Denton dove through the air and collided into Errol, grasping him close before pulling the cord of his minah. Flexible rods and fabric exploded from the pack and burst into a wingspan of roughly thirty feet that immediately groaned under their combined weight.
Even while facing a messy death, Errol couldn’t resist.
“You see that?” he yelled in the rushing wind. “I could design one that would hold twice, no, three times as much weight, and have a shorter wingspa—”
“Eat your tongue, sootbrain!” roared Denton. “I’m trying to save us, and your clap is distracting me!”
They descended towards the skyline in a graceless dive, narrowly missing several industrial smokestacks. Just as they had maneuvered a straight path to the Grind River, the minah’s ribbing collapsed and they plummeted through a roof instead.
Inside, Denton groaned amidst the rubble and screaming, half-clothed women.
“Errol? Where…?”
“I’m here,” Errol responded. “We landed in a brothel. I swear, Dents. Do you always aim with your bollocks?”