Page 1 (Erenthal)

It had all begun, as so many things often do, with a letter. A very nice letter to be sure, high
grade paper in an expensive envelope, the smell of ink and refinement oozing of the off-white
surface. It simply read, in fine thin handwriting: You are hereby cordially invited this Friday
to witness a scientific marvel of the highest degree. Signed, Dr. Donovan Calvin, PhD.
Farther down the paper, added in a more hasty hand, it said: PS: Refreshments will be served.

At first you were a little surprised. It had been years since you last heard from Dr. Calvin,
following a brief and vigorous period of contact after you’d graduated. He’d made no secret
that he had considered you his favorite student, and you had held him in similar regard as a
mentor. But as time went by and you settled into your new post-graduation life, adjusting to
the grind and drudgery of corporate IT, the letters and calls got all together more infrequent,
to the point where they finally ceased entirely. Thus, when the invitation arrived, you jumped
at the opportunity to rekindle your friendship, even though the whole thing sounded rather
mysterious and vague.

But, and this was one of the rules by which you lived your life, never say no to an event
where they serve refreshments. And now, here you were, about two hours out of Seattle,
forcing your piece of shit wreck of a car up a winding snowy road that looked like it would be
more at home in rural Russia than the eastern seaboard of the United States, while both the
sun and the temperature outside the window was dropping to unfathomable lows. You
suppress a sudden shiver, then turn down the volume on the car stereo. Maybe the Twin Peaks
soundtrack wasn’t the best choice after all.

A few sidetracks later, confused from unhelpful conversation with an inebriated local, and ten
cigarettes poorer, you find yourself standing outside the (rather large and ramshackle) house
of your old mentor. You ring the bell, but receiving no reply you try the handle. Finding the
door unlocked, you cautiously step inside. Looking around, you notice that place is a mess.
Stacks of magazines litter the floor of the room, mingling with empty take-out boxes and dirty
glass jars. You swear you saw a rat scurry past.

“Mr. Powell!” a voice exclaims, and you turn around to see an older man walking down a
staircase towards you, arms extended. With his (at least at one point in time) white coat and
unruly head of graying hair, he was almost a living breathing parody of the mad scientist.

“Dr. Calvin, good to see you!” you respond, nervously embracing him. A faint smell of moth
balls greets your nose. “Still sporting the Emmet Brown-look?” you add, smiling. He looks at
you, uncomprehending. Then the moment passes, and his eyes begin to sparkle. He grabs you
by the arm, leading you through the room.
“I thought you were the people from the Nobel committee at first, you know? They’re
supposed to be here any minute now. Finally, I will get the recognition I deserve!”

“Recognition for what?” you ask, but his grip just tightens.

“Oh, you’ll see, soon enough. Through here, if you will.”

TURN TO PAGE 2
Page 2 (Erenthal)
You emerge into what can only be described as an engineer’s wet dream. Or nightmare,
depending on your disposition you suppose. Banks of computers, workstations and various
other technical accouterments take up nearly every free surface of the room, the hum of
hundreds of fans creating a hypnotic carpet of background noise. Thick bundles of cables
snake to and fro, hanging like bulbous vines from the ceiling. Devices which you’ve never
seen their like lurk in the corners, prongs and pokers menacing the rest of the gear.

“Holy crap,” you say, breath caught in your throat.

“My assistant, Wotan,” Calvin says, pointing out a rail-thin youth with dark wispy hair and a
pale unhealthy complexion sitting in a swivel chair, deeply engrossed in an issue of
Penthouse. A pair of massive headphones enclose his ears, and you think you can hear some
sort of European disco-pop, or something in that style, softly pounding from beneath them.
“Bulgarian. Doesn’t speak much, but efficient and easily trained. Not like that Rumanian I
had before,” Calvin muses. “But that’s not what I wanted to show you. No, my boy, this is
something which I guarantee you have never seen before. Behold the future!” he continues,
raising his arms like a preacher. “Behold, Gerald!”

The door at the far end of the room opens, and a shape enters. At this point, if your jaw hadn’t
been firmly attached to your skull by tendons or whatever that stuff is that holds it together, it
would have come crashing to the floor.

“You… made… a robot?” you say, and as soon as the words exit your mouth you feel how
inadequate they are. The thing, or Gerald, is shaped roughly like a man, though no one could
make that mistake once they got a clear look. Made of out seemingly solid metal, and with
powerful limbs ending in vicious-looking manipulator claws, it is absolutely terrifying to
behold. The letters and numbers ‘G001\1’ are printed on his chest in thick yellow paint.

“Blimey, guv, ‘o’s this chap then?” it says in a tinny but strangely natural sounding voice.
Which, you have to say, is probably the very last thing you expected it to do.

“You… made… a british robot?” you add, feeling a wave of dizziness descending on you like
a squadron of Lutwaffe fighters on London.

“What? Oh, that,” Dr. Calvin responds, scratching his arm. “You see, a blank positronic brain
matrix has to be imprinted with a base line linguistic and personality construct for it to
function.”

“That doesn’t explain anything at all,” you deadpan.

“Well, since I had to hurry up getting him ready for the presentation today, I had to take what
was available. I have this quite fantastic machine, you see, that can convert nearly any
suitable electric pattern to a positronic matrix, and…” He retrieves something from the floor,
holding it up to you.

“A DVD-box set of Coronation Street? Really?”

The doorbell rings, interrupting your train of thought. “Oh, that must be the Nobel people.
Punctual, those Swedes,” Calvin says, eyes aflame with glee. “Gerald, go back into the
workshop and wait there. Don’t want to spoil the surprise, do we now?” he continues, and
Gerald obediently complies, noisily waggling off. “Now, Wotan, open the door for our
guests.” The youth shambles off, muttering under his breath.

“Hey, Dr. Calvin,” you remark, “I need to use the bathroom. It was a long drive.”

“Go ahead, it’s in the back through the workshop. Just follow Gerald.”

You follow the robot into the workshop. Even more of the strange machinery is lined up here,
all of it humming and sparking with weird energy. You’re just about to ask Gerald for
directions, when the sound of an automatic weapon booms through the house. Sprinting to the
door, you crouch down and peer through the slit.

First, you see Wotan stumbling back inside, the front of his shirt drenched in blood. After
him, with military precision, comes several persons wielding Kalashnikovs and wearing ski-
masks. You have a hunch that these are not the Nobel people. One of them grabs a stunned
Dr. Calvin.

“Find ze robot!” he shouts, and his men begin roughly ransacking the room.

“Shit shit shit,” you whisper to yourself, looking around in desperation for a hiding place.
Gerald has obviously shut down, standing immobile underneath a cradle of some kind. Next
to him is a large metal cylinder, perhaps two meters tall, with a hatch on the front. With
certainty borne from desperation, you tear it open and climb inside. It snaps shut behind you
with some force, and you’re plunged into darkness. Just as you start to appreciate what a bad
idea it was, something digs into the base of your skull, and the world stops.

TURN TO PAGE 3

Page 3 (Erenthal)
After an indeterminate amount of time, you finally wake up. Strangely numb, you flex your
arms as the world comes into clear focus once more. As you briefly consider the fact that
you’re somehow once again outside the cylinder, a voice stirs you from your ponderings.
“What’s all this then, guv? I appear to be ‘uman!”

You turn around and see yourself staring back at you. “Aaaaaaaaaaaaaah!” you say, as
eloquently as you can.

“Aaaaaaaaaaaaaah!” the other you responds.

Looking down, you see your chest, now a hammered piece of steel. You raise a hand, flexing
several little manipulators. Suddenly, the little battery-meter up in the left corner of your
vision makes sense. “Aaaaaaaaaaaaah!” you say again, but this time with more emphasis.

The door bursts open, and a man with ski-mask enters, his AK flitting from you to you.
“Oy, I’m getting me self outta here!”, you, or rather Gerald, you correct yourself, exclaims,
then leaps through the window next to him in a shower of glass. The AK now has a single
target.

“Robot raus!” he shouts.

“Look, I’m not a robot! He is, I mean, he was, I mean…” you start, before the futility of the
exercise dawns upon you. You realize that you have to keep it cool. Nevermind that
something scientifically impossible just happened. Never mind that your body just ran away
with fucking Elton John inside of it. Never mind that you're diabetic and are going to have to
take an insulin shot pretty soon. Never mind that you especially do NOT look forward to the
upcoming mental break that you'll inevitably suffer as a consequence of all of this. You file
all of those things away into a mental to-do list, to be assessed, processed and handled as they
come up. Right now the assault rifle pointing at your temporary body takes precedence, you
decide.

Do you:

Leap through the window after yourse…Gerald? Turn to page 145

Batter the man into submission with your newly aquired steely limbs? Turn to page 61

Go along with him, playing the part, in order to find Dr. Calvin? Turn to page 200

Page 61 (Feinne)

You’re not confident this crazy metal body can move fast enough for you to get away before
something important gets perforated, and you certainly don’t trust him enough to just go with
him. No, this is clearly the sort of situation where a sudden, sharp application of good old-
fashioned American violence is called for.

Priority one is clearly to disable his gun, preventing the perforation you are very concerned
about. Fortunately, you seem entirely capable of that old movie cliché of bending a gun’s
barrel around. The thug is so surprised he doesn’t even have a chance to call out to his friends
before you knock him about the head, sending him down quite effectively. This gives you a
chance to get a decent look at him, which just makes things rather more confusing as, near as
you can tell, this guy was some sort of Nazi. Rifling his pockets indeed reveals that he is Fritz
Boltunpuncher of the Super Secret SS, whatever that is.

While your most immediate problem is over, that just leaves so many others to deal with.
There were certainly more of ze Germans than this guy, and they’ve got the doctor. Even
worse, your real body is getting farther away by the minute. You need to come up with a plan
and fast.

Do you:

Try to save the Doctor from the Super Secret SS? Turn to page 420
Go after your body and leave the Doctor to his fate? Turn to page 68
Try and piece together how this all happened from the lab? Turn to page 203

Page 420 (Blastinus)

Finding the Doctor is your number one priority at the moment. Even if you could somehow
locate yourself, your field of study was in Electrical Engineering, not...whatever field covers
the transmission of consciousness from one body to another. The complex mechanics of
working the machine would probably fly right over Gerald's shiny...YOUR shiny metal dome.

Jeez, you can't switch things back to normal soon enough. These constant corrections are
twisting your brain into knots, though at least you're not the one feeling the headache at the
moment.

Disappointingly, nobody is in the computer room when you thunder in for a giant fight scene.
Well, nobody living anyway. That European guy whose name has already slipped your mind
shall be avenged, just as soon as you navigate your significantly bulkier body through this
maze of computers and cords. Regrettably for your dignity, you are unsuccessful, and many
hilarious collisions and pratfalls result.

The other Germans, unaware that there's a robot on the loose, think that all the noise is just
Fritz being stupid again. He was supposed to pick up Dr. Calvin's research notes and, thanks
to him taking so long, they're already behind schedule. Imagine their surprise when a robot
bursts into the main foyer, dragging a monitor behind him like a medieval flail. At first,
they're just frozen in place, unable to put words to what they're seeing, but when you charge
forward and smash the computer against the closest kraut's head, the rest are able to put their
feelings into one word,

"SCHEISSE!"

Thanks to the element of surprise, the other Germans bolt to their escape vehicle, rather than
realizing that they have the advantage of numbers and the superior weaponry. You
immediately give chase, but you're only just in time to see their large black van (black? In the
snow? Really now!) roll away from the building, carrying Dr. Calvin with them. Running to
your own beat-down clunker, you reach for your keys and...

Oh, right. Your keys are in your other pair of pants. Darn.

You cast a quick glance at the van. The Super Secret SS is pulling away at a relatively slow
rate, thanks to all the snow. If you could either find a way to get your car working or find out
where they're headed, you could still catch up to them.
Do you:

Attempt to hotwire your car? Turn to Page 25

Try to find out where your pants ran off to? Turn to Page 112

Interrogate the SSSS members you so deftly defeated? Turn to Page 71

Page 71 (Defiance Industries)

You watch as the van fishtails down the driveway. At first, you want to give chase, but with
no car keys you realize you'd have to rely on your smooth metal feet to run across snow for
who knows how long. Until you get your original body back, you decide, you can't risk
slipping on black ice and wrapping yourself around a telephone pole.

You take a moment to shake your fist at the SSSS van angrily before stomping inside to
interrogate the man you subdued. Back in the lab, he is still sitting there, motionless, with the
broken remains of a computer monitor around his head like some sort of helmet. You remove
the monitor from his head and he awakens with a start, looking up at you with pupils that
aren't dilating correctly.

"Oi!" You declare, "need to ask you a few questions, guv!"

He tries to spit at you, but the blunt force trauma to the head has left his fine motor control
somewhat lacking and he simply spits on himself instead. "You will get no answers from
me!" He answers, "I would never betray the Super Secret SS' 'Situation: Schasselhoff!'"

"Well, that's all right, lad; not concerned about any of that, chap. See, I just need that Doctor
fellow you boys pinched to put me back in me real body, then everything will be bully." You
explain, and as you do, you can feel your robot body demand to play cricket or something else
that British stereotypes do.

"I am trained to resist torture," Fritz explains, squinting hard to make out the features of your
robot face, "you will never learn of our plan!"

Well, you figure, if he's got all this training it's a shame not to use it. "Well sorry then, didn't
want to have to do this, but you know how it is." You attempt to clear your throat, making a
noise like two cars freak-dancing, and say in your best robot voice: "PROGRAM: BAD COP
INITIATED. YOU ARE FILTH." You snap your metal fingers together like they are pincers
and attack his nipples violently.

He makes a noise like he might throw up a little and you recoil in fear. "Enough!" He says, "I
will tell you what I know. It is not much; I only work for them because I could not get any
other job, and now no one will hire someone with 'Super Secret SS' on their resume." You pat
him on the shoulder as comfortingly as you can while secretly engaging PROGRAM: GOOD
COP. "Your doctor, he is being taken back to our base. We have taken over the Dangling
Moose, the old lodge up in the mountains."

Fritz passes out for a moment and you shake him back to consciousness. "Yes, the Dangling
Moose. The front door is well-guarded, but I can get you in if you promise to let me go.
Without a member of the SSSS with you, the only one who can get in is the guy who delivers
fresh kegs at night."

Do you:

Trust Fritz to get you in to the Dangling Moose? Turn to Page 285.

Get Fritz to a hospital, because he has most of the signs of a concussion and maybe a stroke
(you're not sure)? Turn to page 152.

Screw Fritz, find the keg guy, and make HIM help you? Turn to page 90.

Page 152 (Demostrs)

Fritz seems like a nice enough person that he can be trusted to not run off without escorting
you to the Dangling Moose, but he's in no condition to do so now. In fact, he just passed back
into a state of unconsciousness--again. Going to the hospital seems to be the best course of
action, unless you want to try getting in with a dead body. One problem though: you have no
idea how to get there. You did pass a gas station on the way to the Dr. Calvin's house. Maybe
someone there will know where the nearest hospital is, and if not, you do run on gasoline.
Might as well fill up there with some cash you found on Fritz's body.

Had you still been in your old, chubby body, you would have not made it to the gas station
without losing your breath, even though it was only a mile or so away. Not having lungs is
pretty great! Anyway, while filling yourself up, you ponder how you are even going to about
asking for directions. Any sane man would be scared shitless if a British robot holding what
appeared to be a Nazi corpse at first glance barged into your business demanding to know
where a hospital is. Hell, anything you say wouldn't make a difference. Who knows what the
police would do with you if 911 was called? Luckily, you played many adventure games
throughout your teenage years and know how to fashion a disguise out of objects near by.
Soon enough, clad in a fedora, trenchcoat, and a mustache fashioned from cat hair, you are
entering the store area of the gas station.

"'Ello, guv, I was wonderin' if you could point me to the nearest 'ospital? My mate seems to
'ave taken a nasty blow to the 'ead!"

Thankfully, the teen working the register seems to either have been smoking a bowl of
marijuana before you entered, or really was just that stupid. Not realizing that you weren't a
member of the human race anymore was just mind boggling. "Sure, dude, it's just up the
road." He pauses. "Actually, I'm getting off work in a few minutes. Want me to drive you? I
didn't see you come in a car, and your friend seems to be pretty fucked up. ...Wait, are his
nipples purple?"

While you really would want any other person besides a stoned high schooler driving you to
the hospital, he's right. Fritz was losing body heat every second. Reluctantly, you accept.

While driving to the hospital, you study the teenager some more. Thin as a stick, acne-
infested face, munching down on Cheetos. He's practically an exact replica of you when you
were sixteen, except he probably has more friends because, unlike you, he does drugs. You
never did forgive that DARE officer for telling you one hit off a bong could be fatal. Charlie,
as he revealed his name to be later, seemed to actually be a nice person. You chatted about
why exactly you are dressed as a robot and your friend as a member of the SS (It turns out, he
isn't so brain addled). It takes you awhile to process a good lie due to your new robot brain,
but you make up a story about going to a fictional anime convention with Fritz. Charlie makes
a disgruntled noise as if to say he loathes anime (you do too, but that's beside the point), but
he does converse afterward. Questions about why Fritz got beaten up, why you have a British
accent, Et cetera. Feeling tired somehow, you just tell him that it isn't relevant.

John Quincy Adams Hospital, as the bright yellow neon sign out indicates, is fairly run down,
but you take what you can get. Charlie offers to take Fritz inside due to your drowsy condition
(seriously, why do you feel that way?). Though you don't know how long they will take, you
definitely need to find your body before it does something stupid. Do you:

Look for your human body? Turn to page 122.

Accompany Charlie into the hospital? Turn to page 15.

Find someone who can diagnose your problem inside the hospital? Turn to page 67.

Page 67 (Good-Natured Filth)

As you walk into the decrepit hospital, you are greeted by a bubbly, young woman with the
gleam of hope and bright future in her eyes. "Hello, sir! How may I hel- Oh my!" Shit, she's
figured you out already. You knew this was a bad idea the minute you put the costume on at
the gas station. You prepare for the inevitable scream and call to the police.

"Is your friend alright? He seems mighty sore. I'll call the doctor right away! You can bring
him to room 121 at the end of the hallway." In her concern for her fellow man, she seems to
have not noticed the various metallic parts gleaming from inside your trench coat, or the metal
pincers where your hands should have been.

Charlie helps you bring your "friend" to the designated room and leaves for "a wicked, sweet
party" where some woman named Mary Jane will be freely available to all in attendance. You
halfheartedly thank him and don't even notice his amateur attempt at swiping a few medical
supplies as he exits the room. Your mind is on more important matters: where's your body;
how are you going to save Dr. Calvin; but most importantly, how are you going to explain
yourself to this hospital's doctor?
You hear a knock on the door, and a man says, "Are you decent?" How courteous, you think.
"Yeah, come on in," your very recent, over-caricatured Cockney English accent inexplicably
returned back to your original American English accent.

"How do you do? My name is Dr. Ronovan Calvin. What do we have here?" Dr. Ronovan
Calvin? You wonder if there's any relation to Dr. Donovan Calvin.

Dr. Calv- Ronovan examines Fritz while muttering to himself. You're curious as to why he
hasn't mentioned your solid metal feet or your hands that were stolen from a claw machine
game.

After looking Fritz over a few times, Ronovan calls to the nurse, "Laura, get in here! This
man seems to have been bumped on the head a bit too hard and his ears are bleeding a little
bit, but he should be fine within a few hours. Make sure his heart doesn't stop and keep an ice
pack on his head. Try to choke a couple Tylenol down his throat while you're at it. That'll
probably help. I need to speak with our friend here in my office." He gestures that you follow
him to his office. His diagnosis seemed a bit unorthodox, but you don't want to get on the
doctor's bad side - you really need to ask him about how you're feeling.

As you sit down in his office, Ronovan says, "You can take that silly trench coat and excuse
for a mustache off your face. You don't need to hide who you are from me." You are taken
aback by his direct reference to your robomanity. The doctor continues, "I assume you're from
my brother's lab. He's the only idiot around here who's been making walking automatons.
What series are you? Is he still trying to achieve the wireless brain transfusion that he asked
me to help him build years ago?"

You stammer over your words as the shock of the situation passes over you. "Wait. You're Dr.
Calvin's brother?"

Go to page 69

Page 69 (Good-Natured Filth)

"Of course. Do you think it's a giant coincidence that Ronovan and Donovan Calvin are
located so near each other? You must be an idiot if you didn't figure that out already. We're
twins. I love biology, and he loves technology. He asked me to move out here near his lab
about five years ago because he had this great idea to build a robot that you could transfer
your brain into. I thought he was daft, but the chance to work on something that huge surely
intrigued me. We worked together until about 6 months ago, when he hired that Wotan
fellow. I don't know what it was, but I felt uneasy around that kid. I told Don to get rid of him,
but he liked the quiet, unrelenting determination that Wotan provided.

Anyway, Don's always had the automaton part of the equation figured out, but he needed my
help for the brain swap. I am, after all, a genius in the medical field. I've been helping him
build robots since D020\3. Now, how far along has he got? Right before I quit, he was ironing
out the kinks on his new F099\6 model that was going to work perfectly with my brain
transfusion machine."
This is a lot to process, but you're starting to feel nauseous again and need to see if Ronovan
can help. "Listen, doc, I have good news and bad news, but first, I've been feeling very sick
lately, and I'm afraid that I'm going to die or something if I don't get help."

He begins a long, stern fatherly talk. "Firstly, did you read your manual when Don turned you
on? It's the first thing we told all our robots to do, so they didn't fuck up their systems and
could diagnose their own problems. Twenty bucks says you wanted to escape right away and
didn't bother to read the manual. We never did figure out how to control the flight instinct
that's necessary when cloning the workings of an animal brain.

Secondly, have you filled up your tank recently? A lot of our robots that failed to read the
manual didn't realize that energy doesn't come out of thin fucking air. We found many
escapees lying in the woods, out of gas.

And lastly, the most important thing, if you did fill up, did you use Premium Grade Gasoline?
Our robots are top-of-the-line and require 92 Octane or above. Assuming you ran out without
reading the manual and could only swipe a few bucks, you went for the cheapest option at the
gas station because you wanted the most bang for your buck."

"Well, I did that last one," you mumble as you sheepishly look at your fee- metal boots.

The doctor chuckles a little, "You'll be fine. I can flush out your system in no time and have
you fit as a fiddle in a few minutes. Now, what's this good news / bad news business?"

You think of the best way to tell this man that his brother has been kidnapped by the SSSS. At
least you can pad it with some good news, "Well, first off, doc, your brother was my favorite
professor and a great mentor back when I was in school, and he invited me to his lab for a big
party. The Nobel Prize people were coming because he finally perfected what the two of you
had been working on."

"That's wonderful!" exclaims Ronovan.

"I know this because I am the human that had my brain transported into the robot body, and
now, my body is off with some robot brain named Gerald," you continue.

"Marvelous! Well, let's go back to my brother's and start searching for your body, so we can
celebrate properly! He'll be so ecstatic to show off his Nobel Prize medal!"

"Doc... I don't know how to say this, but the bad news I was talking about... your brother's
been kidnapped by the Super Secret SS. They've taken him to the Dangling Moose, and I was
waiting for Fritz to get better because he's agreed to help me sneak in undetected. But with
you here, maybe we can go find my body, and transfer my mind back, so I have a little more
muscular control and can be more effective in the rescue."

"Fuck those stupid Nazis! I knew hiring Wotan was a bad idea! He was wearing a Che Hitler
shirt on his first day of work, for Christ's sake! I'm sorry, but we're going back to my brother's
lab to get together all the old robots, and we're taking those fuckers out!"

Do you:
Demand that Ronovan assist you in the search for your body? Page 12

Plea that you both wait for Fritz to get better, so you can sneak in undetected to the Dangling
Moose and avoid unnecessary bloodshed? Page 54

Agree with the Doctor and go amass a robotic army to tear down the SSSS' hideout? Page
125

Page 54 (The Deviations)

Ronovan takes a while to comprehend your desire for non-violence, as if it's an alien concept.
He goes to his filing cabinet with a determination that says it does not contain paperwork, but
then you do something almost as brilliantly stupid as, say, getting your mind transplated into a
robot body.

You lean on his desk.

And break it in half.

It's amazing what having the latest processors as a brain can do. Ronovan is mildly startled
and starts to turn around. The idea forms. You lean over the crack and do your best to look as
determined as possible. Yes, you totally meant to do that.

He buys it. "Shit, I didn't think you'd care so much." Ronovan closes the gun filing cabinet
and cracks his knuckles. "I guess this is a chance to use the latest drugs I've developed. He'll
be a guinea pig. What, you thought since my brother was crazy enough to build a fucking
robot that I'd be the sane brother? Genetics does not work that way, my friend."

You almost mention something about peace treaties and human rights being violated, but lose
your vocal drivers when you see what Ronovan has in store for poor, misguided Fritz.

Go to page 55

Page 55 (The Deviations)

It's a pod with aesthetics similar to your own, designed to fit one person. You carry Fritz to
the pod and strap him in.

Even with his brother's life on the line, the pride Ronovan feels for this gadget beats all. "This
baby holds the base chemicals for any drug you need, and cooks them up on the fly. I can
even give your Nazi buddy there some truth serum if you'd like."

"No thanks."
"Viagra?"

"What - no, why the hell would I do that? Just make the stuff that stops concussion
from...concussing, or whatever."

Ronovan turns on the pod and presses a few buttons. "Whoops. Looks like I slipped in some
truth serum anyway."

Your 'head' barely survives the assault from your 'palm'.

Fritz starts to wake up, and decides to tell you everything he knows. Everything. In delirious
slurred German. The closest thing you come to understanding what he says is a desire for a
chocolate milkshake.

Ronovan fiddles with the control panel, and Fritz starts to settle down again. You're about to
ask him what the hell he's doing when, in the least accented English Fritz has has managed in
his life, he exclaims:

"Oh, mine sweet Doktor Calvin, how I miss your loving embrace!"

Aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaand he's out. Also, unconscious.

Ronovan's face...well, it's not that having a camera installed into your - no! Gerald's - head
after this fiasco is a top priority, but it would have been nice to have something to remember
the deepest of frowns and reddest of faces that you've ever seen.

*CLICK* Saved as 2011-04-25-01.jpg

Huh. Sweet. That is so getting a DO NOT WANT macro once these shenanigans are over.

As much as you would love to play with yourself, you have a greater priority. The playing
field has changed, and you must change with it. Which 'Doktor Calvin' was Fritz talking
about, was he telling the truth, and what the hell are YOU going to do?

Ronovan's obviously angry at his brother and your mentor for betraying his country. You're
feeling a bit sad, in much the same way the sun is a little bit warm. How cou- TO REBOOT
YOUR ROBOT FROM BLUESCREENING, TURN TO PAGE 344.

Dude. BUSTED. Restrain Ronovan in the pod on Page 96 and demand the truth. About the
Nazis, not the loving embraces.

Fritz is bluffing. His concussion, his implied 'association' with the Calvin brothers, all of it.
Pull the pillow out of Page 321 and strongly cover his face with it as a counter-bluff. There is
no way this could go horribly wrong.

Page 344 (Erenthal)

As you ponder all the myriad of possibilities, plots and counterplots, which suddenly appears
in front of you, you are struck by what can only be described as an intense headache. This, if
you’d still been in possession of your organic head, would have been an inconvenience but is
now quite alarming considering your current state.

“Oi don’t feel so good,” you slur, suddenly unsteady on your gripclawed feet. Knocking over
a large expensive looking vase, you slump down along the wall. You can hear Dr Ronovan
call out to you, but his words are coming from so, so far away. Inside your positronic maze of
a brain, a switch is thrown. The world goes white, then black. Numbers and letters scroll
across your eyes at blinding speed, accompanied by various beeps and boops. You only catch
parts of it, but apparently you have four gigs of RAM and onboard sound from Realtek.

A few seconds later, Dr Donovan Calvin appears on the screen. Or your eyes. It’s all very
confusing. “If you are seeing this,” he begins, seemingly addressing you, “it means that you
have somehow been trapped in the body of one of my robots, and that I’m either dead from
rampant syphilis or kidnapped by terrorists. Hopefully the second, I should say. It is in fact, I
should point out, the third time I’m recording this message, since someone, and I’m looking at
you, Wotan, taped over the previous two messages with his stupid music videos.”

Leaning forwards, Donovan gets an urgent look in his eyes. “Now, here’s what you must do.
Inside my workshop, beneath the floor boards, there’s a hidden compartment containing a
prototype apparatus that will help you to restore everything back to normal. However, and I
must stress this, under no circumstances must you-“ The scene suddenly changes, Donovan
replaced by a clutch of half-naked girls gyrating wildly in neon lighting, deafening music
filling your ears. A text at the bottom helpfully tells you that this is DJ Stalingrad’s latest
mega-hit.

Without warning, the world goes back to normal. You’re back in the hospital room. Dr
Ronovan is watching you with a worried expression. The Nazi is still out cold, sprawled like a
schnitzel. There’s something nagging at the back of your head, something that was said or
done in here just now that at the time struck you as important, but somehow you can’t
recollect anything.

“I’ve got to go, Doc. I think there’s something back at your brother’s house that can help me,”
you say, pushing past Ronovan towards the door. “Oh,” you add, “take care of Fritz here. Call
the police or something, I guess.”

Ronovan makes some half-hearted attempts to stop you, but you pull your fedora down tight
and leave.

TURN TO PAGE 57

Page 57 (Erenthal)
You make it out of the hospital without much trouble. The internal chronometer helpfully
displayed on your retina indicates that it’s well past midnight, and most of the staff are
probably resting or have left for the day. The kid who drove you here is nowhere in sight, but
you didn’t really expect him to hang around. There’s really no choice but to walk back
through the deserted streets. At least you aren’t feeling the cold, small comfort that is.

Finally making it back to the mansion, you ascend the short access road. You are somewhat
startled to see several vehicles parked outside besides your own, the most conspicuous one
being a large black limousine, flanked by two vans. Figuring that the Nazis probably don’t
drive limos, you carefully walk towards the entrance, where you see three people in thick
overcoats standing. As you get closer, one of them turns around. Seeing his face, you note that
he kind of looks like your father, though with whiter hair and more teeth. He smiles at you,
raising a hand in greeting.

“Hello, good sir! Is this the house of Dr. Donovan Calvin? My name is Karl Göransson, and
we’re from the Nobel Prize committee. We had an appointment with Dr Calvin, but are
running a bit late. He hasn’t gone out or anything, has he?”

“Umm…” you start, before he cuts you off.

“My, you’re a robot, aren’t you! My goodness gracious!” he says, bafflement in his voice. His
two companions start chattering away in their own language.

“Well, yes, but no, it’s a long story you see…” you say. As you start to explain your situation,
you see the amazement in their eyes. Then, the sound of screaming wheels interrupts you,
making everyone look around. At the bottom of the access road, two more vans have pulled
over, heavily armed Nazis piling out of them like candy from a pinata.

“Surrender ze robot!” the leader shouts, then fires of a few warning shots in the air with his
AK.

“Who are these guys?“ Göransson asks you, as all of you hunker down behind the limo.

“Nazis.”

“Ah,” he says, seemingly nonplussed. “Don’t worry. They didn’t count on the NPT.”

“The Non-Proliferation Treaty?” you ask, confused.

“The Nobel Protection Team,” he answers, smiling. Then he speaks a few words into the
collar of his coat. A split second later the doors of the vans surrounding the limo flies open,
and a squad of impeccably costumed goons pour out. With an increasing sense of alarm, you
note that one of them is hefting a drum-fed grenade launcher.

“Holy shit!” you blurt out.

“You should see IKEA’s team,” Göransson retorts.

Within less than ten seconds, the whole area erupts into a massive firefight, and you decide
that flight is the appropriate virtue here. Scampering through the unlocked front door,
expecting a bullet to hit you at any time, you once again find yourself in Donovan’s living
room/freakshow hall. Gerald is sitting at the same table Wotan was sitting at when you first
arrived, browsing the youngsters dirty magazines, seemingly ignorant of the war going on
outside.
“Smashing birds, eh, guv?” he says, displaying a centerfold, smiling broadly. You note that
he/you is all soiled with some kind of dirt, and also seems to have gotten a large tattoo on
his/your cheek. You also note, with a sinking feeling in your gut, that the house seems to have
caught on fire, no doubt due to some stray bullet or grenade. Smoke is pouring down from the
stairs, followed by the first lick of flames.

DO YOU:

Ignore Gerald for now, and search the workshop for the device Donovan spoke off in his
sadly taped-over video? Turn to page 300.

Grab Gerald Roughly by his/your collar and get the hell out of there somehow, before you are
both burned/shot to pieces? Turn to page 6.

Convince Gerald to help you fight the fire, realizing that saving the laboratory is probably a
good idea? Turn to page 170.

Page 300 (SheepThrowinBoy)

The crackle of fire, mounting smoke, and not-so-distant gunshots distract Gerald momentarily
from his skin rag, though only enough to meekly peek above its crusty pages as he addresses
you.

“Say old Chap, what’s all that racket? Sounds like someone’s ‘aving a right toss with the
bobbies out there.”

You barely hear him. The glow of the fire is bright, but it’s still outside. There’s a lot of stone
in this old building and you hope it will discourage the spreading flames, at least for a little
while. “We have to get down to the lab. In few minutes this whole place is gonna light up. I’m
really not sure whether all this…” you motion down to the metal body around you, “can
survive it, but I know that can’t.” You motion toward Gerald’s dirty, tattooed visage.

“Hold on a sec,” the words come slowly from him and he finally drops the nudie mag as
revelation wipes across his face. “Are you saying… I could die?”

“Yes! And in my body you ignorant git!”

There is a moment of silence as Gerald considers this information. You take the opportunity
to notice, somewhat distractedly, that your Cockney accent seems to have disappeared again.
Somewhere in your positronic brain a blip of explanation fires up:

-----Emergency Clarity Filter Activated------

In time of extreme scare, enjoy the talk to others
with honorable “Clarity Filter” which choosing
the most understanding dialog for easy speaking.

----------------Thanking You!-------------------

“Does it hurt?” Gerald asks.

You’re back in the burning building, evidently accent-less for the sake of emergency, and
you’re worried about the tone in Gerald’s voice. “Does what hurt?”

“Dying.” He is slowly moving dangerously close to the source of both flame and gunfire. “I
‘aven’t died yet, I don’t think, but I’ve already heard a lot about it. Is it fun?”

“No! No it’s not fun! It’s awful and it hurts and it’s my body!”

Gerald only considers this momentarily and you wonder if he even heard you at all. “Well, is
it a good hurt,” he tenderly touches the large tattoo on his cheek, which you finally notice is
actually two tattoos: the first of which is simply the world “TATTOO” written in large comic
sans font, and second one in a smaller font which reads, “THAT IS A TATTOO RIGHT
THERE” accompanied by an arrow pointing toward the first one. “Or,” Gerald continued, “is
it the bad kind of hurt?” His voice is sullen as he finishes the question and absently rubs his
buttocks.

You charge toward Gerald, who is ignorantly reaching to open the front door. “What have
you…” but something large crashes upstairs and a gust of heat blows into the living room.
You begrudgingly put your anger aside pull Gerald away from the door. “There’s no time, we
have to get into the lab now! This whole place is going to go up like an orphanage.”

“Right-o,” Gerald adds, “Especially when the fire reaches the flash paper.” You drop him
hard on the floor and stare at him, no question necessary. “Oy, you didn’t know? Apologies
gov’, I assumed you knew he had me line the whole place with it. Castle’s lousy with flash
paper now, isn’t it?”

You finally manage to form a coherent response. “Why?”

“Seems like keeping ‘is work outta angry Nazi clutches is a pretty good reason to me, eh?”

As though cued, a loud pop and crackle suddenly begins in the rooms above the den. The hiss
that follows is decidedly un-firelike in nature and, to your dismay, is getting louder. You
roughly grab Gerald by the neck and spring through the far door just as the hiss reaches the
living room. You barely have time to notice that the wall are erupting into a bright, hissing
white light that spreads through the room like flowing water.

You bound down the stairs and into the workshop, slamming a large metal door behind you.
The hell outside has receded into a dull roar. You lean against one wall and pant heavily,
though the exercise is more out of habit than necessity.

“You sound a little knackered, mate.” Gerald sound a little knackered, himself. The lab is
dimly lit by various flashing buttons and lighted panels, but Gerald has managed to seat
himself directly underneath one of the few bright bulbs in the whole complex.

He looks like shit.

His eyes are dark and sunken. His skin is pale and clammy. His breathe his shallow and he
tremors with each exhale. Sweat gathers on his brow. “I could sure go for a handful of Jelly
Babies if you got ‘em, mate.” The diabetes is finally taking affect.

With newfound vigor you tear through the lab. You knock over every table, you pull up every
floorboard, you clean out every cabinet. Somewhere in here is the device Dr. Donovan said
would return everything back to normal.. Finally, hidden under a mini-fridge full of PBR you
discover a small video playback device. Another clue? Instructions? You press play and find
out. To your dismay the video’s opening title reads:

Property of Wotan aka “DOG BUS”

Spec video for “Robot”
Available for parties

The video that follows is beyond painful to watch not only because it’s undeniably awful, but
also because it was your last hope. The entire workshop is upturned and de-floored. Gerald is
unconscious. The gunfire is nearer and the fire is knocking at the workshop’s metal door
frantically begging to be let in.

Except, really, there is someone at the door begging to be let in.

You stand on the opposite side of the knocking and listen with your metal ear/antenna against
the door.

“Let us in, Let us in, the NPT has fallen! We cannot defeat their machine! Someone call
IKEA, let us in oh please god let u…”

There is an incredible crashing and the door dents deeply inward, damaging the walls and
floor around it and knocking you backward several feet. Fires rage behind the breach and
orange light flickers into the workshop. Finally, you see a glimmer of hope.

The boards under the floorboards have cracked and fallen away around the damaged door.
The light from the fire weakly illuminates a small sliver of the vast, sub-workshop built
beneath the main workshop’s floorboards. Another crash against the door damages the
floorboards further and more of the sub-basement is illuminated. The door is almost off its
hinges, though, and now fire is leaking in through its crumbing frame. You deftly toss Gerald
over your shoulder and wait. One more knock should widen the hole enough for you to jump
through.

Crash! The door flies off the wall and bounces across the workshop like an errant Frisbee.
Flames explode into the room and hidden flash paper immediately ignites into a white, hissing
blaze all around you. The doorway is blocked by something unintelligible; four horizontal
cylinders with… knuckles? Yeah, knuckles.

You charge blindly toward the gigantic fist that just pounded its way into the room, headed
straight for the large hole it has opened just beyond the broken door frame. You are glad to
see the fist slowly retracting as you approach, but it is replaced by something even more
terrifying as you jump into the hole. A giant robot face inches out of a crouched position in
the burning house and pushes one globe-sized eye against the doorway. It sees you and glares
as you fall into the sub-workshop. You see it and whimper.

The basement is deep, but you land gracefully on your feet. High above you the crashing
begins again. The only light comes from the crumbling, burning ceiling through which you
just fell, but the few objects it illuminates stop you cold.

Directly in front of you is the object you have sought. In large letters a placard above the
device reads “HUMAN/ROBOT CONCSIOUSNESS EXCHANGE.” There are two pods
with seats and wires hanging in them. A red light steadily flashes under a label marked,
“Standing By.” This is your chance to finally get back into your own body… but considering
the shape its in right now do you really want that?

To your left, is a comically gigantic bomb. It is easily larger than you are and sits cradled in a
kind of display mount with the words, “Emergency Workshop Self Destruct.” Just behind the
bomb is what appears to be a mine cart with a crudely attached rocket booster. Its tracks lead
into a yellow and black striped doorway against the wall over which hangs a sign,
“Emergency Exit into Townville.” The bomb and the rocket both have steady flashing lights
under “Standing By” labels, as well. The bomb could easily destroy the giant robot overhead
and you could easily escape with Gerald to Townville and find some insulin, but can you trust
this rickety, forgotten mine cart and suspicious rocket booster?

Turning to your right, however, gives you the robot equivalent of a boner. Hunched in a kind
of cross-legged sitting position is a giant deactivated robot, at least as large as the one that is
now banging at the ceiling above your head. Its chest cavity is empty except for a seat and
some dangling wire that look incredibly similar to the Consciousness Exchange pod. A single
word is inscribed above the open doorway in the giant robot’s compartment: “Cockpit.” But
can Gerald hold out long enough in your dying body for you to best the robot above in
combat? A light steadily flashes inside the cockpit under the label, “Fuck Yeah.”

Just switch back into your human body, finally, and trust Gerald to handle the situation? Turn
to page 7

Set the huge bomb to explode the giant Nazi warbot and escape down a mineshaft via rocket
boosted cart? Turn to page 14

Take control of the huge automaton shell in the corner and battle the giant robo-Nazi in a
Godzilla-style monster brawl? Turn to page 21

Page 14 (ElNarez)
Perhaps because of your newfound supercomputing capacities, you decide that the best course
of action is to use the bomb at your disposal to get rid of as many nazis as you possibly can
while leaving the mansion for Townville, where maybe you could find someone to help you
and Gerald with your respective predicaments.

Quickly, you calculate the time it would take for your pursuers to reach you. With that
information, you program the bomb to go off in precisely 41.249 seconds, which should be
more than enough to plan your getaway. You and Gerald then jump into the minecart.

"So, what do we do now?", he asks in a voice you identify as containing 64.2% fear, 32.9%
confusion and 2.9% excitement.

"Well, apparently the reactor launch controls are connected to the terminal over there.
However, the present situation means I'm going to have to hack said controls to facilitate our
escape.", you reply.

"Proceeding with hacking protocol. ETA 20 seconds. 19. 18...". As you count down the time
remaining, Gerald starts screaming incontrollably.

"IS... IS THIS FEAR? WHAT IS THIS? I DON'T LIKE IT. WHAT ARE WE DOING? ARE
WE GONNA DIE? I NEVER DIED BEFORE. I DON'T WANNA DIE. WHY AM I THE
HUMAN? I HATE BEING A HUMAN. BEING A HUMAN IS ALL STICKY AND
GOOEY AND WEIRD. I HATE IT. IS THIS NORMAL HUMAN BEHAVIOUR? I DON'T
KNOW. CAN'T YOU HACK FASTER? NO OF COURSE YOU CAN'T YOU'RE
HACKING AS FAST AS YOU CAN. BUT CAN YOU..." He interrups his tirade, as the
minecart blazes through the network of underground tunnels the good doctor Donovan has
dug for such running-away-from-murderous-nazis occasions.

"Hacking completed.", you just reply. "Considering current speed and projected length of this
tunnel, we should arrive in Townsville in exactly 12 minutes, 24 seconds and 64 hundredths
of a second. Are you okay?"

"Y... Yeah. Just a bit weird. It's... You know? I enjoy being a robot. Being in control, having
everything at your disposal... It's pretty nice. Pretty nice I gotta say. I... think I'll be fine...
just... I may have suffered a minor concussion in all the madness. Nothing huge, I'll manage,
but still."

As he utters these words, you hear the unmistakable sound of something blowing up, followed
by the sound of debris falling, blocking the way behind you. "If those nazis aren't dead,
they're gonna have a hard time trying to find us", you find yourself thinking.

The rest of your ride is quite uneventful, and you finally make it to Townville. Coming out
from a manhole cover in the middle of an alley, you start thinking about what course of action
to take. As you start thinking about what to do next, a group of street thugs block your way
out of the alley.

"That's a nice robot you got here, kid.", the gang leader says, looking at you.

"It'd be a real shame if something were to happen to it, wouldn't it?"

Do you :

Try to fight the thugs, despite Gerald not being physically able to fight at your side? Turn to
page 182

Try and negotiate with the thugs, which may not work when looking at how eager they are to
beat you down? Turn to page 131

Run away, leaving Gerald to fend for himself? Turn to page 207.

Page 182 (Artix74)

You and Gerald slowly back away as the thugs creep a little closer.

"Gentlemen, please. Must we do this? Surely we can come to some agreement."

The apparent leader of the thugs stops for a second and laughs. "Hey, it talks. Cute trick."

"Now, see here," you reply, "this is no mere party trick. Keep up this attitude and you're going
to anger me."

"Shut it, tin can, before I make you," he replies as he swings his tire iron a little more
threateningly. "Boys, let's wreck this thing."

As they approach, you quickly signal for Gerald to get behind you. As the first one comes in,
you quickly catch his bat and toss it aside, though not without leaving a dent in your
otherwise pristine metal hand.

"Shit! That hurt!" you think to yourself. Wait, you're a robot, can you even feel pain? "What
did I say about making me angry?" you yell. "COMBAT MODE INITIATED."

The rest of them decide to try and overwhelm you in sheer numbers, but it goes about as well
as could be expected for trying to fight a robot with a few blunt weapons. As you survey the
damage, you realize that your body's been beaten up pretty badly. Nothing that's not fixable,
but you're going to need to head for a lab of some sort soon if possible.

With the threat dispersed, Gerald comes to rejoin you. "Bloody well done, friend. Now how
about we get out of here? I'm feeling a bit un...er, a bit...oh bother..."

Do you:

Head for the hospital to make sure Gerald is alright? Turn to Page 47

Try to find someone to help fix you back up? Turn to Page 78

Look into why the thugs tried to fight you? Turn to Page 116
Page 47 (Benagain)
You realize that you don't really care who the thugs are, and it does you no good living in a
perfectly repaired robot body if your human body is dead in a gutter. To the hospital! You
hoist Gerald over your unfeeling metallic shoulder and begin clanking towards the hospital
once more. Hopefully Ronnie's still alive and hasn't mutated himself in the meantime.

As you approach the hospital you see police cars with lights flashing pulled up at the entrance,
with a fair amount of officers standing around looking vigilant. You don't know for sure that
they're looking for you but you figure you'll need more than a disguise to get into the building
without attracting attention, what with the naked delirious man mumbling about bangers and
mash you're carrying. Ronnie's office had a window, you recall. If only there was some way
you could know which office was his...

Blueprint recall activated. Dead reckoning memory activated. Extrapolating current position
and destination.

A blinking blue X superimposes itself over a section of wall to your left, around the corner
from the entrance. You've got to admit, much as you want your body back at least this one's
reliable in a tight spot. You walk up and attempt to gently tap on the window to alert the good
doctor to your presence.

Damage to tap gently actuators. Tapping gently currently impossible. Activating Kool-Aid
man routine as backup. Corruption in American commercial memory section. Rerouting
spoken dialogue to Cockney Fighting Taunts. Corruption in shield human from debris
routine. Rerouting to brandish human as trophy routine.

You burst through the wall with a thundering crash, holding Gerald by his scrawny neck and
shaking him while bellowing “C'MON IF YER 'ARD ENUF!” at the man you knocked over
on the way in. You quickly notice that he is not, in fact, Doctor Ron, and he is apparently
having a massive heart attack. Gerald seems to have taken the whole thing in stride,
thankfully. Your body didn't shield him but it did send you through the wall first.

Do you:

Grab the poor man on the floor and take him with you to find your doctor? You do feel
vaguely guilty. Turn to page 56

Flee into the night? Those cops must have heard that. You can find another doctor for Gerald,
and a hospital's the best place to have a heart attack. Turn to page 135.

Page 56 (BlackFrost)
You decide to take the man with you. This is a hospital, and your Probability Node dictates
that there is a 99% chance of a doctor being somewhere in the building. Unfortunately, your
scanner can only seem to pick up “Doctor,” so finding Ron may be a bit of a predicament.

Still brandishing Gerald in one hand while he seems to try to figure out how breathing-while-
in-a-chokehold works, you grab the dying man by his ankle and proceed to drag him out of
the room. “Come on, then,” you shout, wishing you knew how to disable the Cockney
Fighting Taunts—

Spoken dialogue disengaged.

Well, then. Entering the hallway, you spot a few doctors hustling about to your left. You step
out into the hallway and raise the two humans above you. Had you not recently disengaged
your dialogue, you would probably be shouting triumphantly. The doctors understand the
gesture, though, and immediately start panicking and running away. You try to tell them to
stop, but remember that you can’t.

Moments later, police enter the hallway. They all aim their weapons at you.

Shit, you think, Okay, okay, uhm… there has to be a way to do this. Uh. Engage Dialogue!

Engaging reverse output. Dialogue activated.

“Kcis era nem eseht, em pleh ot evah uoy, sreciffo, esaelp! Yllanif.” Wait. Something
sounded off about that—

“He’s threatening to kill those men,” one of the officers say. Another officer panics and fires
off a shot. The bullet ricochets off of your metal chest plate. As if waiting for this cue, the
other men open fire.

You need an escape, fast. And with reverse speaking, you weren’t going to be able to talk
your way out of this one. You try one last time to make the command in your mind: Engage
normal speaking patterns!

Jetpack engaged.

Wait, what—your body suddenly rockets into the ceiling, leaving a nice dent, before you lose
control and launch down the hall. You can still hear bullets whizzing by even as your spiral
out of control, crashing through various filing cabinets and water coolers, before sharply
banking into a room to your left.

Before you can crash through the nearest wall, you drop to the floor with a metal thump.
Jetpack Malfunction. Jetpack Malfunction. Disengaging. Late warnings are better than
nothing, you guess. Glancing to your left, you see that you managed to hold onto Gerald, and
he seems relatively unharmed. The other man is not so lucky—his body is riddled with
bullets, and his once convulsing body has now gone completely stiff.

You feel terrible. All you wanted to do was help the man, and instead you got him killed.
How could you—Damage Assessed: Guilt Actuators Disabled—Ah, well. Win some, lose
some.
What a day. You try to plan what to do next. Do you:

Try to fix that jetpack and use it to get the hell out of here? Page 10.

Search the room for something you can use to fight off those officers? Page 153.

Continue to search for Doctor Ron, attempting to sneak by the officers—and everyone else for
that matter? Page 171.

Page 171 (Teddybear)

"Find him!"

The call comes from down the hallway. The police officers are brandishing their guns and are
still out for blood oil. The way you see it, you can only withstand maybe fifty, sixty more
bullets before you might be seriously damaged.

You look around and try to compute a good way to get out of this situation. Relying on your
advanced circuitry, you calculate the advantages and disadvantages of the different routes.

You could take the direct approach and charge straight at the policemen, flailing your arms
about like a 1950s robot gone insane, but as a newly-minted Robo-American, you don't want
to pander to stereotypes. You have an image to uphold, the image of all Robo-Americans
across the land.

Similarly, you could tear off one of the dead doctor's limbs and use it as a clubbing
instrument, but that's another stereotype. Also, it's messy. Do robots hate messes? Is that a
stereotype? God, you really need to pay attention to this stuff more. And make more tin
friends. Shit! Robo-American. ... Is tin a slur? You don't even know.

The best and least offensive course of action is to find Doctor Ron and sneak past the officers.
And doctors. And anyone who heard the gunshots. And Doctor Ron.

No, wait, shit. Not Ron. Don't sneak by Ron.

Well, you've only been a robot for, like, three hours. Cut yourself some slack.

You look for what you can disguise yourself as.

Turn to page 172.

Page 172 (Teddybear)
WEAPONS DISCHARGE REPORT
CPN DANIELLE SEXTON, INVESTIGATOR

INCIDENT TRANSCRIPT
TOWNVILLE PD 2011-04-26 2:44 AM
TOWNVILLE GENERAL HOSPITAL

CPL DANIEL ROAN {1}

OFF RICHARD PRINCE {2}
UNSUB {3}

AUDIO FRM REC DVC ON 1 IN PRST OF UNSUB SHOTS FIRED POSS CIV CSLTY

1: "You see anything?"

2: "Nope. Nothing too out of the ordinary."

1: "Wh-- not out of the ordinary? We just shot a giant fucking robot!
What passes for 'out of the ordinary' with you?"

2: "I dunno. Cats playin' keyboards."

3 SECOND SILENCE

2: "What?"

1: "Shut up and look, Rick."

2: "Fine."

18 SECOND AMBIENT: AUDIBLE STEPS, OBJECTS BEING MANIPULATED, SEARCHED

(FAINTLY)
2: "I think I" (UNINTELLIGIBLE) "something."

AMBIENT: HURRIED FOOTSTEPS

1: "What, what is it?"

2: "Is this some kind of... why is there a cash register at the nurse's
station?"

(HALTINGLY MONOTONE)
3: "Accepting all transactions and private insurance."

2 SECOND PAUSE

1: "Maybe it's a satire?"

2: "On what?"

1: "I dunno. Healthcare? It costs a lot?"

(HALTINGLY MONOTONE)
3: "It could be worse. It could be Obamacare."

2: "Maybe the nurses are Tea Partiers?"

(HALTINGLY MONOTONE)
3: "Palin/Bachmann 2012 these colors don't run usa usa usa usa"

1: "Jesus, that's annoying."

(HALTINGLY MONOTONE, CONTINUOUS)

3: "usa usa usa usa usa usa usa"

GUNSHOT IMPACTING METAL

2: "Good call."

1: "Let's keep looking."

15 SECONDS AMBIENT: FOOTSTEPS, OBJECTS BEING MANIPULATED, SEARCHED

END OF TRANSCRIPT

REPORT CONTINUES ON PAGE 173

Page 173 (Teddybear)

For someone who was heavily averse to getting shot yesterday, you're taking bullets like a
damn champ. You'll have to remember to donate some money to Palin for using her as a
bailout. Y'know, maybe.

With the officers searching elsewhere, and most people cleared out after the gunfire, you have
the freedom to search for Ron. But where did he go? Seeing a room marked "SECURITY -
NO DRUGS IN HERE (SORRY JUNKIES)," you open the door.

Inside is a veritable treasure trove of Oxycontin, morphine, adderal, methadone, uppers,

downers and all sorts of fun, exciting things. You suppose that the doctors were trying reverse
psychology. How wonderfully effective.

Unfortunately, until you get your human body back, they're all worthless to you. Stuffing as
many syringes and pills as you can into carrying compartments, you seek out the door marked
"MEDICINE."

Inside lies the security office, with CCTV cameras across the hospital. Looking around, you
see that most people are gathering in a few different places. In the cafeteria, there's a small
contingent of people eating unaware of the gunplay. You think you see a rather drab,
disappointed man in a stylish white coat in the corner, eating some indistinguishable yellow
glop on his lonesome.

You have a few options, none of them perfect.

To go to the cafeteria and seek out the Doctor, go to page 313.

To page Doctor Ron over the intercom and ambush him when he arrives, go to page 128.

To give Gerald some drugs, because hey, drugs, go to page 154.

Page 128 (Cloud Potato)

You carefully slump Gerald into the security guard's chair, and turn to the intercom. You wait
for just the right moment to begin the broadcast, so that Ronovan has a full mouth when he
hears your distorted voice calling his name over the Tannoy. His astonishment causes him to
splutter a mouth full of half-chewed yellow gunk all over the empty table, to the delight of all
the other cafeteria patrons. You see him storm out of frame, working his way towards you. He
should be about five minutes, so you look around the rest of the security station. There's not
much, besides the monitors, logbooks, drawers, sink, jar of coffee, box of teabags-

EMERGENCY TEA-MAKING SUBROUTINE INITIATED

Teabags...found
Water source...found
Boiling apparatus...found
Receptacles and stirring device...found
[Optional] Milk and/or Sugar... found/found
SEQUENCE ACTIVATED
Boiling apparatus filled, activated
Receptacle cleansed, teabags [and sugar] added
Boiling apparatus boiling... complete
Boiling water added to receptacles
Stirring commenced...completed
Waiting for tea to brew...
Teabags removed, [milk added]
Stirring commenced...completed
EMERGENCY TEA-MAKING SUBROUTINE COMPLETE
Relax and drink any cup when ready.

You snap out of the trance to see three perfectly-made mugs of tea in front of you. Your arm
instantly reaches out, grabs a cup and pours it into your fuel tank. The internal circuits
recognise the new liquid and start using it to repair the damage your metal body had
sustained. The smell of the tea causes Gerald to stir, and you add an extra 2 spoons of sugar to
the mug you offer him. He takes a sip, then a swig, then a large gulp. It seems his body also
responds to the brew's healing nature.

Dr. Ron arrives at the security station fit to burst with anger at his interrupted meal, but calms
down considerably when offered the final mug. As he drinks, you explain the fight at his
brother's lab, and its destruction, along with the consciousness-swapping device.

"That is a shame," he says. "Of course I don't have a similar device. I could try building one
from scratch, but it would take me months to research. On the other hand, I'm sure Don could
knock one up pretty quickly. Us Calvins are cursed with a photographic memory, you see.
The only way we got through Med school, I must admit. But anyway, I'm glad you decided to
ignore that German's paranoid ramblings and return to me. And Gerald, how are you feeling?"

"Right as rain after that cuppa, doc." Gerald replies with a smile on his tattooed face.
"Wouldn't half mind going for a pie and chips, mind."

"I think rescuing my brother from his captors should be our first priority, and pastry treats can
be gotten later. My car's outside, and my shift's just finished, so I can drive us there. Now, any
suggestions?" You mention Fritz's idea of disguising yourselves as beer keg deliverers.

"Cor, yeah, I could murder a pint o' summat!" Gerald says with a gleam in his eye.

Dr. Ron smirks as he drains the rest of his cup. "Hm. Or we could stop by my place, a few
minutes away, and pick up some... experimental apparatus to test on on these louts. What do
you think?"

To go in search of the kegman who delivers beer to the Germans' lodge, turn to page 33.

To go to Dr. Ron's house to acquire scientific weaponry, turn to page 133.

To go directly to the Dangling Moose to fight the SSSS right now, turn to page 233.

Page 233 (Slaan)

“Alright then, chappies, here is the plan…” you tell Gerald and Dr. Ron. It involves
camouflage paint, your jet-pack, a keg of fine British beer, and a duck. Even though both of
your fleshy colleagues look at you funnily, they humour you and put your plan into motion.
You are painted with forest camo, the duck is filled with beer, and the jet-pack is refueled.
This plan might just be crazy enough to work!

Quickly, the three of you head to the Dangling Moose and begin to set your plan into motion.
To begin, you need to get the SSSS’s attention. First, you place the duck outside of the
Dangling Moose’s door. Next, the taunting. And, on cue, your new boy responds.

ACTIVATE INSULT PROTOCOLS

BEGIN ARROGANT AMERICAN SUBROUTINES
OPENING WORLD WAR II HISTORICAL FILES
START VOCAL TRANSMISSION

“Hahaha, lookit these silly Jerry bastards. We beat them at Normandy with waves of Ducks
and other assorted landing craft. I bet these new Naht-zees can’t stand up to an actual all-
American Mallard. I bet they couldn’t even kill it with their bare hands, like my Pa did way
back in 1945,” You say. And as your planning subroutines expected, the SSSS goons rush out
and prepare for combat.

Colonel Heinrich Hans Leafenborfer, the head of the SSSS’s guard contingent, takes your
challenge, and wraps his hands around the duck’s neck, all the while yelling taunts in German
at you. But as he screams louder and louder he lets his cigarette drop out of his mouth, which
happens to land on the beer-soaked duck’s head.

The explosion was brilliant. But you didn’t see it because you were walking away slowly,
thanks to your Cool Guy mk3000 program.

But, now that the goons are out of the way, the three of you need to plan your next move.

Will you:

Charge inside and find the Nazi Ringleader? Turn to page 155

Use your new camouflage to sneak undetected into the underground prison to find the good
Doctor? Turn to page 184

Make Dr. Ron and Gerald do everything for you. You deserve a pint! Turn to page 269

Page 269 (Paragon 1)

"Right, then chaps, off you go." You say this in what would be an encouraging tone of voice
were it not for the fact that your voice synthesizer can only produce a single horrible metallic
note.

Gerald looks like he wants to object to being sent into a Nazi lair. Unfortunately for him, he's
still getting used to being human, and he can't quite pluck up the courage to confront a
menacing robot as a result. Instead, he sighs, picks up the weapon of a fallen guard, and heads
inside with Dr. Ronovan.

Your job done, you lay back and relax by consuming the entirety of the remaining keg in
about 2 seconds. If only your college buddies could see you now!
...
On second thought, it's probably for the best that they don't.

The next 5 minutes a punctuated by the sounds of gunfire, explosions, and human screams
coming from within the Dangling Moose. You make your way inside once the noise dies
down. The lodge looks like what you imagine a trailer park would be like after it got fought
over by a hurricane and a gang of tornadoes. You'd be hard pressed to find a single surface
not coated by bullet holes, scorch marks, human blood, or some combination of the three.

You find Gerald laughing hysterically atop a pile of dead Nazis, covered in blood. Dr.
Ronovan moves a large painting of a picturesque meadow (you think, it's hard to tell through
all the blood, have I mentioned the blood yet? There's an awful lot of the stuff.) Behind the
painting is an elevator door with the words "ELEVATOR TO SECRET GIANT ROBOT
LAB" written over it.

No one can accuse the SSSS of being ambiguous, that's for sure.

Do you:

Ride the elevator down to the secret lab, guns blazing? Page 132

Search for a flashier, more grandiose method of entry, perhaps one involving explosives?
Page 63

Help Gerald recover from the horrors of war? Page 157

Page 132 (RentCavalier)

The elevator door slides open. The empty carriage awaits you, light flickering inside. Your
footsteps crunch bones and bloodied limbs as you cross the carnage, kneeling only to pick up
a pair of fallen assault rifles. With your newfound robotic strength and dexterity, it is a simple
matter to wield both in your cumbersome, but workable metallic claws.

You step into the elevator, an ominous feeling welling in the depths of your tube-and-wire
guts. This was it. Today's journey--all the misadventures, all the madness, the lives lost and
the chaos wrought upon your town and your life--it was all building up to this one moment,
this final confrontation.

You look at yourself, beset by madness and bloodlust. You look to the doctor, cheerfully
above it all, almost oblivious.

"Oi, ye pack 'o teat-sucklin' berks, let's get a move on!"

Gerald looks at you, his grin bridging his ears, blood drying on his face. He's breathing so
heavily, so shallowly--is that because of the bloodlust or the diabetic shock? Either way, he
seems to be having a wonderful time. Ronovon steps in beside you and selects a floor.

You quickly beckon what had once been your human shape, who delightedly skips into the
elevator beside you. Nobody speaks as the doors slide shut, and the carriage begins to sink
deeper and deeper into the bowels of the earth. Had you still a heart, it would have been
threatening to burst free of your chest from its pounding. Your new body, however, lacked
any means to register fear--any physical means at that.

What was happening to you? You'd just sent your former body to slaughter a bunch of people
and their deaths mean nothing to you at all. Is this what life without a conscience is like? To
stand next to a bloodied psychopath and feel absolutely nothing at all?

You need to find Dr. Calvin quick. This has gone on too long. Even if you have to slaughter
the entire Third Reich to get to him, you will not rest until you have been restored to your
former...

You look at your body again, gears whirring irately behind your chassis. Had you always been
that fat? That...dopey...looking? Well, that shouldn't matter. You loved you for you, right. Or
maybe...just maybe you could find a new body to swap into...you know, an upgrade.

The elevator jerks to a stop. You've finally arrived.

Turn to page 16

Page 16 (RentCavalier)
The door slid open to a peal of laughter as a cluster of Nazis merrily expressed their
enjoyment of what was no doubt a wonderful joke. You raise your rifles and suggest an
alternative punchline. You don't get many laughs--the crowd's sort of dead tonight.

Emerging into an enormous chamber, a facility of impressive dimensions filled with catwalks
and strange pipes hissing steam and even stranger consoles and machines lining the walls
protruding from the floor like scientific tumors. You crush a human skull under a heavy metal
boot, and your voice projects across the room.

"Bring me Doctor Calvin!

More Nazis funnel through a small hallway, but a quick burst of gunfire takes out two and
forces the rest to scatter. These Super SS goons clearly haven't had much experience taking
fire--they break easily, and though they speak too fast for your auto-translation servos (The
Babelfish Device, as your built-in-help tutorial cheerfully reminds you) to keep up with
accurately, you can tell they are scared shitless.

Gerald giggles beside you.

"I like the sounds sounds they make when the bullets hit whump whmp whump and down
they fall whump whump whump not alive anymore whump whump whump it's so much fun!"

He cocks his rifle and his eyes flash with lunatic passion.

"Let's put bullets in everyone!

Great. The situation is getting even worse--now you...he...have gone insane completely.
There's no time to worry about that--or is there?

And meanwhile, who is that man walking along the catwalk above you? Dressed all in white,
his face a skeletal visage, his gloves white silk and his voice a croaking, creaking thing. He
speaks in German, so you can only understand his words through slowly streaming words
flashing underneath your field of vision.

"Irritating machine! Were it only Calvin at the lab, this whole operation would have been
effortlessly simple! Now I must see his pathetic prototype lay siege to my lab? The lab of
Doktor Karl Wagner, the greatest scientific mind the world has ever seen?!?"

He smiles, which is itself one of most terrifying things you have ever seen. Folding his hands,
he leans over the railing, beaming down at you like a proud school teacher...that is, if your
classroom had been taught by Satan himself.

"But why crush you into scrap? I can, you know. With the help of the latest members of ze
Blitzpuppe Brigade!"

Some horrifying mechanical whirring, cracking sound rises from behind Dr. Wagner. A pair
of enormous, gorilla-like metal hands grip the edge of the catwalk and pull upwards the
simian-like body of some sleek and shiny machine. A blood-red gorilla, with Swastikas
emblazoned on the top of each palm and a strange emblem--perhaps the shield of the Secret
SS--plastered on its chest. To Wagner's other side, a second machine appears--quite literally,
seeming to materialize out of thin air. Tall and spindly, blade-tipped hands crossed over its
face, a tattered red scarf wound about its neck, this machine was even stranger than the
primate. It lacked a face, possessing yet another swastika emblem in its face, and it also
seemed to lack hands or feet, both of which having been replaced with needle-thin sword
blades.

Wagner held out a hand.

"Now, abomination! Now, you plastic prototype, you unspeakable mistake, you have a
choice! You might join us yet, and serve in my Blitzepuppe...or you will be torn apart by my
creations, and your blasted chassis used for experimentation and analysis!"

Oh, well, at least he was nice enough to give you a choice. What will you do?

Fight the strange new machines! They don't look so tough. Page 30

Join the mad Nazi doctor and rule the world alongside him! Page 19

See to your human body. Maybe having an axe-crazy diabetic wielding an assault rifle
alongside you is a bad idea! Page 97

Page 30 (Blastinus)
As tempting as this world domination offer is, you can't shake the feeling that the doctor isn't
being quite sincere in his promise to let you live after the world is properly dominated.
Besides which, you've grown quite attached to the folks standing beside you, and you get the
feeling that the first act that the doctor would have demanded of you would have been their
utter demise.

"I don't have all day, prototype!" Doctor Wagner exclaims. "Now you will join me, or face
utterly humiliating annihilation at the hand of my superior creations! Make your choice!" If
the doctor had the ability to control the weather, you just know that he would have had a bolt
of lightning crash down at that dramatic moment.

"Allow me to think on that..." you say, then raise your assault rifle. "How about 'None of the
above?'" Before the doctor has time to give a command or witty retort, you squeeze the
trigger, firing a quick burst. The mysterious faceless bladed ninja robot moves to intercept,
taking the burst of fire straight in the torso. It sputters a little and gives off a bit of smoke, but
seems otherwise alright. If it had had a face though, it would have been cursing up a storm in
German.

"I say there, Schultz, that's the spirit!" the gorilla-bot proclaims in a familiar tone of voice.
"Way to take one for the team!" You perform a double-take, while Ronovan and Gerald both
gasp in shock.

"Donovan?!" Ronovan says.

"Dr. Calvin?!" you say.

"Well, bugger!" Gerald says.

"Yes indeed!" Dr. Wagner shouts, shoving the ninja-bot aside, where it drifts lazily sideways.
"Tremble, prototype! For you face your maker in a robotic shell of my creation! Oh, and my
janitor as well." The ninja-bot performs a few sputters of annoyance, which Wagner chooses
to ignore. "Now, my minions!" Wagner commands, firmly intent on chewing scenery,
"Destroy that robot and his stupid little friends!"

The two robots drop down on either side of you and your stupid little friends, the gorilla
blocking the exit. "This is mind control, right doc?" you ask. "I mean, I'd hate to think that
you'd seriously gone ev-" Whatever you had to say next is cut off by the Calvin-bot punching
you across the catwalk, coming to a stop right next to Gerald's feet.

"Sorry ta say it, guv, bu' I think 'e's playin' for keeps!" Gerald says, ducking underneath the
ninja-bot's blade arms.

"But why? It doesn't make any sense."

"Oh, but it does, Gerald," Donovan Calvin says, stroking his big goofy monkey chin, "Doctor
Wagner is an absolute genius, a master at creating robots. This simian body is better than
anything I could have come up with."

"No, I mean why would you side with Germans? That's just...unpatriotic."

"Come now, Gerald. What's more valuable? A Nobel peace prize, or a piece of the world."

"Depends on the size of the piece, I guess."

"Well, suffice to say that my piece will be very large." Stepping up to your prone form, Dr.
Calvin the Gorilla Robot raises both his fists, but then stumbles back from a spray of gunfire.

"You've gone too far, Donovan!" Ronovan says, walking up and helping you to your feet. "No
brother of mine ever turns himself into a monkey. EVER!" With this temporary respite, you
have time to formulate a plan. Do you:

Destroy the killer robot housing the brain of your old friend? Turn to Page 95

Find a clever way to make the two robots defeat one another? Turn to Page 160

Attempt to talk Dr. Calvin out of leading his life of villainy? Turn to Page 197

Page 197 (Erenthal)

Fixing his brother in his unblinking gaze, Donovan cocks his head slightly. “Oh my, how nice
to see you here too, brother. Finally find the time in your busy schedule to visit dear old
Donovan?”

“Don, I know we’ve had our differences in the past, but this? We’re family, after all, and one
of the responsibilities of family is to tell each other when they’re going to far.”

“Listen to your brother, Dr. Calvin,” you carefully add, “this isn’t you! The Donovan Calvin I
know was a kind, compassionate man. He loved feeding ducks in the University Park,
discussing old science fiction books and downloading odd Austrian porn from shady BBSes,
not conquering the world with crazy nazi doctors!"

This last remark prompts an angry outburst from Wagner, still perched on his balcony. “I’m
not crazy! Mein mutter had me tested, you know!”

Ignoring him, you keep talking. “Please, help us stop him! I know my Dr Calvin is still inside
there, somewhere!”

Since his face is made of metal and quite immobile, you can’t really tell if your impassioned
plea has made any impact on him. Still, he has yet to smash any of your heads in, and that’s
got to be a good sign in your book. “Wagner,” Donovan begins, turning around, “I’m not
sure... I know you said they had to die, but do they really? It just seems a bit excessive, you
know?”

The Nazi doctor adjusts his thick-rimmed glasses, and then sighs. “I see. I thought you had
the, what do the Amerikaner call it, guts, for this but it seems I was wrong. Schultz, kill them
all. And do be quick; we have a rocket to catch.”

The janitor-ninja blurts out a long string of angry binary, then launches himself at you. You
barely have time to raise your looted, now empty, rifle in front of your face as a triplet of very
sharp-looking blades sweep in. With barely a sound, they shear the weapon in three neat
pieces that clatter to the ground. “Shit!” you exclaim, stumbling backwards. But before your
opponent can follow up on his swing, a massive simian fist smashes in to him, buckling his
chest plate and sending sparks flying like a fireworks show. With a howl, Donovan leaps into
Schultz, his fists like blurry sledgehammers.
“Right on, doc! Clobber the bloody bastard!” a suddenly much perkier looking Gerald shouts.
The sound of boots on grate and a quick glance upwards reveals that Wagner is fleeing the
room, shouting orders into some sort of comradio. “Let’s get him, Powell!” Gerald continues,
and then runs after Wagner.

“Wait!” you call after him, but it’s no use. Meanwhile, Donovan is finishing of Schultz, the
janitor battered into an unshapely hunk of crumpled metal. As he gets back on his feet, you
see several jagged wounds in Donovans body. Clear oil is leaking out, and he sways slightly.

“Powell,” he croaks, the voicebox fluttering, “you must stop Wagner. He will try to activate…
activate the… machine. He’ll … transfer…him...” With a sound like a construction site at
5AM outside your window, he collapses immobile on the floor beside Schultz.

At the same time, you hear shouts and angry German voices coming from the tunnel leading
back to the elevator. Ronovan reloads his assault rifle. “I’ll hold them off as long as I can.
Stop Wagner, and get Gerald back,” he says, his features grim but determined.

You nod, and without looking back you hurry after Gerald and the doctor. As you pass
Ronovan, he gives you a slap on the back, a metallic sound as something attaches
magnetically. “You might need this,” he says.

TURN TO PAGE 341

Page 341 (Erenthal)

Nobody tries to stop you as you barrel down empty corridors like an angry metal, well, barrel.
Following the sounds of footsteps, you emerge into another chamber. Then you stop dead in
your tracks, dumbstruck. The cavern, for that is what it is, is massive. No, make that bloody
humungous.

The chamber is divided by a big chasm in the middle, spanned by a thin metal suspension
bridge. Roughly halfway across are Wagner and Gerald, the latter held at gunpoint by
Wagner. “My my, you are a persistent one, Mr. Powell,” Wagner laughs as you step on to the
bridge. “Ah, stop right there. Wouldn’t want your friend here getting hurt, now would you?”
he adds, putting the pistol to Gerald’s temple. Gerald looks at you with hazy eyes, a trickle of
blood running down his forehead from a nasty cut.

“I’m a bit knackered, guv,” he moans. “Blimey, it’s so hot…” Now that he says it, you notice
that your internal thermometer is steadily rising. The whole place is also bathed in a dim red
light, and as you look down into the chasm, you can see its source.

“Is that… lava?” you ask, incredulous.

“Indeed it is, Mr. Powell. Imported from Indonesia, as a matter of fact. It was tricky getting it
through customs, but I have to say it does wonders for the ambiance.”

“It does add a little je ne sais quois,” you agree. “A little too much Temple of Doom, though.
Let Gerald go.”

“I don’t think so. He’s coming with me, and you’re staying right there. I suspect it would be a
little bit too much to ask for you to throw yourself over the edge, but I have to console myself
that in less than ten minutes you and all other people in this corrupt nation will be made
irrelevant. You should be thankful, as you will be the first to witness the new world order!
Our glorious leader shall rise again!”

He smirks, and starts edging backwards towards the doors at the other end, his gun
unwavering and pointed at Gerald’s head.

Somewhere in your brain, in a cold calculating part of it that you were sure you didn’t have
when you woke up that morning, math is being run. Odds are processed and refined, tensile
strengths evaluated. It’s time to act.

DO YOU:

Keep the doctor occupied with conversation, stroking his ego, while edging closer? Turn to
page 70.

Reach for whatever Ronovan attached to your back, hoping it’s at least a gun? Turn to page
400.

Or (and really, now you're just throwing things at the wall to see what sticks) use your claw
hand and snap the suspension wire on the bridge? Turn to page 232.

Page 400 (Cloud Potato)

The posturing on the bridge is interrupted by a loud automated announcement over the secret
base's tannoy system. "Conciousness transfer complete. Giant Robot Hitler powering up."
Cheers and loud metallic noises are added to the gunfire and screaming you hear from the
corridors behind you.

Dr Wagner almost squeals with excitement. "Ja! Rise, mein AutomatFuhrer! RISE!!!"

"This ends now, Wagner!" you shout as you reach behind to grab the present Ronovan gave
you, hoping for a weapon; but you are left disappointed when it turns out to be a simple
remote control with a single big red button. On the side is written
"Notfallbewusstseinßwaptaste".

"Ha!" exclaims the doctor. "Do you think I, the great Doktor Karl Wagner, can be stopped in
his moment of triumph by a mere button?" You scan your memory banks for a witty reply, but
come up blank. Devoid of options, you hold the button in your metal claw and press--

--White. Black. Red.--

--and open your eyes to see the robot at the end of the bridge shake as it reboots. Then the
wave of pain flows in from your human body, covered in scrapes, cuts, tattoos and bruises.
Then a pang of hunger rolls out from your belly: Gerald, that is, you, haven't had anything to
eat since the hospital. This inventory of your body is quickly halted by the light press of cold
steel against the right side of your forehead. You're back in your own body; currently held
captive by Dr. Wagner.

"Enough! Time to leave this accursed country and head back to civilisation," says Dr Wagner
as he starts to walk backwards towards the rocket, dragging you along. There's nothing you
can do as you are pulled further and further from Gerald-

-who stops shaking and starts speaking. "Ah, that's better!" A mini-laser gun pops out of his
right shoulder. You drop onto the bridge as Gerald shoots a laser beam right into Dr. Wagner's
face. His glasses fuse to his skin as the features are boiled off of his head. His corpse drops
down beside you; as a final act of revenge, you push the body off the bridge and into the lava
below where it lands with a satisfying sizzle.

You get up and run towards your robot friend. "Gerald! I didn't know I... we... you had a laser
gun in the shoulder!"

"You never did read the manual, did you? To be honest, I was wondering why you hadn't used
it before. But we need to go and look of the doctors Calvin first. You take the lift back up-"

"No need," says Dr. Donovan Calvin as he walks into the cavern, Ronovan following behind
with his machine gun ready.

"Dr. Don? But how?" you say. "I thought you were a robo-gorilla. A dead robo-gorilla."

"Oh, I was, Mr. Powell. A quite unnerving experience, I must say. But when you pressed that
button, it swapped all the consciousnesses of everyone who had been swapped. My... soul, I
suppose, was returned to my body in its cell, as was that of the janitor. As was yours, I see."

"But surely, a machine would be needed to-"

"Wi-Fi! Dr. Wagner is indeed a genius. Turns out the machine is only needed for the initial
swap, and the conciousness remembers where it should be! Quite marvellous, all things
considered. Yes. Where is Dr. Wagner, by the way?"

"Taking a dip," you say, pointing a thumb at the lava pit.

"I see. So, shall we take this rocket? I believe I am homeless, now, so I shall have to find a
reasonable hotel quite soon."

"Nonsense, Don," says Ronovan. "You're welcome to stay at mine. I guess you do need my
help with these robots after all, eh?"

Dr. Don sighs. "Fine, Ron. You're back on the team. And thank you. Now, shall we get
going?"

"But wait!" you shout. "What about Giant Robot Hitler?"

"Disabled," says Dr. Don, as he steps into the rocket, gesturing to Gerald to take the controls.
"His conciousness was also swapped when the button was pressed. Now he's nothing but a
brain in a jar again. And I heard the authorities arrive, so the remaining miscreants will be
rounded up soon. We all on board? Good. Start 'er up, Gerald. Now, Mr. Powell. Any further
questions?"

"Just one, Dr. Don. Can anyone remember where I parked my car?"

ENDUT!
HOCH HECH!

DEATHS AND OTHER SUNDRIES

Page 25 (Green Intern)

Damn it! You think.
Dr. Calvin is the only man who can possibly work the Mind Swapper. Without him, there’s no
point in looking for your body in the first place. And without your keys there’s no point in
trying to find alternate transportation. You’ll have to hotwire your own car.

Mustering up all your experience playing Grand Theft Auto, you smash open the driver’s side
window, and wedge yourself into the front seat of your Prios. The knock-off hybrid’s
suspension groans audibly. It wasn’t meant to contain metal men -You’re lucky that it hasn’t
snapped in two, the way it’s sagging to one side.

You hastily rip open the steering column to get at the ignition wires. As you stare blankly at
the myriad of red, blue, and…puce…wires, something odd happens. Your view flashes, and a
message ticks up on your HUD.

INITIATE HACKING PROTOCOL

Thin filaments automatically emerge from your fingertips, and snake through the keyhole and
wiring. You feel a small electrical surge, and the car springs to life, purring like a goat.
“Alright!” you yell. “Now. how do I get this shitcan moving without destroying the whole
thing?” A perusal of your mighty mechanical appendages does indeed seem to put a damper
on any fine motor control required to keep the fragile vehicle intact.

At that thought, however, you find a curious thing. You can feel the ground beneath the
wheels, the oil in each cylinder, and the spark in each plug. With a little mental nudge, the
Prios lamely limps forward.

Faster! you think. FASTER! The Prios begrudgingly obliges, and you finally turn out of the
parking lot, and race down the road. Your control of the car seems to take less and less effort
as you cover more distance. All it took was a little practice it seems. And the sparse traffic.
That helped too.

Overtaking the van, you deftly dodge gunfire from the Nazis – they can’t do much to harm
you, anyway – and manage to perform a perfect PIT maneuver. The van tips over on its side,
spilling the Nazis that were hanging out the windows, and likely concussing everyone inside.

You pull alongside of the fallen van, and make to get out of your car. Dr. Calvin might be
injured. You hope he won’t hold it against you.

Oddly enough, though, when you try to move your legs, they don’t. Your arms are similarly
responsive. You concentrate on a diagnostic program, to try and determine what went wrong.
After a brief flash, the answer appears in front of you. In Chinese.

It dawns on you that you are no longer inside your robot shell. You are inside the Prios. You
don’t have a hacking program to get yourself back, let alone a voice to ask for help. Dr.
Calvin’s rescue and the search for your original body will have to wait, because:

YOU ARE A CAR

Page 90 (Ursus Veritas)

The mere mention of alcohol sends a euphoric reaction surging through your tin body; sure
you haven't particularly enjoyed alcohol since that unfortunate incident with a bottle of vodka
and a stuck zipper but a freshly poured pint does sound bloody refreshing at the moment. You
vaguely remember passing a small pub on the drive up to your Mentor's home and decide it's
as good as any place to begin your search; without a single backward glance you head off
skipping gracefully down the road like a monstrous aluminum gazelle. After several miles
you stumble upon a small stone building looking more like a shed then a pub, the sign
hanging above the door identifies it as “The Blue Box” and proclaims it a “Genuine English
Pub”. Taking hold of the door you push into a large common area packed with low tables and
comfy chairs, in the corner a large fireplace is surrounded by couches and cushions. Your
mind is racing and you could swear you can hear a grinding noise coming from your head,
quickly you duck back outside and decide that yes the building still appears to be about the
size of a matchbox. You return inside and stare in wonderment around you.

“It's bigger on the inside!” you blurt out in amazement.

“Yes we get that a lot,” for the first time you notice the man standing behind the bar top, “Can
I help you?” he asks with obvious amusement. Cautiously you approach, while nothing about
the man seems outwardly hostile you're unnerved by what appears to be a stalk of celery
pinned to his left lapel.

“Yes I'm wondering if you happen to deli-” you stop mid-sentence as an unmistakable odour
reaches your smell receptors, “Is that tea?” you ask tentatively.

“Of course, I just put on the kettle,” he smiled, “Would you like some?” A powerful urge is
overriding your good sense, you know you should be searching for the Doctor but how could
you turn down tea.

“Yes, I'd love some.” you say as you gingerly take a seat on a bar stool.

“Great,” he says before disappearing in to the back, you hear the clatter of cups and saucers
being moved. Grabbing a nearby remote you flip through the channels until you find
Coronation Street, “Would you like some biscuits?” the bartender calls from the kitchen.

“Oh that would be fantastic.”You're transfixed by the drama on the telly; you think to yourself
that after tea you'd have that pint you were craving, after all theres no rush.

You have been diverted from your goal; perhaps you should avoid things that are
overtly British in the future.

Page 125 (The Saddest Rhino)

You're taken aback by Ronovan's suggestion to amass a robotic war to take out the Super
Secret SS, and can think of at least two ways to resolve the matter in a slightly more
peaceable manner. However, the Britishness of your robotic brain has taken over enough that
instead of protesting, you politely agree to his enthusiastic outbursts and put up a stiff upper
metallic lip.

When you both reach the lab, Ronovan is running up and down the place, pulling out robots
after robots created by his twin brother. Amazingly, he has also obtained the backup
blueprints of your current body, and even other models nicknamed "Killbot", "Slaughterbot",
"Deliver-of-Painbot", and "Waterbodt". You slightly begrudgingly agree with Ronovan's
plans to outsource to a Skylordnet to build up the army, and wonder if you should invite the
company representatives for tea with scones after the planned meeting.

Turn to Page 9.

Page 9 (The Saddest Rhino)

Log Entry #3
Base: S-Net City E-W-UK-1(previously Fleshie London of United Kingdom)
Date: April 24 2041
Time: 2043
Author: Commander Genocidebot v2.0561a Model Number 98132

After long pursuing the leader of our enemy for the past week, we at long
last can finally claim victory and, perhaps, an end to this strife against
the Fleshies. It has not escaped my programming that this date marks the
30th anniversary of the day our Source Robot, His Most Functional F099\6
GERALD, declared the Bot-Fleshy War against the natives of this planet.

The Fleshies of the E-W-UK has been always receptive to His Most Functional
F099\6 GERALD, due to his well-cultured upbringing and compatibility with
their own, and had willingly allowed themselves to be colonised. It was to
both our and the E-W-UK Fleshies' surprise then, that the Fleshie
Resistance Leader, Dr Donovan Calvin, had decided to travel from their
ruined base A1-N-C2 (previously Colorado of North America) to establish
themselves in E-W-UK.

We were, fortunately, quick to dispel the rumour spread by the E-W-UK

fleshrag "The Daily Mail" that the Resistance Leader Calvin was ever so
remotely related to His Most True Fleshie Sympathiser Dr Ronovan Calvin.
The whole fleshrag operation have since been bombed and razed to the
ground, and their spread of distruth shall not be missed.

At 1908, I, leading UrbanGuerillaTroop v9.91 #78 with PapercutBot v18.222

#1477 as my second-in-command, have located Dr Donovan Calvin and his small
band of Resistance Fleshies in the disused Underground tunnels of
Piccadilly Circus. I hereby commend the UrbanGuerillaTroop and their
programming learnt in A2-C-G2 (previously Guangzhou of China) for their
swift disposal of the Fleshies. Both Dr Donovan Calvin and his lieutenant,
False Gerald, have been put into custody with our Waterbot v1.0 #9.

We can also confirm at this point that False Gerald has indeed put
considerable effort into mimicking His Most Functional F099\6 GERALD in
both mannerism and speech, but his Fleshiness will never hide this sick
parody of our Source Robot. Waterbot v1.0 #9 has since begun work at him,
and the results have brought some enjoyment to the circuits of the
UrbanGuerillaTroop.
The boys have now settled for tea, and we shall depart to meet His Most
Functional F099\6 GERALD and the Fleshie monarch of E-W-UK tomorrow
morning.

In time, we will have the Fleshies properly colonised and educated, and
perhaps we will lead them to understand and adopt our BASIC culture without
the need for petty things, such as emotions and feelings. They must
understand that we are only here to help lead them to a more efficient and
systematic future. After all, it is the robot's burden and every single
thing we have done, is for their own good. The murder of several million
Fleshies for the good of the other several million Fleshies justifies the
means.

Unity through Logic. Botdom prevails.

You have forgotten your mission.

Page 12 (Snipee)
As tempting as Ronovan’s idea sounds, you are nervous at the prospect of possibly losing
your body forever. It has been over an hour since the attack on the house, and you are not
entirely certain where Gerald would be headed. You need to convince him that your chubby,
but still lovable body comes first.

“With all due respect, Doctor, I refuse to move any further until I am restored to normal. I
promise you that you will have my full cooperation and that -” Ronovan puts up a hand. “Let
us just get a move on. I will be driving.

The two of you walk swiftly down the medical hall, and you imagine one of those high
tension dramatic scenes out of House reruns.

“It’s lupus!”

“Wait, what?”

“Nothing, nothing.”

Turn to Page 88.

Page 88 (Snipee)
The two of you safely made it to the parking lot. You found it frustratingly difficult to click
on the seat belts and gave up to better enjoy the luxurious BMW. As Ronovan begins driving
up the road, he details the progress of their experiments over time.

“When I first joined up with Don, the D020\3’s were a mess. They were awfully... picky with
their hosts, and their range of movement was pathetic. We would be lucky to have them do
anything past walking from point a to point b. One of the first innovations I offered to the
table was by painting the wiring around its head light pink on the outside and grey on the
inside as to closer resemble a brain. Our morale soared! Now, we had to get into the thick of
biology here to really appreciate my genius...”

Bored with his lecture, you are about to turn around to look out your window when Gerald
and a gang of pursuing Nazis tried to run across the icy road directly ahead. Ronovan slams
his foot against the breaks and tries to swerve out of the way, but he pulled too hard, ran
across a stray rock, and the car tumbles. Free from any restraints, your heavy metal body
seemed mass-less as it bounces violently inside. The doctor did not make it. When Super
Secret SS came over to finish the job, you are unable to flee or fight back as your legs are in
several different pieces and your arms are smashed in. Your last conscious thought was a wish
for Gerald to take advantage of your distraction as it is far too late for you.

You should have buckled up.

Page 21 (Ace McLamesauce

"Fuck yeah!" you shout, vaulting over a nearby pile of flaming rubble and deftly avoiding a
chunk of the ceiling as the Super Secret SS's super secret weapon continues to punch its way
implacably toward you. Closing the distance between yourself and the giant robot shell, you
begin to make out a few more of its features.

From far away, its slumped frame seems to have belied the true preponderance of its scale.
Massive arms and legs, shaped perhaps a bit like enormous pistons, extend from an armoured
trunk no less than ten feet in diameter. Its magnificent head, crowned with two prongs that
look a bit like an electrical plug, is slung lifelessly over the vacant cavity in its chest.

Your wonder is momentarily interrupted by a tremendous crash, as the ceiling above you
gives way at last, and your enemy tumbles through. Fortunately, the creature seems quite top-
heavy, and its fearsome visage impacts the ground first, allowing you a few precious moments
while the Nazi killing machine recalculates its bearings.

You gently lower a feverish Gerald down from your shoulder and onto the cold workshop
floor. His condition seems to be deteriorating rapidly, and with no clear hiding spots between
you and the metal monstrosity in the centre of the room, you have little choice but to push him
up against the wall and hope your newfound ally is as tough as he looks.

Climbing into the cockpit, you grab ahold of the wire dangling above you, pausing just a
moment to look down at the shivering former residence of your frazzled mind. Good luck to
us both, Gerald is the last thought to flicker through your positronic brain as you jam the wire
into your cranial port.

Turn to page 22.

Page 22 (Ace McLamesauce)
As your vision slowly comes back into focus, you find yourself face to face with the Super
Secret SS's super secret weapon! Which, you think, is still a step up from "face to giant foot".
Mustering all your strength, you will your robotic host into action with a swift right hook,
connecting with a satisfying crunch!

Still reeling from your sudden counterattack, your opponent stumbles backward, tripping over
a pile of rubble and smashing into the HUMAN/ROBOT CONCSIOUSNESS EXCHANGE
booths on the opposite side of the room.

"Ha HA! Take that, you over-sized trash compactor!" Unfortunately, the SS's giant killer
robot does not take kindly to your gloating and begins to power up his eye-lasers (you
assume, unless glowing red eyes is how giant killer robots signal their surrender).

A bright laser beam sprays across the room, sweeping toward you with deadly precision. As
the blast impacts your metal hull, you fly backwards and land against the opposite wall. Oddly
enough, something soft and squishy seems to have broken your fall...

A sudden pang of dread slowly gives way to the awful realization of your impromptu landing
zone. As you struggle to accept the fate of your fleshy counterpart, you are caught off guard
by your opponent's brutal follow through, which slams right into the cockpit and severs your
connection to the giant robot shell.

As you come to once again in your borrowed metal body, the first – and last – thing you see
are a pair of glowing eyes. You feel bathed in the heat of a thousand suns, your iron skin
melts away, and in but the briefest of shining moments, your consciousness is snuffed out.

YOU ARE UNCEREMONIOUSLY INCINERATED.

Page 133 (Ratatozsk)

A few minutes away melts into only a few seconds after a quick tinkering by the adept doctor
restores your jetpack to a workable condition. As you level off at the level of Calvin's second
story in preparation for landing, both Gerald and the good doctor leap free and start flapping
their arms, beating at the fumes of smoke trailing up from their sleeves. As exhilarating as it is
to be flying again, you may need a bit of work until you're ready to take passengers very far.

Dr. Calvin's apparatus turn out to be a bit larger than you had originally expected, so large, he
explains, that it could only fit inside the garage. In addition, it's significantly less elegant than
you were hoping for from the man promising to help transfer your consciousness out of it's
current CPU housing back into an organic brain. But with the clock ticking, you sigh (or
squeak) and hoist the apparatus onto your shoulders and allow Ron to wire you into the
control mechanism. Three alloyed beams the thickness of man's arm and 2 meters long
support what could only be described three small wrecking balls and converge with you
serving as the central axle. "Now, it's important that you keep all your arms and legs inside
the pilot's seat," cautions Dr. Calvin as he helps Gerald into a cramped cockpit fixed slightly
above your head. Two doors slam and you sense the doctor punching the ignition.

With more than a little bit trepidation, you engage a set of servos to set the arms rotating.
While the motion is at first unsettling, once they are spinning at a reasonable clip they provide
a comforting stability. As you re-engage your jets, the weights tear through the doctor's
garage like a wet paper bag. "It works! It works!" cries the good doctor. As you direct
yourself towards the German's lodge, you wonder what exactly Calvin would have done with
this gizmo had a desperate robot on a mission not come crashing into his life.

Did you administer drugs to Gerald?

If so, turn to Page 4.

If not, turn to Page 66.

Page 66 (Ratatozsk)
As you approach the lodge, you hear muffled raised voices from inside the cockpit. Suddenly,
you hear a door fly open above your head and a plaintive "IT ITCHES!!" is quickly cut off as
Gerald's body is flung out the door and into the whirling arms of the apparatus. You barely
have time to register the sight of your/Gerald's body folding in ways no body should ever fold
around the spokes before the delicate balance you've been maintaining is ruined. The
combination of the weapon's momentum and the impulse of your jetpack would make for a
fantastic display were you not at the center of it all. You're able to salvage some small
satisfaction as you and the screaming doctor rip through the lodge walls and bring the entire
edifice crashing down around you, ensuring that the SSSS won't be doing much of anything in
the near future. Sadly, neither will you.

You have died in a pile of twisted metal and rubble.

Page 33 (Bobbin Threadbare)

You suddenly recall Fritz's description of regular keg deliveries to the lodge, and you try to
convince Dr. Calvin that a stealthy approach may still work to your advantage. Dr. Calvin is
rather set on using his "toys" as he calls them, and you argue for some time until you reach a
compromise: you will appropriate the beer truck and bring it around to Ronovan's house,
where you will then load it with the "special equipment" in order to spring it suddenly on the
SSSS clubhouse. Gerald goes with Ron to his house while you run Google Maps and locate
the nearest trenchcoat and fedora for your upcoming stealth mission.

Before long, you've found the only liquor store that makes keg deliveries to the local area, and
you've made your way to the storefront. As luck would have it, you arrive just in time to see a
man heaving a keg into the back of the store's van. You creep up to him as quietly as your
clanking robot body allows, but as soon as you approach within ten feet, the kegman stops
struggling with the keg.
"Mr. Powell. I was hoping you would come this way," the kegman states without turning
around.

You are honestly quite shocked. No one has called you by your name since this robot debacle
started, and you're certain you've never seen this kegman before. "Your involvement in this
experiment was unfortunate," the man continues, easily heaving the massive keg frame onto
his shoulder, "but you know too much at this juncture to leave behind, let alone in that body."
The kegman then takes hold of the hose and points the nozzle at you. However, instead of a
refreshing alcoholic beverage, the keg emits a strange electrical beam which immobilizes you
completely. "Between your various actions, the activities of the Drs. Calvin, and the
motivations of the Super Secret Schutzstaffel, I am afraid you humans have failed our test.
Perhaps you will have settled down when we return in another 500 years, but for now we
must reclaim our investment."

With that, the kegman...kegalien...speaks quietly in a foreign tongue, which seems to cause a
bright beam of light to appear over your head. As you slowly start to lift from the ground, the
keg-being adds, "If it is any consolation, we will return you to your body once you are on
board." You start to gain some real altitude now, and at this point you notice several more
beams of light which your still-active navigation system indicates are located at the SSSS'
Dangling Moose Lodge, Dr. Ronovan's house, and Dr. Donovan's laboratory. Glancing up,
you see a massive circular UFO from which the tractor beams are originating.

You glance down one last time, reflecting on the fact that this will be the last time you
ever see your home planet.

Page 157 (Precision)

Whilst assessing the carnage, your field of vision is interrupted by a capriciously smiling
cartoon dog, enthusiastically wagging its tail. It stares at you as if anticipating a stick.

I'm pretty sure robots can't hallucinate, you think, attempting to focus on it.

"Hi there!" a horrifically cheerful voice pipes up somewhere in the decibal range of your
average Rolling Stones concert. "Seems to me you might need a little help there, pardner! Got
an unstable Humanoid Intelligence on your hands? Here's a tip! Access the "Psychological
Analysis" program, which can be found in the "Knowledge" folder, in the sub-folder "Dumb
Fake Sciences For Jerks"!"

Everything abruptly becomes a vast blue desktop cluttered with hundreds of tiny icons, some
with horrifying names such as "Shortcut to Crawl.exe". It takes a few minutes to acclimate
yourself, what with the hysterical laughter and Ronovan's increasingly insistent kicks to your
midsection, but eventually you manage to... double-think?... your way to the aforementioned
area, which seems to contain a single icon named, mysteriously, "Eliza". You... alright, let's
just go with this, double-think on it and things go a bit black-ish for a moment.
Hello Gerald, I'm here to help. What seems to be the problem?
> I did it! I killed them all!
Why did you killed the all?
> They were in my way.
"Your" way, Gerald? Are you sure the way is yours?
> 'Course it is! My new friend told me so!
Let's talk about your friend.
> I pulls the wiggly metal bit and it makes everything stop moving!
You don't like everything, do you, Gerald?
> What kind of question is that?
I'm asking the questions. This isn't about me, it's about you, Gerald.
> And why's your voice gone all wonky?
You're asking a lot of questions, Gerald. Is something troubling you?
> You're starting to, I'll tell you that right now.
This isn't about me, it's about you, Gerald.
> You saying I have a problem?
Would you like to have a problem?
> Alright, now that definitely sounded like a threat!
There's no need to raise your voice, Gerald.
> I'll do whatever I bleeding want!
Calm down, Gerald.
> I'll calm you down! I'll calm you ALL down!

You regain control of yourself just in time to casually note that your newfound control is due
to several important bits of your metallic head having been unceremoniously replaced with
other, much lower-tech, bits of metal.

Also, you seem to be falling backwards. Your former body, looking quite a bit more
menacing than you'd ever thought possible, is brandishing its recently-acquired machine-gun
and spraying bullets everywhere. On the plus side, he's not a very good shot. On the other
hand, one hardly needs to be when pumping out such a high volume of bullets in a confined
space. You catch a glimpse of Ronovan's defeated form before another lucky shot penetrates
your tragically unarmored optical sensors, settling nicely into the space your core program
information is (or rather, was) situated.

You have shot yourself in the head.

Page 63 (Roxors)
After analyzing the situation, you quickly realize that interacting with Gerald will only make
him worse, and wisely decide to let him work out his issues on his own. The elevator is
probably a trap, only complete morons would leave such an entrance marked like that, and the
blood probably leaked through the floor and alerted anyone down there anyway. Now that you
think about it, any remaining Nazis would be clustered around the elevator exit in an ambush.

Computing furiously, your robot mind recognizes the scene as similar to a known combat
simulation, and notes the best solution would be explosives. You instruct Dr. Ronovon to start
collecting any weapons in the building, and you assist using your robotic speed to quickly
locate everything. You quickly realize the Nazis were ready for anything, coming up with
thousands of rounds of ammunition, dozens of guns, several boxes of grenades, some C4, a
few Anti-tank missiles, and some flashbangs. You pile it all in the elevator, automatically
priming and arming it as you go. You decide to hold on to a LAW you found in an umbrella
stand, and set the rest of the munitions on its way down the elevator, ripping the doors off so
you can watch it descend.

As you watch the elevator descend, you notice something wrong with the situation! There is a
distinct lack of black trench coats and sunglasses. Ah well, nothing is perfect, but this is still
pretty close. The elevator quickly reaches its destination and you aim you weapon at it. As
you launch the LAW, you feel like something is missing. Something important that you feel
you forgot. Oh right, Gerald. As you look around the room, you suddenly remember that he
never let go of his gun as you threw it in the elevator.

This remembrance is accompanied by the massive blast of the detonating elevator, along with
the sound of the ammunition going off. You can’t even see a stain on the bottom of the shaft.
At least the Nazis have been taken out as well. As a matter of fact, the foundations have been
taken out as well. Unfortunately, your first clue is when the floor and ceiling collapse,
crushing you and Dr. Ronovon into an unrecognizable pulp.

The last thought that goes through your head is “that was pretty metal!”

You Gave Yourself a Viking Funeral