The Cowtastrophe
I had no idea who the cow belonged to, but no one stopped me as I quietly untied the rope and snuck out through the back door. The cow followed without kicking up a fuss. Very quiet and docile, even for a cow, but I wasn’t about to complain. I made my way back to the warehouse through the winding streets, the cow plodding behind me at a steady pace.
There was a lot of work I had to do to refit the armor so that a huge bovine could squeeze into it. But I was sure I was up to the task, even if it had to take me the rest of the night and the better part of the day to do so.
And hours of backbreaking, laborious work later, my masterpiece was complete. I remodelled the armor to be in quadruped form, instead of being bipedal. I had to reduce the layers of defensive plating in order to accommodate the larger frame of the cow. I recalibrated the targeting AI and piloting assistance mechanisms.
It should work, in theory, but I have no idea how the most important part of the whole thing would pan out: will the magic capacitator work with a cow?
My knowledge of magic was too meagre to give me any answers. But at this point, I was past caring. I had already invested all the little time I had left into this attempt at getting a cow to pilot a magic armor. In fact, I’ve already strapped the cow inside.
It continued to make no noise, not even a single moo. Rather uncharacteristic, from what I know of cows. Though to be fair I knew very little, since the only cows I had seen in person before this were in the form of half-eaten steaks and burgers tossed out with the trash.
I look at the gigantic mechanical bull, its black plating gleaming dully under the warehouse’s dim lights. There was only around half an hour till the appointed time. My mind began to be filled with questions. How would I order the cow around? Does it know what it should do? Will it even move in the first place?
In hindsight, this might not have been the best idea. But hey, no risks no glory, right? If I kickstart the armor, the magic capacitator should start feeding off the cow on its own, according to the algorithms I have input to regulate its operations. And so, I activate the armor.
Nothing happens at first.
And a few seconds later, I can hear a low whine. The armor begins to jerk. Is it working?
The pitch of the whine increases. Beyond it I can hear the cow lowing, the first noise I have heard it make. I blink my eyes; the core of the armor, where the cow is, has begun to glow red.
That’s… not supposed to happen. My instincts scream at me to run, and I do. I turn around and bolt for the door.
But it’s too late.
The red glow leaps up in intensity, becoming a brilliant crimson flare that engulfs me. There is no pain, just a pure, red nothingness.
Perhaps it was premature of me to assume I could tinker as easily as I wished with magic armor while knowing almost nothing of magic theory. Perhaps my technological prowess had interfered in strange ways with the workings of magic. Perhaps, the cows of this world were just terribly volatile.
Regardless, the real reason for this explosion is not something that I can know now.
I know nothing more.
***
DEAD END