We leaned up against the wall, and I had no idea what was coming next!

In fairness, this was because the wall had just politely introduced itself, and walls don’t generally do that, unless you’re in a very particular kind of building or a very peculiar sort of trouble. We were in both.

“You may be excited to learn that you are leaning against a wall in the Vestibule of Anticipated Doom,” said the wall, in the sort of voice that suggested that the vestibule was less than pleased to have us leaning on one of its walls.

“I thought we were in a broom cupboard,” muttered Jax, who was, to her credit, generally bang on the money and right more often than not. Which, surprisingly, fails to explain why she is a wanted criminal in five minor star systems and one major reality TV show. The latter charge being less serious, since most right-thinking people agree that reality TV is a brain-sapping narcotic for the terminally stupid.

“Nope,” I said, tapping the wall, ‘Deffo not a broom cupboard. This room is definitely sentient. Cupboards don’t usually announce things. In fact, I get the feeling that this room is more interested in announcing our recent demise, than anything else.”

The wall cleared its throat, which was impressive, since it had no discernible mouth or lungs and, as far as I could tell, was little different in appearance to any other dimly lit space. “You will be processed shortly. Please do not attempt to escape. Any effort to do so will result in temporal confusion and existential damp.”

“Existential damp?” Jax raised an eyebrow. “What the Fck is existential damp, when it’s out walking? Is that like “My socks are wet! I should really be question my place in the universe based on this happenstance?”

“Yes, well… up to a point, I suppose,” said the wall. “Only wetter,” it added helpfully, “but I don’t know why anyone would use the word ‘happenstance’. Doubtless you’re on some form of medication.”

I suppose I should explain how we got here. It involved, in no particular order: a borrowed time-van, a very angry librarian with a particle cannon, an accidental wedding (I maintain I said ‘I’m not sure’, not ‘I do’), and a sandwich that was not entirely what it seemed to be.

At the root of it all was, as usual, the Key.

Not a key. The Key. Capital T, capital K, italics optional, legendary artefact of the Universe-Making Crowd™. It could open, close, rearrange, or completely misunderstand doors across realities. Naturally, it was misplaced somewhere between the Eighth Dimension and a particularly confusing lost luggage department. Confusing in that the lost luggage department had got lost.

We had been trying to retrieve it. The Key, that is. A simple plan: sneak into the Department of Dimensional Integrity, pinch the Key, and slip back out before anyone noticed. This plan lasted approximately eight seconds before the front desk chair exploded and a security automaton offered us a high-speed chase. It sounds like a choice. It wasn’t.

The wall sighed. “Processing in three minutes. Please inventory your regrets now. There is limited time for last words.”

I looked at Jax. She shrugged.

“You regret nothing, do you?”

“Of course not. I file regrets under ‘later’ and then never check.”

The wall lit up in a faintly ominous way. “Regret Inventory incomplete. Additional time allocated for existential dithering.”

This was our moment. My Grandmother never said “exploit all dithering - existential or otherwise.”, but it was implicit in the way she’d bought us up.

I’m not a brave man. But I am remarkably good at doing precisely the wrong thing at precisely the right time. Some people call that luck. Others call it a statistical anomaly. Jax calls it normal.

“Jax,” I whispered, “you remember the banana?”

Her face lit up in the way that only happens when someone’s remembered they did, in fact, hide a cache of explosives inside organic produce.

She fished it out of her bag and pulled the pin.

Bananas, when properly weaponised, produce a sound that can only be described as ‘squishy.’

The wall groaned. “Oh, for goodness sake… NOT THIS DAFT PLOY...AGAIN!"

We were through the wall before it had time to launch into a lecture about safety regulations. The corridor on the other side was mercifully empty, though it had the look of somewhere things should be lurking. The lights flickered in that strangely yellowy, suspicious way of lights of a certain persuasion.

Jax dusted herself off. “That worked then.”

The alarms stopped. That might have been good. On the other hand it probably wasn’t.

I glanced at Jax. She was walking a little ahead, shoulders tense, not saying much. She’d been different ever since we first learned about the Key. Less reckless, oddly focused. Almost like she cared.

“You alright?” I asked.

She didn’t stop walking. “I didn’t think it would be this easy.”

“What do you mean? Easy?” I gestured at the banana-scorched wall behind us. “we’ve had to weaponise fruit and, in case you’ve forgotten, we’ve committed inter-dimensional fraud.”

“Yes, but no one’s shot at us. Yet. That’s practically a holiday… Or it’s a trap.”

“You’re worried it’s a trap?”

“Or a test,” she said. “And we’re passing it too well.”

Before I could reply, the corridor we were in had, in the last few yards become a sort of chamber.

It was huge and humming with the quiet tension of ‘Important Things’. At the far end, on a pedestal, the Key hovered. It glowed faintly, like a memory trying to resurface through a huge blue water bubble.

“I didn’t think it would look so…” she paused. “Blue. And spiffy. And, well, just real simple.”

And it did. Just a long, brass key, a little bent at the teeth, maybe.

She reached out for it. It didn’t fight her. No flash of light. No alarms. Just a quiet click as it settled into her hand.

I stared. “That’s it?”

Jax looked at the Key, then back at me. Her expression was unreadable. “That’s it.”

We stood in silence for a moment.

A shimmer in the air. Robes. A voice that smelled like a filing cabinet full of flowers of sulphur.

“UNAUTHORIZED ACQUISITION OF ARTEFACT CLASS: PRIME. PLEASE REMAIN CALM WHILE A VIOLATION TICKET IS GENERATED.”

The be-robed, shimmery thing pointed at us with a clipboard. “FORM 7B WAS NOT FILED.”

“Erm…” I said, tentatively, “Actually… I think I did submit Form 7B. In purple crayon, I think.”

The shimmering robe thingy paused. And shimmered. Its eyes flickered. I could almost here its processors riffling through data forms and layers of reality and bureaucracy.

“FORM 7B. IN PURPLE CRAYON. Click… Whirr… Buzz….” Then silence for a bit.

Then it vanished in a swirl of embarrassment and procedural defeat.

There was a long silence.

Jax stared at me. “You mean… your usual incompetence just saved the multiverse?”

I nodded. “Apparently.”

Back outside, we leaned up against the wall. The real one this time, cold, solid, dumb as bricks. The kind of wall that didn’t talk back.

And I realised something. We had the Key. We’d done it. After all the running and slipping and lying and hiding… we’d actually done it.

I looked at her.

She looked at me.