The headlong rush of your escape, feel the madness of adrenaline burning through you. (Nothing new, just like work, right?) Pretend there's an audience, pretend there will be applause after the final battle is won. Just run, ignore the slithering rustle of the flora pursuing you.

In half a glance, you see him, panting (sweet Mist, Zidane, what have you gotten us into this time?) and the spidery arm a breath away from snagging his tail.

Unthinking, your burst of speed, the shove-- the abrupt and utter stop when it seizes you around the middle, lifts you high into the air. Caught. (Caught-- a thief who's stupid enough to get himself caught is as good as--) Watch Zidane tumble free.

You can't catch your breath; something cold is happening to your legs. The monster beneath you screams, mossy pincers moving wildly. Toss the map while your fingers are still your own. (No applause--) The plantspider ceases its struggle. (No audience at all--)

He catches the map without breaking his stride. Wonder why you doubted him. (He'll make it, he'll get us out of here--)

For a moment you think of blood, and skin, and how easy it would be to die.

And then there is only stone.