Big, Bold, and Beautiful Your One and Only Chance (Mantis World) chapter 12 by Froakie

The sight of your mother, your protector, willingly and methodically crushing another man sends a bolt of pure, undiluted terror through you. This is no longer a game; it's a hunt, and you are the prey. While Betty applauds your mother's descent into brutality, you seize your chance.

Your body moves with a grace you didn't know you possessed. You explode from the shadows, a tiny blur of motion against the bloody wood. You weave between falling bodies and dodging feet, your path a serpentine line of survival. You vault over the twitching corpse of a man flattened by a sneaker, using his back as a springboard. The world is a chaotic symphony of destruction, but you are a lone note of defiance, darting towards the relative safety of the dance floor's center where the chaos is thickest and individual targets are harder to pinpoint.

"Brava, my dear! Brava!" Betty's booming praise rings out from behind you. "That's the spirit! Now, the hunt truly begins!" With a final, encouraging pat on your mother's shoulder, Betty turns and sashays away, her emerald gown flowing behind her as she heads towards the roped-off VIP section, leaving your mother to her grim task.

Your mother stands alone for a moment, looking down at the red ruin she has created. A strange, serene smile touches her lips.

You push forward, aiming for the densest part of the melee where Jennifer disappeared. But your luck runs out. In your haste, you stumble over the severed arm of a man, a grisly obstacle in your path. You tumble forward, rolling across the sticky, blood-slicked wood. You're not hurt, but you've lost your momentum and are now exposed in a relatively clear patch of floor.

Before you can regain your footing, a shadow falls over you, eclipsing the strobing lights. You look up, and your breath catches in your throat. Towering above you is a woman of impossible proportions. She's a hyper-curvaceous amazon, a goddess of flesh and revelry. Her skin is the color of rich caramel, glistening with a layer of oil that makes her muscles ripple like liquid bronze with every movement. She's wearing a microscopic string bikini that does little more than accentuate her monumental assets; her breasts are like two full moons, threatening to spill from their inadequate confines, and her hips flare out from a wasp-thin waist into a continent of jiggling, powerful buttocks.

Her face is a masterpiece of hedonistic beauty, full lips painted a glossy purple, and eyes heavy-lidded with lust and intoxication. She's dancing by herself, lost in the music, her body undulating in a hypnotic rhythm. Each movement sends shockwaves through the floor.

You scramble to your feet, your heart lodged in your throat. The dancing amazon is a natural disaster in motion, and you need to get past her, NOW. You wait for a beat in the music, a momentary pause in her gyrations, and then you bolt. You run as fast as your tiny legs can carry you, a desperate dash across the polished wood. You slip past her colossal, wobbling ankle, the air thick with the scent of coconut oil and her overpowering, musky sweat. You make it! You're past her immediate vicinity, a surge of relief flooding your system.

But your escape is short-lived. In her dance, the woman takes a sweeping step backward, her massive foot coming down exactly where you were a second ago. The impact is cataclysmic. The percussive blast of air alone throws you forward, sending you tumbling head over heels. You crash onto your back, dazed and winded, looking up just in time to see her other foot begin its descent. The sole of her foot, broad and wrinkled, is a map of impending doom, bearing down on you with the weight of a collapsing building.