The difference between freedom and captivity is measured in choices. When I was facing certain death, my only choice was between survival and a grisly end. When I was trapped in the charnal kitchen, my choice was between escape and defeat.

Once I was out of that place, away from that baker's shop of nightmares, under the wide blue skies, my choices expanded, exploded, until they were virtually limitless.

But complete freedom has chains of its own, I discovered, standing there in front of the bakery. With an entire world of options in front of me, different paths vied for my attention. Where would I go? What would I do?

In a way, I was lucky that I still had danger hot on my heels.

I had to assume the demon child might pursue me, even if only out of spite. I also was unsure what Popo would do, if it became curious or emboldened. Both things led to the conclusion that I should flee at once, or at least find a place to hide.

The front of the bakery opened onto a broad cobbled road, lined with buildings on both sides, and in both directions, stretching off to where bends in the street blocked my view.

Beyond the immediate row of stores, taller buildings rose in the middle distance, steep red-tiled rooftops sketching out the rising skyline of a city. Beyond those were taller buildings still, a spired temple, a castle, an encircling perimeter wall.

The streets weren't empty by any means. Individuals and groups of giants moved past each other, some dressed finely, some armed with bladed loops or long knives, still others wearing rags, with no other possessions. Even the smallest of them towered above me.

None of them noticed me, just one small bun, but if I started moving amongst them I was sure to draw attention, and some of them looked hungry enough that they might not be above snatching up a snack from the ground.

Other eyes were paying more attention. Up above the street, perched on the roofs and shop signs, were dozens of watchful pigeons.

I didn't like the way they looked at me. Too intent for mere curiosity, too numerous to be easily evaded, lacking even the intelligence to recognize or be intimidated by something out of the ordinary, such as a clever, moving bun.

I turned and started running down the street, using my bunrunning skill to hop from cobble stone to cobble stone.

There were no shortage of hiding places, but I found fault with each and every one of them. The stack of crates would block me from view of the street, but it was still too exposed from the back and sides. The deep hole left by a missing cobblestone would make a decent bunker, but it was open to the sky.

After I'd passed two buildings – a specialist cake seller and a greengrocer – the wall of buildings on the left opened up into a small grassy area.

No bigger than the buildings I'd been passing, the grassy area was overgrown at the edges, home to a tree stump and an old well. Part of the dirt had been tilled into a small garden, presumably by one of the shops, but most if it was given over to wild growth.

I thought it seemed a promising spot to find a hiding place, and my decision was cemented a moment later when a pair of pigeons fluttered down onto the street ahead of me.

Not today, birds of death.

I pivoted, hopping off the cobbled street into the grassy lot. I landed in a fairly well-trodden section, but the grass was already up to my waist. My pokey feet, which had fared so well on the flat floors and textured surfaces of the bakery, kept getting stuck and caught on the long blades of grass.

I continued on regardless. If I was up to my waist in grass, then at least I was harder to see.

As I roamed, a pigeon flapped down and perched on the roof to the well. I froze for a moment, watching it. The bird peered back at me, its gaze predatory, its avian eyes impassive, somehow alien.

Perhaps the birds did possess some innate wariness, as it made no further moves. I quickly picked a destination, the old tree stump, hoping to take shelter beneath a root, and set off, keeping careful watch on the pigeon behind me.

I'd made it halfway there when another pigeon fluttered down to join the first, and soon after, a third.

It was an unusual feeling, watching creatures congregate to feast on my flesh. A party where I was simultaneously the guest of honor, but also a victim. Coveted by beings which held me in contempt.

Just as I reached the tree stump yet another pigeon fluttered down, the fourth, this one russet brown with white specks on its face. It landed right on top of the tree stump then cocked its head, peering down at me, the fluffy almost orb-like silhouette of its body belying a terrible strength.

It seemed these birds were hesitant to land directly on the ground, but any even slightly elevated platform was fair game.

The russet pigeon made no further moves towards me, merely watching with interest, but I felt the pressure rise regardless, and began hunting for a suitable spot.

I had to circle almost all of the way around the tree stump, struggling to sprint in the long grass, before I found something promising – a depression formed by two roots, where it looked like the earth sank away. It was the most enclosed and protected hiding spot I'd seen so far.

The depression would still leave me open on one side, but it was mostly enclosed, and the narrow opening would provide a fine bottleneck if I needed to fight off one of the winged menaces.

I started picking my way towards the depression, but perhaps sensing the imminent escape of its rich feast, the russet pigeon moved.

There was a fluttering of wings and a flash of brown feathers, and then the bird was in front of me, its head half turned to the left, it's tiny eye staring me down.

I straightened up, facing it with all the authority and menace I could inject into my stance.

I have faced giants and beasts that would set your round body to shaking, winged fiend. Do not test me.

It's head snapped forward and pecked at me, taking a chunk of sweet flesh from my top edge.

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I reeled back, shocked, and hurt, and – I quickly realized – furious. How dare this mere animal take a bite from my living flesh? I who possessed intent and intelligence.

For all my clashes with dangerous beings, this was the first time anything had pierced my flesh, and the pain was more than I was prepared for.

Bright red jelly trickled lazily from the wound on my top. I didn't think I was losing enough for it to be dangerous, but that was no doubt only the first of many bites the bird meant to inflict.

Marshalling my fury, I leaped at the bird, aiming a spinning kick at its vulnerable head. At the last moment it raised its wing to block, and my pointed leg slapped uselessly against the wall of tough feathers.

I dropped to my feet on the ground, looking for a new angle of attack, but the bird was on me in a second, its head lancing out to peck at me.

I dodged the strike, swaying backwards out of reach, then whipped my leg up in a strike at the bird's exposed neck, scoring a hit. The point of my foot drew a thin graze against its throat.

The bird flapped its wings to take it a few steps back, where it stood, regarding me with new wariness.

More than you bargained for, winged vermin?

If I thought that meant the end of the battle, then I was proved wrong a moment later. The fluttering of wings heralded the arrival of the three pigeons from the well, landing nearby.

I thought I saw something smug flutter across the russet pigeon's expression as its allies moved in to flank me.

My jelly burned hot at the thought of another battle I couldn't win, this time a foe I couldn't even bluff my way past. Why must the whole world be set against me? Is there nowhere beings are judged by the rule of law? Or is a bun doomed to a life lived by the law of the jungle?

Even if I stood a chance against one pigeon, its peers were drawing closer, leaving me outnumbered. I would simply have to run.

I leaped up in the air, hurtling upwards and over the head of the russet bird's head... only to find myself suddenly yanked to a stop mid-flight. I looked down and saw that it had snapped its beak around my leg as I passed over it.

Who is this pigeon?

It whipped its head, releasing my leg and sending me spinning towards its allies.

I crashed to the ground on my back with an explosion of powdered sugar, and the the waiting birds descended on me.

I spun on the ground, whipping my legs back and forth to block incoming pecks. One bird was deflected by a sharp kick, another felt the pinprick of my leg pressing into the roof of its mouth, a third found the points of my feet wedged precisely against the two tips of its open beak.

When I had a moment of respite I jammed my foot into the ground, letting my balance-force bring me back to my feet, and then I was running, running faster than I'd ever run before.

My legs were a blur as I ran from the pecking birds. The deep grass didn't slow me because I was running on the grass, each flimsy blade barely having time to bend beneath my feet before I was gone, so fast and light it could barely be called running, only a technical line divided it from flying.

> Skill Advancement!

> Bunrunning has advanced.

> [2/3] Bunrunning

> Mighty leaps and aerial acrobatics.

> Combine movement with attacks and dodges.

> Reduced weight while running.

You are singing my song, angel of evolution.

I raced easily away from the stupified pigeons, towards the hole beneath the tree stump. The russet pigeon made an attempt to stop me, raising its wing to form a broad wall in front of me, but I springboarded off a leaf, flipping clear over it and diving directly into the hole on the other side.

It was a tight fit, and the earthen walls bruised my sides as I slid in, but I was safely inside before friction brought me to a stop.

There was fluttering behind me, the sound of claws scratching at dirt, and I began picking my way deeper into the hole.

The roof of the hole was too low for me to stand, and so I crawled, lying on my face, using my legs to push myself forward, forward, ever forward.

As I scraped gradually deeper, I began to notice something odd about the hole – it didn't seem to end. I should have quickly come up against the rear wall of the depression, but it was still going, sloping slightly downwards, and widening if anything.

This was no mere hole, I realized. It was a tunnel.

A tunnel to safety?

This deep into the passage I was safe from anything the birds might try to reach me, and I allowed myself a minute to rest.

I could feel congealed jelly marking my top, cold where it had splattered on my skin. The bruises from my acrobatic bakery escape had combined with those from entering the tunnel to create a constant low level throbbing and weariness. But this tunnel wasn't an ideal place to linger, so I went on.

My pace was slow without bunrunning to speed me along, but it was steady, and I felt certain I was finally safe from the various threats the world had arrayed against me.

Deeper and deeper the tunnel went. An inch below the ground, then two, and three, until I felt I was plumbing the very depths of the earth. The entrance was two feet of tunnel behind me now, the sun and sky merely distant memories.

I didn't feel any claustrophobia as I went deeper. The outside world was where the danger was. This tunnel was a sanctuary, and a tunnel implied a destination, which may be safer yet.

Oh, what wonders awaited me at the end of the tunnel, I pondered. A burrow of some non-bunivorous creature, perhaps? For what digging creature would be interested in a bun? Surely there were none.

Certainly there would be no people, or dogs, or cursed beaked angels of death.

As I crawled, my fantasies of possible destinations grew ever more elaborate. I'd find another bun down there, a kindred spirit with which to face the world. The tunnel would lead to the court of a subterranean king, who would greet me as a hero and shower me with riches. The cramped space would open out into a sorcerer's cave, where a genie waited to grant my every wish.

It was perhaps because I was distracted by such base imaginings that I failed to notice what came next.

The tunnel did not come to an abrupt end, but the slope, which had been increasing for some time, suddenly became sharper than I was prepared for.

I was ill experienced with the dynamics and strange physics of my bun body, unused to its weight and heft. Soon I was sliding down the tunnel unaided, loose soil and dislodged sugar mixing and rolling, making mockery of friction.

I thought the uncontrolled slide was bad enough, but a moment later the ground under me disappeared completely.

I slid over the edge of the gaping hole at speed, and then, without warning, I was falling.