Chapter 25, everybody! In which we get lots of Portal and Don't Starve references courtesy of our creepy friend the Oracle Turret! Yay! And then we either kill it or torment it….And yes, Mojoceratops was named by a bunch of drunk scientists shooting the breeze. Weird, isn't it?

Don't Starve © 2013 Klei Entertainment

Portal © 2007 Valve

"A few more…got it!"

She clung tightly to the hanging arm, using her free hand to tighten the cables holding them fast. The portal gun was carefully cradled between her and the arm, as Wilson was busy reprogramming it to take them over the conveyor belts.

"Wow, that's a long way down," she observed, noting the drop between the belts.

"Ah, yes, I'm sure," he said, studiously avoiding looking down. "Let's not fall, shall we?"

"Wasn't planning on it."

There were blinking lasers.

"Wilson," she hissed, panicked—they weren't even halfway across, and if those turrets open fired—

"Turret redemption in progress," the man from the earlier testing tracks declared. "Please do not engage with turrets on their way to redemption."

She blinked. "Do what?"

"Brought to you by the same company who thought that designer-color turrets were a good thing," Wilson declared flatly.

"Seriously?"

"Oh, yes—I saw the schematics. You can have your standard coloration, Forest, Desert, Sable, Evening at the Improv—and my personal favorite, 'What Idiot Picked That One?'"

"That was an actual design?"

"Yes indeed—I think they were firing off names for the designs and just copied it down word for word. Like how Mojoceratops was named. Ah, here we are."

He fiddled with something, and the arm stopped over a platform.

They were untying themselves when Willow heard a tiny turret voice say "I'm different!"

She glanced up—there was a turret now.

"Hold on, I'll be right back," she said, handing the portal gun to Wilson and jumping on the belt before he could protest.

"Turret redemption belts are not rides," the announcer declared. "Please remove yourself from the turret redemption line."

"Get stuffed," she muttered, dodging around the detritus until she reached the "different" turret. She picked it up—it was surprisingly light, for something that could unleash a payload similar to that of a Tommy gun in an equal amount of time.

"Thank you," the turret chimed as she jumped back onto the scaffolding.

"You're welcome," she returned, before focusing on looking sheepish at Wilson's irritated expression. "What?" she asked, feigning innocence.

"Did you seriously just risk your life to get a defective turret?" he asked.

"It was a spur of the moment action."

He shook his head and continued down the scaffolding.

"Be free, little buddy," Willow said, putting the turret down.

"It won't be enough," it said.

"I'm sorry? I thought you'd appreciate not being trashed."

"Don't make lemonade."

"Huh?"

"There must always be a king for the throne."

"What throne?"

"Descend to the depths and you will find

"The way the facility lost its mind."

She had read that before—it was scrawled in one of the Dens.

"Did the den-guy reprogram you?" she asked it.

But the turret was shutting down.

Charlie, Charlie," it sighed as it ceased to function. "I'm so sorry, Charlie."

"Who's Charlie?"

The turret didn't answer.

"Willow?" Wilson called from ahead.

She shook her head and left the turret, forever watching as its fellows went to their doom.