Chapter 17: Dancing Queen

Player: Felicia

Location: World 1, Science classroom

“Where am I?” asked a student whose name I didn’t know. I should really ask him sometime—can’t have two people going by “Nameless.” That would just be ridiculous. I glanced around, trying to place him. He looked just as confused as I felt.

The room buzzed with chatter and shifting chairs, but somehow, everyone had already forgotten about the slug. It was like the slimy creature had never existed—no squeals, no staring, no awkward silence. Just vanished into thin air, swallowed by the noise and the chaos of the classroom.

I couldn’t help but wonder if the slug was better off unnoticed.

“Felicia?” Glinda pouted, hands planted firmly on her hips. Her eyes narrowed slightly, daring me to speak up. “Are you just going to stand there like a statue, or are you actually going to say something?”

I took a slow breath and met Glinda’s expectant gaze. “Yes,” I said, my voice steady despite the flutter in my chest. “I’ve got the nerve to say I think you’re late to class.”

Her expression twisted into a sneer, but I wasn’t about to back down. Sometimes you had to ruffle feathers to get things moving.

She glanced at her watch with a slow, deliberate flick of her wrist, the pink chain catching the light.

“I don’t think so,” she sneered, voice dripping with sarcasm. “Class starts in thirty minutes. Thirty whole minutes.”

Then, her gaze shifted, scanning the room as if noticing for the first time where we were all standing. She squinted suspiciously, brow furrowing. “Though…” she muttered, almost to herself, “why are we all still in the science room? It’s been thirty minutes since class ended.”

Her eyes locked onto me, sharp and accusing. The air seemed to thicken around us, and I could almost hear the silence pressing in.

“I bet it has something to do with you,” she said, voice low but fierce, like she was accusing me of some secret conspiracy.

I shrugged casually, unwilling to give her the satisfaction of a full confession. “Maybe.”

“Maybe?” Her voice cracked with disbelief, then snapped louder, sharper: “Maybe!?”

She huffed, tossing her hair over her shoulder with all the flair Glinda should never be awarded for. “Later, losers,” she said, her voice dripping with sarcasm as she flounced off, each step exaggerated like she was storming a runway instead of just leaving a classroom. The click of her boots against the tile echoed down the hallway, punctuating her dramatic exit.

Victor watched her go. “Well, isn’t she nice,” he muttered under his breath.

I looked over at him. He was hunched over his notebook, fingers tapping nervously against the cover as if the words inside were fighting to get out. Then, without warning, he glanced back up at me, eyes serious and unreadable.

“Felicia,” he said quietly, almost hesitant, “I need to talk to you alone about something.”

I nodded slowly, my curiosity piqued. “Okay,” I said. “Where?”

He looked around, making sure no one was listening, then lowered his voice even more. “Somewhere private. This can’t wait.”

My heart skipped a beat. What was so important that he had to pull me aside like this?

“Oh yes!” I grinned. “The gift you were going to give me? You know, that gift?”

Victor gave me a small, tight smile. “Yes,” he said, “there’s that—but we’ll focus on it later. Right now, my top concern is your safety.”

His tone shifted, serious and a little urgent. It caught me off guard.

Wait. Did he have enough time to write about the slug incident in his notebook? Was that what was making him so tense?

I glanced down at the blue notebook in his hands. “Ah, yes,” I said, trying to keep it casual. “The slug thing?”

Victor shook his head firmly, his expression serious. “No, no. It’s not about the slug you stepped on.”

Oh. Maybe not.

His eyes locked onto mine, and I could tell he was weighing every word carefully before he spoke. The air between us thickened with tension.

“Then what is it?” I asked quietly, leaning in a little. “You look cool when you're serious.”

Victor hesitated, running a hand through his hair. “What I need to talk to you about is the healing potion,” he said, his voice dropping to a whisper.

“Oh yeah!” I exclaimed, eyes lighting up. “The one Mr. Science Teacher brought in!”

Victor glanced nervously over his shoulder. The classroom was completely empty now—the other students had all filtered out, leaving an eerie silence hanging in the air. He stepped toward the door and closed it carefully, the soft click echoing off the walls.

He turned back to me, face serious. “This isn’t just some experiment or a party trick. There’s something about that potion—something I don’t understand yet. And I need you to tell me everything you know about Mr. Science Teacher, from the beginning.”

He looked so intense, it made my mind leap back to that time he tried to kill Jeremy. Yeah, Victor might have a knack for diving headfirst into danger—without thinking.

“Victor,” I said, tilting my head with a smirk, “you’re acting a bit like a psychopath again. Which, don’t get me wrong, is hot—but not always necessary.”

He shot me a sideways glance, clearly unimpressed with my wisdom. “This isn’t a joke, Felicia. There’s something off about him. Healing potions don’t just appear out of nowhere, and I’m not convinced he’s as normal as he seems.”

I shrugged. “Maybe he’s just really into old-school science or folklore.”

Victor shook his head. “You can believe what you want, but I’m telling you—there’s more to this guy than meets the eye.”

“Ha ha! More then meets the eye! Maybe he is a robot in disguise!”

“Mr. Science Teacher is supposed to be human, right?” Victor asked, narrowing his eyes. “So why does he have healing potions? That doesn’t exactly scream ‘regular science teacher’ to me.”

I shrugged, trying to keep my tone casual. “Because he found them. Maybe he’s just curious—like a collector of weird stuff.”

Victor shook his head, unconvinced. “Or maybe,” he said quietly, “he’s secretly working with monsters. You know, like some kind of double agent or something. It would explain a lot—why he’s always sneaking around, why he’s so secretive about his lessons.”

I felt a chill creep down my spine, even though I tried not to show it. “That sounds… intense. But wouldn’t we have noticed something by now? Like strange creatures showing up, or weird magic?”

Victor gave me a sharp look. “That’s just it. Maybe he’s good at hiding it.”

“I don’t know,” I said, shrugging. “He seems pretty normal to me.”

Victor fixed me with a serious stare. “Felicia,” he said slowly, “please don’t take this the wrong way, but would you find a pizza shop entirely run by foxes that only serve bottle caps as toppings normal?”

I blinked. “Yes, of course,” I replied without missing a beat. “But I fail to see how that relates to anything.”

“Felicia, can you tell me about your magical time in science class?”

“Oh yes!” I said eagerly, digging into my bag. My fingers fumbled around until I pulled out a well-worn notebook, its edges frayed and pages filled with scribbles and sketches. “Here,” I said, holding it out. “Read this. It’s a diary entry from two months ago.”

Victor took the notebook carefully, flipping it open to a page near the middle. The handwriting was messy but legible, peppered with excitement and occasional doodles of bubbling potions and strange creatures.

I watched his face as he read, waiting for any sign of recognition or surprise. The entry began:

The frog on the tray was already dead, but that didn’t stop it from blinking.

Science class taught me two things: vinegar and baking soda aren’t lunch, and never trust a hamster near a Bunsen burner. I didn’t learn much from the teacher, though.

Deepika, lucky enough to sit far from him—and next to me—whispered, “Do you understand anything he’s saying?”

I squinted. “It’s as if he’s speaking a different language. I don’t get a word.”

“I thought Mr. Kapany was speaking a foreign language…”

We both stared at the board. It was covered in a mix of equations, frog guts, and what may have been mustard. None of it was explained.

“Do you think he’s okay?” Deepika whispered again. “He’s been talking to the skeleton for five minutes.”

The class skeleton was wearing safety goggles and a tiny sombrero.

“I think we’re witnessing a slow science-themed breakdown,” I said. “If he starts using the frog as a sock puppet, we run.”

Just then, Mr. Kapany turned around, grinning madly. “And that, students, is how some dude invented Wi-Fi.”

We nodded. It felt safer that way.

I turned to Deepika and said, “What are your plans for later today?”

She thought for a moment. “Looking up how to start a cult. I want to make a lot of money but my mom also says I shouldn't go to jail.”

I nodded. “A wise one she is.”

Deepika leaned back in her chair, gazing thoughtfully at the ceiling tile that looked suspiciously moldy. “I’m thinking something low-maintenance. Maybe a dessert-based belief system. Worship the sacred éclair. Weekly ceremonies involving whipped cream and dance.”

This tale has been unlawfully lifted from Royal Road. If you spot it on Amazon, please report it.

I tapped my pencil. “Sounds delicious. Will there be merch?”

“Oh, absolutely. T-shirts, tote bags, scented candles that smell vaguely of power and frosting.”

“Count me in. I want to be high priest of sprinkles.”

She nodded solemnly. “Sprinkles are sacred. Only the worthy may touch them.”

Just then, the intercom crackled to life with an unintelligible announcement that might have been about fire drills or possibly an escaped iguana. No one reacted.

“I’ll need a name for my followers,” Deepika said, already sketching a logo in the margin of her notebook. “I’m torn between ‘The Chosen Spoon.’ and ‘Teach-Deepika-baking.”

“The Chosen Spoon sounds exclusive,” I offered. “Mysterious. Spoon-forward.”

She snapped her fingers. “But Teach-Deepika-Baking is simple. Thanks Felicia”

Slam!

Mr. Science Teacher smacked his hand on my desk.

“Oh, hello,” I said, channeling a great philosopher named Joey. “How you doin’?”

He squinted at me, breathing heavily, as though I’d personally offended Isaac Newton.

“Do you think this is a joke?” he barked.

“Only the part where I pass this class,” I replied, smiling with the confidence of someone who had absolutely no idea what was going on.

He narrowed his eyes. “You’ve been drawing frogs with top hats for twenty minutes.”

I flipped my notebook around. “Correction: this one’s wearing a baseball hat. He's very distinguished. Sir Croaks-a-Lot.”

Behind me, Deepika snorted and tried to turn it into a cough. It didn’t work.

Mr. Science Teacher stared at the frog, then back at me, then at the frog again—as though waiting for it to explain itself.

“I swear I’m absorbing the lesson,” I added. “Just... genius takes time.”

He opened his mouth, closed it again, and then walked away slowly.

Deepika leaned over. “Sir Croaks-a-Lot?”

“He runs a jazz club on weekends,” I said. “Strict dress code. No amphibians without bow ties.”

Somewhere near the front, someone’s frog exploded with a noise that sounded suspiciously like a sneeze and a scream having a baby.

Another day of scientific excellence.

Mr. Science Teacher didn’t even flinch at the eruption. He just sighed—the deep, soul-weary sigh of a man who once had dreams—and muttered something about “budget cuts” before disappearing behind a tower of ungraded lab reports and what might’ve been a hamster maze.

I turned back to Deepika. “So, have you made rules for future followers?”

She nodded. “I already made a list of commandments. Number one: Thou shalt not microwave anything with a face.”

“Wise. And number two?”

“Thou shalt respect all sprinkles, regardless of color, shape, or crunch level.”

I tapped it into my notes. “Inclusive and delicious. You’re building a legacy here.”

Across the room, Pepper was trying to attach a paperclip to a lemon and yelling, “IT’S ALIVE!” while Nameless filmed her for what they claimed was “content.”

The skeleton had mysteriously moved three feet to the left and now held a measuring tape in a vaguely threatening way.

Mr. Kapany reemerged, holding a plastic model of the solar system in one hand and what appeared to be a banana wearing a wig in the other.

“Class!” he announced. “I have made a discovery.”

Everyone froze, partly out of curiosity, mostly out of self-preservation.

“This,” he continued, holding up the banana, “is Bananium. It is the missing element. Stronger than titanium, softer than pudding. It may or may not be sentient.”

Pepper raised his hand. “Can we eat it?”

“No! It’s very volatile,” Mr. Kapany said, setting it gently on a stool, where it immediately fell over.

He bent down behind his desk and returned, this time holding a tennis ball and a spoon. “Now! Who wants to demonstrate physics using cafeteria leftovers?”

Nobody moved. Even the skeleton looked hesitant.

He smiled wider. “Excellent! Consent is optional!”

“I just set my frog on fire.” Pepper said.

“Science!” he gasped. “Every day is a new frontier!”

“Every day is a lawsuit waiting to happen,” Nameless muttered.

Deepika whispered, “If he starts marrying fruit to furniture, I’m transferring schools.”

“Not before we finish a cult lunch party,” I whispered back. “You promised cupcakes.”

“Fine. But we’re adding a commandment: No one worships fruit. That’s where I draw the line.”

Fair. Even Sir Croaks-a-Lot would agree.

“Wait. Wait. Wait,” Victor said. “Mr. Science Teacher found a banana with feelings and named it an element called Bananium. That didn’t seem even a little suspicious to you?”

“Oh no,” I said. “I made that stuff up. Science class is so boring, I can't write about it in my diary without editing anything. If you only want the parts that actually happened, skip ahead two pages.”

He did so. Then he started reading again:

Mr. The Science Teacher turned to us. “Are you two even paying attention, or just chatting?”

“I can multitask,” I said, proudly balancing a pencil on my upper lip and making eye contact at the same time.

“I would pay attention,” Deepika added, “if you ever made sense!”

He blinked, wounded. “That was sense. I was explaining frog and their role in philosophy.”

“frog philosophy?” Deepika raised an eyebrow. “Does that have something to do wity why the dead one on Felicia's tray just twitched?”

“That’s quantum uncertainty,” he replied, dramatically pointing a marker at the ceiling. “Or bad refrigeration.”

I whispered to Deepika, “I’m betting on the fridge. This room smells like expired genius.”

Mr. Science Teacher ignored us and turned back to the board, where he began drawing what may have been a diagram of a cell or a treasure map to the nearest vending machine.

“What is that?” Deepika asked, squinting.

He spun around. “That is a frogs stomach.”

I leaned over to her. “It looks more like a deflated jellybean with Wi-Fi.”

She nodded. “I'm 80% sure I just labeled that ‘Steve.’”

Pepper ducked under a desk. Nameless started filming again, whispering, “This better go viral. If I lose a tooth for nothing, I swear.”

Deepika leaned closer to me. “If she tries to launch pencils across the room, we dive.”

“Agreed,” I said, adjusting my skirt. “If this is how we die, I want my obituary to say I was brave. And that I never touched the frog.”

“Oh wait,” Mr. Science Teacher said, picking up paper on the ground. “I’ve lost focus.” He rubbed his eyes with both hands, which always inspired “confidence”. “Everybody, today we’re supposed to be learning about the insides of frogs. That, or how lightning rods work. One of those was written in my planner, but Deepika spilled yogurt on it during breakfast, and now it’s mostly a sticky riddle.” He squinted at the ceiling for divine guidance, found none, and continued. “Well, maybe you students look at the frogs, and I’ll explain lightning rods to you. That way, everyone’s confused equally.

“I won’t understand anything either way!” Deepika cheered, throwing both hands in the air with the same energy one might reserve for winning a game show. “But I appreciate the variety. Keeps the mystery alive.” She poked the frog gently with a pencil. “He doesn’t look like he knows what’s happening either.”

He sighed, the long, defeated kind that probably came with bonus mileage. “I’ll explain it as if you’re five. Happy?” He didn’t wait for a response, but you could tell by his expression that internally he was bracing for more frog-related sass and possibly a spontaneous nosebleed.

“Very—if you’re not bluffing,” Deepika said, narrowing her eyes with the suspicious precision of someone who had been tricked into understanding long division once and never fully recovered.

“A lightning rod is a superhero stick on a building,” the teacher began, gesturing with a broken pointer that was mostly duct tape at this point. “When lightning comes zapping down from the clouds—angry, confused, probably in a rush—the rod says, ‘Hit me!’ Heroically! And then it channels that electricity into the ground, away from anything important. It’s the brave volunteer of the rooftop world.” He stepped back proudly, arms crossed. “Now, just understand how it works! All of it! Instantly!”

He went into a longer explanation I didn’t follow—there were words involved, and possibly some numbers doing gymnastics, but my brain had already stepped out for a snack. He said something about electrons, grounding, and “high-voltage romance,” which I’m 92% sure isn’t in the textbook. I nodded politely while mentally composing a haiku about frog dissection and academic despair.

Luckily, salvation came in the form of a classmate.

“Oh, look!” Regina suddenly exclaimed, holding up her phone as if she’d just discovered fire. “My friend says there’s a magical bag outside this classroom!”

There was a pause. Not confusion exactly—more of a group-wide recalibration.

“A what?” Deepika asked, speaking for all of us.

“A magical bag,” Regina repeated, as if that cleared it up. “It's a bag that's magical, what more do you want?”

“Magical?” I asked. “Like, figuratively or literally?"

Regina shrugged. “She didn’t specify. But she said it was magical.”

The class went silent.

“What?” Regina asked. “I already said it was magical like three times and just the last time you reacted?”

Mr. Science Teacher stopped mid-sentence, marker hovering inches from the board. “magical?”

Regina nodded solemnly. “Twice.”

“Well,” he said, putting the marker down carefully, “that’s probably not science. But it is concerning.”

Pepper stood up. “I’m going to go find it.”

“You’re not allowed to leave,” Mr. Science Teacher warned.

“I didn’t say I was asking,” Pepper replied, already halfway out the door with the energy of a woman destined to either unlock a cosmic mystery or get mildly tased.

“If you leave this room,” the teacher warned, pointing a dry-erase marker at Regina like it was a weapon forged in the fires of administrative policy, “you’ll get detention.”

Regina didn’t even blink. “Whatever. Later, losers!” She tossed her hair with a small level of confidence and marched straight out the door, backpack bouncing, phone in hand, probably composing a farewell TokTok caption in her head.

The door swung shut behind her with a dramatic *click* that echoed with poor decision-making.

There was a pause.

Mr. Science Teacher sighed and scribbled something into a notebook labeled *"Forms I Never Actually Submit."*

Deepika leaned toward me. “Should we be worried?”

“I’m more worried for the bag,” I whispered. “Regina once argued with a vending machine for ten minutes and won.”

Nameless nodded solemnly. “She scares me, but in a way I respect.”

Regina’s voice echoed faintly from down the hall. “IT JUST PURRED!”

Mr. Science Teacher didn’t even flinch. “She’s either going to discover a parallel dimension or become class president. Possibly both.”

The class skeleton tilted over slightly, as if trying to make a run for it.

No one blamed it.

“Wait. Wait. Wait,” Victor said. “Mr. Science Teacher had a skeleton that could move. That didn’t seem even a little suspicious to you?”

“Oh no,” I said. “Bob made a skeleton robot. Science class is so boring, us students need to make a few changes to the classroom. If you only want normal classroom, then find another school.”

He shrugged. Then he started reading again:

“Now then,” Mr. Teach said, clapping his hands together with the energy of someone trying very hard to pretend everything was fine. “Let’s get back to class—unless you’d rather chase the wonder of some bag. But surely you’re better than that.”

He looked around expectantly, as if we'd all suddenly remember our deep and burning passion for frog anatomy.

“Wait,” Deepika said, slowly raising a hand. “We can leave with permission?”

Mr. Science teacher hesitated. “Technically… yes, but only for educational purposes. Which this is not. This is chaos. This is bag-based nonsense.”

“So if we ask, it’s okay?” she asked, already halfway to standing up.

He narrowed his eyes. “You’re trying to loophole me, aren’t you?”

I leaned in. “You said it yourself. ‘Surely you’re better than that.’ What if we’re not?”

Deepika stood all the way up. “I’d rather face the mysterious glowing bag than dissect another frog with a weird smell and a side of tragedy.”

Pepper joined in. “Besides, this might be historic. What if that bag’s some kind of government experiment? Or a portal? Or full of cheese?”

“You're right.” Nameless said. “We'd probably get into more trouble with the police for ignoring such an event. So that means unless Mr. Kapany wishes to go to jail, we're Scott free.”

The class cheered. Backpacks were flung over shoulders, desks screeched back, and the stampede began. It was the most coordinated the group had been all semester. Everyone left—except me and the teacher.

The door closed behind the last student with a satisfying thunk, like the lid on a very dumb, very enthusiastic time capsule.

He sighed, long and deep, resting his head briefly on the overhead projector. “Well, I guess that’s it for today.”

There was a silence.

Then a soft clunk as the skeleton tipped over again, either from neglect or dramatic agreement.

I sat quietly at my desk, poking the frog with the eraser end of my pencil, half-expecting it to file a complaint.

Mr. Teach finally looked up. “You’re still here?”

I shrugged. “Someone has to supervise the frog. I think we’re bonding. He’s been making eye contact.”

He nodded solemnly. “That’s how it starts. Insanity, I mean.”

Another pause.

He looked around the room—the half-labeled diagrams, the pile of unwashed beakers, the coffee mug that said ‘World’s Okayest Teacher’ and had been suspiciously empty since January.

“I once dreamed of being a physicist,” he said wistfully. “Then I sneezed into a petri dish during a campus tour and ended up here.”

“That tracks,” I said.

He glanced toward the window, where a few students were already gathered around the mysterious bag, phones out, excitement buzzing in the air.

“I hope they find something useful out there,” he muttered.

“Wisdom?”

“Preferably a better understanding of lightning rods.”

Outside, someone screamed joyfully. Or fearfully. It was hard to tell the difference with this school.

The frog blinked again.

Mr. Teach rubbed his temples and muttered, “Well, I suppose I should pack up before the janitor thinks I’m bored.”

I stood, stretching out the stiffness that had settled into my back during this rollercoaster of a class. The frog still lay on the tray, blinking in what I was pretty sure was mild judgment.

“But what about me? Aren’t I supposed to learn something?” I called after the teacher, hoping for at least a scrap of wisdom to cling to.

He paused in the doorway, turned just enough to flash a smirk, and said, “Learn? Please. When have you ever done that?”

Then, with the flair of a man who had just dodged a bullet and a lecture he wasn’t paid to give, he walked out, leaving behind an empty classroom and my very confused frog.

I stared after him, wondering if my education was officially on hold until further notice—or if the frog would end up teaching me instead.

The frog blinked. Again.

Maybe it already knew.

I sighed and sank back into my chair, staring at the frog, who remained suspiciously unbothered by the chaos.

“Well,” I said aloud, “I guess it’s just you and me now.”

The frog blinked again, steady and unimpressed, as if to say, *I’ve seen better classes at the pond.*

I grabbed my notebook and started doodling the frog with a tiny sombrero, because why not add to the chaos?

I didn’t stay to learn. I mean, obviously. I stayed to look at my blinking frog. It had become the only predictable thing in this entire science-class circus.

I watched it, mesmerized, as if it held the secrets of the universe—or at least the secret to passing Mr. Teach’s tests without losing my sanity.

Then, without warning, it turned into a lamp.ogs. Together, we moved quickly—gathering, stacking, throwing twigs down in a shaky circle around us like we were kindergarteners building a campfire with trauma and poor judgment.

The zombies didn’t move.

They just watched us.

Dozens of them, ringed around the clearing, standing still as statues. Heads tilted. Mouths slightly agape. Some swayed like curious children seeing fire for the first time—or like predators waiting for prey to finish seasoning itself.

Cthulhu dropped another armful of twigs into the line. “We’re building a fire barrier,” he whispered, almost too cheerfully. “Classic defense tactic. Probably.”

I looked around at our flimsy wall of sticks. “They’re twigs.”

“They’re symbolic twigs,” he replied. “And some of them are still warm.”

I grabbed a burning twig from Cthulhu’s fireplace and tossed it onto the pile of twigs we’d gathered. Cthulhu followed suit—except he didn’t just throw a twig. He wrapped all his tentacles around the entire fireplace and hurled it into the barrier, setting it ablaze in one dramatic motion.

Soon, a thin ring of fire danced around us—tiny, weak, but present.

And still, the zombies didn’t come.

They stood just beyond the edge, twitching, pacing. One of them reached out a bony hand toward the flames, only to hiss and jerk back as if scalded.

The fire crackled nervously.

The zombies inched closer.

Time was running out.

“We have to move!” I shouted, grabbing Cthulhu’s arm. His tentacles writhed in agreement.

We tore away from the fire, sprinting across the uneven graveyard. The ground seemed to pull at my feet—roots, broken stones, and dead leaves slowing my pace. Behind us, the moans of the undead rose in a terrifying chorus.

The cliff loomed ahead—sheer rock dropping off into darkness. The wind whipped through the trees, carrying a cold bite that felt like the last breath of the living world.

“We’ll hold them here!” Cthulhu barked, turning to face the horde as we reached the cliff’s edge.

I didn’t look back. I just ran.

My lungs burned, my legs screamed, but adrenaline pushed me onward. The firelight flickered far behind, where the zombies hesitated once more, held back by the flames.

But the fire would die eventually. I knew it.

I glanced at Cthulhu—he looked strained, far from the omnipotent being I imagined. His usual arrogance replaced by something close to desperation.

We reached the cliff’s edge. Below, the black void seemed to swallow the earth whole.

“No way down,” I muttered, heart pounding.

Cthulhu scanned the edge, tentacles twitching. “We need a plan. Fast.”

I heard a cry. The zombies had emerged from the mist and were closing in—but instead of looking rotten and disgusting like before, they were now on fire.

“Oh, great idea,” Cthulhu said dryly. “Set the zombies on fire. That’ll definitely make their un-life easier.”

As the zombies surged closer, their guttural groans growing louder, I turned to Cthulhu, desperation clear in my voice.

“Can you… grow more tentacles? Like, a lot more?”

He blinked, then smirked, a flicker of his old confidence shining through the fear. “I can do better than that. Watch.”

With a ripple of his skin, more tentacles erupted from his slimy body—dozens, sprawling in all directions like living ropes. Some twisted and coiled, others flailed wildly, but all looked strong and flexible.

“Now, detach the ones you don’t need,” I said quickly. “Make them into a big soft… pillow or net. We’ll jump off the cliff and land on them.”

Cthulhu hesitated a moment, then with a wet pop and snap, several tentacles slid free, writhing independently. They tangled together into a thick, cushioned mass that pulsated softly in the air.

“Let's hope this doesn't work out like your last plan,” Cthulhu grinned, “hop on.”

I grabbed the mass, feeling its strange, rubbery texture. It was oddly comforting and surprisingly solid.

The zombies closed in like a tide ready to drown us, but there was no time left to wait.

“Ready?” I asked.

“After you,” Cthulhu said with a flourish.

We sprinted to the cliff’s edge. My heart pounded so loud it felt like thunder in my ears. Without looking down, I jumped.

The tentacle pillow expanded beneath us just in time—soft, springy, alive. It absorbed the impact, cushioning our fall from the dizzying height.

We landed with a wet, squelching sound, but neither of us was hurt.

I breathed hard, the cold night air filling my lungs.

“Not bad,” I admitted, looking at Cthulhu, who was already retracting the tentacles back into his body.

We had escaped the cliff — but the undead were still out there, and the night was far from over.