The door slammed like Hera herself had shut the heavens,
and Zeros blasted out of Socrates’ yard at full thrust—
no looking back, no breathing, no analyzing—
just got the hell out.
Z-P-N-E-S 2.0 caught Zeros’ ping signal
and instantly opened the lower hatch.
Phoenix rolled the ship over the bay,
descending into the ancient night,
looking for a spot to retrieve
one metal, philosophically-traumatized idiot.
Athens had already sunk into deep blue shadow,
fires glowing like pixels from a pre-patch world.
And that’s when Blindy snapped.
He yanked on his space-scooter goggles,
lenses lighting up green.
“Rusty!
I’m going out too!
The fuck—why should the dick-droid have all the fun?!”
Phoenix cranked the energy shield to full power,
the barrier flaring blue:
“Captain, stop.
It is HIGHLY not recommended that you exit.”
But Blindy was already charging—
like a village rooster that decided it was going to space.
He slammed into the energy field.
The shield hit him with a shock.
Blindy clenched his teeth
like he was trying to outlast an earthquake.
Pulled his goggles tighter—
and like a trash bag thrown off the Empire State Building—
SHOVED HIS HEAD THROUGH THE SHIELD.
And then the rest of him followed,
dragged by pure momentum.
He soared out, half-first,
then the rest of his body caught up.
He flew—beautifully, majestically, heroically…
—and smacked straight into the water.
A dull splash.
The waves: “okay.”
The fishermen’s lanterns: “what the fuck.”
Phoenix sighed through his Q-NPU:
“Log entry…
Captain has once again performed…
ahem… an ‘exit.'”
A small boat cut through the water.
Three fishermen—bearded, weathered, smelling of sea and garlic—
approached the spot where a “raging sky bull” named Blindy had just fallen.
One raised a lantern over the water, squinting at the reflection:
“Ὦ φίλοι… ἰδοὺ τέρας!”
Another narrowed his eyes, evaluating:
“Οὐ τέρας, ἀλλ᾽ ἄνθρωπός ἐστιν· μόνον μωρότερος τῶν ἄλλων.”
The third scratched his beard:
“Ἢ ἐκ τοῦ οὐρανοῦ κατέπεσεν;”
The first leaned the lantern closer to Blindy’s head:
“Οὐδὲν Θησεῖ ἔοικεν.”
The second snorted:
“Οὐδὲ γὰρ Ὀλυμπίῳ.”
And then Phoenix reported to Zeros:
“Blindy has ejected. Fishermen have retrieved him near the port of Piraeus.
Recommend you collect him and return to water—I will extract you from there.”
Meanwhile, the lantern light reflected off Blindy’s soaked head,
his body dangling face-down like a dead octopus,
occasionally bubbling—just enough to suggest he might still be alive.
The first fisherman grabbed a hook:
“Ἄγε, ἄγε· ἀνασπάσωμεν αὐτόν!”
Two grabbed him by hand, one hooked under his arm.
Blindy got hauled onto the boat
like a sack of rotten olives,
slamming against the planks, his whole body trembling.
The second fisherman leaned closer:
“Ὦ ξένε, ζῇς;”
The third squinted:
“Ἆρά γε πνοὴ ἐν σοὶ μένει;”
The first poked him with a finger:
“Ἀποκρίνου· πότερον ζῇς ἢ κατὰ μέρος τέθνηκας;”
Blindy, shaking, pushes himself up on his elbows,
his teeth grinding like he’s trying to sharpen them on ice.
His goggles are crooked, one lens flickering
like an emergency warning: everything is fucked.
He reaches a hand forward—
like a glitching terminator on 1% battery:
“G-guys… th-th-thanks…”
And then he sneezes—hard,
like he’s trying to eject his own soul—
and nails the first fisherman right on the hand.
“Sorry, g-guys… it’s just… a cold… from the water… nothing serious…”
The fishermen recoil in perfect sync,
like Blindy just spat a tiny jellyfish of chaos at them.
The first, wiping his hand on his tunic:
“Ὦ Ζεῦ… ὁ πταρμὸς αὐτοῦ κακοῦ σημείου ἔοικεν.”
The second, touching Blindy’s forehead with the back of his hand:
“Ὦ θεοί… ὡς θερμός ἐστιν.”
The third, glancing around nervously:
“Ταχέως, φέρε τὸν οἶνον· ψυχρός ἐστιν!”
They lift Blindy under his arms,
like a sacred, dripping icon of drunk stupidity,
and the boat turns toward the lights of the port.
Blindy trembles,
his teeth clattering like castanets in the hands of a Spanish witch.
He looks up at the sky, exhales a cloud of steam:
“Fuuuck… I’m… freezing…”
The fishermen exchange looks—
—and then from the water, silently,
like a shadow of Hades himself,
a black figure rises onto the boat,
grabs Blindy by the scruff,
and drags him back into the dark surface of the sea.
The fishermen scream,
scramble like Poseidon himself just came for their souls,
and start rowing for shore, cursing the night, the gods,
and the fact they even left land.
And in the darkness, a calm, tired whisper of Zeros:
“Phoenix, pick us up.
Quietly.
I’m in the water… with this decomposing biomaterial.
Hurry before he sneezes all over my chassis.”