Was Bob that lucky? Guess we’re all about to find out. Thankfully Bob had his ace in the hole, his canine companion, George of the golden flames. George would have to do the lion's share. Bob didn’t think the beast would stand a chance against George’s fire breath. The attack was overpowering, all-destroying, especially against the grass-themed monsters of the prairie land.

The problem was twofold. First, Bob really wanted a taste of experience, you know, to wet his beak in the golden liquid that let a man level up. Second, George was a dog and did not take directions well (when he took directions at all). Bob hesitated. The monster did not. It paced up to a sprint, slashing deftly through the tall grasses as it came straight for them.

Bob leapt to his feet, moaning at the effort and taking just enough time to notice some rather attractive human-looking feet on the creature. Were those nails painted? It was in a rather modern and dynamic style too: green and black diagonal stripes. Where does the monster go to get that done?

Ok, zone out distractions Bob, focus, let’s put your luck to the test. He cocked his arm, aiming for the forehead of the creature and, pow, unloaded the tutorial knife in its general direction. The dagger swung, twisted, veered, and dropped a good foot short and left of the beast. Interference, ref, the grasses got in the way, the shot’s null and void, give us another go. The monster was having none of that. Uncharitable soul.

Oh shit, here it comes. Bob thought fast. He swung off his mud cloak and wrapped it around his right arm. You can do this Bob. You can do this. That is not a rampaging monster with two-foot scythes on either arm. You are not about to meet a gruesome and meaningless death. You are in your happy place.

The monster charged the final stretch, its wings unfurling smoothly and propelling it forward with a burst of speed. Bob whipped the cloak round at the approaching monster. The insect raised its blade-arms and sliced clean through the cloth. Drats. Except the material had shifted to wet mud and slid straight through the blade's edge, reconnecting on the other side, and shimming up the creature’s body, before pulling tight.

I knew the cloak could do that. Of course I did. That was my plan all along. A brilliant idea and well, it might have worked too. The first few attempts to cut the cloak off were met with the same mud-phasing technique. But the insect learned fast. It had already unfolded its wings and started them buzzing, generating a wind towards Bob’s cloak. At the same time, the insect began sawing through the cloth. Tragically, a substance can’t be both liquid and solid at the same moment. The cloak was blown off in a muddy wind, falling to the ground and curling up together like a wounded child.

Bob started to back away. He’d done his part hadn’t he? Several successfully landed attacks. Stunning creativity. He could rest on his laurels. Time to call the cavalry.

“George, fire. Fire away, burn the bastards.”

George looked quizzically to the side and then turned in Bob’s direction as though he wanted some confirmation on what the command was supposed to mean.

"Not this again; there's no time George," Bob hissed, giving ground. “Fire, George, fire!”

Bob motioned spitting something out of his mouth. Bob saw the slow cogs of the dog’s mind clicking into place. The dog drew in a deep breath of air. He’d actually gotten the message, no long and pointless rituals required. Thank the heavens. Smart dog that.

“Wait, George, wait, the monster's over there.” George was looking straight at Bob.

“George, no, stop, George.” Bob dived out of the way as a jet of red flames erupted through where he’d be two seconds ago. “Friendly fire. Friendly fire. You trying to kill me George?”

George wandered concernedly over like he was worried whether Bob was alright. He had an exasperated curl to his tail that seemed to say: you were the one who told me to do it. Bob wanted to swear his head off at the dog, but George had a point and Bob had more pressing matters. The insect-reaper, understandingly a little off balance by the sudden explosion not two feet away, had recovered itself and was planning its attack.

Bob swiveled his gaze left then right. Something, something. There. He’d happened to dive in the direction of the fallen dagger. Another stroke of genius. He picked it up. He was armed (a lot of good it would do him). He had half-a-second before the creature was on him. His cloak was rolled up dejectedly in a ball to the side. George was a loose cannon. And the mud on the plains was soft and harmless.

The creature leaped forward and... stumbled. "Aha, got you!" Bob’s cloak had swiped out and caught the thing by its legs; now was his chance. Bob pounced forward, swinging the dagger down in a brutal, life-ending slash, but the insect didn’t fall, it caught itself in the air with its wings and sped towards him.

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"Cheating scoundrel!" Bob tried to react but the insect was too fast. Two lightning shimmers of the blade. Miraculously Bob managed to reposition the knife under one of them, and sort of crumble away from the second, but the insect edged the blade round at the last moment and the scythe squelched deep into Bob’s shoulder.

Bob felt a searing pain and his right arm went limp, the dagger falling away. Hot blood was spilling out of the wound and dripping onto the ground. There was a lot of blood. “George, George, where are you?”

The dog charged at the monster, but it had seen him coming and just hovering itself up higher. George had finally got the picture. His body was tensed, his tail stiff and raised, ears erect; he snarled fiercely at the insect.

"Fire, George, fire,” Bob managed to hiss out as he stumbled back trying to put as much distance between himself and the incoming meteorite. George readied himself, yes, thank the system, but the insect knew this trick already and was zooming up higher into the sky. The flamethrower breath fell short. George couldn’t reach.

The monster hovered over them, hissing and clicking its jaws, those human feet hanging down, the toes wriggling angrily and around the legs was Bob’s mud cloak. Bob willed himself back to consciousness. Down!

Bob pulled on the cloak with his mind. He had a much deeper connection with his companion object and the difference showed. The insect was jerked downwards. It reacted quickly, straining against the cloak’s pull. But Bob was pulling with his whole soul. He dragged it down, slowly, inch by inch, as George waited below. You could see the desperation in the animal’s eyes. It knew what was coming.

A little more, just a little more, Bob thought he was about to pass out, there was a lot of blood on the ground, his blood, the grass was sticky with it. But he had the bastard. He had the bastard. It was only a matter of time. The insect looked like it had come to the same conclusion and decided a sacrifice was necessary. It guillotined across with its scythe and George barked angrily as a pair of human feet fell out of the sky and bounced off his head.

But no, Bob was watching. Bob was angry. Bob was not about to let this monster get away. He was inside the cloak. And as the insect swung down, Bob had wrapped the cloak around the swinging arm. And now he slithered up to the right wing. The cloak choked out the wing’s heartbeat and the insect careened downwards. Bob parachuted the mud cloak up as George’s fireball materialized in the air and swallowed the monster whole. Death to the wicked.

A sizzlingly hunk of charred flesh fell, plop, out of the sky and onto the mud plains. Bob’s vision was tunneling; he was still losing blood. He tried to move his arm. Nothing. George rushed over, whining deep in the back of his throat, as he tried to lick the wound. Bob almost smiled. It was a delirious, am-I-hallucinating kind of smile, but it was a smile.

“You did good, George. You did real good.” George howled. It looked like the dog couldn’t sit still. He rushed backwards and forwards aimlessly.

Bob crumbled down. His pack fell off his shoulders and onto the ground. He felt white and cold. He was tired. The pack, Bob, the pack! Yes, Bob almost remembered, hadn’t he put something in his pack, the thoughts came to him very distant and calm. His good hand crawled towards the pack. He pulled on the zip. It came undone a little and then caught. The angle was bad. Bob paused. Just a little break. He’d try again in a little bit. Thirty seconds. A minute. You know, when he had his strength back.

George had seen what Bob was doing. And he jumped on the pack. Squeezing his nose into the little hole, he forced open the zip. You’ll break the zip that way, Bob thought to himself, mentally shaking his head. The contents of the bag all fell out onto the grass, onto the bloody grass. That’s my blood, Bob laughed, it seemed sort of funny somehow, how’d it get all the way over there, when I’m all the way over here. Mystery. Everything’s a mystery. Life and death. What am I mumbling on about now…

George dragged over a little white square. Bob thought he’d seen it before. He reached out his good hand. He felt a little curious. George’s teeth had torn open the thin, plastic packaging. Bob picked it slowly up and brought it close to his face. He wasn’t seeing that well.

Why, it was one of those health patches wasn’t it? He’d bought a couple before they set out. He felt happy that he’d been able to remember. He made to put down the patch. George barked loudly at him. “Calm down boy, calm down.” Bob’s voice was a whisper. George kept barking. Bob’s head hurt. What did the dog want from him? Couldn’t he see that Bob was tired?

Bob moved to put down the patch. The barking got louder. “What? You want this. What is it again?” Bob remembered. “A health patch, that’s right. You hurt George? You need me to put it on you. Where you hurt boy?”

The dog whined and whimpered and nestled up to Bob.

“It’s alright boy. You’ll be alright. Tell me where it hurts.”

George nosed at Bob’s shoulder and licked the wound again.

“Silly me. Silly me, George. You were worried bout me, huh.”

Bob’s arm moved slowly towards the wound. It was hard. It was so far. One arm to another. After what felt like a lifetime, his hand hovered the injured shoulder. He pushed the patch into place.

A shot of delicious warmth trickled through him. It twirled around inside his arm, like it was looking for something, and then sped towards the open wound. He felt strange. The flesh of his arm was moving by itself. It was pulling itself together. The wound was closing, was he asleep, had he finally passed out? He felt the magic still working beneath the skin. The shoulder was hot and itchy as he sensed things knit together.

That warm feeling had diffused outwards from the shoulder. He hadn’t noticed how cold his fingers were, a pale, unhealthy white that reminded him… No he didn’t want to say it. Sensation was coming back. His head was clearing. The blurry vision sharpened. And that dear face, that sad slanted head with its browned nose and black ringed eyes, with its yellow whiskers and golden mane, came into view.

“George,” Bob threw his one good arm around the dog. “George, thank you George. I’m so glad you’re here with me.”

They weren’t tears. He’d just got something in his eye. The dog cooed and stepped awkwardly closer.

“I'm alright George. I’ll make it.”

The dog sat down on top of Bob, curling in the space between Bob's legs, head on his lap. Bob stroked George’s head again and again, soft and lovingly. Thank you George. Thank you.