I unclipped Yen’s handcuffs and went down on one knee under the tropical sun of her prison-island home. “My darling, will you marry me?”
“’Kay,” she said.
I stood and kissed her tenderly, then ran for the chaplain. When he was ready to go, I decided to freshen up.
* (3 hour gap)
I emerged resplendent to find the priest knocked out, my ornithopter gone, and my fiancé. . . well, she was obviously still doing her hair.
The love of my life, gone! She may still be cross that I killed her power-mad mum. But surely she doesn’t STILL want to destroy the world?
Time to be a super-handsome super-spy again. Thank goodness for plastic surgery. Yen was born in Beijing, so I got a flight there at once.
I was met at the airport by a strangely attractive nun who took me deep underground before telling me the horrible truth: “Yen’s my cousin.”
In laws! They’re always so tetchy. I let the nun torture me a few hours and then knocked her out with a high-kick to the face. Then I fled.
I searched for Yen in the shopping district. As I tried on an especially snazzy shirt in the back, I heard the nun’s nasal tones.
The evil nun was apparently in league with my shopkeeper! A deadly pair! I duct-taped shut the mouths of the other patrons and listened in.
“Yen’s in Beijing – and so’s that British superspy,” said the nun.
The shopkeeper said, “We’ll kill them both!”
“Perfect. Hey, nice shirts!”
I bought hundreds of TV and streetside ads warning Yen of her mortal danger – and asking her to pretty please return my ornithopter.
As I returned to my hotel after another day of searching, I found a single long-stemmed black rose on my pillow. She still loved me!