The battle was the same battle that had always been fought. The small against the large. The weak against the strong. The hunted and the hunter – predator and prey.

In this ancient tradition my battle was not special. A million mice had faced these odds, staring down the paralyzing gazes of a million cats. A million birds, and a million worms. Countless cycles. A mountain of corpses.

My fight was not special, but that didn't mean I did not fight.

I flew through the air towards the baker, a pastry bullet, one leg outstretched before me, the other trailing behind.

My outstretched leg struck the man's shin, my pointy foot finding purchase in the coarse weave of his trousers. My balance-force kicked in, and I was able to find enough stability to raise my other leg. I began running up his clothes at scarcely less speed than I'd crossed the ground.

"Oh, bleeding hell," the baker exclaimed.

With my all-around vision I saw the rolling pin swinging towards me, a pendulum ticking down the moments to my end.

I pivoted away from it at the last moment, the rolling pin sweeping past me close enough that the wind of its passing pulled a cloud of powdered sugar from my skin.

I reoriented without barely slowing down, tracing a corkscrew line around the man's leg as I ascended.

The rolling pin swept for me again, twice more, each time finding only air. I was small, but my opponent was slow. I was weak, but my body was light. I was nearing the man's face, where my sharp kicks might have enough effect to distract or debilitate him long enough for me to escape through the door.

Out of nowhere I saw a hand flying towards me, the baker's meaty palm aiming to swat me away in a last minute defensive move.

The angle was wrong for me to evade, and it was already too close to dodge. The hand slapped into my face and I was sent flying at the wall, spinning as I hurtled through the air, all my progress slipping away, taking my hope with it.

No.

My body would not litter that mountain of corpses. No demonic child would feast on my flesh. This worm would turn. This day, the mouse would hunt the cat.

If I was weak, then I must find my enemy's weak points. If I was small, then I would settle for being the mote in God's eye.

I twisted, reorienting in the air. When I hit the wall I did so feet first. I felt the strain as my stick legs took the weight of the impact, then jumped with all my strength, kicking off the wall and back towards the baker, aiming directly for his face.

> New Skill Gained!

> Bunrunning

> Mighty leaps and aerial acrobatics.

> Combine movement with attacks and dodges.

Yes! You are still with me, my angel of evolution.

I twisted so that my sharp legs were pointed at the baker.

His eyes widened as I hurtled towards him, my legs a twin pair of wooden stakes aimed direcy at his dark brown eyes.

He closed his eyes at the last moment. The points of my feet pressed lightly into his eyelids, and simply bounced off. Then I was falling.

I rolled over backwards in the air to get my legs under me, just in time to land on them.

The impact between my skewers and the tile sent a painful jarring running through my body, and I was left wondering just how much punishment my legs and bruised body could take.

I didn't have time to rest and see if the pain would wear off. The baker's legs formed an arch in front of me, framing the light streaming in through the kitchen door. The gateway to my freedom, its guarding colossus momentarily distracted.

I began running, my wooden legs beating out a stucatto beat on the tile, the drumming the rythm of a panicking heart.

I was almost through the door, so close to freedom, when my old nemesis showed herself. The little girl slid in front of me, a demonic grin spread across her face, a pair of steel tongs gripped in her hand.

If I could speak I might have pleaded with her, or admonished her, or condemned her. But I could not speak, and whatever I might have said about her greed, or cruelty, or the value of my life went unspoken.

She clacked the tongs together once, seeming to enjoy my hesitation. I knew that if those tongs closed around me, there would be no escape. It would be over.

But the tongs would not close around me. I'd already defeated the demon's father. What challenge could she offer me? She wasn't half the size he was.

Behind me, the baker turned around, rubbing at his eyes. He blinked several times, then focused down on me.

"Oh, just let it go," he said, waving the rolling pin lazily at the door.

"No!" the girl snapped. "I want to know what an animote bun tastes like."

"It'll just be like a normal bun," the baker said. "Look, we've got dozens."

I tried to ignore the reminder of the buns I was leaving behind. Tens of my fellows, abandoned by fate, and by me.

I'm sorry, brothers and sisters, but I must survive.

The girl broke the standoff first, stooping down towards me, tongs extended. The tongs gave her extra reach, but limited her angle of attack, and it was almost too easy to dodge.

A case of content theft: this narrative is not rightfully on Amazon; if you spot it, report the violation.

I stepped to the side, effortlessly moving out of the way. I moved again when the tongs came for me a second time.

On her third attempt, the girl brought the tongs down at me from directly above. I couldn't dodge to the side without making myself vulnerable, so instead I jumped straight up, sticking my legs out to the side to wedge between the tongs, preventing them from closing.

"Honestly, it's not worth it," the baker said. "It'd be a mercy to put it out of its misery, but if its going to fight back just let it go."

"No!" the girl said.

She started lifting the tongs, still held open by my outstretched legs, away from the ground, moving me towards the table. She wanted to get me back over the tray where I would have less freedom to move around. That couldn't be allowed.

I kicked my legs as hard as I could, launching myself upwards out of the grip of the tongs. I spun end over end as I flew up through the air, and over the little girl's head, but my angle had been wrong to take me clear over her, and I landed on my feet on top of her head.

"Aaah!" she screamed. "It's in my hair!"

I stomped around, my feet finding easy purchase in the girl's hair.

A moment later a pair of questing hands appeared from the sides, reaching up and blindly seeking for me.

I kicked out, stabbing the tip of a finger that came too close, then leaped off the back of her head, towards the door, towards freedom.

I winced as the impact with the ground shook my already battered body, but the girl was less than half the height of her father, and it wasn't so far to fall. I began running the moment my legs hit the ground.

The kitchen door led to another room, a store-front, with a counter, shelves along the walls, crates of bread loaves, and a pair of large windows in the front wall.

Through the windows I could see the blue of open sky, and the door was propped open. I was so close to getting away I could taste it, the starchy taste of freedom.

Behind me, the girl turned around. She had fury on her face and murder in her eyes. I was going to get away, and she wasn't taking it well. More than that, I'd humiliated her, a simple bun outmanouvering both an experienced baker and his more agile, more motivated devil spawn.

The girl raised her fingers to her lips and gave a shrill whistle. She opened her mouth and cried a single word.

"Popoooo!"

I heard it before I saw it. The pounding of feet on earth, the rattle of claws on stone. Heralded by its footsteps, I saw it arrive in the shop door; large, and lithe, and drooling.

A dog, twice my height, with a stubby face and long hair that fell around its large eyes. Its jaws loomed open, and I was treated to a vision of seemingly innumerable fangs, each capable to breaking even the hardest shortbread.

"Get it Popo," the girl said, her voice perversely playful.

Fine, I thought, readying myself. So be it.

I'd faced giants and demons, been persecuted from the moment of my birth. Why shouldn't fate throw yet another impossible challenge at me, though a challenge unlike those I'd faced before.

This 'Popo' wasn't like the clumsy people I'd danced with until now. It was a beast out of the wilds, not too many generations removed from a wolf. It was smaller, not even knee-height to the baker, but agile because of it, and still powerful.

It had claws, where I only had wooden skewers. It had muscle, where I only had soft, edible flesh. Its hide was covered in thick fur that nothing I possessed could penetrate, and the comparison with my own exposed fluffy body left me feeling painfully vulnerable.

As it bounded towards me, tongue lolling from its mouth in anticipation of a sweet treat, I had a terrifying realization.

I could not fight this slathering beast.

It was too low to the ground, too fast and agile. I'd outmanouvered the giants more than fought them, but this creature wouldn't be evaded. It was too much on my level, its size, speed, and agility too close to my own, but better in every respect, and coupled with a feral strength.

I shifted, preparing to make a desperate, hopeless run for higher ground.

At my movement the dog paused.

It skidded to a stop just as I moved, cocking it's head to the side in animal confusion, its long tongue still hanging from its jaws. It didn't know what to make of me.

It had obviously never seen a walking, intelligent bun before. I was something new, something novel.

For all its strength and natural advantages, Popo was still an animal. Its wild wolf instincts, even generations removed, worked against it here, for what was unfamiliar was potentially dangerous. I was an unknown, therefore I was a threat.

I could use that. Animals, especially an intelligent, domesticated animal like a dog, would respond to body language. If I acted like a threat, if I presented myself with confidence, there was a chance I could trick Popo into standing down.

The standoff between me and Popo continued, and I was the one to break it.

I took a single step forwards. Popo also took a step forward. That hadn't worked as I intended.

I altered my stance, trying to hold my bun body with authority, injecting as much menace into my body language as was possible with only two stick legs and a round torso.

I am no mere bun. I am the predator, here. I am to be feared. As a wasp lifts its sting, as a snake bares its fangs, I am a threat to you.

I reached out with my leg and took a single step forward towards it.

The dog sniffed, then wavered, taking a step back.

This was it. I'd gambled on the dog's anxiety, exerted my dominance, and it had paid off. Hundreds of years of breeding, countless canine husbanders selecting for friendliness and obedience, and I had tapped into those trained instincts.

I have you now, Popo.

> New Skill Gained!

> Bready Language

> Inspire, intimidate, communicate.

> Using motion, gesture, and stance to speak without words.

And my angel had apparently seen fit to reward my boldness.

I started striding forwards, slowly, deliberately. Popo hesitated for a moment, then backed off to the side. It watched me in silence as I moved past, my legs clicking regally on the tiled shop floor.

I could almost feel my jelly center squirming around in hidden agitation as I walked past where it was sitting, wary of a change of heart, of any sudden movements, and then I was out.

Bright sunlight greeted me, I heard the twittering of bird song, and blue skies rolled out above me, a vision of freedom.