Foreman Pig, wearing welding goggles and a nervous twitch, held the Key aloft. “Brothers,” he squealed, “today, we stop being lunch. Today, we become the wind!”

He was exactly where he started. Just one second closer to being caught.

The machine was his masterpiece: . A ramshackle dragster built from a submarine hatch, three rocket engines, and a birdcage. He slotted the Key into the ignition. The world hiccupped. Reality stretched like taffy.

Then he saw them. The Birds.

He slammed the throttle. The Key overheated, turning from green to white. The Scorcher folded in on itself. For one perfect, terrible moment, the pig existed everywhere at once—inside a falling tree, under a hatching egg, in the moment before a slingshot snapped.

The desert wind howled across the salt flats, carrying the scent of ozone and exploded TNT. In the center of the mechanical graveyard, a single object glowed with a dull, green light: the . It wasn't a key for a lock, but for a potential —the potential to crack the universe’s speed limit.

Foreman Pig looked at the dead Key. He had unlocked speed, but forgot to unlock escape . had taken him nowhere.