Shit. The single digit floating hauntingly in the corner of my vision takes on a whole new significance. If that thing, whatever it was, wants revenge, the only thing I can rely on is my pitiful 2 in strength to fight with.

  Though maybe not, if this game has any vague concept of fairness. I flip open the chest. Light, the pure white light of the waiting room, glows from inside its depths. There’s a brief flash, and a baseball sized sphere floats up to hover above the light.

  Identification: Deity’s Bauble (Rare Artifact, Toy)

  A plaything of young gods everywhere, this small sphere was built to withstand the attentions of divine children experimenting with unfathomable, and uncontrolled, power. The youth of all species are forgetful, so this bauble has been imbued with magic to prevent its owner from losing it.

  Imbuement: So long as this object continues to exist, the owner can will it to return. This item will return to an open hand, or, should both hands be occupied, will maintain an orbit around its owner. Requires momentary concentration.

  My stomach drops. The ball spins once and falls into my palm. It is heavier than it looks and remarkably smooth. It is also, from what I can tell, fucking useless. A toy? My life is on the line.

  A grunt rumbles from the edge where the creature disappeared. I tense, but it doesn't appear. Whatever it is. Clutching my useless bauble like some sort of ward against evil, I edge over towards the drop. Expecting an angry weasel to pop out at any moment, it takes me nearly a minute to muster the courage to peer over the edge.

  Almost immediately, I have to fight not to relax. A few feet down is a short ledge made of half broken branches, a strange pink sap oozing from fresh wounds in the bark. Below, far enough down that I have a hard time imagining being attacked, clings a little man.

  Plant? Manplant.

  Barely a foot long, most of it is covered in tiny green leaves. What skin is exposed looks like smooth leather. Its green eyes, far too large for its tiny face, stare up at me with remarkable humanity. Or life, I guess? Because this thing definitely isn't human. It looks… resigned. Depressed. A gentle breeze sways the branch it clings to, and the leaves ruffle to show more of its body. Is that… is that a pot belly?

  Identification: Threenut, Otachai Warrior

  Level: 8

  Strengths: Strength, Agility

  Weaknesses: Will

  The Otachai are the Competitor species of the Seventh. Known for their tenacious and fearless hearts, they defend their pride and honor with terrible and extraordinary valor.

  Wait, the Seventh—

  “Crack me nuts,” the little creature mutters suddenly, and I flinch in surprise. Its sad look turns quickly angry. “Ta be taken by a piddly twig, smooth and pale and weak. I didnae grow to such heights as to think I’m for winning, but to wither from the tree like this… pah. Not even a battle. Trickery. Ambush. Dishonesty.”

  He—I'm assuming, because I can't imagine that voice as feminine—says the last three words like curses. He flexes tiny arms, straining, but all he succeeds in doing is a short pullup before slipping a few inches farther down the broken branch. The jagged roots seem to be gathering below him, as if the obstacle course can sense him weakening.

  I take the god toy ball and tuck it under my dress like you always see tennis players do. Even though it's heavy, it doesn’t budge from my hip as I shift from one foot to the other.

  “What’re ye doin flyin’ through the air, twig?” he growls, his little brow furrowing. “Got some kinda flyin’ Class, is it?”

  Oh. I’m twig. The little sprout man is talking to me?

  Kora. Why does the tiny tree alien have an angry Scottish highlander accent? Surely he isn’t speaking English.

  “The Twelve make certain that communication is not an issue between the races. Even should you encounter another human who does not speak your language, you will understand each other perfectly. There are exceptions, often in the case of intentional deception. In regards to this accent, the translations are supposed to evoke meaning beyond the literal, or all nuance to language would be lost.”

  “Cannae even water me with the kenning, eh twig?” the creature interrupts, his scowl fading into something that, if I had to guess, reflects resignation. “I’d snap ye in two over me knee, but me core’s drained. Withered roots and endless droughts, what a way ta die.”

  Staring down at the little man, something stirs in my heart. Is this… pity? God, what am I supposed to do now?

  “Only one species can survive, Competitor. This creature would not spare you if the situation were reversed.”

  I give myself a little mental shake. What the hell, Sam? You’re feeling pity for this thing? Why? It already told me it wants to snap me over its knee. I have no doubt that it would, if given the chance. A wooden crook dangles from its back, long enough to serve as a mean club for the creature. The end of it is stained with the ichor of… something, at least. Maybe one of those dingos. It is a sobering sight. This isn’t some cute puppy in a shelter commercial, just waiting for adoption to have a happy life. It is a thinking, breathing creature that wants to kill me.

  This is some trolly problem bullshit, and my brain power wasted on that impossible conundrum wasn’t wasted.

  I don’t actually have to kill him. I just don’t have to save him.

  “Technically, if you wish to reap the greatest harvest from his soul, you need to participate a bit more actively in his death.”

  Kicking him over the edge wasn’t ‘participatory’ enough?

  If you spot this tale on Amazon, know that it has been stolen. Report the violation.

  “The universe rewards direct action, not unintended consequences. Come, it will be simple. Your soul has recovered enough for a bit of Strengthen Gravity, I think.”

  The ache and itch in my body has faded, and my energy has climbed back to a paltry, but a bit safer, four. A little bit of Strengthen Gravity. Just a little push.

  Do it, Sam. You’re the Singularity, the bad bitch that everyone should be afraid of. You’re fighting for your species’ survival. Every one of them you remove is one less that can kill you and yours. You have to get stronger. You have to get tougher. Even if not for yourself, for Dad. For Nolan. Killing this creature is just one step towards saving them.

  So why does it make me feel so sick to even imagine?

  Remember who you are right now, Sam. You’re the Singularity. She would do this without a second thought.

  My soul feels frail, fragile, like ice spread thin over a pond in the beginning of spring. Like if subjected to too much pressure, I will shatter. Steeling my resolve, I draw a bit of energy into focus, placing a narrow field of effect over the splintering branch. It won’t take much.

  Weaken Gravity.

  Strength drains out of my soul, leaving me with a single point of energy remaining. The leaves that make up the creature’s cloak flutter and float. The strain leaves his arms, and he floats next to the broken branch. His eyes stare up at me with unmitigated shock. I don’t blame him. I’m pretty fucking shocked myself. I turn away, shivering, unable to even watch him climb.

  “Competitor! What have you done?”

  I don’t know. I… I just don’t know.

  “I do not understand. I have never… You wish to die?”

  No, I… I just couldn’t. I don’t know if I can explain it. I barely even understand it myself. But killing him is wrong.

  “After meeting you, Samantha Foreman, I quickly realized that I chose my Competitor poorly. But your grit, your determination, your Class… I had begun to hope. What a fool I was.”

  Sorry to disappoint. Better luck next time.

  A small brown hand snags the lip of the floating platform, and the sprout man levers himself over onto his back. He lies there for a moment, breathing hard, his round belly rising and falling. I watch him dully, trying to stir some form of regret or fear from deep within my heart. Unsuccessfully. After a moment, he rolls over and fixes me with his emerald stare.

  “Ta speak true, twig, I donnae understand.”

  “Me neither, Threenut,” I say, meeting his gaze steadily. “I know I was supposed to kill you, or let you die, or whatever, but it didn’t feel right.”

  “Didnae feel right here, neither! By the Green!” He jumps to his feet, showing remarkable life for someone who couldn’t even climb a branch a few moments ago. “Crush me nuts, I live!”

  He does a little dance, the leaves of his cloak rippling in strange patterns. He spins in place and jumps to twice his height, planting both feet and throwing two tiny fists into the air. I have to fight the urge to laugh. His belly protrudes over his bark-leather pants, wobbling slightly from the exertion. He can’t be much over a foot tall from toe to crown, even with the hood of green leaves decorating the top of his head. His face, pulled into a look that can only be joy, stiffens. He looks down at me, his green eyes practically glowing.

  “Root and rock, an apology is owed. Ye dinnae have ta spare me so. Ye have the honor of the Tree, even twiggy as ye are. I'll give the fight ye deserve, lass. Soon as we're both fit ta sing.”

  “Uh, well, what if I don't want to fight at all?” The words tumble from my lips like lemmings headed for the precipice. Once they start, they don't stop. “This whole thing is pretty fucked, you know? Gods designing us just to be tools in some stupid contest. I don't want to be a tool, even of a god, you know?”

  “That's blasphemy, that is,” he grunts, folding his arms and resting them on his belly in a pose that feels long practiced. “Threenut serves the great Tree, here, there, all wheres.”

  “Sure.” I hesitate, feeling like I'm walking on eggshells. I hate talking to religious people. The words never feel right. An idea hits me like a lightning bolt, and, for once, Kora feels contemplative rather than dismissive as she reads my intent. “Glory to the tree, or whatever. I know we're supposed to kill each other, and maybe someday we will, but that day doesn't have to be today.”

  “Hoping ta grow strong enough to face me fair, twig?” He flexes in a rustle of leaves, tiny muscles popping proudly. “Cannae imagine it.”

  “No, I can’t, either.” Probably because I'm already five times your size, little dude. “But think about it. What are the goals of this stage of the Tournament?”

  “Be the last still rooted,” he says firmly, folding his arms again. “As is proper.”

  “Wrong. Not to be the last. To be one of the last ten thousand.” I stare at him expectantly, but he just looks befuddled. “Threenut, that means that we don’t have to fight each other. Not now, maybe not ever. We can work together to survive this.”

  Threenut frowns, his too-large eyes going unfocused for a moment, lips twitching as he thinks. No, not as he thinks. As he speaks to his Mentor.

  “This has every likelihood of ending poorly,” Kora says in a despondent voice. “We would be better served adding his energy to yours.”

  Honestly? In this case, I think you’re flat wrong. Something about this feels right like nothing has since this whole shitshow began. I decided to be human, to live and die purely human. Well, one of the best parts of humanity is our willingness to help those who can’t help themselves.

  “He’ll help himself, alright. To your soul the moment you go to sleep.”

  Threenut’s eyes focus, and he gives me a slow nod.

  “Yer idea hordes the wisdom, twig,” he says, stepping closer. “For this bit of season, we grow together. I for ye and ye for me.”

  He lifts his hands as if in supplication to a witnessing god.

  Damn it, there are gods probably witnessing this.

  “Sure?”

  “But swear me a true, twig. By rock and root, by sap and sorrow, that we fight when the rest are burned.”

  “You want me to swear to fight you?” I ask, my voice rising a bit in disbelief. “We may have to, with this fucked up game, but you want to?”

  “Even ye have heard me tale, twig, for ye knew me name without the telling. The tiniest blade o’ grass has heard tale of Threenut. Me strength, me height, me girth.” I fight a snort of laughter. Mostly successfully. He doesn’t seem to notice. “To be laid low by a twig is sorrow taken root. I must pull the weed of me shame, or the Tree will grow on without me.”

  “What if I don’t want to fight you?” I ask, frowning.

  “Ye choose to swear the oath, or ye fight me now.”

  “Sure, no problem,” I say hurriedly. “Trees and rocks, when everybody else is dead, we’ll fight.”

  His face splits into a wicked grin, and he gives me a short bow. A very short bow, since his stomach blocks the motion. I shrug inwardly. It’s not like the sprout man has said anything out of pocket. If we’re the last two standing, I’m pretty sure they're going to make us fight.