The mistake is simple.
That's the worst part.
I move too soon.
— Too early, he says.
— Relax, I've got this.
— You don't "got this".
The stone leaves my hand with a dull, satisfying arc and cracks against the nearer mantis' carapace.
It doesn't provoke.
It alerts.
The creature doesn't turn slowly like before.
It snaps.
Its head pivots with unnatural speed, compound eyes locking onto my position with terrifying precision. The pressure spikes — not overwhelming, but sharp, focused.
Targeted.
— Oh no, she whispers.
— Huh. So that's what attention feels like.
The second mantis hesitates, then withdraws a step, scythes raised defensively.
No fight.
No escalation.
I've just made myself the problem.
The mantis moves.
Fast.
The ground shakes as it lunges, limbs driving its massive body forward with disturbing coordination. Stone shatters under its weight. The sound is deafening — a grinding, thunderous charge that leaves no room for doubt.
I run.
Not strategically. Not gracefully.
I bolt.
— Fallback! Fallback!
— Working on it!
— You idiot, you idiot, you idiot—
The terrain betrays me immediately. Loose shale slides underfoot, pitching me sideways as the mantis' scythe crashes down where my head was a second earlier. The impact sends a shockwave through the ground, flinging me hard into a stone wall.
Something in my ribs pops.
Air leaves my lungs in a wet, panicked gasp.
— Get up.
— Wow. Solid advice. Ten out of ten.
The mantis closes in, towering over me. Its mandibles grind louder now, vibrating through my bones. The pressure is unbearable up close — not enough to knock me unconscious, but enough to make my thoughts stutter.
I roll aside just as a scythe slams into the wall, pulverizing stone into a cloud of dust and fragments.
This is it.
This is where size wins.
— We're going to die.
— Shut up. Not yet.
— Now, he snaps.
I scramble, dragging myself along the wall, every breath a knife. Blood runs warm down my side. My vision narrows.
Then I reach it.
The stone.
I planted it days ago.
An enormous slab balanced precariously above the narrow pass — held in place by smaller supports I weakened carefully, patiently, like a spider preparing a trap it hopes never to need.
The mantis lunges again.
I shove.
Everything gives at once.
The supports snap. The slab falls.
The impact is catastrophic.
The stone crashes down onto the mantis' forward limbs, crushing one scythe entirely and shattering part of its thorax. The creature shrieks — a sound like stone tearing itself apart — and thrashes violently, smashing the wall, collapsing more rock around us.
The ground buckles.
I'm thrown again, slamming hard against the stone as debris rains down.
Pain explodes across my back and shoulder.
— Move!
— I am!
— You're not moving fast enough!
The mantis rears, wounded but not dead, dragging its broken limb uselessly as it turns blindly, striking at anything that moves.
I see it then.
The crevice.
A narrow between stones, barely wide enough for a body — barely.
I dive.
Scythes crash down behind me, missing by inches. Stone seals the entrance partially as rubble collapses, sealing me into darkness just as the mantis' bulk smashes against the opening.
The pressure presses in.
So close.
So heavy.
I curl into myself, gasping, blood pounding in my ears.
— We survived.
— Barely.
— I'm scared.
— Good. That means we're alive.
Outside, the mantis thrashes, then stills, its movements slowing as its injuries take their toll.
I stay in the dark.
Shaking.
Listening.
Waiting.
Because survival isn't about winning.
It's about fitting into spaces death can't reach.
And this time—
This time, I was small enough.