Peppy gazed anxiously at Fox and Falco. Falco just lay there, stone stiff on the table. Fox sat, transfixed looking at the wall. Slippy paced about nervously.
"What's wrong with them, Peppy?" Slippy asked nervously.
"I don't know," he responded, checking out a blood sample, "there's no trace of any foreign substances or cells in these blood samples. Falco began to shake uncontrollably.
"Oh, crap!" Peppy yelled, and he administered another tranquilizer. Falco stopped quaking.
"I'm worried," yelped Slippy, "I-I mean, w-w-what's wr-wrong wi--" Slippy wheezed, grabbing the table to steady himself.
"Slippy, what's wrong?" Peppy asked quickly, a worried look on his face.
"I…I…I can-c-can't b-b-b-breathe!" he gasped, and fell to the floor.
"Relax, Slip, you're having a panic attack." Peppy comforted.
"N-no, I've h-had a panic attack b-before. Th-this isn't--" he choked out, before losing consciousness.
"Rob! Rob come in!" he yelled at the wall mounted electronic eye. Silence answered him.
"Rob! Can you hear me?" Peppy repeated. This time, a strange alien voice, female, was his response. It seemed to come from everywhere.
"Your precious robot is no more!" the voice hissed. "I control this ship now," it said, and burst into maniacal laughter.
"Let's see how you handle this," the voice boomed, and the artificial gravity shut down, sending red droplets flying out of the blood sample containers. Suddenly, Peppy's chest tightened, and the critical atmosphere alert sounded. He kick-floated over towards the emergency air tank, the pressure dropping past twenty percent.