Behind him, Jedediah gasped. “CJ?”
For CJ, the chase was a nightmare. Lancelot’s boots came down like falling redwood trees. CJ and Jedediah commandeered a miniature Roman chariot from a startled display of Emperor Hadrian’s toys. It was the size of a matchbox. CJ cracked a whip made of a single strand of copper wire.
Lancelot froze mid-charge, turning back into a wax dummy. The sphinx stopped crumbling. Jedediah felt his legs go numb and sat down with a sigh. But Larry—Larry glowed. His shadow stretched across the floor, and for one night, he was not a security guard. He was the Guardian of the Tablet, filled with the power of a thousand suns.
“Mister Pharaoh,” CJ said, his voice steady despite the cracks forming on his cheek. “You can’t fix the whole enchilada. But maybe… maybe you can fix one little taco.”
“He’s the only one who remembers us when the sun comes up,” CJ said. “He’s the one who tells the new guards to be careful with the diorama. He’s the one who brought us here, across an ocean, just to save us. You give him one last night. One real, full, magical night. And let the rest of us go peaceful.”
“So long, partner.”
The Egyptian wing was a disaster zone. The Tablet’s decay was worst here. A sphinx sneezed and crumbled into sand. A row of shabti figurines twitched and fell over like dominoes. And in the center, standing before a broken, unopened sarcophagus, was the man they needed: Merenkahre. But he wasn’t a wise old pharaoh. He was a ghost—a flickering, translucent projection of rage.
Behind him, Jedediah gasped. “CJ?”
For CJ, the chase was a nightmare. Lancelot’s boots came down like falling redwood trees. CJ and Jedediah commandeered a miniature Roman chariot from a startled display of Emperor Hadrian’s toys. It was the size of a matchbox. CJ cracked a whip made of a single strand of copper wire. night at the museum 3 cj
Lancelot froze mid-charge, turning back into a wax dummy. The sphinx stopped crumbling. Jedediah felt his legs go numb and sat down with a sigh. But Larry—Larry glowed. His shadow stretched across the floor, and for one night, he was not a security guard. He was the Guardian of the Tablet, filled with the power of a thousand suns. Behind him, Jedediah gasped
“Mister Pharaoh,” CJ said, his voice steady despite the cracks forming on his cheek. “You can’t fix the whole enchilada. But maybe… maybe you can fix one little taco.” CJ and Jedediah commandeered a miniature Roman chariot
“He’s the only one who remembers us when the sun comes up,” CJ said. “He’s the one who tells the new guards to be careful with the diorama. He’s the one who brought us here, across an ocean, just to save us. You give him one last night. One real, full, magical night. And let the rest of us go peaceful.”
“So long, partner.”
The Egyptian wing was a disaster zone. The Tablet’s decay was worst here. A sphinx sneezed and crumbled into sand. A row of shabti figurines twitched and fell over like dominoes. And in the center, standing before a broken, unopened sarcophagus, was the man they needed: Merenkahre. But he wasn’t a wise old pharaoh. He was a ghost—a flickering, translucent projection of rage.
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