Go To the Right:
Towards Cat

“Let’s chance it,” you say, and start toward the cat.

Before you take more than two steps, the cat hisses and yowls, ears pressing flat against its skull. You snort, unimpressed; it’s not that big, and your jacket is tough enough to stop even the sharpest claws.

The cat continues to yowl as you approach. Kvarau says, “Human, do you think—”

An enormous tentacle unfurls from the wall and wraps around you, trapping your arms against your torso. A second tentacle does the same to Kvarau. The limbs are hard and green: more like vines than a Jelly’s tentacles.

The cat’s fur bristles along its spine, and it crouches low, growling as the tentacles drag you and Kvarau toward a hole that gapes wide in the wall . . . the mouth of a giant pitcher plant!

You shout and struggle but to no avail. The tentacles are too strong. Darkness surrounds you as they pull you into the mouth of the pitcher plant. You make one last effort to escape, but the tentacle tightens its grip, and bones and muscle break.

Consciousness fades as you feel the plant’s digestive acids start to burn. Your last thought is: A fucking plant!

You have died. . . .