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2 Inches in the Open Ocean - Page 4 - The fan suddenly turns on - By SnaxiTums - Overview
Your train of thought is abruptly broken by the loud, unmistakeable sound of something clicking. Mere moments later, to your shock and horror, the fan begins to slowly spin. You’re unable to clear it’s path as it picks up speed, the power of the air conditioning system pulling you towards the grate. You’re briefly pinned to the bars, clinging to it for dear life. It’s not long before your grip begins to slip, and you’re pulled for force through the fan, thankfully missing its deadly blades by a hair’s breadth. You have no time to thank any higher power, however, as you’re feebly tossed and propelled through the mysterious tunnel on the other side.

After what feels like an eternity of being dragged against the metal walls of the tunnel, your body aching from the thuds and bumps, you slam against a solid metal wall. You feel yourself peel off of it, only to look down and see a pot far beneath you. You don’t have time to process anything more than the fall, screaming at the top of your lungs throughout the fall until you’re silenced with a plop. Now trapped far beneath the surface of the hot, opaque liquid, you try to swim your way to the top, finding it extremely difficult. It feels akin to wading through wet cement, and your lungs very quickly begin to cry out, burning for air. You barely make it to the surface, gasping for air and swatting away the clumps of food stuck to your eyes.

Clearing your eyes as you try and wade in the clumpy broth, you look around, finding yourself in a sea of chunky beige liquid which you soon realise is an entire pot of oatmeal. Realising you’re now an impromptu part of that morning’s breakfast special, you desperately search for a way out. Noticing the handle of what you can only assume to be a wooden spoon, its size making it appear as a telegraph pole to you, you frantically swim towards it. As you grab it, however, it suddenly moves, causing you to tumble and submerge once more in the hot cereal.

You resurface once more, clearing your eyes again and looking up. You see the face of one of the chefs, a young woman of East Asian appearance, her brown eyes frequently skipping between the pot and somewhere else on the bench, which you guess is either a timer or a recipe. For whatever reason, she doesn’t seem to have noticed you.

The chef suddenly removes the wooden spoon, replacing it with a ladle as she begins to serve up, every spoonful she takes creating a strong current that pulls you towards it with incredible force. While it would certainly be the easiest way of escape, you can’t imagine that being served on a plate would end terribly well for you. Instead, you try to shout out for attention, hoping the woman will hear you.
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