Lungs: Shaky but functional. Airways unobstructed.
Liver and digestive system: Not actively trying to kill you.
Nerves and muscles: Responsive to voluntary commands.
Sense organs:
Paranoid’s eyes snap open, then slam shut again at the sting of light from outside.
Operational. Your eyes have been shut for long enough that the pupils could dilate. You’ve been here for longer than an instant.
Mental faculties: Functioning well enough to progress this far in the checklist. Further analysis is impossible to conduct without filtering it through itself, and thus meaningless.
Backup: Has not yet complained about the systems check.
“Who’s there?” he asks, aloud. His voice is louder than he’d expected it to be.
No one answers.
He opens his eyes again.
He is in a cabin, which is already unusual. Normally, the cabin would be a ways down a path—which ideally would be solid beneath his feet, and if he were to really get his hopes up, would even be open and lined with perfectly ordinary trees.
The cabin is… very nice, actually. Its walls are made of clean stone, with wide, glassless windows. Cloth banners drape from the tops of the walls on either side of an ornate wooden door, and the blade is perched on the edge of a sturdy, carved wooden table—already quite a step up from the other cabins he’s had the dubious pleasure of entering. A warm light filters through the viewing window in the door.
This is a much friendlier place than any other cabin he’s seen, which means it is not to be trusted. The other cabins presented themselves as exactly as dangerous as they actually were. This one is hiding something.
He turns around and grabs for the handle of the door to the outside. It’s well above his head—how inconsiderate of the designer of this cabin. The body he normally inhabits would have been tall enough to reach it easily, but he’s clearly not taking the backseat in that body anymore.
He’s alone, and he is in his own body, his pathetically short, scrawny body that can feel every molecule of this world trying to drag him to the ground.
He finally manages to grasp the handle on his third attempt, legs kicking uselessly at the floor they can no longer reach. The quilt on his back falls to the floor without a hand holding it in place. It’s fine. There’s no one else here to see him, and he can pick it back up once he’s opened the door and escaped this place.
His feet find purchase on the wall beside the door, and he pulls. And then he pulls harder, and then he tries to twist the ring-handle as though that might be the obstacle preventing the door from opening.
It’s not, obviously. It’s locked. Where has he seen that trick before? Right—every time he tried to go somewhere the Narrator didn’t want him.
He lets go and falls to the floor, the bones of his arms clashing painfully with the cobblestones even through the fabric of the quilt beneath him. This is fine. There are more ways out of a cabin than the door.
The windows on the right are just low enough for him to look out—and no doubt low enough to climb through. The Narrator might never have bothered to mention them, but they’re still a viable escape route.
He clambers up to the frames of the windows and looks down.
The ground spans out far beneath him, a dry plain with steam rising from the ground. It’s certainly a far cry from the woods he’s used to, but that will just make it easier to see any ambushes coming, and the fall still looks safe enough. He’ll be fine. He just needs to go back and grab his quilt, and then—
His footing slips and he falls forwards into the window, all hopes for a controlled landing vanishing from his mind. If he’s lucky, he’ll get away with a broken arm. If he isn’t, it might be one of his joints that snaps, or even his skull—
His face collides with an unseen barrier, and he’s sent sliding back onto the cabin floor, facing a harsh landing for the second time in as many minutes. At least this one isn’t far enough to break any bones.
The windows won’t let anything pass through them. Of course they don’t. Do they even exist on a conceptual level? Is that why the Narrator never mentioned them?
Fine. There is one more exit he hasn’t tried. He’ll just have to play into the Narrator’s games. That’s how this works.
The Narrator, who is still not present.
Quilt back in place, he takes the blade from the table and grips it in his beak. The handle of the other door is even higher than the first. He’ll have to jump and hope he’s lucky enough to maintain his grip.
His fingers slip out of the ring on his first attempt, but he manages to grasp it on the second, and this door swings open the moment he’s caught hold of the handle, as though the cabin itself wants him to enter the basement. He drops to the floor and steps onto the stairs, slipping the blade beneath his quilt.
The stairs are as polished as the cabin, with a soft carpet to match the banners. Beautiful candelabras light the way down—a nice change of pace from the basements lit with starlight alone, if that.
“Is that you, my hero?” asks the Princess from somewhere unseen. Her voice is clear and innocent.
Great. She’s as much of a liar as the cabin.
“No, that’s someone else,” he mumbles as he descends the final few steps to see what, exactly, he’s working with.
The Princess is actually exactly where she’s supposed to be—at the other end of the basement, beyond another carpet, beneath another tantalizingly open window, and with one hand in chains. A second chain hangs ominously on her other side, leading to nothing.
She herself looks like an ordinary princess, with a golden tiara atop her head, wide eyes, and the most extravagantly puffy dress Paranoid has ever seen—not as though his sample has much in the way of puffy dresses, but he still feels safe asserting that this one is particularly puffy.
She tilts her head to one side. “...Is that you?”
She’s fishing for information. He’ll have to ensure he doesn’t give her any. Play dumb.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he says, gripping the blade tighter. “Do you know where we are?”
The Princess shrugs. “We’re in a basement! And above that is a cabin. And outside that… I’m not sure.”
“Who locked you down here?”
She pauses for a moment, then shrugs again. “I don’t know! But it doesn’t matter anymore, right? Now that you’re here to free me?”
She’s playing dumb, too, isn’t she? And what’s more, she’s better at it than him. He’ll have to be more direct or he’ll never get anything. “Who are you?”
“I’m… a Princess?” Her voice shakes a little, as though she’s unsure if this is the answer he wants to hear. “Oh! If you need a name, you can call me the Damsel.”
Damsel. A damsel in distress. Something to be rescued. Or an innocent. Of course, this is all assuming she’s telling the truth about what she is, and since she’s a Princess, by default I can’t rely on that.
“What do you want?” he asks, squinting at the Damsel.
Her response is quicker than her previous ones. “I want to leave!” Of course she does. She’s a Princess, after all. “And then after that…”
The Damsel trails off into thought, and Paranoid leans forward. “After that?”
She shrugs. Again. “I don’t really know! What do you want to do after we leave?”
“Get far, far away from this cabin,” Paranoid whispers. It should be soft enough that the Damsel can’t hear him, but she tilts her head when he speaks nonetheless. “Do you know how you’d get out?” he asks at a more normal volume. It’s a risky question, but at this point it’s probably the only way he can get any real information.
The Damsel shrugs. Maybe she’s not as good at playing dumb as Paranoid thought, if she only has one strategy—but she is still managing to dance around all his questions without missing a beat, which means she very much has one up on him. “I don’t know! Don’t you have any ideas?”
She cannot possibly be this incapable. She’s a Princess. She has to have a way out. She’s just playing dumb so he can let his guard down and she can strike.
Maybe he ought to strike first. But that would be showing his hand before he can see hers, and if she has something up her sleeve he doesn’t yet know about, it could spell the end for him. Then he’ll just wake up in a new cabin, and she’ll be even more of a threat. That’s how this works.
There’s something strange about that shackle on her wrist. He can’t see it, but he knows there has to be something. Some way she has more power than it seems she does. Something she has over him. That’s how this works.
She wants to use him. For what, he can’t tell. She’s a lot more cagey than the other Princesses he’s met. But she clearly wants to use him for something. That’s how this works.
That’s how this works. There’s a set narrative, and he has to figure out where everything fits into it before it swallows him whole.
Her hand. It’s not unusually slender, but it is slight enough, and the shackle large enough, that her hand has already half-slipped through her chains. She could probably slide it all the way out on her own.
And the moment she sees weakness in him, she will do so.
The Damsel tilts her head, and he remembers that the normal thing to do in this situation would be to continue the conversation. Anything out of the ordinary might tip her off that he knows that she knows she has the upper hand, and then there would be no reason to keep lying.
“No. I don’t know how I would get you out.” I know full well how you would get out, but there’s not a chance I’m enabling it. I’m just going to stay right here until I have you figured out, and then I’ll find my ticket out of this cabin.
She frowns. “Really? But… you’re supposed to save me. That’s how this works.”
That’s how this works?
That is not how this works. They’re supposed to slay Princesses, not save them, because even though the Narrator who ordered them to is clearly an untrustworthy sack of half-truths, the Princess they’re meant to slay is just as clearly a world-ending monstrosity who would be one step away from ending them if she didn’t need them to…
…If she didn’t need them to escape. Is that what this is? That’s how this works? She can’t just take her hand out of the chains because she needs him to do it for her?
Only one way to find out. He’s probably going to regret this. “Isn’t that chain big enough to slip over your hand? What do you even need me for?”
The Damsel glances down at the shackle, places her free hand on it, and slips it off her wrist. Of course she does.
…Then she slides it back on and looks at Paranoid. “Like that?”
What.
“Yes. Like that.” Paranoid grips the blade as tightly as he can. “Why can’t you just do that?”
The Damsel looks at him for a second before breaking out in laughter. “You’re funny! You’re really funny! Don’t you know that’s not how this works?”
Apparently not. “Explain to me how this does work.”
“I’m supposed to wait for you to rescue me,” she says. “Then you’re supposed to rescue me. Then we’re supposed to leave together. And then… I don’t know! I think that’s where it’s supposed to end.” She tilts her head. “Why? How else would it work?”
Paranoid hesitates. This is probably going to get him killed, and getting himself killed will only get him killed in a second, even worse manner.
…On the other hand, he’s really out of ideas at this point.
“You’re supposed to wait for me down here,” he begins. “Then I’m supposed to come down here, and you’re supposed to threaten me into letting you out, if you even want out instead of slicing me to pieces. Then either you kill me, or I kill you and then die, or I give up and let you wreak havoc on the world.”
The Damsel blinks. “And then what?”
“And then…” Paranoid shakes his head as though that will cause some thread of logic to slide into place. “I don’t know. I think that’s where it’s supposed to end.”
“Hm,” the Damsel says. “I think I like my version better.”
Paranoid forces out a laugh. “Yeah. I wish that were how this worked.”
“That is how this works!” She holds up her chained hand. “Can you let me out now?”
She’s asking him to let her out of the chains that she just slipped over her hand a minute ago. Sure. Fine. This may as well happen. Except…
“The door’s locked upstairs,” he says. “I couldn’t get out.”
The Damsel frowns. “Really? Do you think it might open if I tried it?”
He’s about to say no, that’s not how this works, the point of the cabin is that the Princess isn’t allowed to leave and the Hero can come and go whenever. Then he changes his mind and is about to say yes, absolutely, you’re some sort of world-ending monstrosity and I’m all of three feet tall. Then some bitter part of him is about to say no, everything about this whole setup is out to get us both but also me specifically but also you specifically, and if the past has taught me anything it’s that the way out will only open when you’re dead.
What he actually says is, “Probably. At least you’d be able to reach the doorknob.”
She holds out her chained arm, and Paranoid takes a moment to mourn the loss of the last bit of sense he has before taking hold of the shackle and slipping it over her hand.
The Damsel watches him through every step of the process, not as though there’s more than one step to it. “Your hands are really small.”
Shut up, he thinks but doesn’t say.
He leads the way up the stairs, half-expecting the door at the top to slam shut on them. But it doesn’t, and why would it, when the Narrator has been silent this entire time? It was always his doing whenever a door locked on them.
They step onto the first floor of the cabin, and the Damsel strides past him, reaching for the door handle. It’s easily within her grasp.
Paranoid clutches the blade under his quilt. If the Damsel can’t open the door, it’s his only remaining option. He’ll have to slay her and leave before he can learn what the consequences are.
The latch clicks and the door swings open.
The Damsel steps to the side as though allowing him through first. A courtesy? Or a way of making sure her back isn’t turned to him? Or a way of making sure his back is turned to her?
Or maybe he’s thinking about this too much, and he just needs to get some fresh air.
He steps outside into the driest “woods” he’s ever encountered. Heat wafts through the openings in his quilt, as warm as if he were standing in front of a roaring bonfire. He’ll probably end up boiling if he stays here for too long, what with the quilt wrapped around him… though there might not be enough moisture in the air for “boiling” to be an option. How is that even possible? There were steam clouds, right? Or are they just… haze?
It shouldn’t matter, anyway. This is where it all ends. That’s how this works.
He waits for a moment. The void does not come.
When he turns around, the Damsel is looking at him, brow furrowed for the first time he’s seen. “It’s supposed to end now, right? That’s how this works, right?”
“Yeah,” he says. “That’s how this works.”
Clearly, how this works and how it is are not necessarily always the same.
“I think… we need to look around,” he begins. For some reason his eyes hurt. Why would heat make his eyes hurt? “See if there’s anything… anything else…”
The blade slips from his grasp, dry grass crunching beneath it. He does not land on top of it, saved by the Damsel catching him from behind.
“Anything… else out there,” he mumbles as his eyes close and he finally falls asleep.
While Gabriel is searching for a new Akuma victim for the evening, he happens across a man who stands out to his magical senses for some reason that Monarch isn't entirely certain of. Curious, Monarch scans his emotions, and finds a man of startling similarity to himself: a misanthropic hermit of a man who loved deeply, selfishly, passionately, and self-destructively. A man who has lost his love, whose grief and rage over the loss burn within him still, would burn the world if he could. It is a deep, abiding rage, not a flash--one that, if harnessed to Nooroo's power, would lead to an intelligent, calculating opponent for Ladybug instead of one who would lash out blindly as most do.
Monarch, delighted at the kindred spirit, sends out an Akuma, though the man possesses no Alliance ring. The butterfly lights on the man's wedding ring, and Monarch speaks.
"Hello, Eternal Flame," he says. "The world has taken your wife from you. I offer you the power--"
"There is no power you can offer me that I do not already possess," the man interrupts.
Monarch's brow furrows. "I am Monarch," he says. "I am the most powerful person in Paris. I command the gods themselves."
The man snorts. "Only the gods?" he says. "Paris' standards have certainly fallen since my youth."
Monarch is utterly flabbergasted. How dare this man? "Young man, I can cause you--"
"Mathias," the man interrupts. "My name is Mathias."
"I do not care what your name is!" Hawkmoth shrieks. "You will bow!"
"How quickly humans forget," the man murmurs with a rueful, almost boiling growl in his voice.
Monarch barely has time to process that the man has said "humans" before suddenly he is not where he was. The seat at the cafe where the man was sitting is filled with empty air.
Instead, the man is standing in front of Monarch. Inside his lair. Towering over him.
The man is two meters tall if he's a centimeter. Maybe more. Calm, implacable menace radiates from his pale skin like light from a star. He wears an open black coat that covers him from chin to knee, a coat that would have stretched to the ankle of an ordinary man.
The man lifts a hand, lazily, his fingernails stretching as he does. Growing into talons. He places one sharpened nail beneath Monarch's chin, and the villain feels it--impossibly--pierce his mask, dig into his skin. Feels the blood well up.
"You would seek... to command... me?" the giant man intones, bemused.
Monarch says nothing, save for the fear he can feel screaming from his widened eyes.
"In my youth, I was known as Mathias Cronqvist," the man rumbles. "Paris was my home. You are not welcome in it."
"What..." Monarch croaks, feeling the deadly point beneath his chin shift against his skin with each word. "What are you?"
The stranger smiles, but there is no mirth in it. His smile is one of fury, of superiority, of violence. Monarch isn't certain whether he imagines the fangs that seem to creep from the man's mouth.
"I am Vlad Dracula Tepes," the man growls, his voice soft. "I. Do not. Bow."
Apologies to @thejakeformerlyknownasprince for stealing their format for this idea.
It was Tobias who realized the possibilities first. Letting the Yeerks have the other Helmacron ship? No way. True, Tobias might have been the slightest bit angry because Visser Three held him hostage, but if the past few hours had taught him anything, it’s that shrink rays are more powerful than they seem.
“A Shrink Ray? Really?” Marco laughed. “Dude, this isn’t a cartoon.”
<No, but we’ve just spent all day at three millimeters tall, and we were helpless.> Tobias adjusted a feather. <I’m just saying that if Visser Three and the Hork-Bajir were three millimeters tall, they wouldn’t be a problem.>
It doesn’t take much more than that for everyone to agree that the shrink ray would be useful, or is at least too dangerous to let the Yeerks keep. They all start trying to figure out where it might have gone.
The last time anyone seen the Helmacron ship Galaxy Blaster, Chapman had been greedily shoving the thing into his suit pocket. That meant it could be at his house. Maybe it wasn’t, but maybe it was. It was worth a look.
Sneaking into Chapman’s house wasn’t as hard as it should have been. Many defenses had been put on the ground floor and in the basement since their visit many months ago, to be sure, but Melissa had left her bedroom window open that night. Maybe she was waiting for some unknown visitor, or maybe she was taking advantage of the cool breeze blowing into her room. Either way, an owl covered in fleas didn’t bother her as she slept. She never heard a thing.
While Ax led the others down, dodging Yeerk sensors as they went, Cassie and Rachel snuck into Chapman’s bedroom as a rat and a squirrel. Just in case. They were supposed to keep an eye on Chapman and his wife.
Rachel was the one who noticed it. Chapman had simply fallen onto his bed and fallen asleep. She’d seen this with her father Dan after a long day, and she’d done it herself after a couple of missions. The odds that Chapman had stopped to do anything before falling asleep were slim. Cassie and Rachel split up to look for his jacket.
Cassie found it in the clothes hamper. It took some digging, but a squirrel’s paws are quick. In no time she’d dug the Galaxy Blaster out, and the two girls headed to retrieve the guys from what sounded like a terrifying ordeal of evading automated Dracon fire and electrical traps.
Ax wasn’t sure if he could make the Galaxy Blaster able to fly again. That didn’t matter, according to Tobias. All they needed was the shrink ray. If Ax could somehow get that working again, they could shrink or grow things at will.
“Attack of the 40-Foot Hawk,” Marco chimed. “Like one of those Godzilla movies. Oh man. Could you imagine it? Visser Three turns into the Monster of the Week, then you just swoop down and grab him and-”
Ax interjected.<A bird that large would not have the correct proportions to sustain lift.> A collective groan of disappointment goes around the group.
The biggest problem with fixing the ship is the extremely tiny controls in the bridge. Ax’s fingers just weren’t nimble enough to manipulate them in the sequence Marco remembers, even with tweezers and the most absurd looking magnifying eyepiece anyone has ever seen. Ax assured the others it can provide magnifications far beyond what a normal Human magnifying glass provides. Tobias noted the eyepiece appeared to be a piece of a microscope that Ax ripped of and strapped a headband to. Ax didn’t confirm or deny this.
When Ax finally admitted defeat, the Chee were happy to help. The mechanical precision of their fingers, along with their vast knowledge, lets them get the Galaxy Blaster back to working condition in a few hours. Bonus, with some coaxing, Erek agreed to make it easy for the others to use as well. A shrink ray, it seems, just barely skirts the Chee non-violence directive.
So they put a handle on it. And a trigger. Really, they just strap the Galaxy Blaster to part of a broken watergun, giving them a proper shrink ray pistol that looks as silly as it is. Thanks to Erek’s work, it was simple to use. One button causes a 2x reduction in size with each trigger pull. The other button causes a 2x increase in size with each trigger pull. Erek made the Animorphs swear they would not use it for violence.
The next raid on the Yeerk Pool, the Animorphs all go in combat morphs. Ax wields the shrink ray.
The first wave of Controllers to run at them are reduced to 3 inches tall in a moment. They quickly scampered away to avoid being crushed by the Animorphs.
The second wave of Controllers didn’t fare any better.
The third wave decided that fighting at close range wasn’t a good idea when their enemy had a shrink ray. Unfortunately for them, Ax is exceptionally accurate, and he managed to hit them with ease even as he dodged Dracon fire. The third wave were shrunk down in no time at all.
The shrunken Controllers who have Dracon beams were horrified to find out their weapons are much less effective at this size. The Animorphs shrugged off numerous hits without issue.
Visser Three arrived, as he always does, in style. He dropped in from the ceiling in some horrific bat-monster morph. No one paid attention to the name of the planet he acquired it on. A shame, he was quite proud of that trip. He had been the only one to survive.
Moments later, he was no larger than a little brown bat, and Tobias easily caught the Visser in his talons.
The Yeerks didn’t really seem to have an answer for what is happening. In all the chaos, they tried everything they could think of. None of it worked.
Someone manages to take off in a Bug Fighter, but before they can turn the weapons onto Ax, the Bug Fighter is reduced to the size of a toy car. Tobias knocked it out of the air with ease.
The Hork-Bajir tried again and again even after being Shrunk, but their tiny blades do nothing, and Jake is almost amused at how easily he batted them all away, like a cat with a favorite toy.
The Taxxons awere too distracted trying to catch all of the tiny Controllers to put up any meaningful resistance. But innocent people might get hurt by a hungry Taxxon chasing them down. At Cassie’s urging, they too were shrunk before they could eat too many people.
Maybe thirty minutes after the Animorphs arrived, the Yeerk Pool’s primary defenses had all been dealt with.
Visser Three refused to accept defeat initially. He demorphed and remorphed again and again, but at three inches tall, even his largest and most powerful morphs are useless.
Eventually, he realized the Animorphs have won. He began trying to negotiate, offering as little as he can at first. He knows where Elfangor’s human son was and could take the Animorphs to him.
This came as a shock to some of the Animorphs- They weren’t aware Elfangor had a Human son. However, they put two and two together about the Yeerk interest in Tobias a few days ago and promptly resolved that he has some explaining to do when this is all over.
The Animorphs decided that the small offers Visser Three made aren’t enough. They had, unexpectedly, won. The entire Yeerk Pool was theirs. Visser Three, now in a pickle jar with holes in the lid, was theirs. They decided to tell the world, to end the invasion once and for all.
The Chee arrived and helped with catching and sorting out the shrunken Controllers. And then, strangely, Mr. Tidwell- a late arrival to the battle- began to help too.
The Yeerk Peace Movement are bewildered by this turn of events, and the Animorphs are bewildered by the existence of the Yeerk Peace Movement. Aftran 942 is brought up from the depths of the Yeerk Pool to explain. Cassie began working on a plan for dealing with the Yeerks.
The Yeerks were returned to full size after they left their hosts, and then they were quickly moved into the pool before their now-free hosts could try to hurt them. Esplin 9466 remained in the pickle jar even after he was returned to normal size.
A bewildered Alloran took all of five minutes to recover before he began to demand to know where the Andalite fleet was and how many Andalites had arrived to help. When he was told the truth, he made several loud noises of shock and despair. Then he asked if he could see the shrink ray.
Marco told him it would violate the Prime Directive to share such technology with a species as primitive as the Andalites. Ax ‘accidentally’ smacked Marco in the back of the head for calling Andalites primitive.
After some time, the Free Hork-Bajir were alerted by Tobias and arrived to take care of the now-free Hork-Bajir. The Taxxons- a wildcard even once they are free- surprisingly united around a strange Taxxon that goes by the name of Arbron.
The Chee covered for the Animorphs when the Animorphs decided to set up a temporary base of operations within the Yeerk Pool.
It became clear within an hour that the people who beat the Yeerks were mostly just Human teenagers. It didn’t matter. The Yeerks didn’t have anything that could stop or resist the shrink ray.
As more Controllers wandered in for their bi-weekly feedings, they were caught by the various forces that now control the place. The situation is explained to them, and they’re given a choice.
The few that resisted were tied up and left in the many sheds on the periphery to wait the few hours it will take for the Yeerks to starve. The Yeerks that surrender are thrown into the pool without ceremony and their hosts set free.
Once some of the Human-Controllers who serve in the police and military were free, they quickly went to get the proper authorities. Marco went up to meet the police as they arrive and escorted them down into the facility. Within a few hours of Visser Three’s surrender, the Media arrived. Within a day, the world knew all about the invasion. The remaining Controllers on the surface tried to stay away for as long as they can, but eventually, they too surrender.
Vissers in other Yeerk facilities on Earth quickly ordered the ships in orbit to open fire on the Yeerk Pool, to end this debacle before it could get any worse. The ships in orbit refused. Some landed and surrendered. Others fled to the safety of the Yeerk Empire.
The general surrender begins extending to the other Yeerk facilities as well. Law enforcement and military forces begin arriving and taking control. In some cases, the fights were bloody. In others, the Yeerks surrendered without firing a shot.
Jake didn’t feel any qualms about snatching the slug that slithered out of Tom’s ear and throwing it as hard as he could. He didn’t know if the slug made it into the Pool or splatted against the ground on the other side. He didn’t care.
Visser One arrived a few months later with a full war-fleet. Somehow Visser Three had screwed things up, but Earth was still vital to the Yeerk Empire. It didn’t matter if the Humans now had access to Yeerk technology. A full fleet, led by the fearsome Nova-class Empire Ship, could easily retake the planet.
A lone Blade Ship, since repainted in the style of a Human naval vessel, flew up to meet the Yeerk fleet. It transmitted a single message: Surrender immediately or be shrunk.
Visser One laughed. Shrunk? That’s ridiculous! There’s no way they could possibly be serious, the Humans didn’t have that kind of technology, and even if they did, it wouldn’t be useful- And then the Visser realized something was very, very wrong. A strange beam projected by the Blade Ship hit each ship in the Yeerk fleet, one after the other. One by one, each ship in the Yeerk fleet vanished from optical sensors. Communications with each ship indicated they were all alive, all intact, but surprisingly, unbelievably, they had all been shrunk. Visser One was left with a choice. Take her tiny, useless fleet back to the Yeerk Empire, or surrender.
With a pounding migraine reinforced by Eva’s cheers, Visser One surrendered.
The cabin comes into view blurrily, almost like they’re just waking up. They didn’t doze off in the cabin, did they? That wouldn’t make a very good first impression on the Princess.
Though, this cabin doesn’t look like that first one. Its walls are formed from pale, rough stone, with openings in the sides to serve as windows. The doors are more of the same, cutting quite an impressive figure. Instead of a plain wooden table, there’s a metal altar holding the blade, and a couple loose planks lie askew on the floor. The cabin normally wouldn’t look like this on the first go-around, would it?
So why doesn’t Smitten remember what they did last time?
It’s probably not all that important. Even if he doesn’t remember, surely someone must. He’ll just have to go along.
“Well, boys?” he asks. “Shall we go and see what form our beloved has taken this time?”
No one says anything. That’s rude of them.
No one does anything, either. That’s a bit far for a prank.
“Very funny of you,” he says, listening for any sign that someone else is here. “Yes, you’ve got me this time, good joke, now let’s be off to fulfill our… destiny…”
It’s completely silent. There’s no one else here.
His shoulders drop, and he turns around to face the door to the outside. His body obeys, allowing him to see that the cabin is entirely empty, except for him.
That probably isn’t good.
Maybe something happened to the others. Maybe they’re somewhere outside. Maybe they’ve been tossed about to different cabins like this one.
If they are, he’s sure it’ll all work out. They’re resourceful people. Everything’s going to be fine.
Still, he should try to find them. He’ll just pop down to the basement, free the Princess from her imprisonment, and then the two of them can meet up with everyone else who’s also made their way out. It’ll be easy.
He leaves the blade on its altar. Wouldn’t want to give the Princess the wrong impression, if she has as little memory as he does.
The doors are heavy, resisting his attempts to wrench them open no matter how much he strains. Eventually, one of them folds and scrapes slowly across the floor, and the other follows a little more easily. The stairs beyond are cramped, stone walls pressing in on him, but they don’t look as though they’ll pose any obstacle. If those doors were to decide to close again, though, he might be in trouble.
Oh well. He’s sure the Princess will be more than capable of getting the two of them out, if the doors even do shut on them. The Narrator, conniving scoundrel that he is, is blissfully absent, and he was always the one that tried to meddle.
“Is that a challenger?” the Princess calls from the basement. Her voice echoes off the stone walls. “Finally. I haven’t had a good fight in far too long.”
A fight? Why would she want to fight him? They have the same goal!
Maybe she just got the wrong impression in some time he doesn’t remember. He should say something to put her mind at ease. “Fear not, Princess!” he cries. “I have no ill intentions towards you!”
She laughs. “Is that so? Why don’t you come down so we can meet face-to-face, then?”
This is progress! Probably. She does sound like she’s willing to talk. And he was planning to finish climbing down the stairs anyway.
The basement is less like a room and more like a cave, not much wider than the stairs. The Princess stands at one end, taking up most of the wall, chain in place on her wrist.
A pair of horns rise from her forehead, framing a set of spikes that look almost like the crown she usually has. The skirt of her dress is translucent, with a slit in the side, and a long tail curls around her. Her feet look more like hooves.
She’s beautiful.
Her eyes narrow onto his hands. “No little knife, huh? Did you forget to bring it with you?”
Is she talking about the blade? She must be convinced there’s no way out unless she’s cut free from her chains. “Fret not, fair maiden. We won’t need the blade for this.”
“Is that so?” The Princess grins. “Good.”
Smitten steps closer, reaching for the shackle on her arm. This is going well. He’ll slip her hand from the chains with no problem at all, and they’ll leave the cabin and go see what else is out there… as long as that mirror doesn’t show up again.
It won’t. It can’t. He won’t stand for it.
He should probably ask her name once they’re out, too. But one thing at a time. He’ll slip her hand from the chains…
His back lands on the hard stone floor, sending shockwaves through his bones.
The events leading up to the landing piece themselves together backwards. He landed on the floor because he fell. Why? Because the Princess pushed him. No, pushed isn’t the right word—she grabbed his arm and threw him to the floor. Why? Heck if he knows. All he did was reach for the chain.
He looks back up at the Princess, vision swimming back into place. She’s frowning at him. Why is she frowning at him? She ought to know he has no intention of hurting her, right?
“Are you really going to give up this quickly?” she asks.
His brain hasn’t finished pulling itself back together, so all he can say is, “What?” And, if he were being honest, that’s probably what he would say if he were in peak condition.
“You hit the ground once and you’re down for the count?” The Princess leans over him. “Did you just come down here to toy with me or what?”
Toy with… her? But he had no such intentions… right? “I can assure you, my intentions have never been anything but pure.” He pulls himself to his feet as his vision finally snaps back into one piece. “If you’ll allow me to remove that shackle, the two of us can go at once.”
The Princess looks down at the chain. “What, worried it’ll slow me down? You must be confident.” Before Smitten can figure out what she means by that, she begins to strain against the chain, metal groaning before it finally snaps. She’s free! This is great! “You’d better live up to the figure you’re making yourself out to be.”
“Oh, I would never dare mislead y—” Smitten begins, cut off by a fist landing on his shoulder and throwing him across the room. His flight is cut short by the wall of the basement, head directly striking the stone. Some imperceptible noise echoes in his ears.
Didn’t he just say she could trust him? Why doesn’t she trust him?
The world is slowly beginning to decide it would rather not remain in one place. Smitten wobbles on his feet as he takes a few steps towards the Princess, nearly having to lean on one wall for support. “Why would you… do that… my love…” he wheezes, lungs refusing to cooperate with him.
“What do you mean, why would I do that?” The Princess stares at him, her arms folded. “Why wouldn’t I do that? You did come down here for a fight, didn’t you? Or are you less honest than you claim to be?”
A… fight? He never said anything about a fight or that sounded like it was about a fight or fight-related or anything of the sort… right?
“I’m afraid I… don’t have any idea… what you’re talking about.” He slumps against one wall, legs unwilling to do their job on their own. “All I want is… to set you free.”
“And what if I don’t want to be free?” The Princess takes a step towards him—he thinks. It’s all a little blurry. “What if I want something else?” Another. Probably. “What if what I want is for you to fetch your little knife and fight me?” She’s either right in front of him or still by the back wall. It’s still unclear.
Smitten wobbles backwards. He can’t tell if it’s on purpose or not. “Th—that can’t be right. Freeing Princesses is always the right thing to do.”
The Princess grits her teeth. “You are impossible! Why don’t you start thinking for once so that I don’t have to!” She reaches out with her hand, faster than Smitten can see—not that that necessarily means it’s fast, with the way he is right now—and grabs his throat. “Here’s what’s going to happen. I’m going to kill you, right now, so you can come back with a half-decent head on your shoulders. And when you do, you’re going to take your little knife, and you’re going to march right down to this basement and fight me.”
The pressure on Smitten’s neck tightens. He’s going to die. He should probably say something nice before he dies. A nice little pre-death one-liner while he’s still pre-death. A nice little… that shouldn’t be too hard…
His meandering is cut off with a pop, or maybe it’s a snap, or maybe it’s more of a squelch or even a crunch. It’s still a little hard to tell what’s going on around him, and more so to put words to it.
But words don’t matter in some cases. No matter what combination of letters accurately capture whatever sound he hears, soon after everything goes dark, and he dies.
He shoots to his feet before he can take stock of the cabin he’s in. That part comes after. The walls are made from a pale, rough stone, with open holes for windows, and the doors to the basement are heavy and carved from the same material. The blade lies on a metal altar—
This is the same cabin.
The Princess’s final words to him dance just out of his grasp. He certainly wasn’t doing all right in the head by the time she killed him, was he? At least that’s over and he can approach her with a clear mind.
It must have been important, though, whatever she said. “I’m going to… you can come back… and when you do… right down to this basement.” There must have been something in between all that…
Oh! Of course! She must have seen how badly he was doing and killed him knowing he’d come back in one piece and be able to hold a proper conversation with her. How thoughtful of her!
He strides over to the doors with a bounce in his step. This time, he knows to brace himself in order to wrench them open.
The Princess is waiting at the bottom of the stairs, arms folded. Her face falls when she sees him. Why would she…?
“I thought I told you to bring your knife this time around,” she says. “Do you just not have it or what?”
Is she forgetting something? Is he forgetting something? “You must be mistaken. We don’t need to cut you free. If you’ll just allow me to—”
She growls. “Did everything that happened last time breeze through your empty head? If I wanted to be free, I would be.” She pulls against the chain, metal snapping and falling to the floor in pieces, leaving only the shackle around her wrist. “Now go and get that knife so we can fight.”
The memories that abandoned ship the moment Smitten hit his head start to drift back. “Going to… take… knife… right down to this basement… fight me.”
But that doesn’t make any sense. “Why would you want me to fight you?”
“Why wouldn’t I?” She narrows her eyes. “Why don’t you? It’s fun. And it feels right.”
Smitten laughs a little as he backs away. “I don’t know if I’d exactly describe it that way, though I suppose… if it would make you happy…” There’s something wrong with this Princess. Not that there could possibly be anything wrong with any Princess—they’re all perfect in their own way—but this one has something wrong with her.
He does a little hop back to the base of the stairs. The Princess continues to watch him. “I’ll, ah, be going to fetch that blade now,” he says. “I shall return posthaste.”
Then he turns and bolts up the stairs, not stopping to catch his breath until he’s well and fully in the upper part of the cabin.
She wants to fight him. But that’s not… that’s not how this works, right? She’s supposed to want to be free. Sure, there were a couple Princesses that had other intentions, but that was only after they’d been wronged and were out to take righteous revenge!
…Did something happen to her in the time Smitten hasn’t been allowed to see? Is she trying to take out her anger on him? But that doesn’t sound quite right.
She wants to fight him. Not to kill him, presumably. Just to fight him a little. She doesn’t look angry—at least she didn’t, not before they properly got to talking. Maybe a little spar could be fun, if it’ll make her happy. She said it would be, so he’ll believe her.
“I hope you aren’t trying to run away,” the Princess calls from below. “What’s taking so long?”
Smitten jumps and scoops the blade from the altar. “Don’t worry, fair maiden! I’m merely steeling my nerves for our battle.” He may as well play it up. If a fight’s what she wants, he’ll do his level best to make it as dramatic as possible.
He steps down the stairs, taking in deep breaths to steady himself. He can’t let the Princess down.
She is waiting for him in the basement, and her face breaks into a grin when he comes into view. “Finally. Let’s get started, shall we?”
“We shall.” Smitten raises the blade, pointing it at the Princess. “En garde!”
The Princess doesn’t waste any time in launching herself across the room, fist narrowly missing Smitten’s face. He ducks past her—she’s tall—and whirls around, catching her arm with the blade as she aims another punch. A few drops of blood fly away from the nick and splatter on the floor.
He didn’t mean to do that.
She seems to take notice, stepping back instead of continuing her attack and glancing at the cut in her arm. It’s shallow, at least so he hopes, but a drop of blood still traces down her wrist as he watches.
“I’m sorry—” he stammers. “I didn’t mean to—”
“No. You didn’t. That’s your problem.” The Princess wipes at her cut with one thumb. “All this and you still don’t get what this is about.” She thrusts her arms out to the sides. “I died and I’m still fine. I killed you and you’re still fine. There are no consequences for us here. We can kill each other all we want, and nothing is going to happen.”
No. No, he was right. This one does have something wrong with her, no matter how he wishes he could look past it.
His hand trembles just enough for the blade to slip from it and clatter on the floor. “But I don’t want to kill you,” he says meekly.
“Don’t think of it as killing me.” The Princess takes a couple steps forward, and Smitten scrambles a couple steps back. Their dance as such is cut short by Smitten hitting the back wall of the basement, allowing the Princess to catch up to him and pick up the blade. “It’s not like I’ll stay dead. Now get up.” She tosses the blade at his feet. It lodges, tip-first, in the stone floor.
He’s going to die here a second time. He’s going to die because he couldn’t bring himself to give the Princess what she wanted. That’s not right. He’s supposed to give the Princess what she wants, but what she wants is supposed to be freedom, and—
The Princess’s fist smashes into the wall where Smitten’s head would have been if he hadn’t thrown himself the rest of the way to the ground. As it is, some of his feathers float lazily through the air as a reminder of what might happen to the rest of him if he can’t keep this up.
He tugs the blade out of the ground as the Princess turns for another strike, and stands to face her. He’s going to die again. She’s going to kill him, and he’s going to deserve it. He’s supposed to be giving her what she wants, because she’s always right, but…
The Princess is always right. If she thinks they can’t die, if she thinks that him trying to kill her is fun, well, she probably knows better than him.
He lashes out with the blade, carving a stripe up the Princess’s arm. She swings at him, fist colliding with his shoulder. Something that probably isn’t supposed to go pop goes pop. He strikes back, this time burying his blade in the Princess’s chest, somewhere in the vicinity of her heart.
The Princess steps back, laughing, the sound wetter than it should be. She grasps the handle of the blade and tosses it back.
Smitten catches it. Then he drops it again as his injured arm decides it’s had enough of its current working conditions and falls limp. The Princess pretends not to notice as he reaches down to pick it back up.
“See? Isn’t this so much more fun than talking?” the Princess asks once they’re face-to-face again.
“I suppose,” Smitten says, unable to get another word out as the Princess launches herself towards him.
He lashes out with the blade again and again, barely deflecting each of her attacks with stripes of red carved across her arms. The Princess’s fists connect as often as not—there’s a crunch as she lands a blow on his ribcage, then a snap as his already-injured arm is well and fully put out of commission, then a squelch that was probably some crucial organ.
He’s going to die here. That’s fine. The Princess said it would be fine.
She steps back as though meaning for her next punch to be her last. “Are you sure you’re really trying to kill me?” she taunts. “You’re not just trying to postpone your own death?”
Smitten tries to answer, to say, No, of course not, I would never dare to imagine going against your wishes, but something is very, very broken in the parts of him in charge of speaking, and all he manages to do is inhale blood.
The Princess seems to notice. “I’d say you’ve only got a few seconds left this time around. Why don’t you make them count?” She holds out her arms. “Go on. Stab me—unless your heart isn’t in it.”
My heart… is always… in everything. Smitten raises the blade with his remaining arm, steadying it as much as he can. I hope this makes you happy. He brings it down with as much force as he can muster, right over her heart.
Then he falls, and none of his limbs opt to catch him.
The Princess continues to stand over him, unfazed even by the blade in her heart. Assuming it even made it to her heart.
Her sitting down beside him is the last thing he sees as his vision fades to a sort of reddish black. “Were you even trying to kill me?” she asks, followed by, “No. You were.” There’s a sound like she’s leaning back against the basement wall. “You’re no good at this. Even if you come back with the passion you had at the end, you still won’t be able to kill me.”
He says nothing, of course. He’s not sure he can even fully understand what she’s saying.
“You’re not meant to be here,” she continues. “If you were meant to be here, you’d be meant to fight me. And you’re obviously not meant to fight anyone.” Her hand lands on his neck, fingers pressing into his feathers as though searching for something. A pulse? Does he still have one of those? “Is there someone else out there who’s meant to be here? Is that what this is?”
If she keeps talking after that, Smitten doesn’t hear any of it. Everything goes dark—darker than it already is—and he dies.
He shoots to his feet before he can take stock of the cabin he’s in. Every piece of it lines up with how it looked the last time, anyway—same pale stone walls, same heavy double doors, same blade on the same metal altar. He grabs the blade without even thinking.
He needs to go back downstairs and apologize. He failed to live up to her wishes. Should he try to make it up to her? Give her the fight she deserves? He did make a promise to her. Or maybe he just thought it. Or thought he thought it. The latter half of the last go-around is a bit fuzzy again.
By the time he reaches the bottom of the stairs, he’s made up his mind. He raises the blade and charges towards the Princess—
—And she catches it before he can close the distance, tip of the blade sinking into the palm of her hand. She twists her wrist, and Smitten’s grip breaks before the blade can wrench free.
“Does your brain just stop working after you’ve been beat up enough?” she asks, tugging the blade out of her hand. There’s a visible hole in the back of it where the tip broke through the other side. “I told you, we’re done here. I’m going to find someone whose heart is actually in this.”
Smitten sputters, still in the process of grasping that the blade is no longer in his hand. “My heart is in this! It would be impossible for me to not put my entire heart into anything I endeavor to accomplish!”
“So I didn’t just disarm you before you could land a hit on me?” The Princess glances at the hole in her hand before tugging on the chains once more. They splinter just as easily this time as they did the previous two. “You’re not cut out for this, loverboy. Stick to writing poetry or whatever it is you’re supposed to do.”
“I can fight!” Smitten follows close behind the Princess as she strides up the stairs. She ducks a little to avoid hitting her horns on the doorway. “If you’ll allow me another chance, I can assure you I will not let you down a third time.”
The Princess glances over her shoulder. “You don’t actually want that.”
“I do! If a fight is what you want, I will gladly—”
She tosses the blade to him, and he fumbles the blood-slicked point of it, barely managing to keep his grip. “You’re just saying that because you think it’s what I want to hear. And it is. Just not from someone who’s lying.”
Smitten extracts his hands from the blade, looking around in vain for something to wipe his hands on that isn’t his own cape. He settles for smearing the excess blood across the cabin wall. “I would never lie to you.”
“Oh?” the Princess asks, eyes glinting. “If you’re so honest, then tell me: Was it fun?”
Of course it was fun. The Princess said it was, and it clearly was for her, and anything that makes the Princess happy is good enough for him. Right?
“I’ve… had more enjoyable experiences,” he finally admits.
She nods and turns her attention to wrenching the outer door open. It’s not as heavy-seeming as the ones to the basement, but maybe that’s just because she’s so much larger than him. It’s not as though he ever tried to open it himself. “There’s more of you, right?” she asks.
“Yes. Several.”
“Then there’s someone out there who doesn’t have to lie when he says he gets it.” The Princess steps back from the door. “Let’s go find him already.”
Smitten nods. “Certainly. Say, before we leave, you wouldn’t happen to have a name?”
She looks over her shoulder. “Adversary. You?”
“Smitten. It’s been a pleasure meeting you.”
The Adversary scoffs. “Suits you. Come on.”
They don’t get more than a step into the outside world before freezing again.
Everything is… meat. The cabin sits atop a hill of smooth skin that collapses into fleshy lumps of meat at its base, and the path, instead of packed dirt or smooth stones, looks more like the bones of a spine. In place of trees, clawed fingers reach from the ground, meat bared to the world and webs of translucent meat strung between their knobby bones. Smitten can’t resist glancing at his own hands and noting the similarity.
“So. Meat,” the Adversary begins. “Not normal.”
“No,” Smitten agrees. “Meat is most certainly not normal.”
The Adversary takes a few steps forward, hooves sinking into the meat with an array of smushes and slushes and squishes and sounds that can scarcely be put into writing. Smitten follows suit.
He can feel the meat between his toes. Also sticking to the bottoms of his feet, and wrapping above his feet. It’s very squishy.
There’s little reprieve from the meat. If he tries to pull his attention away from the sensations beneath his feet, there’s the sound to worry about. If he ignores the sound, there’s the smell of blood filling the air. And that’s to say nothing of the sight—the only place he can look without finding meat is the back of the Adversary’s head.
At least his focus on her means he notices when she suddenly stops walking, and he’s saved the embarrassment of crashing into her. He still almost does, losing his footing on the meat for a second before she catches him.
“Is something wrong?” he asks.
She points across the meat. “That’s another one of you, right?”
Smitten follows her arm to the horizon. She’s right. Between a pair of meat hands is a figure wearing a long, black cloak, veil hiding his face at this distance. Next to him is a smaller figure, with a dress and a tail flicking behind her.
He can’t be sure about the second figure, but he certainly recognizes the first.
The two figures pause, clearly having noticed them at the same time. The shorter one turns to the taller as though saying something, but Smitten has no intention of giving them enough time for him to be the one to approach.
He strides across the meat, for once able to ignore every sensory detail of the stuff, and soon comes face-to-face with the worst one of the bunch.
Cold tilts his head to one side. “Oh. You’ve escaped. Good job.”
Leading with sarcasm, is he? Smitten has no intention of allowing him to have his way. He grips the front of Cold’s cloak and shoves him against the nearest meat hand. “I’m more surprised you didn’t leave your Princess rotting in the basement,” he growls. “Are you just toying with her? Does she know what sort of monster you really are?”
The Princess that was with Cold glances between him and Smitten, brow furrowed as though trying to figure out what to say.
“Ha! And here I thought you weren’t a fighter.” The Adversary seems to have no such issues. “Looks like there’s one person you’re supposed to fight.” She steps up behind him with a squelsh—she’s so tall she doesn’t have to strain to get a good look at Cold’s face. “Don’t know if it’s the same way for him, though.”
“Oh, I don’t know.” Cold levels his gaze with Smitten’s, still not bothering to struggle against him. “If he actually followed through on his promises, I might be interested in seeing them play out.”
Smitten tightens his grip. “I am no liar. You would do well to mark what I say—I will drag you into the depths of my misery and leave you there to drown.”
“Been there. Done that.”
The other Princess seems to have finally snapped. “Would one of you shut up and explain what you’re talking about?”
Cold shrugs. “It’s not that interesting.”
“Not that interesting?” Smitten shoves him further into the meat with a wet smeesh. “You murdered my true love in cold blood. And so I took my revenge.”
“Was that really intended to be revenge? I thought it was just an attempt at reuniting with your ‘true love.’ Did you think I would mind being stabbed?”
Has he no limit to his insults? “Perhaps I hoped it would snap you into something capable of sympathy.”
The Princess sighs. “We get it. His brain is broken. Can you cut it out now so we can go somewhere with less meat?”
Fine. In the interest of the Princess being allowed to go somewhere with less meat, Smitten releases his grip on Cold’s cloak. Cold remains suspended on the meat hand for a moment, making no move to extract himself, before he peels off its surface with a long, drawn out squueeemch and lands on his knees with a pair of squishes.
“Sticky,” he observes, then stands (with a pair of ssspops) and turns back to the meat hand. “I wonder—”
“Nope! Not going through this again!” The other Princess grabs Cold by the arms and yanks him away from the meat hand. “Let’s go! We’re leaving!”
The Princess leads the procession, dragging Cold behind her despite his weak protests (“One couldn’t kill me, could it?”). Smitten follows close behind.
“If I may, could you tell me your name?” he asks the Princess. “My own is Smitten, and this—” he indicates the Adversary, who is currently trailing at the back of the pack— “is the Adversary.”
“We’re doing names now?” The Princess wrinkles her nose. “Witch is fine.”
Is she… surprised he’s asking for her name? No, of course she is. Of course Cold would never extend such a courtesy. “I’m guessing he hasn’t bothered to make a proper introduction? Allow me to correct such a grave error. This is—”
“I’m Cold,” says Cold.
The Witch turns to stare at him. “Really? In that cloak?”
“He means it as his name,” Smitten explains. “Though I’m not surprised he didn’t bother to adequately clarify.”
Before any arguments can start up again, the Adversary cuts in. “Do you two know where we’re going?”
The Witch shrugs. “Not really. We were following a river, but then it started to look like blood and he—” she jerks her thumb in Cold’s direction— “started asking me how I thought it’d taste, so I dragged him away from it. Now we’re just heading anywhere that isn’t made of meat. Unless you have a better idea?”
“No. Anywhere that isn’t meat is fine. Besides, now we know there really are other people out there.” Smitten hazards a glance back to see that the Adversary’s face has split into a sharp-toothed grin. “Which means there’s someone out there I can fight.”
The Witch whirls around so sharply Smitten fears she may have given herself whiplash. “What? What’s that supposed to mean?”
Smitten tunes out the remainder of the discussion. He’s already heard it all. He doesn’t need a second reminder.
contrarian and tower would probably be funny bc she's super serious and obsessed with bending us to her will and contrarian's shtick is having fun and choosing to do the complete opposite of whatever he is told to do. the tower wants us to free her really badly too so contrarian would absolutely never do that and it would probably take them forever to escape. also the tower seems extra easy to annoy and contra would Exploit That
Contrarian, compulsive resister of authority vs. Tower, the ultimate authority: FIGHT
It takes a few minutes of waiting to realize that no one is there.
He can’t blame himself for not making the connection, really. Sure, they could easily chat up a storm even when there’s only three of them, but he’s seen moments of silence before. Maybe the big guy was just taking a moment to assess the situation.
But he isn’t, and when Opportunist finally caves and tries to take a look around, his head turns at his own command.
The cabin is a… bit of a fixer-upper, to be sure. Its doorway is sagging into the ground, and the ceiling doesn’t seem to be the most stable, and the door itself is ragged at the edges and looks as though it might swing inward at any moment. It doesn’t even have a latch. That’s to say nothing of the lopsided, gaping windows that let in a breeze from outside, or the gaps between the logs making up its walls that he can tell are there even though he can’t see them all.
Still, it’s not a lost cause or anything. Log cabins are nice! They’re classic! And old homes are all the rage. With a bit of work to seal up the cracks and some glass in the windows and some insurance that the ceiling wouldn’t cave in and a new door and maybe replacing all the creaking floorboards that feel a moment away from snapping beneath his feet, this place could be a perfectly cozy woodland retreat!
He wonders what sort of Princess lives here. Maybe he should go down and talk to her about the real estate potential.
The blade is perched, as it occasionally is, on the edge of a table which wobbles as he lifts the blade from it. That’ll have to be looked at.
He keeps the blade hidden behind his back as he descends the clearly-aging staircase. If it comes to a fight, he’ll be glad to have it, but there’s no reason to put her off before they’ve even had a chance to speak.
The Princess’s voice, loud and low, reaches him before he can see the basement. “I can smell you,” she growls.
Well! She seems like she’s a very straightforward person. He’s sure they’ll be able to cooperate.
The basement itself is unusually dark, the only light coming from a grate in the ceiling. Even that root cavern, without a window at all, didn’t have shadows like these. Despite the darkness, thick plants press in from the sides of the room, providing a touch of life to the otherwise empty space.
Before his eyes can fully adjust to the lack of light, a shape rises in front of the far wall and disappears into the jungle. That must be the Princess!
“Hello,” he calls out before she can say anything. “Lovely place you’ve got down here!” She doesn’t answer, so he presses on. “The name’s—Broken. And you would be?”
She chuckles from somewhere he can’t see. “We have no need for names here, fledgeling. You’ll never survive if you keep stalling.” Her eyes appear between the leaves, glinting in what little light can reach them. The rest of her is still immersed in shadow.
“Oh, come on. I’m just trying to get things off to a friendly start here!” Opportunist squints, trying to pick out her silhouette. “I’m sure we can cooperate, yeah? You want out, right? I can get you out.”
“You’re right. You can.”
The Princess’s form vanishes, and Opportunist leans further into the darkness. His eyes should adjust soon enough, right? She’s clearly able to see just fine.
Then jaws appear, blotting out his vision, and everything goes dark.
…And he doesn’t die.
He wrenches one eye open to see stomach lining pressing in on all sides, every touch of it stinging his skin. How he’s getting enough light to tell this, he isn’t sure, and he’d rather not think about it too hard.
“I told you you wouldn’t survive if you stalled.” He can hear muffled footsteps through the walls of the Princess’s stomach. “You should have listened.”
He turns on instinct, arm rubbing against the wall of her stomach with a sting that can only mean it’s begun to eat through his sleeve. “Come on, now, I was just trying to start a rapport! I was perfectly happy to work with you. Actually, tell you what—you spit me out, and I still can.”
The Princess laughs, the sound echoing around him. “You are working with me. You’re going to let me out of here.”
“I can’t do that while I’m in your stomach, can I?” Maybe he can still talk his way out of this. Surely she has to listen to reason, right?
“No. But I can.” There’s a pause in the Princess’s movement, before it starts again with the sound of clanging metal. She must have broken the chain.
She does want to escape with him. By eating him.
Well. This may be a lost cause, but it always looks better if you go down fighting.
He digs into the inside of the Princess’s stomach with the blade, flesh parting easily even as his own screams in protest. The skin of his hands is raw and red by now, with most of the feathers on his arms absent. He tries not to look at them.
Gravity pulls him away from his work, and he struggles to regain his footing as all sensation from his legs is replaced by a monotone pain. She’s ascending the staircase.
Little by little, her stomach lining parts, and his hands grow weaker. He can almost see the motion of her heartbeat now. This is his chance to go out a hero.
And wake up in a new, weirder cabin, but that’s just another pro.
He almost swears this process feels familiar.
There’s a slam, jolting him as far as he can be jolted in such a confined space. No doubt the Princess is trying to break down the door. Why not just climb through the window? Surely it’s large enough.
Only seconds left, probably. He’ll have to make this count.
He plunges the blade into the Princess’s heart as sensation cuts out.
He wakes up in a cabin. Time clearly hasn’t treated it as well as it deserves—the ceiling and floor are both sagging, and the door doesn’t look like it latches. The windows are completely devoid of glass, and the logs making up its walls—
This is the same cabin. What’s up with that?
Oh well. A second chance is a second chance, and he’s not about to argue against whatever forces decided he deserved one.
He scoops the blade from the table on his way down. After meeting that Princess, he definitely wants a backup plan if negotiations go sour a second time.
“Back for more?” the Princess taunts, already invisible in the jungle. Her voice sounds as though it’s coming from deep in the basement.
“Now, I want you to know I hold absolutely no grudges.” He holds up his empty hand. “I’m more than willing to work with you. You don’t have to worry about fighting me.”
The Princess’s eyes appear between the leaves. “Why would I need to work with you? I already know how to leave.”
This is going to take more than a little convincing. “Yes, but wouldn’t it be easier if we came to some sort of mutual understanding? I’m willing to do whatever it takes to get you out of here.”
Her eyes flash. “Then hold still.”
No, he doesn’t think he will.
He dives out of the way as something immense hurtles past him, landing heavily behind him—or, behind most of him.
One of his legs crunches as some load-bearing part of the Princess comes down upon it, sending him to the floor. He doesn’t even get the chance to look up before he’s enveloped by her maw again.
“I can just dig my way out again, you know,” he calls to the Princess. “It’s not too late for us to reach a peaceful resolution!”
She chuckles. “It was always too late for that, fledgeling. If you want to dig your way out, then start digging.”
Hard to please, isn’t she? Ah well. He’ll just have to try again with whatever comes after this.
He doesn’t hesitate to dig with the blade, this time knowing exactly where to find the Princess’s heart. It’s exposed almost before sensation begins to drain from his hands.
“Just thought I’d let you know, this is your last chance!” he calls. The only response from the Princess is the jostle of her passing the threshold of the stairs.
Oh well. Third time’s the charm.
He plunges the blade into the Princess’s heart, and everything goes dark.
He wakes up in a cabin. The roof and floor are constructed from aging wooden planks, and the walls are formed from logs, framing a set of empty windows and a door that hangs loosely on its hinges. The corners of the room have dirt building up in them.
It’s the same cabin. He’s getting a third chance? Someone up there must really like him.
The routine continues with him picking up the blade as he steps over the threshold. Can’t have her eating him without an escape route at hand, not that he intends to be eaten a third time.
She is waiting, of course, the outline of her head just visible over the top of a bush.
“If you eat me again, it’s only going to go the same way,” he says.
The Princess’s silhouette vanishes only to reappear a moment later in a slightly different patch of jungle. She’s nearing the stairs, no doubt trying to cut off his escape. “I can accept that. Can you?”
What? “I’d like to think I’m the sort of person who follows through on his promises. And this is a promise.”
“So you kill me. And we wake up again. And then I eat you again, and you kill me again. And we wake up again.” The Princess vanishes again. “How many times will it take for you to give up on the cycle?”
“I think—” Opportunist begins, but the sound of pounding feet cuts him off and he dives out of the way, just in time for the Princess to catch nothing more than his shoulder. A set of gashes cut through his sleeve, bleeding red. She has claws, and they’re long.
His sunglasses clatter to the floor.
He turns to see the Princess—or what little of her form he can make out in the gloom—looming over him, directly next to the staircase.
“I can last a while,” he says, tightening his grip on the blade. There’s not much sense in keeping it behind his back now that she clearly knows he has it. “I’m pretty patient.”
“Pretty patient?” The Princess rises, looming over him. “If you are pretty patient, I am very patient. Incredibly patient. More patient than you can comprehend. Swallowing you three times is nothing. Ten times will be nothing. When we are down here for the fiftieth time, will you still have the will to stand against me?”
Opportunist blinks. The Princess is gone by the time his eyes reopen.
Then her claws—and he can see them this time, and they are very impressive—bear down on him, rending his blade arm open, and her jaws unfold into a cavern that swallows him whole. Again.
He swims around in her stomach, trying to ignore how he can feel the precise edge of every wound she inflicted on him. Maybe the blade is still here. He still has one working arm. He can still fight back.
The Princess shifts, motion once again catching before the chain breaks. It must have been repaired every time things reset. That’s good to know. Maybe he can use it on the fourth go-around.
She begins her journey up the stairs. The blade is nowhere to be found.
Time to bluff. He’s great at bluffing. “Better spit me out if you don’t want a repeat of the first two times!” he sings. The Princess doesn’t even slow down.
“You cannot tell me what happens and expect me to believe you, fledgeling,” she says. “Prove it or be proven a liar.”
…Rude. But fine. He can at least try his best.
He digs into the stomach lining with his sizzling hand, trying not to pay attention to how it bites at his fingertips and catches under his claws with every scratch he inflicts. Without the blade, it’s much slower going, and he’s jolted away from his work by the Princess slamming herself against the door before he can even inflict a respectable wound.
“It still won’t open,” she growls. “Let me out, fledgeling.”
No way. Not on her terms. “Only if you give me a trade. Spit me out, and we’ll leave. Deal?” It’s getting harder and harder to tell if he’s breathing deeply enough.
The Princess pauses for a moment. Coiling to batter down the door? Or considering his bargain?
“No.”
Everything goes red, then it goes dark, and then he dies.
He wakes up in a cabin, greeted with the by-now familiar sight of wooden planks doing their level best to hold themselves together when time failed them. It is chilly in here.
The Princess isn’t interested in negotiating while he’s in her stomach. Which means the only way to negotiate is to remain outside her stomach for long enough to do so.
He needs to channel that one flighty voice. Until he finds a way to win over the Princess, his motto is now WWHD: What Would Hunted Do?
He can almost hear his voice… just needs to get into the proper mindset and manifest him…
“Dodge her.”
Yeah, that sounds about right. Great advice, imaginary Hunted.
The Princess is waiting in the gloom when he arrives at the basement, her shape still just as hard to make out as it was the first time. “Are you ready to give up?” she asks.
“You know, I was really hoping you’d think more highly of me than that,” Opportunist says, straining to pick out any motion. If he can tell when she’s about to strike, then he can keep dodging, and talking, and eventually he’ll have to wear her down.
There. She’s disappeared from sight. That means she’s about to—
He leaps out of the way and rolls across the dirt floor as the Princess hurtles past him, bracing for the sting of her claws catching his arm or the snap of her weight hitting his leg. It… doesn’t come. The only pain is a slight scrape in his knee from where he landed.
He’s getting better at this!
The Princess coils by the staircase, cutting off his exit. That’s all right. He doesn’t need a way out when he can talk. “I know you think you can wait, but do you really want to?” he asks. “We could leave right now if we could just come to a mutually-agreeable conclusion.”
“I’ve waited for longer than you can imagine, fledgeling.” Her teeth glint in the darkness, the only features visible besides her eyes. “You cannot threaten me with time in a way that matters.”
He watches her. She does not move. “I’m not threatening you,” he begins. “Quite the opposite, in fact! I’m offering you the chance to cut out the long, arduous process of killing me over and over again until I give… up…”
Some time in the middle of his speech, she’s vanished. Any moment now, she’ll strike, and he’ll have to—
The air comes crashing down on him as he scrambles away, as do a set of needles digging into his back before the pressure is relieved. She’s mauled him. Badly. He needs to get away and regroup, before she can swallow him whole—
His legs fail to respond to his commands, and he hazards a glance behind him.
The edge of his jacket is frayed, blood and viscera seeping through it to the point that he can’t tell where it ends and the nothing begins. A shining trail leads from where the end of his spine should be, before it rises up into the Princess’s jaws.
Oh.
His intestines fall from the Princess’s mouth with a plap, leaving only a disappointed expression and a bloodstain on her face. She stares down at him in silence, viscera dripping from her chin.
Now would be a great time to say something, probably.
He doesn’t.
He wakes up in a cabin whose wooden ceiling looks about ready to give in. The logs framing the empty windows sag in defeat, and the floor is covered in a thin layer of soil. It was mostly-clean planks the first time around, wasn’t it?
It’s odd, but the cabin almost seems… tired. He can’t imagine why, given he isn’t.
When he reaches the bottom of the stairs, the Princess is nowhere to be seen. “Hello?” he calls out, scanning the room for her form. “Nice chat we had last time! I’d like to continue it.”
She doesn’t make a sound save for the rustling of her darting through a patch of underbrush. He knows where she is, now, or at least where she was.
“Again, I’m not trying to coerce you into anything.” Where is she? “I just want you to know that you have more options than you think. We want the same thing, you know.”
The feathers on the back of Opportunist’s neck prickle, and he whirls around. Nothing.
The Princess’s voice comes from behind him. “You cannot reason with me, fledgeling. I am so much more than you will ever be.”
She’s going to pounce. He has to move.
Air collides with him as he leaps away, Princess landing precisely where he stood a moment ago. Her chain clatters on the ground as she vanishes again.
That’s one.
“Yes, well, no man is an island.” It doesn’t sound like she’s moving. “And besides, more than me or not, you still can’t escape on your own. Which means, hate to break it to you, but I do have the bargaining chip here.”
The air shifts, and Opportunist finds himself diving on instinct, the Princess soaring past him. That’s two. That’s the first time he’s managed two. Thank you, imaginary Hunted.
He turns, trying to figure out where the Princess has disappeared to this time. “Just say the word, and I’ll march the two of us right up to that door and let you out,” he calls. “This can all end any time you want it to.”
Something in him screams to move, and move he does, but fangs clash on his arm all the same. It’s his blade arm. She’s taken his only weapon.
He scrambles backwards, gripping the stump of his former arm as though it will do anything to stop the bleeding. The Princess looms over him, in full view for the first time.
Her face is somewhere between human and animal, crown replaced with a horn in the center of her forehead, two buds flanking it as though about to emerge into its reflections. Her ears are pointed, and her hair—more like a mane now, really—hangs from her long neck.
Opportunist traces his eyes further down as he continues to crawl away from her. Despite her beastlike form, she’s still wearing a dress, formed from a strip of fabric that wraps around her torso. Her back half disappears into the shadows, the tip of a long tail emerging back into view.
She’s huge.
“I still haven’t given up,” he says as the Princess stretches open her jaw. “I want you to know that before you eat me.”
If she cares about that, she gives no sign before swallowing him whole. Again.
He wakes up in a cabin, ceiling and walls decaying into dirt. Shoots of new plant growth emerge from the floor, and the door looks to have been torn in half, already swinging into the basement.
…Maybe it’s past the point of no return now.
This Princess is far too stubborn to let him free based on talking alone. He needs to do something. Fight her, maybe. But how is he supposed to do that on his own? Her head is as big as his entire… him!
He needs to make a tactical retreat. See if there’s anyone else out there who can act as backup. Imaginary Hunted was helpful. Real Hunted would probably be enough to give him some force behind his words.
The door to the outside is still intact, and fits much more nicely in its frame than the other door, even before it was ripped apart. A quick try of the handle reveals it to be locked.
That’s fine. There’s more than one way out of a cabin.
Despite the clear collapse of the windows, the one on the left still looks plenty large to climb through. He’ll just slip out, fetch the first person he sees, and pop back into the cabin to finish what he star—
A force bars him from stepping more than halfway through the opening. He stands back, checks on the state of the window (folding in on itself, full of dirt) just in case it’s smaller than he thought (it isn’t), and tries again.
Again something stops him. The window may be little more than a hole in the wall letting in air, but he can run his hand across some sort of force. It won’t let him out.
No backup, then. That’s fine. He didn’t really need any help, it was just… it would have been helpful! Help is always helpful.
The only way out is down, back to the Princess. Does he need her to escape just as much as she needs him?
If he does, he’d best not let it slip. Let her think he still has the unambiguous upper hand.
She’s absent from view when he reaches the basement again. He swears the space is getting bigger and more exposed each time he comes down here, but she doesn’t seem to have any issues spotting him.
It’s fine. He’ll wait until he can pinpoint her location—which is to say, he’ll wait until she attacks him again—and then strike. Show her he’s more than just words.
And after that… he’ll think on his feet.
Shapes flicker at the edges of his vision. They’re probably tricks of the light—or lack thereof—but it doesn’t keep him from turning to look at them, trying to catch the Princess before she can catch him. They vanish every time.
There. A shift in the air. The Princess is about to attack. He needs to get out of the way, to keep himself intact. He needs to stay alive long enough to prove he’s not worth preying on.
He needs to show he can bite back.
As the Princess launches herself towards him, he ducks, slashing out with the blade. It connects with something, though he can’t tell what, and she connects with him in return, leaving a gash in one shoulder.
There’s blood on the edge of his blade. He actually did something!
The silhouette of the Princess looms over him, silent. He can’t see where he managed to wound her before she disappears back into the gloom.
“I don’t want to threaten you, but there’s more where that came from if you keep trying to eat me,” he calls out to the Princess. Still no response. Hopefully she hasn’t given up on taunting him. If she’s still talking, there’s at least a chance he can establish some sort of rapport, but with this silence…
Again the air shifts, and again he strikes as the Princess comes crashing down on him. There’s a sting in his other shoulder, and a spray of loose feathers—some black, some white. Probably all his, unless the Princess is hiding something he can’t guess at.
It’s only been a couple minutes, but already his energy is failing him. Is it the blood loss? He hasn’t been that badly injured. It can’t be the loops catching up to him, can it? His wounds reset every time, so he shouldn’t be exhausted just because he’s done a little dying.
The Princess doesn’t give him enough time to figure any of that out. She lunges again, and Opportunist can only feel his blade lodge into something hard and rip from his hand before there’s a crunch all around him, and everything goes dark, and he dies.
Again.
He wakes up in a cabin, if it can still be called a cabin after all the deterioration it’s gone through. The log walls, if they’re even under there anymore, are covered in dirt, and plants fill the edges of the space. The table that should be there is gone, replaced with a stump with the blade lodged into it.
Maybe he is tired. It’s been, how many go-arounds? Five? Six? That’s a lot, and even he has to admit he can’t keep this up forever. The Princess had more of a point than he’d like to admit.
Fighting her was a good idea. But it won’t get the Princess to cooperate with him, not unless he gets a lot better at fighting in the next few loops. And even if he technically might have infinite chances, does he really want to take that long?
He needs to end this, and he needs to do so before he can die a single time more. Which means he needs to be a little clever about things.
No more talking. No more fighting. He’s just going to draw her out and trick her into breaking down the door before she can get her claws on him.
He’s still taking the blade, though. If things go bad—they won’t, but if they go bad—he needs his second option.
The stairs are no longer stairs, but a sloped tunnel that narrows as it descends into the earth. How long have they been deteriorating? Did he just never notice them changing, or is this entirely new?
Doesn’t matter. What matters is winning.
When he steps out into the expanse of the basement, the Princess is nowhere to be seen. Neither are the plants that should be filling the space, or even the grate in the ceiling—just a featureless gloom. When did those vanish?
He’s completely exposed, and she could be anywhere. He’ll have to be quick.
“Yoo-hoo!” he calls out, voice echoing faintly throughout the space. The Princess shows no response. “I think I’m ready for you to eat me now! Just, I’d like for there to be one little caveat—”
The sound of thundering footsteps comes from somewhere deep within the basement, and Opportunist turns and breaks into a run, sparing only enough breath to finish speaking: “You’ll have to catch me first!”
He can feel the Princess gaining on him, floor shaking with every time her feet hit the ground. But she’s clearly massive, and while the tunnel may be wide enough to allow him through with little trouble, she should be slowed down enough for him to get into position.
The entire tunnel shudders as the Princess slams her shoulders against its opening, and Opportunist nearly loses his footing. The cabin is nearly there. A little further and he’ll be—
He bursts into the cabin proper and stands in front of the door, ready to leap away as soon as the Princess emerges. Any second now.
Any second now…
Any second now…
She isn’t leaving. Is this some sort of trick? It has to be a trick, right?
“I’m right at the top of the tunnel!” he shouts down after the Princess. “Come and get me, unless you’ve given up?”
There’s still no response. He hazards a peek down the tunnel.
The Princess was, in fact, caught up by the tunnel’s small size. So much so that only her face is visible, framed by a few clawed hands and some part of a wing, all wedged into a space much too small for her.
She stares up at him, wriggling as though trying to advance—no. She’s pushing in on herself. She means to make her way backwards out of the tunnel, but it’s too narrow even for that.
Her face is hardly human anymore, and her hands certainly aren’t. A trio of antlers rise from her head, blood fresh on two of them. It looks… painful.
It’s a trick. It has to be. If he comes closer, she’ll eat him and…
She can’t get out on her own, even if she were to swallow him whole. And neither can he.
He takes a few steps forward. The Princess tries to squirm away. She can’t.
He raises the blade and brings it down on the dirt of the tunnel wall.
The Princess watches as he carves away at the soil, leaning away to allow him access to each wall of the tunnel. Dirt rains down on her, covering her stray feathers, but she doesn’t make so much as a move to attack him.
Having loosened a ring of soil around the Princess, Opportunist steps back.
She creeps forward, straining against the tunnel. One of her arms breaks free and claws at the dirt he’s yet to address, raking away the walls.
Little by little, the tunnel is chipped away, and little by little, the Princess advances until her head and shoulders have emerged into the cabin. Opportunist barely has enough room to stand between her and the door.
The Princess rears up as much as she can in the relatively cramped space, and Opportunist dives out of the way before her full weight lands on the door.
Soil collapses onto both of them, Opportunist losing sight entirely as it covers his head. This is it, then? He’s going to die inches from freedom because of a landslide?
Something grabs him from his shoulders and hoists him out of the earth. He twists his head upwards to see the Princess, fangs around him. So that’s it. He’s going to die inches from freedom because she’s going to eat him.
The Princess gently lowers her head, setting him on the ground before releasing her jaws.
She’s not going to eat him. Is it because she already has what she wants?
The woods around them resembles a thick jungle, undergrowth barely making way for the path and tall trees rising overhead. Behind them is the fallout of a massive landslide, a tree jutting out sideways from the heap of loose earth.
He stares up at the Princess. She’s… massive. She wasn’t that big when he first saw her. That much he’s certain of.
The Princess stares back down at him.
Then she bounds off into the woods, tail flicking behind her. Her form vanishes within moments.
At least she isn’t eating him.
“Nice meeting you!” he calls after her. “Talk again sometime?”
There is no response. Oh well. You can’t win over them all.
Most of the cabins Cold has seen were in ruins, or close to it, in all appearances having stood unoccupied for years. This one is… not.
It almost looks as though it grew into its shape, its walls a tangle of roots outlining windows and doorways. The roots disappear into the packed-earth floor and coil around a muddy shelf where the blade, as it occasionally does, is perched. The door forwards looks ill-fitting in its frame, and the hinges and handle almost look like they’re formed from some sort of cord.
This is new. Which means there’s probably something new to do here.
How fortunate.
He takes a moment to consider the blade. That heroic one always used to say it gave them more options, didn’t he?
He’s not here this time. Neither is the Narrator, come to think of it. And Cold is in his own body instead of watching through that other one’s eyes. That’s new, too.
May as well take the blade. It’s always worth it if it gives him more new things to try.
The stairs down are as much of a tangle of roots as the rest of the cabin. It’s not surprising, though it is unfortunate. If he were going to be dropped into a new cabin, couldn’t it have been one with more to see?
“Something nasty finds itself on my stairs,” the voice of the Princess calls from somewhere below, and Cold freezes.
This… is new. All the other Princesses he’s met didn’t deign to start talking until he was face-to-face with them.
“Why don’t you come down so I can take a look at you?” the Princess asks. “I promise I won’t bite.”
Is he supposed to say something here? He supposes it doesn’t really matter. If this cabin is like the others—and it will be, eventually—he’ll get a chance to try again. And again, and again, and again.
“No talking, then?” she continues. “Fine. I don’t need to hear your voice to know who you are. Come on, let’s… chat.”
Let’s.
Cold descends the final few steps into a cavern of roots. Of course. The Princess crouches at the other end of the basement, one hand tucked behind her back.
She’s more corporeal than most of the Princesses he’s met. Her hair is unruly, with a few loose sticks stuck in it, and a crown of twigs sits atop her head. Her ears are pointy, and a long tail curls behind her, a tuft of fur at its tip.
This is new. Almost interesting, even. Certainly she’s nothing like the Princesses he’s met before, at least in appearances.
She eyes him. “Are you going to say anything, or are you just going to stand there holding that blade of yours?”
That’s right, he’s supposed to talk now, isn’t he? Can’t rely on that other one to do the talking for him? That’s new. And not necessarily in a good way.
“I’d rather not stand here forever, no,” he says. That’s probably a good start to a conversation, right?
The Princess tosses her head. “Good! Neither would I.”
And now they’re at a standstill again. He’s listened in on a little conversation in his previous experiences, hasn’t he? He ought to be able to have a little back-and-forth with her, right?
“Why shouldn’t I kill you right now?” he asks. This is almost frustrating. How did that other one keep this sort of thing up?
The Princess’s face splits into a grin. “Dropping the facade, are we? How about this: You don’t kill me, and you won’t find out what happens if you try.”
That is hardly a fair trade. “And what if I want to find out?”
“Then try me.” The Princess leans forward, teeth bared in an expression that only somewhat still resembles a smile.
Well. If she wants him to “try her,” he’ll just have to oblige.
He’s halfway across the room before the Princess even seems to realize he’s begun to move, knife grazing her shoulder as she ducks out of the way. As he turns to finish the job, a handful of dirt sprays upwards from the floor of the cabin, spattering his veil with dust.
In the moment it takes for him to shake the occluding particles away, there’s a clatter of chains, and once he can properly see again, it becomes clear that the shackle which ought to have been around the Princess’s wrist is now lying, empty and undamaged, on the ground.
Claws dig into his back from behind, pricking him through his cloak as the Princess attempts to drag him to the ground. He obliges, digging his elbow into her form as he lands on top of her. She wriggles her way out and makes a move to reverse their positions, and he slashes wildly with the blade, noting the moment it hits some sort of resistance and the Princess hisses in pain.
Then her hands have reached around to claw at his face, and he stabs at her wrists whenever his arm is free to do so, and the two of them tumble across the cabin floor, leaving a trail of blood (mostly hers, some his) and feathers (entirely his, unless she’s hiding something) behind them.
This is new. He’s never had the chance for a fight like this one before. Whenever it came down to violence, the Princess had always sorely outmatched him. This is better.
It’s going to get boring soon if this is all she can muster, though. At least he’ll probably die eventually and get to see something else.
The Princess tears herself away from him, crouching at one end of the cabin. The wounds on her look shallower than Cold would have thought. She’s good, if not good enough to actually kill him.
She’s laughing. Why is she laughing?
A creaking begins to emerge from the walls of the cabin, and Cold glances behind him to see that the roots have begun to move, growing inwards to seal off the exit. This is new. Is it the Princess’s doing? Is that what she finds so hilarious?
“Do you hear that?” the Princess spits between cackles. “Those are the roots of the wild, and they’re not going to stop until there’s nothing left in this cabin but them.” She folds her arms as the roots begin to grow into the space between the two of them. “Well? Cat got your tongue? No last regrets to voice before you’re crushed into oblivion?”
Cold blinks. “Why would I have any regrets?”
“Wh—” the Princess stutters. “We’re about to be crushed to death! Don’t you regret trying to kill me now?”
“Not particularly.” A root nudges Cold’s leg, and he obligingly steps out of the way and leans against the wall behind him. May as well make sure he has a comfortable seat to watch the show. “To tell the truth, I’m actually quite intrigued.”
The Princess only sputters as the roots close in further, lifting the two of them off the ground. A shame. He was just starting to get the hang of this “banter” thing.
At first it’s actually quite cozy to be nestled between the roots, even as they force his limbs into place. The Princess stares through it all, mouth agape.
Then the pressure reaches a more respectable level. There’s a pop in one of Cold’s shoulders and a snap around his ankle, spikes of pain shooting out from both locations. The Princess’s limbs, too, are twisted away from her, bones creaking under the strain. She’s going to die the same as him. Was that her gambit all along? Kill them both and hope for a good show when he realized he was going to be crushed to death?
Pity. For her, not him. Being crushed should be interesting enough on its own without anyone trying to make a speech.
Roots push inwards on his ribcage and begin the work of turning his hands and feet into a pulp, pain melting outwards from each pulverized digit. The form of the Princess is slowly warped away from a human shape, red bleeding through every visible inch of her skin.
There’s a root beginning to press up against Cold’s forehead. That’s unfortunate. If it moves too much further, it’ll crush his skull, and then the whole affair will be cut short.
Even so, he shouldn’t complain. This is plenty new, and whatever comes after it is sure to be just as fascinating.
By now the pain is impossible to source, pressing in from every extant part of his body. The Princess’s jaw is no longer open, nor could it be, from the roots pressing in on her skull. Cold’s vision begins to swim red.
I wonder how much longer I’ll get to stay here before—
His train of thought is cut off with a pop. Everything goes dark, and he dies.
He awakens in a cabin. The ceiling, his first visual contact, is a tangle of roots. As he sits up and scans his surroundings, it becomes clear that the walls, too, are a tangle of roots. The floor isn’t, but the roots from the walls still burrow into its packed dirt surface.
It’s the same cabin as before.
This is new. And not in a good way. There’s only so much to do in a single cabin, and Cold’s certain he’s already experienced the most interesting of it. Maybe he ought to conserve his choices to make them last as long as possible, if he’s going to be stuck here forever.
Or he could try to leave. He’d never done that when he was with that other one. It could be interesting. It’d certainly be new.
The door to the outside holds fast when he tries the handle. Some experimentation reveals that its hinges, while not the flimsy cords of the basement door, aren’t fully stable, but they’re still stronger than anything Cold can muster up. It’s locked. So that’s why he never left.
The windows are open, though, and easily wide enough to slip through. Cold lifts the blade from the table and slips it into his sleeve in a single, fluid motion, then sticks his head through the window.
Or, he would have stuck his head through the window, if the window hadn’t decided to stop him.
He taps the window with his beak again, then harder when it refuses to budge. Then he slams his forehead against whatever force is keeping him inside, and only receives a headache for his troubles.
Whatever it is, it’s smooth, and barely feels like a thing at all even when he runs his hand along it. And whatever it is, he’s not getting through without a fight.
He grips the blade tightly in his hand and brings it down on the whatever it is.
His arm bounces back violently, pain blossoming through the side of his hand. It’s as though the whatever it is is perfectly content to allow the blade through, but exerts special restrictions on him.
How nice. He’s special.
Whatever’s going on, he isn’t leaving this cabin until it lets him. A classic game of the Narrator’s, one that only ends when the Princess says it does.
He’ll just have to go back down the stairs and see what buttons she has left to press.
The stairs are exactly as they were the first time around, not a remnant of the moving roots to be seen. Has the Princess reset as well? She must have, if the world remains intact.
“Back for more?” her voice taunts before he’s halfway down the staircase. “The first time wasn’t enough to send you running home?”
He finishes his descent in silence and once more locks eyes with the Princess. She’s back where she stood the first time around, hand once more tucked behind her back.
“Still have that blade, I see. So you haven’t learned your lesson?”
Cold shrugs. “I haven’t decided what I’m going to do this time.”
She raises her chained wrist from behind her back. “Then let me spell out your options for you. One: You attack me again, and we have a repeat of our little dance. And two:” She lets the chain fall from her arm. “You decide to play nice, and maybe things will be a little less painful for you.”
A little less painful? Not necessarily a reason to cooperate, but being crushed to death probably wouldn’t be as interesting after a few go-arounds. “And what if I do neither? What if I go back upstairs and leave you behind? What happens then?”
“Why don’t you try and see what happens?” the Princess asks with a grin.
All right, then. He’ll try it and see what happens.
He’s just turned to put his foot on the first step when the voice of the Princess comes from behind him. “Wait, you’re not actually going to leave? Even after what happened last time?”
Cold glances over his shoulder. “You said to try and see what happens. I want to see what happens.”
The Princess grits her teeth and sighs. “I was going to crush you again, all right? I would have had the roots of the cabin upstairs crush you just like the ones down here. Curiosity sated?”
…He retreats from the staircase. “Yes. Curiosity sated.”
The two return to their positions at opposite ends of the room. “Well? Are you ready to help me now?” she asks.
This part isn’t anything new. The Princess can’t leave without him. It is new that she’s flesh and blood, though. She can’t use his body as her key out of the cabin, not as though the door would open for him, either. Do they simply need to both be at the door outside?
And what would she say if she learned that they were both trapped? Now that would be interesting.
“All right,” he says. “What exactly did you have in mind?”
The Princess creeps forward, shackle abandoned on the floor behind her. “You’re going to march right up that staircase, and I’m going to be behind you watching your every move. Then you’ll open the door for me, and the two of us will never have to see each other again. Deal?”
Sure. Why not. “Deal.”
He starts up the stairs, and the Princess follows close behind. The roots don’t move from their positions forming the walls of the tunnel back to the cabin—perhaps the two of them really will leave, and Cold will get to see what the Princess thinks of their predicament.
Then clawed fingers dig into his back, and he finds himself falling, colliding with the stairs and with the walls until he and the Princess are both sprawled out along the basement floor.
He doesn’t bother trying to sit up. “What was that all about?”
“What was that about?” the Princess spits. “I was doing what I had to to make sure you didn’t turn that blade on me halfway up. Don’t tell me the thought didn’t cross your mind.”
It hadn’t. “I could have done that? I didn’t know I could do that.”
The Princess sputters, then there’s the sound of movement from where she landed, cut short by a gasp of pain. Cold attempts to lift himself to take a look, only for his limbs to fail to respond as a spark of pain shoots down his spine.
He’s been immobilized. This is new.
“Well. I guess we’re both going to die here,” the Princess says from somewhere Cold can’t see. “Again.”
“It’s not the same as last time,” Cold argues. “Last time we were crushed to death. This time we have broken spines. It’ll be a lot slower. We’ll probably starve… or is it thirst that happens more quickly?” That tiny one ought to know, what with his obsession over preventing any harm to their physical body. He’ll ask the next time he sees him, if he remembers any of this by then.
If he ever gets out of this cabin.
The Princess huffs. “Stop talking about how long it’ll take to die. I’d like to waste away in peace.”
That’s fine. He didn’t have much more to say, anyway. Maybe he’ll try stabbing her in the back the next time around, just to see what it feels like.
He awakens in a cabin. The ceiling, as before, is a tangle of roots, and so are the walls. The blade is back in its position on the dirt shelf.
When he stands, there’s a faint ache in his back, but it fades quickly enough. No doubt the Princess is in a similar situation.
He takes the blade without a second thought. Maybe he should stab her in the back this time. It could be fun. It’d definitely be new. But then she’d probably fall on top of him, and the two of them would end up lying on the floor of the cabin with broken backs again, and how many times can that sort of thing happen before it gets boring?
There is something else he’s never had the chance to try. Wasn’t there that one voice who swore up and down it was one of the most entertaining things one could try in these cabins?
Cold raises his arm and flings the blade out the window. It disappears beyond the hilltop before he can see it land.
Well. “Entertaining” may not be the word. It was worth trying, at the very least. Something new. And now the blade is gone, so the only thing left worth trying is heading back into the basement.
The Princess doesn’t utter a word until he’s face-to-face with her, this time. Her arms are folded, chain already lying on the ground beside her. “Well? Back for more?”
“You were the one who killed us last time,” Cold points out.
“And?” The Princess sticks her nose up. “I was acting in self-defense. You had a blade. What else was I supposed to expect?”
It is so, so unfair that Cold had to find out he could have stabbed her in the back after he’d already experienced a broken spine. “And now I don’t. Let’s try this again, shall we?”
The Princess approaches him, tail low. “After you, then.”
“I’d rather not.” He won’t see anything new if he lets her attack him from behind again. “After you.”
“What, don’t trust me?” She leans towards him, lips curled in something approaching a smile. Her canines are particularly long. “Little old me who would never drag the two of us to the bottom of a staircase leaving us both with broken backs?”
Cold looks down at her. “You just did that.”
She shrugs. “I had to try. Can you really blame me after you attacked me out of the blue?”
“It wasn’t out of the blue,” Cold says. “You told me to.”
The Princess’s face freezes for a moment as though she’s replaying their first meeting in her head. “That… was a threat,” she begins, voice shaking. “I was threatening you.”
“I know.”
It takes a moment for the Princess to manage anything except working her jaw in an imitation of words. “Th-there’s something wrong with your brain! You’re not normal!”
“You wouldn’t be the first person to say something along those lines.” Cold shrugs. “Are we leaving or not?”
The Princess grimaces. “I suppose. After you.”
“I already said I’d rather not. After you.”
She shrugs. “Can’t fault me for trying. Fine. After me. But I’ll need some insurance first.” She holds out her hand. “Why don’t you hand over that blade of yours? I know you’ve got it hidden away somewhere.”
Oh. That will pose a problem.
“I don’t have it,” Cold begins.
“And you expect me to believe you just left it upstairs?” The Princess folds her arms. “Nice try. Give it.”
“I don’t have it,” Cold continues, “because I threw it out the window.”
Again the Princess is struck silent for a moment. “Do you expect me to believe that?” she snaps, far too late to have nearly enough impact. “Where is it, really?”
As though he would know. “Somewhere in the woods outside. I didn’t see where it landed.”
“You’re really sticking to this story?” the Princess asks. “Fine. Give me that cloak, then, so I know you’re not hiding anything.”
Hand over his cloak? He supposes that’s a logical thing to ask. If he isn’t wearing his cloak and she can see his hands, then she’ll have assurance that he isn’t hiding the blade anywhere, regardless of whether she believes he threw it out the window. There’s no reason he shouldn’t acquiesce.
But… he doesn’t want to. Why doesn’t he want to?
The Princess continues to stare at him, tapping her foot. It almost looks more like an animal’s paw than a human foot, sharp claws glinting in what little light reaches the basement. That’s new, right? The others weren’t like that, right? When they had visible feet at all, that is.
She’s not going to budge until she’s gotten ahold of his cloak, is she.
Cold sighs and shrugs off his cloak. “Give it back when you’re done with it,” he says as he tosses it to the Princess. It’s a completely unnecessary request. He’s a bird. He doesn’t need additional clothes on top of his feathers.
The Princess snatches the cloak from the air and immediately begins rifling through it. Cold blinks as a couple feathers dislodge themselves in her search. “How does this thing even work?” she asks, stretching the hood far beyond what it was meant to accommodate. “Are there any pockets in here or what? And where are the sleeves?”
“The pockets are on the inside. And you could find the sleeves if you were looking at the shoulders.” Cold digs his toes into the dirt of the basement while the Princess continues to tear apart his cloak.
Eventually, the Princess seems to have decided the only way to comprehend the garment is to attempt to wear it, and tosses it over her shoulders, wrestling with the fabric for a moment before one of her arms actually manages to pop out through a sleeve with the sound of tearing cloth.
Something snaps, and Cold can’t tell whether it’s figuratively or literally. He strides across the basement, Princess too occupied with navigating his cloak to notice him until they’re face-to-face. By the time she does react, it’s too late for her to stop him.
He grabs her free wrist—which is currently punching the inside of his cloak—and wrestles it into the opening of the empty sleeve before letting go.
The Princess growls and pulls away, but slips her arm through the rest of the sleeve. “I didn’t say you could touch me.”
“I didn’t say you could destroy my clothing. We’re even.”
She huffs, but she’s clearly more focused on locating the empty pockets than arguing. “It’s your fault for not wearing something that makes more sense. How does this even work?”
“I don’t have to explain that.” Cold watches as the Princess turns. The cloak is clearly too long for her, hem dragging in the dust—though, there’s not too much of a reason to care about that, right? It would have gotten dirty either way. They’re in a dirt hole. “Can I have it back now?”
“You weren’t lying about leaving the blade behind,” the Princess begins, hands still in the pockets of Cold’s cloak.
How much longer is she going to stall? “I told you. I threw it out the window. Are you going to give that back now?”
The Princess arranges her face into a thoughtful expression. “I suppose…” She breaks into a grin. “No. After me.” Before Cold can react, she’s already slipped past him and begun ascending the stairs.
He’s never been mugged before. That’s new.
He starts up the stairs, Princess easily keeping her distance. It’s fine. Soon, they’ll both be in the cabin proper, which means they’ll both be trapped in the cabin proper, which means the Princess won’t be able to keep running and he’ll be able to take his cloak back and assess the damage.
Why does he even care so much about this? It’s only an article of clothing, which as established he does not need.
The Princess reaches the top of the stairway and turns back to him. “Thanks for the cloak,” she says as she slams the door.
A lock clicks, somehow. There wasn’t even a lock on the outside of the door.
This, unfortunately, is not new. Why does he always seem to be the only person who isn’t allowed to lock a door?
He can hear the Princess rustling about on the other side. “You weren’t lying about the blade being gone,” she says, followed soon by, “Ugh! What’s wrong with these windows?”
“Don’t you need me to let you out?” Cold asks. “I think that’s how this is supposed to work.” It isn’t, at least not this time, but it’s not as though she needs to know that.
“Yeah, I’ll pass. I’d rather not have to leave with you, especially now that you’re probably plotting ways to get back at me.”
That’s hardly fair. Cold hasn’t gotten to plot even once through this whole ordeal. She’s been the one doing all the plotting. “Can I at least have my cloak back now?”
The Princess laughs. “Trying to trick me into opening the door, are you? Even if I didn’t see through your plot, I wouldn’t give it to you. I’m actually starting to like this weird thing. I think I’ll keep it.”
He wasn’t even plotting! And it would have been a good plot, too, if he’d actually intended it as one. This just keeps getting more and more unfair by the minute.
He’ll have to wait until things reset again. Starvation should set in eventually, or he could try to hasten things. He doesn’t have the blade, but that shouldn’t necessarily make it impossible to speed up the process, should it? He’s got hands. He might try to use them.
He awakens in a cabin before he can attempt anything. Everything is roots, again, just as it’s been for the past three times.
As he raises a hand to adjust his veil—it’s started to slip, somehow—he freezes at what he sees when it crosses his vision.
Or rather, what he doesn’t see. Which is to say his arm is not in a sleeve, which means the Princess still has his cloak. This is… new? Things are supposed to reset whenever they reset. With some changes, to be sure, but everything has been the same in this cabin every other time.
The blade, fortunately, seems to not have fallen prey to the same effect. It’s right on the table, exactly where it’s meant to be, having had the good sense to obey the laws of this world.
The Princess expects him to show up with some sort of plot. When he inevitably doesn’t have one, she’ll concoct one on her own. She’s clearly much better at this sort of thing than he is.
Why is he, of all voices, here, of all places? There would have been much better candidates for this. Surely some of the other voices would have easily been able to outthink her.
But he’s no good at scheming, and he’s about out of ideas. The Princess clearly has no intention of trusting him. And she took his cloak.
He’ll just have to hand the decisions over to her. Maybe she’ll be able to think of something new.
When he reaches the basement, the Princess is grinning. Successfully pulling one over on him—without dying herself—must have put her in a good mood. That, or stealing his cloak.
“I see you’ve got the knife this time,” she says. “Where’d you have it hidden away?”
Is it really so hard to believe he’s capable of honesty? “I already told you. I threw it out the window. It reappeared when I woke up.”
The Princess shows no sign of belief. “What are you even planning to do with that thing? I thought we’d established trying to kill me would only lead to both of us being crushed to death.”
Her eye contact breaks at the sound of metal hitting the ground near her feet. A pretty good toss, in Cold’s opinion, given they’re on opposite ends of the basement.
She reaches to pick up the blade, gaze flicking back up to Cold as though this might somehow be a trap. As though he’d be able to think of one.
Then she crosses the basement, blade in hand, the sleeves of Cold’s cloak covering part of its hilt. He really needs that back.
“I wouldn’t have done that,” she begins once they’re face-to-face. “Why did you?”
“Trade for my cloak back?” Cold asks.
The Princess laughs. “You have to set the terms before you give away your only bargaining chip. Did you not bother to think a single part of this through?”
Oh. Right. He knew he’d been forgetting something.
It’s fine. He doesn’t need to care this much about an article of clothing. “I gave it to you because I’m out of ideas. Maybe you’ll be able to think of something new to do, if you’re so intent on scheming against me.”
She stares at him for a moment, gripping the blade. Then she turns it around in her hand and plunges it into his chest.
Of course that would be her first thought. He doesn’t know why he expected anything different.
The Princess must be able to pick out some sort of expression on his face, because she hesitates and asks, “What? Were you expecting something else?”
“I wasn’t expecting anything. I just…” He looks at her. “I’ve already been stabbed. I was hoping for something new.”
She stares at him, mouth agape, as he falls to the floor.
He awakens in a cabin. It’s the same cabin. It’s always been the same cabin.
…Except this time there are shoots of some sort pushing up between the roots of the walls and sprouting from the floor.
And the blade is gone this time. That’s new, though it’s not surprising. If the Princess gets to keep his cloak, surely she can keep the blade as well.
He’ll just have to go down and ask for it back.
The new shoots continue to appear as he proceeds down the stairs to the basement, weaving between the roots that form each step. The basement itself is speckled with green everywhere he can see, and a few beams of light are able to filter through new gaps in the roots of the ceiling.
The Princess is curled in on herself at the other end of the basement, clutching the blade in both hands. Her tail curls around her feet. She hasn’t bothered to take the chain off her wrist yet, or even hide it.
She’s still wearing his cloak. At least it looks like she’s properly buttoned it since stabbing him.
“What do you even want?” she asks, not bothering to look up. “Why do you keep coming back down here? Just leave. You’re allowed to.”
Her voice sounds… drained.
Cold steps closer to her and sits down a few feet away. “I can’t leave. The door doesn’t open.”
The Princess looks up. Her eyes are ringed with red. “That doesn’t make any sense. I’m supposed to need you to leave with me.”
Neither of them says anything for a minute, until the Princess speaks again. “I don’t get what’s going on in your head. I killed you so many times, and you never tried to take revenge. I locked you in the basement and you gave me the blade. Why aren’t you angry about all of this?”
“Anger is an unproductive emotion,” Cold says. “It wouldn’t benefit me to feel it.”
The Princess stammers. “Y—you can’t choose not to feel anger. It just happens.”
“Not if you don’t let it. It’s the same with other emotions. Everything’s so much easier once you stop feeling them.”
She laughs, her tone devoid of humor—or much of anything else. “There’s something wrong with your brain,” she says. “Normal people don’t think like that.”
“And why should I care if there’s something wrong with me?” Cold asks.
“I guess…” The Princess lowers her gaze to the blade in her hands. “I guess… you don’t have to. Just… answer one question for me.”
“Why did you give me the blade?”
Again with the interrogations. Is it really too much to believe he’s telling the truth? “I already told you. I ran out of ideas. Trying the same things again would have been boring, so I decided to let you choose. That’s all it was.”
The Princess bites her lip. Her crown of twigs has a little sprout growing through it, Cold notices. “You never lied to me, did you?”
“No.”
For a moment the two of them continue to sit in silence. The Princess is the one to break it, pushing herself to her feet and allowing the chain to fall from her wrist. Cold follows her with his gaze.
She takes a shaky step towards the stairs and glances behind her. “Come on. We’re leaving.”
Cold follows her up the stairs and into the cabin. This time, when they reach the top, the Princess steps back to allow him through the doorway.
They stare at the closed door for a moment. If it doesn’t open for either of them, there’s no logical reason it would unlock now that they’re both here.
“You should try it,” the Princess says. “I think I’ve used up your trust.”
It doesn’t actually matter, but fine. Neither of them really has any advantage over the other. Cold steps up to the door and tugs on the handle.
It creaks open.
That’s new.
He steps into the woods outside, Princess on his heels. The trees appear to have been reduced to stalks of black charcoal, and the ground is largely devoid of growth save for a few sparse clumps of grass. The hilltop is ringed with large, thorny vines, and a few red roses sprout right where the cabin meets the ground.
This is when it ends, isn’t it? Hopefully he’ll have his cloak back the next time he’s awake.
He and the Princess stand in silence for a moment. Then another, and another. Nothing happens.
When he turns to her, she’s already looking at him. “This is new, right?” she asks. “It doesn’t normally work like this, right?”
They both already know the answer to that question.
This is new. It might even be the most interesting thing to happen since Cold first found himself awake on a path in the woods.
He doesn’t say that, though. What he says is, “Can I have my cloak back now? Or the blade?”
The Princess just laughs. “Can’t fault you for trying, I guess. Maybe I’ll give them back later.” She starts down the path into the woods. “Or not. Come on, I want to see what’s out there.”
