The first time they'd died had absolutely scared them. Fluttering about, minding their own business. Next thing they know, a buzzsaw came out of the brush and churned them into a sad pile of fuzz. It had hurt like hell and Clony was pretty certain that they'd get PTSD for such a thing, if they had a dictionary to know what that meant. In the current, dying was just a part of life in the Badlands. Everything was out to kill them, and avoiding it meant absolutely nothing. Avoiding death tended to mean flying right into the next obstacle, and Clony did not like those odds.
The best way to deal with dying a lot was to have a high population. Clony's name easily gave away what their one power was. The rabbits of the Badlands could leap to extraordinary heights. The birds could weave through the tightest branches. Clony could clone. And freeze time. And shapeshift. All of that had been very thrilling experiences that they most certainly did not have time to think about currently. The land of Inferno was an absolute clusterfuck right now, and all their thoughts needed to be channeled towards this trap.
Some of the Badlanders called the traps 'puzzles'. Clony would argue that puzzles were actually fun, and that these had to be traps because they kept on getting filled with lead whenever they tried to pass. Molted lava spewing below was uncomfortably warm, and their charcoal fuzz did not deal with the heat well. Resting on a perch, they shook their entire body. How many hours had they spent here? Trying to pass this singular turret? They knew there were more further down the line, and if they had a mouth they would groan about just how unfair this was.
Bullshit. Absolute bullshit.
This would be the run, though! They spread their wings and lifted into the warm air. The heat spun through their feathers, lifting them up higher with ease. It had to be taken into account - or at least they figured it might as well be taken into account since literally nothing else had worked at this point. They tried flying fast past the turret, but then the debris field around it was too narrow for them to wedge through. Too slow, and the turret broke through the debris and a single bullet left the world fading to grey and them blinking their eyes open on the nearest perch.
Bitch turret, Clony thought as they began to flap their wings harder. Faster. The turret somehow could target the clone through the debris, which Clony would also like to call bullshit on. Rapid fire, bullets set to rapidly fire. Debris begins to break behind them, and they have to find just the right speed of fast and slow to make a hole and not get shot. Stop, move forward, okay, more forward, more forward-
FUCK was the word that filled their mind as a multitude of bullets slammed through them. The clone had no mouth to cry agony, and exploded into charcoal fuzz that drifted in the warm breeze. The world faded into grey, and the whisper of a breeze was heard.
Pearly eyes blinked away on the nearest perch. Nope. Fuck that turret. They lifted off the perch and went back down the narrow passageway. They'd find another way around. Maybe they could even find some more bombs. They barely managed to round the corner before combusting into flames with the slightest contact with a stray splatter of lava. Back on the perch. They thrashed for a few moments, wishing that they could scream out in absolute fury. Only one way forward, and it was past that damn turret.
Back to the drawing board, which meant even more wasted time. Clony decided it would be a great time to cycle through every single swear word they knew, and then some more, and do that a couple times to ease their fury. It didn't ease their anger at all, dark feathers continuing to bristle with fury. What good was going back in time (or being revived, Clony still had no idea how they were alive after dying forty eight thousand times) if they didn't know what they were supposed to do? Their wings rub the side of their body, head - both, they decided, since their entire body was their head.
It takes Clony a week to get past that turret. They make a note to bomb that entire area the next time they get their wings on any sort of explosive.