I don't faint anymore.
That's the first thing worth noting.
The pressure still comes, of course — a slow, crushing awareness, like standing too close to something that could erase me by accident — but my knees don't buckle the way they used to. My vision blurs. My teeth chatter. My thoughts splinter.
And then they reorganize.
— You're adapting, he says.
— Look at that. Character development.
— I don't like this, she whispers.
— No one asked you to like it. Survival isn't a vibe.
Hunting wasn't the plan.
It never is.
But food runs out. Roots taste like dirt and disappointment. Water is unreliable. And eventually, you either starve politely or you start looking at the wildlife differently.
Carefully.
Selectively.
Because almost everything here can kill me.
Which means the things that can't become… interesting.
I noticed them weeks ago.
At first, just shapes in the distance. Tall silhouettes rising and lowering behind broken stone ridges. Movement that was too deliberate to be wind, too heavy to be vegetation.
I watched.
That's rule number one now: watch longer than feels safe.
They look like mantises.
If mantises were nightmares scaled up by a cruel god with no sense of proportion.
Each one stands roughly the height of an elephant at the shoulder, with elongated bodies supported by four primary limbs instead of six. The front pair are scythes — not delicate, not sharp in the surgical sense, but thick, serrated, built for crushing and tearing rather than precision.
Their heads are wrong.
Too flat. Too wide. Compound eyes fractured into irregular segments, like stained glass shattered and glued back together badly. Their mandibles don't click — they grind, slow and patient, as if chewing even when there's nothing to chew.
Their carapace is pale stone-gray, cracked and layered, blending almost perfectly with the Barrows' terrain.
Camouflage by resignation.
— They're disgusting.
— Says the girl living in my chest.
— They're huge.
— Says the girl who hasn't been paying attention.
Because here's the important part.
They're weak.
Not harmless. Never harmless.But weak in the only way that matters: pressure.
When I focus on them — really focus, the way I've learned to do — the weight they exert on the world barely registers. A dull ache instead of a crushing presence. Like standing near a bonfire instead of inside a furnace.
— Compared to what's out here, he says, they're prey.
— Hear that? We're hunters now.
— I don't want to hunt.
— You want to eat?
Silence.
Their behavior confirms it.
They don't patrol. They don't stalk. They graze.
Slow, looping paths through stone fields and burial mounds, stopping to tear at mineral-rich growths or smaller scavenging creatures unlucky enough to wander too close. They react sluggishly to disturbances — a falling rock, a distant noise — turning their heads first, bodies following seconds later.
They rely on size.
On intimidation.
On number.
On the assumption that nothing stupid enough would challenge them.
— We are stupid enough, she says faintly.
— Historically, yes.
— But careful, he adds. Stupid doesn't mean reckless.
I map their territory over days.
Notches on stone. Marks in dirt. Memory anchors.
Two individuals overlap paths near a collapsed ridge — a natural funnel of broken rock and loose shale. Their movements intersect there regularly, drawn by the same mineral growth.
They tolerate each other.
Barely.
Occasional posturing. Raised limbs. Grinding mandibles.No cooperation.
— That's your opening, those two don't like each other, he says.
— Classic "let them fight" strategy. Very human.
— What if it goes wrong?
— Then we die creatively.
I prepare slowly.
Pebbles first. Thrown from a distance. Testing reactions.
They respond with irritation, not alarm.
Good.
Larger stones next, timed to land near one, then the other. Not enough to cause damage — just enough to provoke.
One turns toward the sound.
The other mirrors the movement.
Their paths converge faster than usual.
— Heart rate steady, he notes.
— I don't have a heart rate monitor.
— Figure of speech.— Still pretentious.
I retreat into cover, wedging myself into a narrow cut between rocks where my presence dampens. The pressure of the land presses in, but it's manageable. Familiar.
The mantises close distance.
Too close.
Their limbs clash — not violently at first, more like territorial shoving. Scythes scraping against carapace. A sound like stone dragged across bone.
Then one strikes harder.
The other retaliates.
Slow becomes sudden.
— They're escalating, she says, panic rising.
— Yes they are.
— We should leave.
— And miss the show?
I grip the largest stones I can lift with one arm, stacking them beside me.
Timing matters.
Position matters.
Luck matters far too much.
I wait.
Because that's what I've learned.
Waiting is survival.
And soon —
Soon, one of them stumbles.
Just a little.
Enough.
I smile.
— Showtime.