: That explains nothing.

Mito: When you hear about an artificial intelligence, assume it wants to kill you. Every now and again I meet one that's a force of good, but most of them want to kill you. It isn't always malicious. Sometimes, they just love us so much, they view death as the only way to preserve us.

Dolly: It's probably what happened to this world.

Rob: What?

Mito: You know? Desolate wasteland as far as the eye can see? No sign of life outside of a hidden bunker? If you've seen one post-apocalyptic world, you've pretty much seen them all. There are only a few things that can wipe out all life in a world. Now that we know there's an artificial intelligence involved, it's kind of easy to make an assumption.

Dolly: What happened, honey? Can you tell us?

Boy: Humans were at war. It was unceasing. They created the artificial intelligence to police the conflicts. It was a mediator. To prevent conflict is to understand it. War was unceasing. Unceasing: to continue without end. To stop war, it created the end.

Mito: Classic programming mistake. This would've never happened on Cellaria.

Rob: Can you please shut up about Cellaria? We get it. Cellaria is the most perfect society to ever exist. You've made your point. Move on.

Dolly: How did the end come?

Boy: Nuclear warheads.

Mito: Shit! Shit, shit, shit. We need to wrap up this interview.

Rob: What? Are nuclear warheads bad for the skin or something?

Mito: It's bad. Very, very bad. I'd give you the explanation, but I don't want to waste any more time. Outside? That's called nuclear winter. That dust we were breathing in? Radioactive ash. It's not recent, obviously, or we'd all be currently dying an agonizing death.

Rob: So we're fine?

Mito: No. We're probably still dying. Our bodies just haven't noticed yet. Radiation takes a long, long time to go away, and it doesn't take much to become lethal. We need to move this interview along. After, I'll take us across the galaxy to the Glundark Empire. By this century, they have a massive network of hospitals that have a fabulous treatment for radiation therapy. We'll spend a few days kicking back in a medicinal mud spa, then sneak out before they hand us a bill. We'll probably all have a really weird form of cancer in forty years, but it'll be fine. I intend to die young and beautiful, as all main characters should. Let's move, people.

Dolly: What about the child? We can't just leave him alone.

Mito: He's like five. Somebody must be taking care of him. Let's leave them to it.

Rob: If this radiation shit is so bad, hasn't our arrival exposed him to it? If radiation is anything like consumption, it travels pretty easily.

Mito: Radiation is nothing like tuberculosis, but you're actually right and I kind of hate you for it. Okay, fine. We'll take this interview on the road. Everyone, gather around. Rob, give me my hat.

Dolly: The little boy doesn't move, so we cluster around him. The poor dear must be scared stiff. Mito reclaims her sparkly lead reporter hat and raises her hand. The air thickens, and I feel my body begin to dematerialize.

Rob: Uh, it stopped.

Mito: Yes, I know, Rob.

Dolly: Mito raises her hand once more. It goes no better than the first.

Rob: Why isn't it working? Is it that radiation shit?

Mito: I don't know, Rob. I'm not a scientist. Dr. Ravenwood would know, but he isn't here.

Rob: Can't you figure it out?

Mito: Stop pressuring me! Um, um, talk about our sponsor. I need a second to think.

Rob: We've already talked about our sponsor, but I'm sure no one would mind hearing about it again.

Rob: Llama Cigarettes. Are you tired of people not taking you seriously? Do people refuse to accept you've matured? Are you typecast everywhere you go?

Dolly: People everywhere struggle to be accepted as adults. Many become the figurehead of rebellions when they're only teenagers. Some are whisked away to magical academies before they've hit puberty. Others are the younger sibling of a famous hero, and thus become immortalized as a squeaky-clean little kid.

Rob: Try smoking Llama Cigarettes. They are guaranteed to make you age 20% faster than is biologically healthy. Llama Cigarettes are the perfect signal to tell the world 'Don't boss me around. I'm an adult.' Just remember to try them before you smoke in public. If you light the wrong end, people will laugh.

Dolly: Remember, mature people smoke llamas.

Boy: You are holding a cigarette.

Rob: Yeah. Do you want to try one?

Boy: My scans tell me that is a carcinogen.

Dolly: Doctors change their minds all the time. One day, carcinogens are bad for us. The next, we aren't getting enough of them.

Boy: Negative. Carcinogens are positively linked to cancer.

Rob: Wait, uh, scans? That's kind of a weird phrase.

Dolly: Oh, honey! Don't tell me you're that artificial intelligence that killed everyone.

Boy: Negative. I am a scared five-year-old child. Waaaaaaah.

Dolly: Maybe we shoulda seen this coming.

Rob: There's no food in this room. I'm still trying to understand what computers do, but I don't think they can make food. Mito, have you fixed the hat?

Mito: I glare at Rob for pulling me out of my train of thought. How am I supposed to fix anything when he won't let me think?

Boy: You may stay in this room. The surface will be habitable in approximately 20,000 years.

Mito: Oh, shut up. I flip the switch marked 'interface.' The artificial intelligence disappears. Rob looks at me like I just murdered a child. I roll my eyes.

Mito: It's a holographic interface. The artificial intelligence is still present. I'd have to destroy the servers to kill him, and I have no intention of doing that unless it becomes clear that he's the one blocking our ability to leave.

Rob: Can artificial intelligences do that?

Mito: Technically, there's probably a few in the multiverse that can stop the hat, but it's rare. The top hats are built to bust through anything and everything. Dr. Ravenwood was always talking about that before- well, you know. Anything strong enough to punch through the time, space, and reality isn't usually daunted by glorified computers.

Rob: Why are you antagonizing someone that literally destroyed the world?

Mito: We are never going to figure anything out if you don't stop interrupting me with asinine questions. The world is already destroyed. Those servers- the weird walls with blinking lights- hold the artificial intelligence. He isn't going to destroy the bunker, because it would be suicide, or at least voluntary amputation. He has no power over us. Can you please focus on our impending demise?

Rob: You aren't the only one stressed out.

Mito: The way I see it, there are two possibilities. Either the hat is broken, or there is something interfering with its ability to transport us.

Rob: Okay. How does that help us?

Mito: It doesn't.

Rob: Can you try that hard reset thing you did when we were caught in the temporal storm? Wait, do you think the temporal storm followed us?

Mito: How can a storm follow us?

Rob: I don't know. How can a hat transport us across the multiverse? I stopped questioning my life after a sentient fern tried to eat me.

Mito: I'm going to try a hard reset. It'll take about an hour. If it doesn't work, we're screwed.

Rob: If it doesn't work, we'll try something new.

Mito: Rob, don't be such an optimist. The radioactive dust is in our clothes. Our skin. Our lungs. Every minute we delay treatment increases the likelihood that none of us make it back to Crack. If the problem doesn't lie with the hat, we've just gambled away our lives.

Rob: We've got to try something. Dolly, thoughts? [pause] Dolly?

Mito: Dolly is peering into some sort of tube. She jolts when I call her name again.

Dolly: Don't mind me, dear. I'm just woolgathering.

Mito: What is that? It looks like a periscope. You know, like the devices submarines use to see the outside world.

Dolly: There's not much of an outside world to see.

Mito: If there is some kind of interference blocking our ability to dematerialize, maybe it's coming from outside. Can I look? Maybe I'll recognize something.

Dolly: I thought we agreed the radiation was disrupting the hat?

Rob: I don't remember us agreeing on anything. Mito suggested a few ideas, but even she didn't claim to know the answer. Mito'ca'hondria, Powerhoose of Cellaria would never keep her mouth shut if she thought she knew something we didn't.

Mito: I can't help that Cellaria has a better educational system than your primitive world.

Rob: I'm tempted to tell Mito where she can shove her education, but there isn't time for childish bickering.

Mito: I'll show you childish.

Rob: I glance at Dolly, expecting her to tell us, 'Y'all's bickering could wear the horns off a billy goat.' She always has an odd phrase to express her irritation, but not this time. Dolly has a strange look on her face, and she almost seems to be shielding the periscope with her body. The hairs stand up on the back of my neck. Something is wrong.

Dolly: Don't be ridiculous, Rob. I'd never do anything to hurt you or Mito. You know that.

Mito: Rob, stop being absurd. I've known Dolly since she fell into the Crack. She can be a little intense sometimes, but she'd never hurt anyone. To prove it, I shoulder Dolly aside and peer through the periscope.

Rob: Mito? Mito, what's wrong?

Rob: Mito jerks away from the periscope like it smacked her in the face. Wide-eyed, she looks at Dolly. Before anyone can stop her, she bolts for the hatch. I've never seen anyone scurry up a ladder so quickly. I hurry after her. My broad shoulders make it a tight squeeze, but I wiggle out of the hatch. Mito is staring at a dust cloud. No. The dust is changing, shifting. In one moment, it's nothing more than a miniature whirlwind of ash and silt. In the next, it's… it's… it looks like the temporal storm that swept us away from our last interview. Like television static. Living, breathing static immersed in all the colors the mind can imagine. I blink, and it's swirling dust once more.

Rob: I thought radiation was a problem!

Rob: Mito is pale, her eyes wide. For the first time in our acquaintance, I understand how she can describe her teary purple eyes as 'amethyst.' Mito opens her mouth like she can't comprehend her own movement.

Mito: Dr. Ravenwood.

Rob: Mito is staring into the whirlwind like her long-dead friend is going to step out of it. I step closer. I don't know what this radiation shit is doing to her head, but clearly she needs to climb back inside the bunker before it melts what's left of her brain. As I touch her arm, I see it.

Rob: There is a man. He's thin. Reedy. Short, dark hair and a skinny mustache obscure his scarecrow face. Bronze glasses gleam inside the swirling static. Is this the illustrious Dr. Ravenwood?

Mito: I can't understand you! I'm sorry! I'm trying!

Rob: He's saying something, but the sound is swept away by the roaring of the wind. Dr. Ravenwood points. I turn, and realize he's pointing at Dolly. She's climbed out of the hatch and is watching the whirlwind with that same, strange look. I wait for her to smile, to cry, to show some sign of emotion. Can she not see him from this angle?

Mito: Yes! Dolly is alive. It was a close call. She almost got sucked into that nanite swarm that took you from us, but she's okay. Are you alive? Are you, are you dead? Is checking up on us your unfinished business?

Rob: Dr. Ravenwood shakes his head, still pointing at Dolly. He's trying to say something. It's urgent, whatever it is. Normally, I would read his lips, but between the mustache and the whirling dust, I can't catch more than a single word. 'Trust.' Dr. Ravenwood is trying to tell Mito something about trust.

Rob: I step closer, braving the stinging wind for a chance to hear this message. The whirlwind disintegrates. Where once there was a man in a storm of ash and static, now there is only a barren wasteland. The winds too have changed. Purposeful strikes and gusts have given way to a cold, unemotional breeze.

Dolly: I'm sorry, Mito. I thought it was an optical illusion. I didn't want to break your heart.

Mito: It's alright. I just wish I knew what Dr. Ravenwood was trying to tell us.

Rob: He said something about trust.

Mito: Dr. Ravenwood talked about trust a lot. In a dangerous job like ours, he said trust was the only thing that kept people alive. He must've wanted to make sure the team would be alright without him.

Dolly: We will be. You're turning into such a good leader. Dr. Ravenwood must be so proud.

Rob: It looked like he was trying to warn Mito, not give her a pat on the back.

Dolly: Don't you mind Rob, Mito. He's such a worrywart. Why don't you grab your sparkly lead reporter hat, and we'll see if it'll work. Dr. Ravenwood might've caused the interference that was keeping us here.

Mito: It's worth a shot. Don't worry, viewers. Our time slot is nearly up, but I'm sure the hat will work this time. Stay tuned for Diced, the only cooking show where contestants are given radioactive ash as an ingredient.

Dolly: Ta-ta for now, my lovelies.