MIA

by Gravitys Rainboom

Chapter 14: Soldier Side

This chapter features the nightmare of a Spartan. You have been warned

The sky was grey and the air reeked of ash.

Darkened clouds wept the little flecks onto weary heads, staining the icy snow gripping the landscape. Air burned lungs, choking the ragged, bloodied throats of anyone who had the audacity to breath. Columns of black smoke drifted up from the world below.

Wind brought no respite, only more ash; ash carried on the backs of distant gunfire chilling mangled ears. A handful of trees stooped over like old men, embittered. The last leaves had fled long ago, all that remained were battered husks of dying timber. Their branches were bare and charred, grasping vainly at the burnt soil. Their numbers had dwindled; they could be counted on a single, maimed hand. Their demise etched burnt into the land like cracks on timber.

Bloodshot eyes glared at them with envy.

The slosh of grey boots on ashen snow drifted up, partnered with the smoke.

Specters roamed between canvases of patched cloth, matching the torn clothing of their own dead skin. Metal beasts lay rusting in the open, occasionally sighing in pain.

Hushed whispers were croaked out from between stained cheeks.

In the center of this stood a towering figure. Cracks in his orange armor filled with the falling ash; scrapped and blurred, pushed into the pallet as little bits of the landscape, little bits of trees of dirt and skin, burned its way under the metal. He looked as cinders settled his visor. Or maybe it was just snow.

It was hard to tell.

“Spartan!”

He dropped his head from the clouds and towards a young man with fiery hair poking out from beneath a filthy bandage. The man gave him a toothy grin.

“Hey there, I’m the Sergeant in charge of this outfit.”

The two men shook hands.

“Jorge zero five two.”

“You came just in time, friend. Not sure how long our bombardments are gonna keep those split-lips out.”

“When are we assaulting New Guernica?”

“Still have a few hours before birds are set. Most tracks are shot to hell though; so don’t expect armor on this op. You get your orders yet?”

The figure who had called himself Jorge shook his head.

The man looked over his shoulder “Can you do me a favor?”

Jorge nodded.

“My squad is set to scout out around a small town called Lumo about a couple klicks from here. I’d feel a hell of a lot more comfortable if we had a Spartan with us. Won’t take more than an hour.”

“Sure.”

The redheaded man beamed, bright teeth and colorful hair shining. Jorge followed him to a set of warthogs waiting at the entrance at the camp.

“Alright boys, we got some extra firepower on this mission. Let’s give a big ‘ol ODST welcome to our newest member.”

There was no welcome. Dirty faces barely nodded at the voice. Jorge climbed onto the warthog. The swine creaked a miserable protest, the engine reluctantly coming to a start. Its wheels squealed, sending a spray of snow and ash and mud, and the weary machine trudged forward. Jorge blinked whenever the ash, or the snow, or who knows what it was, hit his visor.

He blinked a lot, and everything whirled by at a dizzying speed. The dirt road gave way to crimson muck. The squelching of tires was punctuated with an occasional thump.

One of the warthogs got stuck.

“Shit!” swore the redheaded man.

The faces all stared hollowly ahead. They hadn’t noticed that anything had happened.

“Need help?” asked Jorge.

The sergeant nodded and pointed at one of the soldiers. “Get out and push.”

A short, stocky man with an unruly beard hopped off. He waddled to the back and pushed, grunting and slipping. Red mud seeped into his boots as he did his best not to fall. Jorge joined him.

The man laughed. “Looks like I could use some help.” His voice was strangely high. His beard looked out of place; premature, like someone had stuck a patchy rug to a teenager’s cheeks.

Jorge nodded. With a casual shove the Warthog sped forward. The soldier was caught off-guard and slipped, covering his face with red mud. His eyes flashed with anger, but quickly caught himself, like a bad habit he was trying to suppress. He wiped his beard and laughed.

“They build you strong, eh?”

Jorge and the bearded man got back on the Warthogs, and they were off again.

Soon buildings poked over a hill, and they rolled into the village.

Tinderbox-buildings lined the dirt road. Burnt out. Jagged beams twisted into fangs and grinned like skulls at the soldiers. Corpses grinned too, their clawed out eyes sneering at the interlopers, ignoring the entrails that had been stolen from them to decorate the landscape.

The Warthog came to a stop among the carnage.

“Fall out, marines!” ordered the sergeant. His soldiers snapped to attention, like wind-up dolls. “Look for survivors. You,” he ordered, pointing to one of his men. “Go with the Spartan and check the buildings.”

The soldier the commander pointed to said nothing. He shambled towards the nearest building, leaving a trail of red puddles wherever his feet dragged. Jorge squeezed the grip of his machine gun, his knuckles turning white and bleeding. He followed the soldier into the burned out husk of a farmhouse.

Everything was grey: the furniture, the floor, the wood, the flesh. Their skin was cracked; turned to ash and melting in. Their faces were scratched off, and their clothes were seared to them, melded against their bodies. All that was left of them were their shoes. Big shoes, little shoes, boots, slippers. One of the shoes was pink, butterfly stitches on it. Jorge stared at it. The soldier didn’t.

“Hello?” called out Jorge. Snow shook off the ripped beams and floated onto their heads making him blink. His companion kicked one of the charred figures; the pink shoe fell off, buried in ash.

“Hey!” snapped Jorge; he blinked again. The ODST didn’t hear him, and they inspected the rest of the building. The shoes were gone; their owners were all that were left. The wood groaned tiredly, and the wind curled up dying whispers into their ears.

They left the building.

“Anyone?” asked the redheaded man, looking up from his radio. The soldier next to Jorge didn’t answer. He sat back onto the Warthog, his lifeless eyes fixed blankly at his muddied boots. Jorge shook his head. The sergeant cursed quietly. “No, they got hit,” he muttered into the radio. Crackled static answered. “No one. It’s a ghost town. Orders?”

The radio shrieked in agony. Jorge covered his ears over his helmet and winced.

“Understood. Hey, you alright buddy?” The redheaded man looked at Jorge strangely. Jorge could feel something trickle from his ear, but he nodded. The sergeant nodded back. “Evac’ll be here in about thirty minutes. We don’t have time to head back to camp, so we’re just rendezvousing with the rest of the force from here.”

Jorge watched the rest of the troops wander between ruins, lost. Their arms stiffly raised, clutching their weapons; their feet stumbling mechanically, through the snow and mud and blood. Boots tattered and torn, leaving bits of leather and skin wherever they went.

The bearded man from before jogged next to Jorge. “No luck, eh?”

“We still got some time before the Pelicans pick us up,” said the redheaded man. He pointed to the bearded soldier. “Go check out the mill down the road.”

“I’ll go,” offered Jorge.

“Are you sure? I’d be happy to go,” lied the stocky Marine.

“I’m sure.”

“Alright, it’s settled,” said the commander. He pointed to the soldier who sat on the Warthog. “Join the Spartan again, but this time make sure to be back in thirty. I don’t wanna stay here longer than we have to.”

Jorge and his companion made their way through the muck, leaving behind the sergeant and the bearded man. They found a bridge running over a creek. The water was supposed to be frozen that time of year; grey sludge ran through anyways. A black lump floated lifelessly along. Jorge didn’t get a good look at it though, he chose to keep watching the sludge, and ignore the grey fingers poking from the water.

The mill tore through the ground and towered above the trudging stream, casting its long shadow across the bridge. Uprooted trees, gnarled roots, and dirt ripped from the earth rained down. Jorge shivered.

It was the only building in the village that was intact. The wheel spun endlessly squeaking loudly, the grey water trickling through. Something hit it with a wet thunk. Jorge chose to ignore that too.

They walked in. The room was empty. Dust hung thickly in the air and hay rustled quietly as light from machines blinked briefly before shutting off. There were no burn marks or holes riddling the walls. There was no ash falling from the burned ceiling. There were no shoes.

“Hello?” said Jorge. The soldier sat on a bale of hay. He checked his weapon, ignorant of everything around him. The Spartan ran his hand against the wall, knocking and occasionally keeping quiet to listen

“Do you hear anything?” The Marine didn’t answer. He didn’t look up from his rifle. His rifle was his world, scrubbing, inspecting, making sure it was perfect. Not a part of the canvas of grey and ash.

Jorge shook his head and walked around the room. His foot struck the ground with a hollow noise and he stopped. He stomped his foot a few more times, listening to the sound. The floor cracked under the weight, and the soldier jumped up, rifle raised, eyes blank.

Jorge lifted the trap door. Golden light burst through, washing the mill in amber.

“Is anyone alive?” he called out. “Estar vivo?” The Spartan dropped his machine gun by his feet and pulled out a pistol. “Coming?” he asked the marine. He didn’t say anything.

Jorge climbed down the rotted wooden steps and the air became warmer, brighter.

The two made their way down into the tunnel. Claw marks lined the walls, while the floor was covered in plasma burns. They moved methodically through the yellow hallway, never advancing more than half a meter with every step. The pair came to a large, mangled metal door. It was like a gúta had torn through it in a fit of bloodlust: entire portions looked like they had been ripped off, half of the metal was darkened with more plasma burns. The steel had melted altogether, and the whole thing was dented forward, a single blow having driven it inward. The dashboard next to it was inside out, sending amber colored sparks flying in every direction.

The two cautiously stepped forward. Jorge knocked on the door, but apart from the sound echoing on the other side nothing replied. The Spartan nodded, but the soldier didn’t nod back; he instead gripped his rifle even tighter. Jorge kicked the door with tremendous force. The steel flew off its hinges, and he rushed in with his pistol raised, followed by his companion.

Rot clawed at their eyes, ripping their lids and bleeding hot tears through blurred lashes. Jorge breathed, and poison wormed its way through his filters and down his throat, burning, gagging, choking his insides. Shivers ran down the Spartan’s spine and a thousand needles pierced his skin and drew blood across his entire being as the claw marks, burns, shoes, flesh hid behind stinging tears, bashing at his throbbing head.

Scratches on the ceiling, walls, echoed of a mad orgy of pain and fear and blood, frenzied as animals tried to claw their way out, literally tearing their fingernails out and ripping skin off until bone stood alone, trying to escape the suitors knocking on the door. Black, burned, cooked inhuman fangs twisted into sneering skulls. Cracked teeth and bleeding gums hung on broken jaws, dozens laughing at the pair at the doorway from faces erased by fire, purged of anything in a mess of ash or snow or blood that dripped from walls and floor and squelched under the heavy boots of the living.

The soldier gagged, his face contorted in horror. His eyes quivered open. He stared at the carnage and his mouth opened. Wider and wider it ripped until jagged teeth and spittle ran down his face into a silent shriek. His palm slapped over the terror, and vomit exploded from between his fingers.

He rushed out of the room. The hall echoed distant coughs and sobs.

Jorge sighed in resignation. As he was prepared to follow the soldier he heard a shuffling from one of the piles of rotted flesh. Jorge pulled out his pistol and approached it.

He kicked out the lifeless form, and in its place laid a quivering ball of pale skin. Blue eyes stared wildly at Jorge. The child kicked away from him and began screaming incoherently, but before he could get far the Spartan grabbed him.

“Quiet!”

The boy didn’t listen; he shut his eyes, and a stream of tears and shrieks flowed out. Jorge grabbed the boy’s face, forcing the child to look at him in silent terror.

“Ingles?”

The boy nodded. Drops of red fell from filthy blond hair, and shimmered around blue eyes.

“What happened?”

He whimpered and shut his eyes, shaking his head. Jorge let go, and pulled off his helmet. Cold, wet air wrapped his face. Despite the suffocating stench, he smiled.

“Are you alright?”

The boy said nothing. His head bobbed. Up down, up down. In the hallway there were sobs.

Jorge squeezed his shoulder.

“Are you alright?”

The child’s head bobbed.

“We should go.” Jorge headed out. The boy wasn’t behind him, he was crying again. “What’s wrong?”

No answer. The little one stared at a trio a few feet away from them. Three pairs of colorful shoes stuck to melted skin.

The child hugged one of them. Cold, smelly blood hugged him back. He felt sticky and he cried.

“Family?”

His head bobbed.

“I’m sorry.” Jorge waited. The corridor sobbed. The room sobbed. He knelt there, next to him, and waited. “Come, let them rest.”

“Rest?”

“Yes, they’re sleeping.”

The boy’s head shook.

“Yes they are.”

“But their eyes are open.”

“Well then, we should close them, shouldn’t we?”

The child blinked. Jorge glided his palm across the small one’s eyes, closing them.

The boy looked at Jorge. He put his palm on the tall one’s eyes and tried.

“They won’t stay down,” he sobbed.

Jorge grabbed the boy’s hand and guided his palm down the man’s face, closing his eyes. The boy stared at his fingers, and closed the woman’s eyes.

A crack of thunder echoed from the hallway. Jorge snapped up. A pistol slipped into his hands, squeezing his knuckles white. He hugged the whimpering boy against his leg. The hallway stopped sobbing.

“Stay here.” Jorge stepped through the door. Shivering, the soldier slumped against the cold grey wall. His teeth scraped against the muzzle of his rifle, trembling hands clutched the grip for dear life. His whole body was bloody, men always looked bloody; but this blood was brighter. It was warm and sticky and it poured down his chin and caked the wall behind him. Jorge knelt and gently pulled the gun away from him.

The man’s eyes shook bestially. His tear stained face contorted in pain. The horror on his lips masked the glee that was bubbling under, and old sobs bounced off the walls.

The shaking stopped, as did the warm blood. A small hand glided down the dead man’s eyes, closing them. Jorge looked up, the little boy looked back and smiled.

“Durmiendo,” croaked the child.

Jorge wiped blood off the child’s face and nodded. He took the chain around the dead man’s neck and put it in his pocket, before taking the little one’s hand and walking him out of the tunnel.

“We’ve got a live one!” He picked the boy up and put him on one of the Warthogs, letting a soldier with a red cross on his helmet check him.

“Nice work,” said the sergeant. He looked around and blinked. He realized that something was missing. “Where’s Riley?”

“Who?”

“The soldier I sent you with?”

“Died.”

The sergeant’s smile faltered. “What happened?”

“Gun misfired, hit his femoral artery,” lied the Spartan. “His name was Riley?”

The redheaded man didn’t frown, nor did he smile. He shrugged. “I don’t know. That’s a shame. Do you have his dog-tag?”

“But you just said his name was Riley?”

“I think so, maybe, maybe not. Who’s to say, maybe he’s Riley,” he pointed at the soldier with the red cross on his helmet. “I can’t keep track of everyone; do you have the dog-tag?”

Jorge handed the redheaded man the soldier’s dog tags, who gently put them in his pocket. Once they were hidden the smile returned. “Okay, that’s about it, pick up should be here in ten to take us to New Guernica.”

“What about the boy?”

“We’ll have a ship—”

A flash of light screamed across the sky, igniting a Warthog into a ball of flames and raining pieces of molten metal onto the muddy earth. Jorge felt burning wash over him like a wave as his skin scorched under a flower of orange and red. He blinked, belly up, grey muck seeping into the boots of his armor, snow in the cracks.

Bolts of neon light tore through the air, ripping through the falling ash. Jorge stood up and watched as monsters rain down from the sky, landing with blood-curdling roars. The redheaded man yelled something at Jorge, something drowned out by the sound of muscle and bone being torn apart. Soldiers hid behind broken buildings as well as broken bodies.

One of the men bent forward as his chest popped open with a muffled puff. Pink needles silently slid their way into his torso without so much as sending a cloud of crimson into the air. The soldier looked down at his chest with the same expressionless face, and upon realizing that he had been killed carefully put his weapon on the ground and lay down without a fuss. Half a dozen others did the same. Gently dropping their weapons before lying down.

Jorge’s weapon hummed and opened fire. The monsters’ limbs were grabbed by an unknown forced and eviscerated. Jorge couldn’t hear the sound of snapping bones and breaking tendons over the pleasant hum of his gun.

His armor glowed, encasing him in cocoon of gold. Jorge thought it looked nice against all the grey.

A flying mass of purple metal arrived, and a second Warthog erupted in orange flames. Even the fire looked grey, swallowed by ash and mud and a world that forgot colors besides brown and grey and red. Except for the armor. The armor was still gold.

Jorge heard a clicking. He dropped his machine gun and pulled out his pistol. He felt relieved as the small gun shook against his numb fingers. More purple masses arrived to drop more purple monsters into the mud below, as soldiers put their guns on the ground and quietly lay in the bloody, muddy, gooey, muck to die. A queer thought crossed Jorge’s mind, one about eyes: there were now too many for him to close.

The third warthog erupted, throwing Jorge a second time and interrupting his thought about eyes. He felt a sharp pain in his back while his ears rung, and his eyesight was tinted with red.

Shrieks rising all around him, but they weren’t supposed to be screaming, they hadn’t been screaming, but now they were, and the sharp pain in his back crept up his spine, growing, oozing, until it tore at him along with the screams. More monsters fell like snowy ash from the sky, hissing, splitting their grotesque faces at them in cruel jeers as they lay waste to cursing veterans and weeping recruits, who scurried in the blood stains like squealing rats. Everything was moving faster than Jorge could think with his sluggish brain and sluggish muscles and sluggish screams ripping at his back like he had been set on fire.

He raised his head to try finding some semblance of sanity in an insane world. He called out for the redheaded man, only to find him running through the chaos flailing his arms wildly as if overcome by some divine fervor. His face was engulfed in red flames, merging with his hair and slowly melting away his skin into red, bloody, muddy, gooey, muck before it cracked into a thousand black flakes and fell to the ground, mixing with the rest of the ashy snow. He opened his mouth to let out a terrific shriek and the flames flowed down into his throat, cackling and crackling as they burned his insides, his white teeth glowing brilliantly around a face a burnt flesh.

He fell to the ground where his body convulsed and shrieked like a broken machine gone out of control. Slowly he ran out of juice, rolling, then twitching, then still, until there was nothing but the reek of burning flesh as a testament to his existence.

A monster leapt over the wreckage of one of the Warthogs. Twisting it’s snarling face into a sickening smile, it pierced Jorge’s arm with a glowing sword. Jorge didn’t flinch. He grabbed the creature’s head and squeezed until he heard a pop. He pulled the sword out with his purple hand.

There, among the lights. Among the puffing of soldiers lying down. Among the shrieks. Among the splattering browns, the falling greys, the ash that floated down like snow; the red muddy, gooey, muck; the sleepless eyes thirsting for palms to close them; the colorful shoes attached to shrivel lumps of grey; the melting faces of red hair; the weeping toys with holes in their legs, legs that carried them away from the rooms of red and reeking rot, lay half a boy.

Jorge couldn’t tell that his hair was yellow, because it was red, where there was hair it was red, and where there wasn’t there was just a big hole filled with more red. And his clothes mixed with blood that Jorge couldn’t tell was his or the boy’s or the bodies in that room or the soldiers that had lied down all around them. And the boy’s blue eyes were hiding behind pale, sunless lids. Jorge thought and thought as his body burned from the inside, but he ignored it and he thought and thought and couldn’t remember.

He couldn’t remember closing those lids. As much as he tried he couldn’t remember closing them. They had closed on their own, like he closed his own eyes. He must of found a way to do it, no matter that Jorge couldn’t see the boy’s arms, he must have found a way to close them. What else made sense? It was the only logical explanation, he couldn’t remember closing them so how else would they have closed. He couldn’t remember. And suddenly, he couldn’t remember all sorts of things.

Like the tie that he couldn’t remember how to put on, or the resting soldiers that lay around him. He couldn’t remember the black armor that they wore, the armor that was familiar, and he couldn’t remember how he got so alone, with nothing but the black armor that was familiar and half a boy to keep him company, and he couldn’t remember how it got so quiet, how the sounds of gunfire and flashing lights had disappeared and been replaced by a breeze that carried with it more ash.

There was always more ash than snow.

And he couldn’t remember taking his helmet off, or how it had been cut in two. And he couldn’t remember the pressure in his chest, the pressure that was growing, slowly growing, filling his stomach with an emptiness that made him want to vomit as it built up all over his body: in his head, in his chest, behind his eyes threatening to push them out, in his teeth. His teeth hurt and shook and this pressure built and built and sweat poured from every pore as his skin trembled and his eyes hurt and his mouth went dry as cuts slivered down his throat threatening to cough up blood and this pressure that grew and grew and grew until his chest felt like exploding.

And the light that shone over him and cast away all the ash and all the grey and everything around him; and the voice that whispered sweet nothings in his ear, that made the pressure worse, that made his eyes hurt worse, and cut his throat with the gurgling roar that exploded from his throat.

And his that body fell apart as his scream ripped his insides and the streets and the light that ripped his flesh and burned everything, everything.

And how he had layed back down in the ash and the snow, too tired; too tired to move, to think, to bleed, to cry, to look up at the world as it lit.

And a shape of blue, shining with tears, out of the corner of his mad, veined, bloodshot, quivering eyes that stayed open, that no one closed. And the voice that remained after everything was gone.

Whispering.

In a void.

Olly
Olly

Oxen Free

Jorge lurched forward with a roar. His body gleaming with sweat as he kicked away his silk bed sheets. A massive hand shot out from somewhere in his dark quarters and came down on his mouth, silencing him. His mind blanked, and instincts kicked in. He grabbed the arm that held him down on the bed, and pulled at it with all his might, sending whatever attacked him flying to the other side of his black room with a loud grunt.

The Spartan leapt off the bed, sheets and blankets flying onto the stone floor along with his feet.

Giant hooded figures surrounded him, each brandishing sharp swords and pointing them menacingly at him. His nightmare long forgotten, adrenaline shot through his body. But before Jorge could strike, he felt something grab his arms from behind and hold him in a tight lock. One of the figures stepped forward with surprising swiftness and pulled out a leather sack from its belt. It poured out what looked like a fine dust onto the palm of his hand, and blew it at the human’s face.

Jorge tried to hold his breath, but it was no use; he felt a coldness slither down his body. The soldier grabbed the creature holding him and heaved it over his shoulders, sending it into its companions. Now free from its hold, Jorge shot forward towards his bed, and pawed under his pillow in search of his gun. Out of the corner of his eyes he saw a fist speeding towards him, and moved his arms up in order to block. His heart stopped.

He couldn’t feel his limbs.

The fist struck him with shocking force, and he could swear he felt his jaw break.

Jorge felt like he was flying.

He blinked, and found himself looking at the ceiling.

He tried to move his arms again, but they wouldn’t respond. The coldness was spreading throughout his body, his vision was fading, and his eyelids were getting heavier and heavier.

The hooded figures stood over him.

The last thing he saw was a black hoof speeding towards his face.

As the hooded figures carried the unconscious human out of the room, no one seemed to notice the glowing dream catcher hanging at the foot of his bed.

Moonlight bathed the Everfree forest, as it did every evening. There was, however, something odd about that night. The sky seemed a little dimmer than usual, but no pony really noticed. Even the creatures of the forest, mystical as they may be, did not stir at the odd moonlight. That was the other thing that was strange: the forest was eerily quiet; it was as if all of the Everfree’s residents, both big and small alike, had fled to their dens or alcoves; hiding in fear at some unknown force that held its grip over the forest.

Still, this did not concern the owner of a pair of fluffy white paws that found themselves hopping through the logs and vines of the forest.

Angel was not a happy bunny. Then again, it would be fair to say that he was rarely ever happy, but at that moment he was particularly unhappy. Livid, would be more apt. Murderously furious, would be even more apt. So furious in fact, that he could subject all of Equestria to a thousand years of darkness and misery under his iron (and fluffy) fist.

And he would too…

…if Fluttershy didn’t give him such a strict bedtime.

The reason behind Angel’s apocalyptic fury was none other than that giant metal thing that had kicked him out of the cottage a couple of days ago. Just the thought of that giant oaf made steam shoot out of his long ears. Not only did the giant have the audacity to kick him out of his house, but thanks to him, Fluttershy had to go to Canterlot, leaving Angel on his own to scrounge up some food like some common forest hare.

Oh the humiliation!

Branches whipped past the little ball of fur and hate as he bounded through the thick forest floor in search of his prize, not noticing the conspicuous quiet around him. Up and down, left and right, the spunky little rodent’s paws glided over the dirt with awesome speed.

Eventually he cleared the tree line and found himself in a small clearing filled with Bubble Flowers. The glowing blue pedals drifted lazily through the air, bathing the trees in an eerie light. Angel pushed one of them away as he scanned his surroundings.

Then, he saw it.

An orange flash at the far end of the clearing. Angel felt himself salivate in anticipation as he bounded towards his prize. Even in the dimmed moonlight, the carrot glittered brilliantly. It lay on its side, like someone had carelessly discarded it. Angel’s eyes shone, inspecting the carrot carefully like a diamond merchant inspecting a flawlessly cut jewel. He rubbed his paws greedily and hefted the root onto his shoulder…

…or at least he tried too, before slipping and falling face first onto the cold, unforgiving ground. The bunny rubbed his head in confusion. He tried lifting it again, but the carrot wouldn’t budge. He tried pushing it, pulling it, picking it up from every angle possible, but no matter what he did the carrot refused to move.

Frustration reaching its boiling point, Angel kicked the carrot furiously.

A decision he regretted immediately.

Angel hopped around the clearing in pain, holding his throbbing paw and squeaking out curses to the cruel bunny gods above.

He glared at the bizarre carrot, trying to figure out just what the heck was wrong with it. It looked like a regular carrot. It was long, orange, and shiny like a regular carrot. It was covered in scales like a regular carrot, and was the length of a regular carrot. It was even covered in dirt, like it had just been pulled ou—

Wait a second…scales?

The forest rumbled menacingly.

Angel paused. He looked down at the ‘carrot’ with a growing sense of trepidation. He poked it again.

The whole forest shook, making Angel’s teeth shatter wildly. His ears folded back as the ground vibrated under him. Fruit bats fled from treetops and leaves fell to the ground. Insects scurried away frantically, and bark split open from the pressure in the air.

Angel felt something shift behind him. Something big.

His neck screeched as his head swivelled slowly, ever so slowly, around. A distant shadow moved around the clearing, like a mountain had grown legs and picked itself up from the ground. Massive, leather wings rose towards the sky. Angel shivered as he watched this dark mass swirl among the stars, transfixed by its size.

Then, an eye opened. The green orb towered over him, like a giant emerald had replaced the moon. A long black, reptilian slit cut through it staring at the minuscule bunny. Angel stood only mere millimeters from it, feeling crushed by its gaze.

The shadow didn’t seem so distant anymore.

The bunny rabbit gulped as the eye focused and bore into him

The loudest noise Angel ever heard erupted all around him. The roar tore through the canopy, trees exploded in a rain of splinters, the earth split open, clouds vanished, and boulders cracked. Angel’s oversized eardrums burst, and all he could hear was a loud ringing. He could still feel it though, feel the pressure of the roar against his bones, feel his fur stand like it was going to be ripped off, feel his skull vibrating under his skin.

The shadow giant moved, and Angel did the only thing he could think off:

He ran.

As fast as he could.

And the forest exploded in flames.