Bob knew his enemy. Oh yes, Bob knew. Bob recognized the creature at once. How could he not? Bob had gazed entranced at its immortalized form for hour after hour. In uneasy sleep, Bob had muttered its name over and over. The two of them were bound together, entwined through some conspiracy of fate.

Yes, yes, Bob knew the monster. And here it was, at last, before him, in the flesh. The symbol of the grind, of the slow death, of the evil inherent in all things and all acts and all peoples. Bob spat out the name, "The Russian Tortoise."

Its forward appendages twisted hideously backwards upon themselves. Its shell was a pattern of dark patches spiderwebbed with pure yellow. Its fingers were the long, wicked claws of a predator. And its eyes, oh its eyes, those black, emotionless holes that see beyond time and death.

Bob looked up into the sky. Was there a God up there? What God? What God could allow such evil into his paradise? For squeezed inside the mouth of the tortoise was a set of steel dentures. A sharp forest of incisors. A hedgerow of metal thorns. The sunlight glinted meanly off them. Gnash, Gnash, Gnash, the tortoise goaded him.

Bob was in a tight spot. The six-inch demon tortoise with the razor sharp teeth had caught him in its trap spell. Three of his limbs and his head were glued into position. He could only move his back, bottom and right forearm, the places protected by his cloak. Back, bottom and right forearm. Not exactly a man's strongest body parts.

Meanwhile the tortoise waddled determinedly forward. It was approaching from his left side. He watched its slow progress from his peripheral vision. The little tortoise had some difficulty navigating the uneven ground. It misstepped and almost toppled over onto its back. But evil always prevails. With great effort, it righted itself. The tortoise waddled onwards.

"Sergeant, what are you waiting for? The guns, sergeant, the guns."

"Inserting mortar round. Mortar round primed. On your mark, general."

"Fire!"

Bob launched a pebble into the air. It's not particularly easy throwing stones with just your forearm. Especially if you have to launch them over your own body and then arch them down onto a moving enemy. But Bob did his best.

Impact! There was a shower of dirt and mud. Too short. The tortoise soldiered on.

"Reload!"

Bob's quickly gathered as many small stones and pebbles as he could find.

Gnash, Gnash. The tortoise battering-ram rolled forward. It was making for bellybutton gate. The tortoise had decided it would eat him from the middle upwards.

"Adjust angle!"

"Angle adjusted."

"Fire!"

The pebble-shell overshot, cratering down and throwing up a cloud of dust. The tortoise waddled through, its pointed beak proud and evil, its dark eyes lasered onto the castle's weak point.

"Again! Quickly!"

The tortoise was closing in. Soon they'd be out of effective range. This was their last shot. They had to nail it now. Bob lined up his aim and...

"Fire!"

The large stone missiled up. It peaked and turned. It was on track. They had him. The lumbering monster couldn't get away in time. They had him. Impact pending...

Crunch

"General, it's been an honor serving with you."

"Likewise, sergeant."

The tortoise had caught the stone in its mouth and... pulverized it. There was no other word for it. The mighty boulder had been crushed down into dust and powder. The wind caught up what remained and carried it far away into the peaceful horizon.

The tortoise was unstoppable.

Bob had dreamed all this once before. And it was happening just like in the dream. The tortoise would waddle up on top of him. He would feel its awful legs dragging across his skin, that rough, scaly texture. He would jerk his body, twist and writhe, but he couldn't throw the tortoise off. It would tread ponderously along the bridge of his neck. It would scuttle onto his chin and gaze deep down into his eyes. And Bob would gaze back, would stare into those infinitely black spaces, those impenetrable depths, that ancient, chilling apathy. And then the tortoise would open its mouth—and Bob would awaken.

This content has been misappropriated from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.

"No, no, not like that..." Bob was half here and half back in the dream. The tortoise was only inches away. Every waddle brought it nearer. But Bob couldn't get away. The turtle's magic kept him trapped there. Was this the end? Was this Bob's end? Turtle food?

"General, the drawbridge!"

Bob's came up into a side-plank/backwards-crab. His belly was hoisted skywards, as far away from those metal jaws as he could manage, and just in time, because the tortoise had stumbled forward, its beak yawning open, ready to gnash down.

They stood there. The two of them. The tortoise was paused directly below Bob's raised midriff. It deliberated. It uncoiled its long neck and tested the range. But the creature was only three inches tall and it couldn't reach. Bob managed a sneering grin. To which the tortoise seemed to say: "very well, then we shall wait".

Yes, this was a cruel tortoise. It could have attacked Bob's feet. Or his arm. Or his head. It could have killed him then and there, but instead it fixated on his bellybutton. It understood that Bob was helpless. That Bob was weak and flabby and had skipped core days.

Sweat started to trickle down Bob's forehead. His muscles began to ache and then to burn. The tortoise waited. It waited smugly and confidently. It waited knowing that what goes up must come down.

"George, it's too late for me. Save yourself."

Bob's brain was slowly losing its long negotiations with Bob's core. Somehow the muscle contingent didn't seem convinced by the "we're going to die" argument. Two decades of neglect and indentured servitude had fostered a strong and irrational anti-brain faction.

Bob tried calling on the mud. Not as a tyrant, or even as a wizard, but simply as a friend in need. Mrs. Mud Sphere, if ever I stroked you on the head and called you sweet names, do me this favor. Save me, save me, please. Mrs. Mud Sphere, alas, was the type of woman who held a grudge.

Nope, Bob was going down one way or another. Maybe he could crush the tortoise? A gravity-assisted, full-weight body slam. Yes, that would definitely work on the stone eating, high-defense monster. Proof by desperation. The strongest kind.

"Count us down General."

"Three."

"Two."

Ruff!

There was a flash of gold. Bob made out a familiar snout; time seemed to slow as Bob's mind tried to make sense of what was happening. That was George's snout. Hello George's snout. The snout arched upwards. The snout caught on something. A six-inch shelled something that went spinning into the air. The snout opened. And out of the snout came a rolling boom.

Bob closed his eyes as wave after wave of heat and energy crashed into him. The air was burning. He tried to twist and hide, to protect his eyes. And the fused soil started to give. The heat was softening and melting it. He could make it. He strove against his bonds and... they broke.

He rolled over and sausaged around. He was free. He was spitting and cursing, praying and whimpering, but he was free. A familiar nose prodded up against him, followed by the happy panting of a happy dog.

Bob looked around him. There was a golden retriever, a good deal of smoke and a burnt-out turtle-shell husk. No body. No teeth. Bob needed a moment to play back what had just happened.

Bob had been about to die. And then George had appeared. And then George had hooked the tortoise. And then George had fire-breathed the tortoise. And the fire breath had freed Bob from his bonds. Bob decided to confirm his interpretation with the dog.

"George, did you just flip that tortoise into the air and then flamethrower it while airborne?"

Ruff!

"You're a fucking monster. And I love you."

Bob hugged the dog. It's a glorious thing to have someone watching your back. Bob would have to do some special for the dog later. George had earned it. At least one of them kept a level head in times of crisis.

But Bob was rattled. He was low-key traumatized. You don't almost get eaten alive by a six-inch tortoise and just carry on with your day. Unfortunately, the system wasn't about to grant Bob a two-hour timeout in which he could curl up in a ball and wish away the bad thoughts.

Bob had to get the hell off this accursed hilltop, but he didn't know what dangers would face him out in the wilderness and he wanted to be prepared. Bob filled his system shop cart with the bare necessities:

A hiking pack, some plastic water bottles, a blanket, some extra nutrition packs (for emergencies), a first aid kit, a two-man tent, a small sheath for his system knife (yes he had forgotten he was carrying a knife), a set of clean clothes, a belt, and one pair of socks and shoes.

To this list, he added a dozen "health patches". These seemed to be closest thing the system offered to health potions. You peeled off a plastic wrapping and slapped it on as near to the wound as you could. The description promised it worked on all sentient races. A claim that seemed highly suspect to Bob. Would it work on a hedgehog?

He clicked through to checkout and stopped short. The total was only 6530 credits. That didn’t make any sense. The water alone weighed in above one kilogram. The cost should be in the tens of thousands. Bob zoomed in on the price breakdown: "pylon shipping - 100 credits/kg".

Now that changed everything. Bob's whole soul was screaming at him to run for the hills, to pack up and keep running until the sun went down, but, but, the greedy part of his soul interjected, 100 credits per kg... Bob's only real advantage was his deep pockets. He'd be mad to give up control of the pylon, wouldn't he? Not to mention, he'd paid for the damn thing.

What would happen when people learned about this? Bob swallowed. He didn't have to think very hard to answer that one. This hill would become the focal point for global aggression and conquest. Its green grasses would be drenched in blood. Its soothing landscape turned into a graveyard of fallen hopefuls.

Bob could stay. Bob could fight for what was his. Bob could step up and prove himself worthy of being the leader of this giant rock. Or, Bob could leave. He could prioritise his safety. He could be sensible for a change. That was the path to avoid ending up as turtle meat.

So Bob, what's it going to be? Fear or Greed?