Prologue:

There are moments in the annals of time when everything goes wrong, and then there are moments when it goes so wrong that history itself might want a do-over. Somewhere between Viking raids, poorly planned time jumps, and a particularly irate roboticist, Blips and Grips seem to find themselves in those very moments—on a regular basis.

This is a tale of such a moment. When two mechanical marvels from the future—one obsessed with his own brilliance, and the other with snacks—land smack in the aftermath of a Viking raid on an English village in the 9th century, what could possibly go right?

Spoiler: Nothing.

After the Raid

The Chrononautilus landed with a clank that rattled its rusty brass gears. Outside, the smell of burning thatch filled the air, mingling with the distant cries of panicked villagers. The small English village, its mud-and-straw huts charred and smoldering, looked like it had just been hit by a storm of axes and chaos. Which, of course, it had been—courtesy of the Viking invaders.

Blips buffed his chassis, his two blue eyes gleaming in the eerie light of the fires. “Oh, marvelous. The scent of barbarity is positively palpable. Dumb-dumb, are you done with your endless consumption of sweets, or must we endure yet another delay in the pursuit of knowledge?”

Grips, chewing on something suspiciously donut-like (where did she even get those in the 9th century?), rolled her single red eye. “Hey, brainiac, cool your gears. What’s the rush? It’s just a buncha huts. Vikings came, smashed stuff, left. Nothing to see here.”

“Ah, the nuances of historical significance are truly wasted on you,” Blips said with a huff. “This village is likely an important artifact of Anglo-Saxon life before the invasion of the Norsemen. But you, being the mental equivalent of an unlubricated cog, see only rubble.”

“Well, duh. I see rubble ‘cause that’s what’s there,” Grips snorted. “And I’ll tell ya somethin’—those Vikings didn’t leave any snacks.”

“Your gluttonous tendencies are the least of my concerns. We have an opportunity to observe the socio-economic aftermath of a Viking incursion!” Blips exclaimed, adjusting his shades with unnecessary flair. “Now, observe, if you’re capable, while I engage in intellectual endeavors far beyond your ken.”

Grips kicked at a charred stick, utterly unimpressed. “Yeah, yeah. You poke around with your nerdy stuff. I’m gonna see if there’s any loot left over. Maybe some good ol’ Viking weapons I can smash stuff with.”

Misunderstanding the Situation

As Blips examined a crumbling wooden hut, he muttered to himself, “Ah, the precision of Viking tactics—swift, brutal, yet strategically sound. A fascinating display of asymmetrical warfare... if only these poor souls had the cognitive faculties to prepare properly.”

“You’re talkin’ to the sticks, genius,” Grips called from a nearby well, where she was trying to fish out what looked like an abandoned shield. “Ain’t no one here to appreciate your big words.”

“Grips, I would deign to explain, but I fear it would fall on cerebrally impoverished ears,” Blips sighed. “Perhaps if you spent less time foraging for medieval junk and more time contemplating the complexities of Norse expansion, you’d—”

Just then, a figure emerged from the smoke—a disheveled Anglo-Saxon villager, clutching a dented pot as if it were a prized possession. His eyes darted between Blips and Grips, clearly unsure of what to make of these two strange mechanical beings.

Grips immediately pointed at the man. “Oi! You got any food?”

The villager blinked, confused and terrified. “F-food? W-we have naught but what the Norsemen left, milady.”

“Milady? HA! That’s a new one. But seriously, any donuts left over? Maybe somethin’ with sugar?” Grips leaned in, causing the villager to back up in fear.

“Hark! What brings thee hither? Prithee, tell me, art thou a man, a woman, or perchance, something yet more wondrous?” the villager asked.

“I'm not sure, but my pronouns are the, she, and it”. Grips replied.

“what… oh… that's clever!” Blips remarked then stepped forward, his tone condescending as always. “Please, engage your prefrontal cortex before speaking. You are in the presence of a marvel of engineering. You may call me Blips, and I have questions for you, humble peasant.”

The villager blinked again, still clutching his pot. “B-Blips? Are you a god?”

“Oh, please,” Blips scoffed. “No, I am not some primitive deity, though I understand why one might make such an erroneous assumption given your limited capacity for understanding the finer details of robotics.”

Grips snorted, her red eye blinking in amusement. “Yeah, right. Blips here thinks he’s a god sometimes, but trust me, he’s just a shiny tin can with a big mouth.”

“Grips, you are as subtle as a sledgehammer,” Blips snapped. “Now, back to the matter at hand. What can you tell us about the recent raid?”

The villager, still trembling, glanced between them. “T-the Vikings, they came at dawn. Took everything. Burned our homes. Killed those who resisted. It was... it was horrible.”

“Yeah, yeah. Standard Viking stuff,” Grips muttered, unimpressed. “You got any cool weapons they left behind? Or maybe a snack or two?”

Blips ignored her, pressing the villager for more information. “And their leader, I presume he was a man of stature and intellect? Perhaps a keen strategist?”

“A-aye,” the villager stammered. “He was called Ragnar. Tall, fierce, with a great axe.”

“Oh, splendid,” Blips said, rubbing his metallic chin. “I would have enjoyed observing his tactical prowess. Shame we missed the encounter. I could have learned much.”

“You and your learnin’,” Grips groaned. “I coulda smashed him. Woulda been fun.”

The villager seemed to shrink even further. “S-smashed Ragnar?”

“Oh, yes,” Blips said absentmindedly, “Grips has a... peculiar way of interacting with historical figures. It often involves blunt force.”

“’Blunt force’! Ha! You make it sound so fancy. I just call it whackin’ things!” Grips said, her single eye blinking with glee.

The villager took another step back, his terror increasing. “M-milords, I-I must beg for mercy...”

Blips waved dismissively. “Oh, you’re in no danger from us, dear peasant. Our objective is purely academic.” He paused, then added with a smirk, “Unless Grips finds another weapon.”

“Yeah, if I do, you better run,” Grips added, her laughter booming.

The Twist of the Missing Loot

As the conversation continued, Grips, growing bored of the villager’s trembling and Blips’ endless chatter, wandered toward one of the nearby huts. “Hey, Blips, look at this!” she shouted. “There’s a bunch of stuff left behind here—looks like the Vikings forgot somethin’.”

Blips’ eyes lit up. “Ah, perhaps they left behind some artifacts. We must investigate!”

Grips yanked open the door to the hut and let out a triumphant yell. “Jackpot! I got me some Viking loot!”

But inside the hut wasn’t treasure. It was a pile of neatly stacked Viking laundry. Fur-lined tunics, leather boots, and a collection of helmets with horns sticking out of the top.

Grips’ single eye blinked in confusion. “Huh? Vikings... do laundry?”

Blips sighed deeply, pinching the bridge of his nose. “Ah, yet another triumph of mediocrity.”

Epilogue:

Back in the Chrononautilus, Grips examined the helmet she’d grabbed from the Viking laundry pile, turning it over in her large hands. “Hey, at least I got somethin’ out of this trip. A Viking hat! Looks tough, right?”

Blips, still shaking his head in exasperation, adjusted his shades and glanced out the window at the smoke-filled village below. “I suppose one could call this an abysmal failure, but I find that too generous an understatement.”

“Whatever, Blips. You’re just mad I got the best loot.”

As the Chrononautilus whirred back to life and launched them forward in time, Blips muttered under his breath, “Marvelous. Victory is yours, Grips. You’ve outdone even my most pessimistic expectations.”

Grips grinned, putting the Viking helmet on her head, which promptly fell over her single eye. “Heh. Next time, we’re hittin’ a Viking feast. I’m hungry.”

“Of course you are,” Blips said, sighing as the machine whisked them away to their next chaotic adventure.