If you try to reason with the robot, turn to page 10.
If you attack the automaton, hoping to exploit the little known weakness of the Robot race, turn to page 11.
Robots have no weaknesses. Save for ... love.
"I love you, robot," you whisper earnestly.
Their calculating minds can detect falsehoods, you see, so you have to mean it. And you do. Oh God, you really do.
"I.I.WHAT.IS.THIS ... LOVE?"
"It's this," you say simply, and step forward, closing the unbearable distance between you.
You throw your arms around its spiky steel shoulders, and sink your tongue deep into its yearning speakerbox. Time freezes, stars die and even music fails to deliver on the promise that your true and pure romance is making to the universe.
"I'm gonna fuck you, robot," you state flatly.
The robot scans your statement. It detects no falsehood.
Click Here To Return to Your Place.
"I come in peace!" you say to the robot, but what can stupid words convey that the language of dance does not put to shame? You begin the first steps of your conciliation conga -- well, that's a misnomer, it's mostly cabbage patch, actually, with a little bit of robot ... mixed ... oh. Oh no. Would that offend the robot? Is doing The Robot for a robot like putting on a minstrel show to our steel brethren?
"I.I." The digitized voice stammers, skips, then finally catches. "WHO.AM.I?"
"You're a dang machine," you answer.
Is it malfunctioning? Has it gained sentience through a wacky series of misadventures, possibly (hopefully) involving Ally Sheedy?
And then, suddenly, an idea sparks like lightning through the cloudy meat of your cerebral cortex. It is easily the best idea you've ever had. Even better than that time you ran out of bread and made a grilled cheese with Eggos.
"WHAT.IS.MY.PURPOSE?" The robot repeats.
"Your purpose?" you answer, smiling. "Why, you're my fucking battle robot."
Turn to page 12.
Outside the shimmering alien ship, a gathering of great and terrible beings is underway.
Outside the ship, the forest itself has come to life: A copse of animated trees shuffle in place, each and every branch whittled to a deadly, splintered point. Behind them, the 'Squatch Marines are deploying, rolling up in their hooting primate tanks, wielding their terrible monkey rifles. A trio of ancient, haggard women stand in the foreground, holding hands. The electrical arc of mystical energy crackles like halos around their thin, straw hair.
Outside the ship, they are ready for you.
Inside the ship, you are ready for them.
You nod to the robot, whom you have dubbed Dongbot 2.0. Dongbot, because you have drawn a crude penis across its chassis, ejaculating cartoon missiles. And 2.0 because, oddly enough, it's the second time you've done this.
It's been a crazy summer.
Dongbot 2.0 extends an already humming arm-cannon toward the exit portal, and you grimly follow his lead.
You kick open the hatch, flicking the lighter beneath the twin cans of hairspray taped to each ankle. You spray fiery jumpkicks in every direction. The ozone sings with Dongbot 2.0's laser blasts.
Even monsters can die.