The office building explodes spectacularly. A massive chunk of some kind of building material stuff crushes me like the chicken that didn't quite cross the road. Or it would have/will. In the tiny fraction of a second that remains of life, I reach forth with my temporal awareness, grasp mentally at several fragile strands of reality, and twist them brutally with all of the panic in my brain, like a chicken that has been attempting to cross the road, and is now about to be brutally crushed by some kind of massive truck, or possibly a bus, or an anvil. Chickens are not very bright, you know.
I have time shifted thirty-five minutes into the past. Somewhere in the building before me there is a bomb. Because of my enormous intellect, and my brilliant superhero powers of deduction, I know immediately what must be done. There is only one course of action open to Henry the Adequate, superhero, noblest of the noble.
"Hey, give me back my Troll Baby
!" shrieks the mother of aforementioned infant, as though something vaguely bad has just happened.
"Sorry Ma'am, there's a bomb in that building over there," I explain, using my super power of sounding really official.
"Oh," she nods wisely, "I see. Well, go right ahead then." Clearly she is familiar with the Law of Constricted Space, so named because it is sufficiently vague as to not give away what is about to happen next.
I hurry into the building, place the baby carefully, then back away. "Well now," I say loudly, using my most impressive acting skills, "Ho hum. I am looking over here, and not watching the baby. What ever will happen next." I glance back just in time to see the child disappearing up the nearest stairwell. I follow at a discreet distance.
On the next level we exit the stairwell. Down the hall. Left. Right. Right again. A broom closet. Ah, ha! This must be it! But no, the baby has just paused to chew on a poisonous looking spider. Onward we venture.
Soon the child disappears into a vacant office. I follow, peering cautiously within. There sits the Troll Baby, gnawing happily on some kind of explosive device. Excellent. I hurry inside, remove the bomb from his eager grasp, and examine it with my super-xray-vision. It seems I must cut the red wire.
I prepare to sever the wire with a tightly focused blast from my flamethrower. I adjust the delicate hair-trigger, sight carefully on the red wire, just below the teeth marks, adjust the treadle (Trouble at mill), and gingerly begin to depress....
But wait! Teeth marks? On the red wire? The kid was chewing on the red wire? Holy cow! I shift slightly and a deadly tongue of flame darts out, burning instantly through the green wire. In that moment my body fails to become instantly vaporized. I take this as a good sign, and a further scan with my xray vision shows that the bomb is indeed inactive. Phew. Saved once again by the Law of Constricted Space.
Now, where did the baby Troll go?
The next room is labelled "Stragetic Defence", with a sign a little lower saying "Please do not challenge the computer to a game of Global Thermonuclear War". Oh, crap.