King Thetafluori wondered out loud at the spectacle that is a sheering of spacetime, “where could they possibly be going?” Sortie after sortie scream into the wall of shimmering, undulating, lensing liquefied Higgs field. Admiral Shmatloch fixes her gaze, glowering down the binoculars, “you mean WHEN could they possibly be going?!”
Confused reports continued to come in from across the great arc of the spacetime front, of a giant menacing space chopper riding robot belching this curtain of poisonous, radioactive breech.
The massive robot twists his Dragonfist on the throttle rhythmically, resonating the wailing fusion pulse jet into standing waves, cavitating the very fabric of reality in a cascade of rising bubbles, like the bubble nets of the earth whales. But instead of gobbling up huge mouthfuls of fish, he nets fighter jets and one damaged, wayward timeship.