Pepsi Man’s hands are slick with sweat beneath his aluminium gauntlets as he adjusts them again, the subtle tremors of his fingers making the metal plates rattle. His armour feels suffocating now, tight around his chest like it’s bracing for something bigger than battle. He’s spent his whole life preparing for this. He’s lifted mountains of two litre bottles, swum across the carbonated depths of the Pepsi Lake, and slain the fabled Sprite Dragon, all for this single moment.

The moment where he takes your hands in his, and whisks you back to the kingdom that is rightfully yours.

Finally, he reaches the top of the tower. His breathing comes in short, ragged pants, which is odd considering he technically doesn’t have a mouth… or a nose… or any of the usual parts that handle respiration. He shoves that existential dilemma aside and focuses on the task once more.

He grips the doorknob and pushes the heavy door open.

There you are.

Your form lies across the bed and the only light in the room is the moonlight trickling in through a narrow and barred window. The room is quiet… too quiet…