Prologue: The Spanish Inquisition’s Baking Manual

1. Preheat your cultural climate to religious intolerance.

2. Add two overzealous inquisitors, seasoned with paranoia.

3. Whisk in a dash of false accusations until simmering.

4. Insert Blips and Grips into 15th-century Spain, and stir vigorously.

5. Watch chaos rise to hysterical levels. Serve with a side of disbelief.

Bon Appétit! Now let’s see how our favorite time travelers fit into this medieval recipe.

Spain, 1492 – The Dawn of the Inquisition

Blips stood at the control panel of the Chrononautilus, his wrench-like hands deftly maneuvering the brass levers as he gave his chassis one final, vigorous buff. “Ah, the glint of perfection,” he muttered, adjusting his shades. “Grips, I trust your intellect has managed to operate at its peak, insofar as such a feat is possible?”

Grips, towering over him as she stuffed a donut into her mechanical maw, blinked her single red eye. “Huh? Did ya say somethin', nerd? I was too busy enjoyin’ my pre-time-travel snack.”

Blips rolled his bright blue eyes. “Honestly, it’s miraculous you manage to walk upright, let alone assist me on these expeditions. Now, shall we commence our descent into the perilous, yet historically fascinating, domain of the Spanish Inquisition?”

Grips grinned, flexing her massive hands. “As long as there’s somethin’ to punch, I’m in. But you, pipsqueak—don’t start buffing your shiny metal butt in the middle of things. It’s weird.”

“Ah, your eloquence never ceases to astound,” Blips retorted. “Please, engage your prefrontal cortex before you speak. Now, let us traverse the annals of time!”

With a mechanical hum and a puff of Chronon-fueled smoke, the Chrononautilus jolted through the fabric of time, hurtling toward 1492 Spain.

Arriving in Spain

The time machine materialized in a narrow, dusty alleyway. Blips and Grips stepped out, immediately assaulted by the scent of incense, roasted meat, and… something far less pleasant.

“Who farted?!” Blips cried, waving his small hands in front of his faceplate.

Grips gave him a hearty shove. “It’s Spain, genius! Probably all them spicy churros.”

“Ah, your ignorance of geography is rivaled only by your dietary habits,” Blips sighed. “We’ve arrived in Castile, under the reign of Ferdinand and Isabella—an epoch characterized by fervent religiosity and, tragically, the machinations of the Spanish Inquisition.”

Grips scratched her metallic head. “Right… ‘cause that means somethin’ to me. So what’s the plan? Who do I hit first?”

Blips smirked. “If I were capable of laughter, which I am not, I would surely be amused. We are here as mere observers, not participants. Our objective is to observe the societal mechanisms behind this… delightful inquisition, without interference. Although, based on your track record, I shall keep expectations low.”

Grips cracked her knuckles, her red eye flickering. “Yeah, yeah, just point me at the bad guys.”

Blips straightened his shades. “Oh, I’m sure they’ll find us soon enough.”

Interrogation, Inquisition-Style

Not long after, their curiosity got the better of them. Blips and Grips wandered toward a large, ominous building marked by inquisitorial banners. Inside, an overzealous friar sat at a large oak desk, surrounded by piles of parchment and quills. He looked up, startled, at the sight of two metallic beings walking into his office.

"What blasphemous intrusion is this? Who dares trespass upon the sacred work of the Lord? Speak, sinner! What unholy purpose brings you hither, and by whose design do you defile this sanctified space?”

“Blips groaned. “Oh… that’s clever. Now, might I suggest a question more befitting your limited faculties? What could possibly be gained from interrogating us?

The friar squinted, clearly struggling to comprehend Blips’ sesquipedalian vernacular. “Witchcraft! Or perhaps sorcery!” He stood up, alarmed, his robes swishing around his feet. “Guard! Seize them!”

At that moment, a pair of guards stormed in, swords drawn. Grips grinned ear to ear. “Finally, somethin' to do!”

As Blips tried to protest, “Ah, let’s not be hasty! Ahem, diplomacy might be the more sagacious—” he was cut off by the resounding clank of steel on metal as Grips effortlessly disarmed the guards, tossing them aside like ragdolls.

One of the guards, lying on the ground, moaned, “Mercy! We yield!”

Grips stood over them, triumphant. “Pfft, too easy. You guys need to hit the gym.”

Escape with Minimal Damage

Just as the friar scrambled to summon reinforcements, Blips frantically tugged at Grips’ arm. “Grips, you unrelenting imbecile, we must retreat! We’ve violated the Prime Directive of Non-Interference! And more importantly, someone threw a spanner in the works!”

Grips chuckled, looking around the now-chaotic room. “Hah, no big deal. We won, right?”

Blips glared. “To call this an abysmal failure would be a generous understatement. Now, to the Chrononautilus—before we’re strapped to a pyre for crimes of ‘being more technologically advanced’!”

They sprinted back through the alley, the friar and his guards in hot pursuit. They leapt into the Chrononautilus, and with a wheeze of gears and a sputter of Chronon fuel, the machine vanished just as the friar burst into the alleyway, confused and angry.

Epilogue:

Back in their workshop, Blips polished his shades, visibly agitated. “I would deign to explain what went wrong, but I fear it would fall on cerebrally impoverished ears.”

Grips sat, munching on a candy bar. “Eh, we got out, didn’t we? No harm, no foul.”

Blips groaned. “Marvelous. You’ve surpassed even my most pessimistic expectations. Remind me, why do I continue to time travel with you?”

Grips grinned. “'Cause deep down, you know you love it, nerd.”

Blips sighed, polishing a bit more furiously. “Victory will be mine… one day.”