A small land-based scouting team was dispatched with a simple, straightforward mission: observe the soldiers' activity from a safe distance, confirm they were maintaining the sweep, and return. Mallory Weiss, the Roadrunner, was the natural choice for team leader, her speed a vital asset for a quick retreat and moving around quickly without being detected. Her innate bravery and will to face any foe are what pushed her to valiantly volunteer for this position even now.
She was joined by Peter Frost, the Rabbit-hybrid, whose keen hearing, abundant energy, and paranoia made him an excellent early warning system. Lastly, Remy Valois, the Jerboa-hybrid, joined them in their mission.
The team moved with practiced stealth, a testament to their harsh education of ambushing the spiders in the forest that always looked to ambush them in kind to eat one another, since their early days in these woods.
They found a well-concealed position on a rocky ridge overlooking a section of the forest floor. Below, the soldiers' presence was an undeniable, terrifying reality. From their vantage point, they could see a patrol team moving with methodical, emotionless efficiency through the trees, part of a wider sweep they had feared was starting to take place. The mission was a success, in its own way; they had confirmed the soldiers were still actively and systematically hunting in their region.
They have now confirmed that their march and search were continuing to expand in search of something, and that they indeed were not just marching within a set parameter on patrols.
"Alright, we've seen enough," Mallory whispered, her voice tight with tension. "We have to go back, and we must report what we confirmed. Let's move." She signaled for them to slowly back away.
But Remy didn't move. His eyes, bright and restless, were fixed on a small, two-soldier patrol just beginning its sweep along the western edge of their position.
An idea, reckless and ambitious, was taking root in his mind. He was tired of hiding. Tired of being just another scared face in the crowd. This was a chance to do something more, to bring back something that would make him important, something his fellow students would value, making him a hero, even to the adults. He desired praise and attention from those of the fairer sex. This seemed like a great opportunity to get all of that and more.
They're just grunts, he thought, his overconfidence fueled by the crystal in his pocket and the new strength flowing through him. They move slowly and act predictably. It is all within my calculation. I'm faster than any of them. I can get closer with ease. I bet I can find out where their camp is and get something tangible after ruffling them up a bit.
"Remy, let's go," Mal hissed, sensing his hesitation. She was quickly growing weary as he continued to have his gaze fixed on the soldiers below.
"You two head back," Remy whispered, his gaze never leaving those soldiers. "I'm going to follow them for a bit. See if I can learn their route."
"Are you insane?" Mal snapped, her voice a low, furious whisper. "That's not the mission! We report back together. Are you trying to get us all killed?"
"And report what? That they're still here? We already knew that," Remy retorted, a touch of arrogance in his voice. "I'm going to get us something useful."
"Ah, ambition! Or perhaps just terminal stupidity?" The Great I commented, my focus zeroing in on the Jerboa-hybrid as the team slipped from the cave's hidden exit. "Our little desert rodent decides to play spy! He thinks his bouncy legs and big ears make him a master of espionage. Tailing trained, technologically superior soldiers through hostile territory... what could possibly go wrong? Famous last thoughts, right there."
Before Mallory could argue further, he gave her a cocky grin and then simply melted into the undergrowth, his long, powerful legs carrying him in a series of silent, bounding leaps, shadowing the soldiers from a distance.
Mallory and Peter exchanged a look of pure, horrified disbelief, but he was already gone. They were left with an impossible choice: abandon him, or risk themselves by waiting.
Remy moved through the undergrowth like a ghost, or so he told himself. Every leap was effortless, all thanks to the boost in power he now had after that night. He was a predator, a shadow, and these soldiers, with their clunky armor and predictable marching movements, were his prey.
He watched the two-man patrol from a distance of fifty yards, their conversation a low murmur he couldn't quite catch. One was younger, his movements a little less confident. The other, the one in the rear, barged about.
Amateurs, Remy thought with a surge of contempt, the cocky grin only spreading wider across his transformed face, his rodent-like features spreading broadly across it. They haven't even seen me. I could get within ten feet and they'd never know.
"Hook, line, and sinker!" The Great I cackled, my voice a whisper of pure, malicious delight that slithered through the narrative. "The little rat thinks he's a master spy! So high on his own supply of magic and juiced by mana that he can't see the obvious! Oh, this is a classic tale, Humanity: the fool who mistakes the patient hunter for a sleeping sheep. The veteran isn't careless; he's bored. And a bored predator is often the most dangerous kind."
The veteran soldier in the rear didn't turn. Thus, he didn't slow down. His hand rose in a smooth motion, two fingers rapping twice against the side of his helmet. The gesture was so minimal that it was lost in the rhythm of their march. The younger soldier ahead of him gave a single nod. The patrol's path shifted slightly, veering away from the dense foliage and towards a small, seemingly insignificant clearing littered with fallen logs. They were making it easier for him to follow — a gift for the rat following their backs.
Remy's heart pounded with a hunter's thrill, wondering if this was what cats felt when stalking their prey, their lives in the palms of his hands. They were getting sloppy, moving into the open. He shortened the distance, his long jerboa legs carrying him in silent, powerful bounds, his eyes fixed on their backs. He was so focused on his pursuit, on the prize of the information he was about to steal, that he never saw the thin, almost invisible wire stretched between two saplings at ankle height.
He hit it at a full sprint. One moment, he was a silent predator; the next, he was a sprawling, tangled mess, crashing headfirst into the leaf litter with a surprised yelp.
Before he could even process what had happened, a shadow fell over him. The veteran soldier was there, moving with a speed that seemed impossible for his size and weight. There was no shout, no warning. Just a brutal, downward stomp of an armored boot that connected squarely with Remy's back, driving the air from his lungs in a pained gasp and pinning him to the ground.
The younger soldier was there a second later, his energy rifle aimed steadily at Remy's head. The veteran knelt, his knee pressing down with immense, crushing weight. He grabbed Remy by the scruff of his neck and slammed his face into the dirt once, then twice, the impacts dull and sickening.
Remy's world exploded into a universe of pain, dirt, and flashes of black and white, blurring his vision in a cloud of smeared images, his earlier confidence instantly shattered into a million pieces of agony and regret.
"Got one," the veteran stated, his voice a calm, bored monotone into his comms. "Standard procedure?"
"Affirmative," a tinny voice crackled back. "Terminate and proceed."
The soldier drew a long, wicked-looking combat knife designed for maximum suffering with its serrated edges. Those edges are humming with a faint blue light. He yanked Remy's head back by his sandy fur, exposing his white, tufted throat.
Remy squeezed his eyes shut, a pathetic whimper escaping his lips. This was it. This was how it ended. A stupid, arrogant mistake, and now he was going to die in the dirt, just like Will.
But it was in that moment of absolute, final despair that another thought clawed its way through the pain. The crystal. The small, glowing fragment he'd pocketed in the cave. He'd seen what it did. Healed Jack, healed Danny, even brought Mrs. Weiss back from the brink.
His mind, frantic and desperate, latched onto images of comic book heroes who could be shot, stabbed, blown up, and just get back up, their bodies knitting back together in an instant. Instant regeneration. It was an insane, childish fantasy, a drowning man's prayer. But it was the only prayer he had left.
With a surge of adrenaline, Remy twisted, a single, desperate act of defiance. The soldier, caught off guard by the sudden movement, had his grip loosen for a fraction of a second. It was enough. Remy's hand, fumbling, found the pocket of his tattered pants, his fingers closing around the cool, pulsing shard. He didn't hesitate. He jammed the crystal into his mouth, bit down hard with a sickening crunch, and swallowed the sharp, gritty fragments.
The crystal wasn't just a rock; it felt like swallowing a live coal and a block of ice at the same time. A searing, chemical burn followed by a wave of unnatural cold shot down his throat. For a horrifying second, nothing happened. The soldier just stared at him, a flicker of confusion in his cold eyes, before raising the knife again.
Then, the world ended.
It began as a tremor in his bones, a low, deep vibration that gradually intensified into a full-body convulsion. The crystal fragments and dust hit his system not like a nutrient, but like a detonator. The latent energy stored in his transformed body ignited. Untamed power surged through his veins, a tidal wave of pure, agonizing energy. His muscles spasmed, bunching and tearing, only to be instantly re-knit, thicker and denser than before. His bones groaned, threatening to snap under the strain, only to mend back again. A raw, animalistic scream tore from his throat, no longer a sound of fear, but of agonizing transformation and desire for blood.
The veteran soldier recoiled, startled by the sheer violence of the change. He saw the jerboa-hybrid's body swell, the muscles in his powerful legs and arms bulging, straining the seams of his tattered clothes. A faint, blue-green light, the same color as the crystal, began to glow from beneath Remy's skin, tracing the paths of his veins. The soldier instinctively thought that the rodent had somehow turned his corpse into some kind of suicide bomb and started to back away. Only to notice something was off in his haste to keep his life intact.
The bruises and cuts from the initial beating began to visibly heal. The gash from the cut throat and pierced heart filling, the skin knitting back together in seconds, leaving steam rising from the fresh flesh wounds.
"What in the—" the younger soldier began, his rifle wavering.
"Command!" the veteran yelled into his comms, his voice losing its bored tone for the first time, replaced by a sharp, incredulous alarm. "Target is self-augmenting! Repeat, the vermin is undergoing some kind of rapid metabolic change! It's... It's healing and growing in size, becoming more of a disgusting beast!"
Remy saw the world again as he surged to his feet, not with a thought, but with a blind eruption of power. The human boy, the overconfident scout, was gone. In his place was a berserker. His eyes were wide, the pupils dilated into black pools, ringed by that same, terrifying blue-green fire. A low, continuous growl rumbled in his chest. The world was a red haze, and the two armored figures before him were the source of his pain, the focus of his rage.
He lunged. He wasn't a trained fighter. His movements were wild, sloppy, driven by pure, feral instinct. He didn't just punch; he swiped with his claws, his tail, and even kicked halve hazarldy like a bucking steer.
He tried to tear and rip his tormentors apart. The younger soldier, panicking, fired his rifle. The blue energy bolt, the same kind that had vaporized the quill-hyena, struck Remy in the shoulder. It blasted a chunk of flesh away, sending him staggering back with a roar of pain. But the wound, horrifying as it was, immediately began to steam and seal, flesh and fur regenerating at a visible, impossible rate.
"It's not working!" the younger soldier shrieked.
The veteran was already moving. "Belay that!" he snapped at his panicked subordinate, his voice a sharp crack of command. "Command just changed the order! It ate a magic stone and is still living. We need it alive! Subdue it, non-lethal only!" He dropped his knife and drew a thick, metallic baton that crackled with blue energy. The veteran didn't brace for the impact of Remy's next wild charge. Instead, he pivoted on his heel, using the berserker's own furious momentum to carry him past. He sidestepped the clumsy attack and brought the stun baton down hard on the back of Remy's knee.
The energy discharge sent a jolt through Remy's body, making his leg buckle. But the rage and the crystal's power fought against the pain. He roared and spun, swiping at the veteran, who parried the blow with his armored forearm.
While Remy was off balance, the younger soldier slammed the butt of his rifle into his back. The impacts were solid, but Remy just shook his head, the wounds already beginning to close and mend. He was a force of nature, a whirlwind of mindless aggression, and it was taking all their training to contain him.
"This is not just some animal!" the veteran grunted, dodging another wild swing. "It's weaponizing the magic stone organically! Get the net!"
The younger soldier fumbled at his belt, producing a small, metallic canister. He threw it at Remy's feet. It burst open, and a net of shimmering, blue energy erupted, wrapping around the berserker's body. The blue energy arced over him, and a paralyzing surge of electrical power drove the air from his lungs in a raw scream. It wasn't just pain; it was a clean, brutal override, short-circuiting the crystal's chaotic energy with its own immobilizing current.
His muscles locked instantly, every fiber going rigid as if struck by lightning. He convulsed once against the constricting energy — a violent, full-body spasm — and then, with a final, shuddering gasp, his body went limp.
The faint blue glow under his skin flickered and died. He collapsed to the ground, unconscious, the faint sizzle from the net's contact points already beginning to heal as steam rose from his seered flesh.
The two soldiers stood over him, breathing heavily, their professional calm completely shattered. They looked from the unconscious, rapidly healing jerboa-hybrid to each other, a new, profound understanding in their eyes.
"Command," the veteran finally said, his voice grim. "Target subdued. It's… more than we thought. They can metabolize the magic stones directly. They can turn themselves into high-level threats."
The voice on the comms was silent for a long moment. Then, "Understood. Change of protocol. The target is no longer a pest. It is a high-value intelligence asset. Secure it. Bring it in for immediate, systematic processing."
Remy lay on the ground, his body in agonizing pain, but this time, he was not just a map to a resource. He was a living, breathing testament to a terrifying new variable in this conflict. He was proof that the vermin could bite back. And the hunt, he knew with a dawning, pain-clouded certainty, was about to become a war.
The two soldiers stood over Remy's unconscious form, the blue energy of the net casting a flickering, unnatural light on their armored faces. The professional calm they had exhibited just minutes before was completely gone, replaced by a mixture of shock and thoughts of disgust. The younger soldier kept his rifle trained on Remy's body, his knuckles white, as if expecting the berserker to explode back into motion at any second.
"Oh, how quickly the labels change!" The Great I mused, my voice a low, appreciative purr of pure, cynical delight. "Just moments ago, he was 'vermin.' A 'pest' to be exterminated with the casual disinterest one reserves for swatting a fly. But now? Now that he is connected to something valuable, he is suddenly an 'asset.' A 'high-value target.' See how you do that, Humanity? You categorize. You label. You reduce a living, breathing creature to a single, convenient word so you can justify your actions without burdening your fragile conscience. To study and dissect it apart in the vain pursuit of knowledge. 'Pest' means you can kill without guilt. 'Asset' means you can hold like an object that is your property with no will or thought of their own, to torture for a purpose, or without thought. It does give me delight and a great feast seeing these worms wiggle about. That is why it is funny how the creature itself hasn't changed, only your perception of its utility or definition. It is your most enduring, most pathetic, and most wonderfully self-deceptive trait." I let out a soft, dry chuckle. "He's off to have a more structured conversation now, one filled with specific, painful questions. The best kind of suffering isn't random; it's purposeful. And his single, stupid mistake will now provide an avalanche of it for everyone else. Delicious, simply delicious."
The veteran soldier keyed his comms again, his voice now devoid of any trace of boredom. "Command, be advised, the asset is secure. It's unconscious, but its regeneration is still active. The wounds from the fight and the burns from the net are sealing as we speak. Even unconscious, this thing continues to heal. This thing is damn resilient."
There was another long, thoughtful pause from the other end. Then, the voice of the officer crackled back, colder and harder than before. "Understood. The mission parameters have changed. This is no longer a sweep-and-clear. That asset is now your primary objective. I want it back here, alive and intact, for an interrogation. I want to know where it got that crystal, and I want to know how many more of them can pull a stunt like that. Bring it in. And be advised," the officer added, his voice dropping to a low, dangerous tone, "our operational security in this sector may be compromised. I want a full diagnostic on that thing's abilities. Do not underestimate it again."
"Acknowledged," the veteran replied. He knelt, producing a set of thick, metallic restraints from his pack. He and the younger soldier worked efficiently, binding Remy's wrists and ankles. The restraints clicked shut with a heavy sound. They weren't just tying him up; they were caging a monster, if not a dangerous criminal.
As they worked, the younger soldier looked at his superior, his eyes wide behind his visor. "Sir... what was that? I've never seen a beastman or a devil do anything like that."
"Neither have I," the veteran admitted, his voice a low grunt as he tested the restraints. "Doesn't matter what we think. Command wants answers, so our job is to deliver." He grabbed the restraints and began to drag Remy's unconscious form back the way they had come, leaving a deep furrow in the damp earth. "Let's go. The sooner we get this thing back to the scientists and interigators, the better."
Back in the relative safety of the crystal cavern, a fragile, hopeful idea had taken root. The successful reconnaissance of the snake's nest and the confirmation of the aquatic tunnel system had given them a tangible goal.
As they waited anxiously for the land-based scouts to return, the aquatic team, led by Mr. Decker, had been preparing for their own deeper exploration into the subterranean stream.
Finally, after a tense hour, the team surfaced from the dark, subterranean pool, their sleek forms breaking the water's surface. The rest of the group, who had been anxiously watching, pressed forward, their faces illuminated by the crystal light.
"Well?" Ms. Linz asked, her voice tight with a hope she barely dared to feel. "What did you find? Is it a way out?"
Mr. Decker pulled himself onto the rocky bank, his dolphin-smooth skin shedding water. He looked at the hopeful faces turned towards him, and his own expression was grim, a stark contrast to their fragile optimism. "The passage is there," he confirmed. For a split second, their hearts leap. The hope for escape was building in their defenseless hearts. "It's a clear channel, and it continues East, just as we hoped."
A relieved murmur went through the group, but Mr. Decker held up a hand, silencing them before the relief could take root. "But it's not a simple tunnel," he continued, his tone heavy and calm. "We followed it for what must have been half a mile. It's a maze down there. Tunnels branching off, some leading to dead ends, others dropping into depths we couldn't measure and didn't dare to measure. The current is strong in places, and there are sections so narrow that even I had to squeeze through, along with other strange lifeforms filling the channels.
It's not about just being able to swim. There are long stretches with no air pockets, no connection to any open cavern. For us to guide over a hundred non-swimmers and air-breathers through that kind of underwater labyrinth without any way to carry enough air... it would be a suicide mission. It's not an escape route for us as a whole."
Jeff Wright, the Newt-hybrid, surfaced beside him, his expression pale, his usual quiet calm replaced by a deep-seated unease. He ran a hand over his slick skin, wiping away the dark water. "It's not empty waterways down there as Mr. Decker mentioned," he said, lowering his voice to a chilling whisper that cut through the silence as the group held their collective breaths. "The whole tunnel is teeming with life. My senses were attuned to picking up vibrations from everything. There are the small ambush predators in the silt, yes, but there are also schools of those blind fish, things clinging to the walls like crayfish... and larger things swimming in the open current. We ran into one... a predator like a giant, armored eel. We only got past it because Mr. Weiss was with us." He glanced towards Brett, who now stood silently by his still-recovering wife. "His harpoon was the only reason we made it back. It's not only a single tunnel, Ms. Linz. It's another monster-infested hunting ground."
"Oh, and the balloon of hope finally pops! Delicious!" The Great I purred, savoring the moment. "They thought they found their little escape hatch, their secret door to salvation. But a maze? Full of monsters? Who could have possibly predicted such a complication? Oh, wait. A being with an intellect greater than that of a common garden slug. It is your most enduring trait, Humanity: you build your most elaborate hopes on the most fragile foundations, and then act so surprised when it all comes crashing down. Truly, your capacity for self-delusion is a constant, reliable source of nourishment."
The heavy, cold despair that settled over the cavern was a tangible, suffocating blanket that smothered all thought and breath under its embrace.
Their one hope for a quick escape had been revealed as a monster-infested, underwater labyrinth. They were trapped. A few choked sobs broke the silence, the sound of utter hopelessness. Ah, music to my ears.
"So that's it, then?" Peter Frost, the Rabbit-hybrid, asked, his voice cracking, his long ears drooping with despair. "We're just... stuck here until they find us?"
Ms. Linz pushed herself to her webbed feet, her face pale but her eyes scanning the cavern, refusing to surrender to the despair. "No, Honk!" she said, her voice a little too loud and cracking into an embarrassing honk. She blushed a little while regaining her composure and continued. "No. The water route... Mr. Decker, you said there were tunnels, branching passages that led to air pockets? Were there any Other caverns it connected to? If so, we could just map it, find a route that stays close to the surface..."
Mr. Decker shook his head wearily, the crystal light reflecting off his slick, dolphin skin. "Olivia, the distances are too great. To transport the non-swimmers, if any get injured… The tunnels are completely submerged in long stretches. There's no room for rafts, no air to breathe. We'd have to find a way to carry air for over a hundred people through a maze... the logistics are—"
"Then we build something that can!" a voice blurted out, high and reedy with desperation. "What about... what about a submarine? A big one! We have the web-spinners! They could weave a giant, waterproof silk bag, and we could pump it full of air and..." The idea died in his throat as he saw the looks of pity and disbelief on the faces around him.
"Silk submarines! Bless their pathetic little hearts!" The Great I roared with laughter, my voice echoing in the narrative void. "When faced with an impossible reality, deny it and propose something even more spectacularly stupid but plausible! Oh, the sheer, beautiful, unadulterated nonsense! Their minds are breaking, Humanity, and it is a glorious sight to behold!"
The absurd suggestion, however, seemed to break the spell of their paralysis of thought. The sheer impossibility of it highlighted the depths of their desperation. As the last of the bitter chuckles died down, another voice, sharp and unexpectedly confident, cut through the gloom.
"That wouldn't work," Steve Birk stated, his voice a technical rasp that cut through the silence. All eyes turned to him. "A single large bag would be uncontrollable. The water pressure, the currents... it would be crushed or torn apart. There's no structure. Plus, as Mr. Decker already informed us, those narrow passages, he had to deal with, and many of us are a good deal larger than he is." Steve paused, his multiple eyes blinking as he ran a complex mental calculation. "But... the principle isn't entirely wrong. We could build a dry tunnel through the water passage. We could use the silk to weave reinforced, waterproof sections, seal them against the cavern walls with a resin we could make from tree sap and crushed rock, and build it piece by piece. A segmented, airtight corridor. It would be slow, incredibly difficult, and require all our silk reserves, but it's theoretically possible to create a dry path."
"You're all looking the wrong way," Philip Marks, the Leaf Cutter Ant hybrid, stated, cutting Steve off before a new, equally impossible debate could begin. He wasn't shouting, but his voice, a sharp, clear buzz, commanded attention. He stepped forward, his powerful mandibles clicking once for emphasis. He wasn't looking at the dark, menacing pool of water. He was looking at the solid rock wall of the cavern.
He pointed a chitinous hand westward, in the general direction the stream flowed. "The water goes that way. Towards the other side of the mountains. That's the direction we need to go." He then pointed directly at the cavern wall. "So we go that way. We don't go through the water. We go through the rock instead."
A beat of stunned silence followed. Then, Kent Adler, the Green Crab, let out a harsh, gurgling laugh. "Through the rock? Are you insane, bug-boy? It's a mountain! We'd be digging until we were skeletons!"
"We can break rock," Philip stated simply, undeterred. He glanced at Jack Sutton, at Martin Wright, at the other ant-hybrid. "We have claws that can crush. Tusks that can gouge. Mandibles that can bite through stone. The waterway is a maze, full of things that want to kill us. It's a gamble. This," he said, and to prove his point, he stepped up to the cavern wall. His powerful mandibles clamped down on a projecting edge of stone. With a sharp, grinding CRUNCH that echoed in the silent cavern, he twisted his head, and a fist-sized chunk of rock broke free. He held it up for all to see. "is work. Hard work. But it's a straight line. It keeps us all together, here, where we're safe from the soldiers. We dig our own way out."
"Oh, this is rich! Tunneling!" The Great I declared, my interest suddenly rekindled, a slow, appreciative chuckle rumbling in my chest. "They've rejected the drowning trap for the 'dig until you die' plan! It's insane! It's arduous! But wait... they're right. It's their safest option. And do you know why, Humanity? Because of my own magnificent, infuriating design! They can work their claws to the bone, exhaust themselves to the point of collapse, and what happens? They'll just go lick the walls, eat a little magic rock dust, and be ready for their next twelve-hour shift in the morning! It's a suicidal plan made merely grueling by a loophole I myself created! The sheer, unadulterated irony! This is going to be very amusing indeed when the soldiers come knocking at their door!"
Philip's demonstration — that single, defiant CRUNCH of rock — had changed their thoughts steadily. The students looked from the dark, menacing water, a confirmed death trap, to the solid, unyielding rock wall. One was a chaotic, unknowable end. The other was a mountain of grueling work, but it was work they could do.
"He's right," George rumbled, his voice low but firm, breaking the silence. "In the water, we'd be picked off one by one in the dark. We'd be fighting shadows, fighting the current, fighting things we can't even see. That's not a fight; it's a slaughter. But the rock... the mountain is just a wall of rock. It won't hunt us. It won't surprise us. It won't demand air for us to breathe. It'll just sit there and test how badly we want to get through. We can hit it. We can break it. This is a fight we can actually win... if we do it together, we can easily fortify the passageway and break through our moment of despair into the freedom that waits for us outside, into another cavern, and then into the wide skies beyond this mountain." A murmur spread among the students. It wasn't hope, not really. It was the logic of the cornered animal, choosing the one path, however impossible, that wasn't a guaranteed grave. The despair hadn't vanished, but for the first time since the aquatic team's report, it had been given them a direction.
George Hancock's words hung in the cavern's heavy air. For a moment, his logic and words seemed to unite them. The image of fighting an unmoving wall of rock was, somehow, less terrifying than being torn apart in the dark water or executed by faceless monsters parading around like soldiers. But as the last echoes of his voice faded, the cold, hard reality of the task crashed down upon them, and the fragile consensus immediately began to fracture.
A dry, sibilant hiss cut through the rising murmur of agreement. It was Conrad Castillo, his slitted eyes sweeping over the determined faces with cold amusement. "Years," he stated, the word a simple, dismissive fact. "At this rate, assuming you don't all collapse from exhaustion in a week, it would take years. Time we clearly do not have."
"And the noise!" Mr. Decker added, his practical mind immediately seizing on the most glaring flaw. "Philip broke one rock, and it echoed through this whole chamber. Over a hundred of us, chipping away day and night? The soldiers won't need any listening devices; they'll hear us from the meadow above!"
Conrad's cold logic and Mr. Decker's practical warning acted like a bucket of ice water on their fragile spark of hope. That hope didn't just flicker; it was violently extinguished, replaced by a fresh, panicked wave of bickering. The cavern devolved into a cacophony of fear.
"Years?" Lisa Hart asked, her voice a low, rough rasp that cut through the noise. The heavy snapping turtle shell on her back felt like a tombstone already. "He's right. We'll be skeletons before we dig ten feet." She let out a short, bitter laugh. "Honestly, at this point, I'd rather take my chances with that underwater maze. At least down there, as a snapping turtle, I am a predator with a solid defence. Up here," she gestured at the rock wall, "I'm just a slow-moving target."
Jerome Hearth, the Scrub Turkey hybrid, who had been instinctively kicking and scratching at the loose soil, suddenly froze. "The noise!" he squawked, his voice cracking with terror. "Did you hear that echo? Philip broke one little rock, and it sounded like a gunshot! We start hammering on this wall, and every soldier and monster for miles is going to come running! They'll have us pinned in this hole before the first day is over!" His words, born an instinctual fear of being cornered, sent a fresh wave of panic through the cavern. Voices rose, overlapping in a chaotic chorus of "what's the point" and "we're all going to die," turning their sanctuary back into a pit of fear-fueled arguments.
"They're gonna do it! They're actually going to try and tunnel their way out!" The Great I declared, my voice a low, gleeful rumble. "Like some kind of prison break movie, but with more fur and less planning! And look, they've already hit the 'arguing about the logistics' scene! My favorite part! This is either brilliantly desperate or suicidally stupid! Maybe both!"
It was Ms. Linz who finally silenced them. She tried to shout over the din, to restore order, but her voice cracked under the strain, emerging as a loud, embarrassing, and distinctly swan-like "HONK!" A flicker of mortification crossed her face, her cheeks flushing. But seeing the chaos and the fear in her students' eyes, she pushed the embarrassment down.
She took a deep breath, straightened to her full, graceful height, and let out another honk — this one deliberate, powerful, and carrying an undeniable note of command that cut through the pandemonium like a trumpet blast. The arguments and whimpers died instantly, every eye turning to her in stunned silence.
"Yes," she said, her voice quiet but firm, cutting through the noise. "It will be loud. And yes, it will take time we don't have. And yes, it is an insane plan." She looked from face to terrified face, letting the weight of her words sink in. "Now, can anyone tell me a plan that isn't insane? One that doesn't involve drowning in the dark or getting shot on the surface?"
The silence was her answer.
"That's what I thought," she continued, her voice gaining strength. "This isn't a good plan. It'll be the only plan. It's the only path where our own work, our own strength, is what determines the outcome. We are not running from a monster or hiding from a soldier. We are fighting a mountain. And we will win."
She turned, her gaze sweeping over the group, her authority, for the first time in a long while, absolute and unquestioned. "So, we stop arguing, and we start organizing. Now."
The shift was immediate. The arguments died. Under Ms. Linz's direction, the monumental task began to take shape. The strongest rock-breakers — Jack, Philip, the crabs, the ants, and Martin the Pangolin — were designated as the primary "Excavation Team." The rest of the students were organized into shifts to clear debris, haul rock, and reinforce the tunnel entrance.
The cavern, which had been a pit of despair just moments before, was now a hive of desperate activity. Under Ms. Linz's surprisingly firm direction, the monumental task of tunneling through a mountain began to take shape.
"Ah, look at them! Committees! Sub-committees! Delegated tasks!" The Great I laughed, a low, rumbling sound that was pure, condescending amusement. "It's magnificent! They've discovered bureaucracy at the edge of the abyss! Will they form a 'Tunneling Oversight Committee' next? File permits in triplicate before breaking a new rock? Or will their desperation actually make them efficient? It's a race, Humanity! A race between their primal need to survive and their species' ingrained talent for wrapping everything in red tape until it suffocates! I wonder which will win before their time runs out and they meet their inevitable, bureaucratic dead end along with their pitiful lives."
"Excavation Team!" Coach Roberts boomed, his voice echoing off the crystal walls, giving the order a strange, resonant authority. "Jack! Philip! Martin! Ace and Kent! You're the tip of the spear! You break the rock, you set the pace! You'll work in short, intense shifts. Don't burn yourselves out on the first day."
The designated diggers gathered at the rock face Philip had scarred earlier, a strange assortment of monstrous forms united by a single, desperate purpose.
"Support teams!" Ms. Linz continued, her voice gaining confidence as she imposed order on the chaos. "Everyone else, you are on debris removal. We'll form two lines: one to bring empty leaf-baskets to the tunnel, one to haul the full ones out. We work until we drop, then the next shift takes over."
"Web and silk-spinners!" Mr. Decker called out, turning his analytical gaze to Steve, Silas, Gwen, and Rita. "You'll reinforce the entrance. The last thing we need is a cave-in. I want the entrance arch shored up with the thickest strands you can manage. Treat it like a mine shaft."
A final team was tasked with light, carefully taking the few crystal fragments they had gathered and placing them in niches around the work area, their soft, steady glow pushing back the oppressive darkness.
A sense of daunting, almost crushing purpose settled over them. They were about to attempt to move a mountain with their bare hands, claws, and tusks. It was a long-term project born of short-term terror, an immense undertaking requiring a level of effort they weren't sure they possessed.
With a shared, grim look, the first shift of diggers began.
High above on the surface, the world was a blur of pain and nauseating movement for Remy Valois. He was conscious, barely, the world a series of disconnected, jarring images as the two soldiers dragged him through the jungle. His berserker rage was gone, leaving behind an agony so profound it was almost a mercy when darkness threatened to claim him again.
They finally stopped, throwing him to the ground in the center of a large, starkly lit tent. An officer, the same one Shirou had seen from the ridge, stood over him, his face impassive behind a clear visor. "Report," the officer said, his voice cold.
"It consumed a magic stone, sir," the veteran soldier reported, his voice crisp and professional. "Initiated a spontaneous metabolic overload. Extreme strength, speed, and rapid cellular regeneration. We were forced to use non-lethal restraints to subdue it as commanded, sir."
The officer knelt, grabbing Remy's face, his gauntleted fingers digging into his jaw. He forced Remy's head up, his cold eyes scanning him like a piece of faulty equipment. "Where did you get the crystal, vermin?" he asked, his voice a low, dangerous growl.
Remy just groaned, his mind a fog of pain.
The officer sighed, a sound of mild annoyance. "Take it to the 'lab'," he said, standing up. "Our specialists will have a more... persuasive conversation with it. I want to know where its nest is. And I want to know now."
Deep below, the first sounds of their impossible escape began.
CRUNCH.
Philip Marks's powerful ant-mandibles bit into the rock face, shearing off a small chunk.
SCRAPE. GRIND.
Martin Wright's pangolin claws tore at the wall, sending a shower of grit and stone to the cavern floor.
CRACK.
Jack Sutton, with a roar of pure, focused rage, slammed his remaining tusk into a fissure, widening it by a precious inch.
The sounds were small, almost pathetic, against the immense, silent weight of the mountain. But they were only beginning. They were the first, defiant notes in a symphony of desperate hope.
"And so it begins!" The Great I whispered, my voice a silken, satisfied hiss. "Chip, chip, chip goes the escape tunnel below. While topside, tick, tick, tick goes the interrogation clock!" I leaned back on my couch of despair, a slow, predatory smile spreading across my unseen face. "Oh, the dramatic irony is just exquisite! They dig towards a freedom that may not exist, completely unaware that their doom is closing in from above, guided by the very friend they sent out to protect them.