The vines flap frantically about your face and jaw. You rear your head back, open your mouth, and tear a bite out of the leaf nearest you. The whole plant recoils in pain.

My mother always told me, you say, quietly furious that you cant reach your sunglasses, to eat my vegetables.

You seize mouthful after mouthful of the attacking plant, until finally it begins to withdraw.

But you ain't having none of that; you pounce on the cowering shrubbery and devour every inch, down to the stump. Then you turn and spitefully vomit the partially digested mess back onto the root system, because vegetables are for hippies and gross foreigners.

Across the meadow, a group of stunned human soldiers in full battle gear are watching slack-jawed. You confidently stride over to your fallen weapon, grasp it, and raise it over your head as you face the assembled crowd.

Well come on, you bastards, you bellow, do you really want to live forever!?

With a supportive scream they follow your charge, firing wildly into the density of the jungle. A battle is a pure, whole, and simple thing; a battle is something you know how to do. As the animals die wetly beneath your feet, you have a feeling you will like this new future.

Turn to page 11.

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