I love to vote in favor of these moments

The following morning – their third in this accursed world – dawned with a sliver less overt terror than the previous ones. The meager meal from the night before, combined with the slightly more secure ravine and the small successes of their collective labor in making the place marginally habitable, had instilled a fragile, almost defiant sense of routine. The immediate, gnawing hunger was dulled for most, and the leaf-and-silk water skins, though still leaky, held a precious reserve.

"Day three in the 'Ravine of Questionable Sustenance'!" The Great I, announced from my comfortable viewing dimension, my voice dripping with the usual contempt. "Observe, Humanity, how quickly your kind adapts to misery! A full belly (of sorts), a slightly less exposed hole to sleep in, and suddenly, they think they're mastering survival! Adorable. The capacity for self-delusion is truly one of your most enduring and entertaining traits."

It was during a lull in the morning's cautious foraging and water replenishment activities near the stream that a new development occurred. Several of the students who had sprouted wings – Fiona Greene (Scarlet Macaw), Timothy Schwartz (Great Grey Shrike), Jessie Viano (Baya Weaver), and Joe Kerwick (Paper Wasp), among them – had been making clumsy, short attempts at controlled flight within the slightly more open areas. Encouraged by Ms. Linz, who saw the strategic advantage of aerial reconnaissance, they were mostly managing awkward hops and brief, panicked glides that ended in undignified heaps.

But Will Hopton, the college student DJ, his vibrant Bird of Paradise plumage a stark, almost defiant splash of color against the drab greens and browns of this forest, had been more persistent than the others. It was thanks to his adventurous human spirit, and his dream of flying since his youth, coupled with his past experiences with paragliding and skydiving, that gave him a better feel for air currents, or simply the desperate urge to feel the freedom of the open sky again, to escape the claustrophobia of the forest floor. He’d been practicing relentlessly since the previous day, his initial flaps and stumbles slowly giving way to more coordinated wingbeats, his body learning the new language of flight.

Then, it happened. With a running start down a short, clear slope near the stream, and a powerful downstroke of his wings, Will flew. Not just a glide, not a panicked flutter, but true, sustained flight. He rose above the ravine, circled once, then twice, his joyous, surprised squawk – a sound utterly familiar but alien, yet still filled with recognizable triumph – echoing down to the upturned, astonished faces below. For a moment, a genuine, unforced cheer went up from the students and even some of the other adults. It was a small miracle, a symbol of adaptation, of mastering some aspect of their monstrous new forms, a tiny beacon of hope.

"Look at that! The feathered fool can actually fly!" I exclaimed, a thrill of genuine, sadistic delight coursing through me. "Oh, this is even better than I anticipated! He soars! He swoops! He tastes the intoxicating joy of flight, powered by his own transformed flesh in this sky! Let him climb higher! Let him feel the sun on his new wings! It will make his inevitable, crashing fall all the more spectacular! Like that foolish boy Icarus you humans tell tales of, flying too close to a truth he cannot comprehend, only to have his waxen ambitions melt! Oh, I wait with baited breath for the moment his pretty, pointless triumph shatters into a thousand pieces! All good things, especially moments of fleeting joy for mortals, come to those of us who wait patiently for the inevitable tragedy."

From his higher vantage point, circling above the dense canopy that had so far limited their view of the wider world, Will suddenly let out a different kind of cry – not of joy this time, but of sharp, excited discovery. He banked, then landed somewhat unsteadily back near the edge of the ravine, his chest heaving, his transformed eyes wide with an almost manic gleam.

"Smoke!" he gasped, pointing a winged arm off towards the distant, hazy horizon, beyond the immediate treeline. "I saw smoke! A thin plume, but definitely smoke! Way off, to the west! Rising straight up!"

A stunned silence fell over the group, broken only by Will’s ragged breathing. Then, it erupted into a cacophony of excited chatter.

"Smoke? Are you sure, Will?" Ms. Linz asked, stepping forward, her own hope warring with caution.

"Positive, Ms. Linz! Clear as day from up there!"

"It has to be people!" someone cried out.

"Civilization! Maybe they can help us!" another voice added, trembling with emotion.

"We have to go see! We have to!"

The weariness, the fear, the grim routine of survival – all were momentarily forgotten, swept away by a tidal wave of desperate, almost hysterical hope. Even the most cynical among them, even those most deeply mired in despair, felt a flicker. Smoke meant fire. Fire meant people. People meant… rescue? Help? An end to this nightmare? The thought was intoxicating.

Ms. Linz and the other adults exchanged cautious, uncertain glances. It was a risk, a huge risk, to abandon their relatively secure (if miserable) ravine for an unknown signal in the distance. But the pull of that distant plume, the promise it held for these terrified, traumatized souls, was almost irresistible.

"Oh, this is rich!" I cackled, settling back on my couch of solidified despair, the popcorn practically materializing in my hand. "A wisp of smoke, likely from some primitive's dung fire or a burning patch of swamp gas, and suddenly they're all aflutter with dreams of rescue and a return to their tedious little lives! The naivety! The sheer, unadulterated, human hope! It's like watching moths joyfully fly towards a hidden bug zapper! This is going to be deliciously painful for them. I can hardly wait to see their little faces when 'salvation' turns out to be just another flavor of horror."

The intoxicating idea of rescue, of civilization, of an end to this waking nightmare, had seized the majority of the students with the force of a physical blow. Their earlier weariness, the gnawing hunger that had become a constant companion, even the ever-present, underlying terror that had them starting at every rustle of a leaf, seemed to recede, momentarily banished in the face of this singular, distant plume of smoke.

They chattered excitedly, their transformed faces – some grotesque with chitin and mandibles, others strangely beautiful with feathers and fur, all etched with grime and fear – animated with a desperate, almost painful, hope. Whispers turned to louder exclamations: "It's people, it has to be!" "Maybe they have food! Real food!" "A town? A city? Do you think they have doctors?" The thought of a soft bed, a warm meal, and a world not actively trying to kill them was a potent intoxicant.

"Oh, the sweet, intoxicating nectar of false hope!" The Great I, observed from my comfortable, otherworldly perch, a connoisseur relishing the bouquet of impending tragedy. "They see a wisp of smoke, likely from some primitive's dung fire or perhaps a burning patch of particularly flatulent swamp gas, and suddenly their brains, already addled by trauma, transformation, and a distinct lack of proper nutrition, conjure images of rescue parties, feather beds, and a triumphant return to their utterly pointless human lives. The sheer, unadulterated optimism! It's like watching lemmings joyfully skip towards a cliff edge, convinced it leads to an all-you-can-eat buffet, and drown in the sea's depths to be consumed in the abyss. This is going to be wonderfully, exquisitely painful for them when reality, as it always does, reasserts its brutal dominance."

Ms. Linz, Coach Roberts, Mr. Decker, and the other adults exchanged deeply worried glances. The students' almost manic excitement, their sudden surge of frantic energy born from this fragile hope, was infectious, yes, but also dangerously reckless. It was the kind of desperate energy that led to mistakes, to dropped guards. Please, let it be so.

"We need to be cautious," Ms. Linz began, her voice attempting to cut through the rising tide of hopeful hysteria, her fine white feathers around her temples seeming to bristle. "We don't know what that smoke means. It could be anything. It could be a dangerous forest fire. We can't just rush in blindly."

"But it could be helpful, Ms. Linz!" It was one of the younger ones, a boy whose transformation had left him with the soft, twitching nose and wide, terrified eyes of a rabbit-hybrid; he stumbled, his new, overly large feet catching on a root, nearly falling before catching himself. "It has to be help, Ms. Linz! Please! I… I can't take much more of this." He gestured vaguely at the oppressive forest around them.

The sentiment was echoed by many, a chorus of desperate agreement rippling through the assembled beast-folk. The pull of that distant signal, the desperate, almost unbearable need for it to be salvation, was overwhelming. Even the chaperones, parents themselves who had witnessed their own children twisted into these monstrous shapes, felt the agonizing tug-of-war between ingrained caution and the desperate, burning desire to believe their children, and they themselves, might soon be safe, might find an end to this relentless horror.

Juno Southernland, her toucanet beak clacking softly, clutched Vincent's heavily-scaled arm, her bright eyes fixed on the smoke. Jane Wright, the Eagle-hybrid, scanned the horizon with an intensity that surpassed even her normal keen vision, as if trying to will the smoke to resolve into a friendly village.

"Alright," Coach Roberts finally grunted. His small, deep-set eyes scanned the hopeful, terrified faces before him. "Alright. We investigate. Cautiously." He emphasized the word with a low growl that rumbled in his massive chest.

"Pat," he looked to the Bloodhound-hybrid, Pat Duvall, whose nose was already twitching, trying to decipher the distant scent of smoke amidst the myriad alien smells of the forest, "you and Jack will take point on the ground. Keep your senses sharp, both of you."

"Will," he nodded to the Bird of Paradise DJ, Will Hopton, who was still flushed with the triumph of his earlier flight, his vibrant plumage practically vibrating with excitement, "if you can manage it, stay high, circle wide, give us warning if you see anything suspicious–anything at all. The rest of us move as a group, quietly. No running off. No shouting. We approach, we observe, and we do not engage or reveal ourselves until we know exactly what we're dealing with. Understood?"

A ragged chorus of "Yes, Coach!" answered him, the earlier manic excitement now tempered with a sliver of his imposed discipline. The decision, fraught with risk but fueled by an almost unbearable hope, was made and seemed to seethe with a small bubbling of madness.

"And so, the pilgrimage to potential disappointment begins!" I said with gleeful anticipation, settling back into my couch of solidified despair. "Led by the sniffers and the fledgling flyer, the herd of hopeful monstrosities sets off! Will they find a welcoming village of friendly natives? A heavily armed military outpost of the soldiers, perhaps local monsters that know how to make and use fire? Or maybe just a particularly large, smoldering pile of dung that vaguely resembles a signal fire to their desperate eyes? The possibilities are endless, and almost all of them are terrible for our protagonists! Oh, the suspense is delightful!"

The journey was arduous, the humid air thick with the scent of unknown blossoms and unseen decay, each step a struggle against hope-fueled exhaustion. Their ravine, while miserable and cramped, had offered a degree of concealment. Now, they moved through the dense, semi-open forest, trying to maintain some semblance of stealth, a difficult, near-impossible task for a group of over a hundred terrified, variously transformed individuals, many of whom were still clumsy and uncoordinated in their new bodies, their altered gaits making quiet passage a distant dream.

Pat Duvall (the bloodhound) and Jack Sutton (the Boar) took the lead on the ground, their noses to the air and ground, trying to decipher the scents carried on the wind – the tantalizing, woody smell of smoke, yes, but also the underlying, potentially dangerous smells of the forest and any creatures that might lurk within its depths.

Shirou and Katy, their own senses heightened, moved near the front, alert and tense, scanning their surroundings, Katy’s ears swiveling, Shirou’s nose twitching. The other bird-hybrids, like Fiona Greene, attempted lower, more concealed flights through the denser branches, acting as closer-range aerial lookouts.

The students, driven by that desperate, burning hope, pushed themselves, ignoring aching limbs, the raw chafe of their tattered clothes against unfamiliar fur, scales, or hard shells, and the gnawing hunger that the previous day's meager meal had only temporarily assuaged.

George Handcock, his bear-like strength proving invaluable, bodily cleared a path through a particularly dense patch of razor-sharp vines, wincing as they tore at his fur but allowing the smaller, more vulnerable students like Sarah Lugwid to pass. Even Kent Adler, the crab-hybrid, was seen grudgingly using a claw to help untangle Mallory Weiss's roadrunner feathers from a snag, though he grumbled about it. Their earlier internal squabbles and frictions momentarily forgotten, or at least suppressed, in the face of this shared, singular, hopeful goal. The promise of rescue, however faint, however illusory, was a powerful unifier.

After what felt like hours of tense, difficult travel, with the sun climbing higher in the sky, casting disorienting shadows through the dense canopy that made every shape seem like a lurking threat, a flash of vibrant color descended. Will Hopton landed somewhat breathlessly on a thick branch just ahead of the ground team, his chest heaving. Pat Duvall held up a hand, his body language instantly signaling a halt for the column.

The group behind them stumbled to a stop, a collective gasp caught in their throats as a strange, guttural cry echoed from the valley below, quickly silenced. A ripple of held breaths and anxious glances passed between them.

"Hold up, everyone!" Will called down, his voice urgent. "I got a good look from above. We're really close to where that smoke's coming from, but the terrain changes sharply just ahead. It looks like… a drop. A big cliff edge overlooking a valley. That's where the fire is." He took another breath, then with a powerful beat of his wings, launched himself back into the sky to continue observing from a safer distance.

A new wave of anticipation, sharper now, mixed with a sudden jolt of trepidation, rippled through the group. They pressed forward slowly, Ms. Linz and Coach Roberts moving to the front with the ground scouts, parting the final screen of broad, waxy leaves. They emerged from the dense treeline onto a rocky outcrop, the ground falling away sharply before them.

Below, the valley stretched out, and a collective, audible gasp escaped the group. Shirou felt his heart leap. There, nestled amongst the trees, were not just tents, but the unmistakable, orderly lines of a temporary encampment. Figures – too distant to identify clearly, but definitely bipedal – moved between them. And the smoke... it rose from a clear, contained fire pit.

Hope, so sharp it was painful, lanced through him, even as a cold knot of dread tightened at the sight of the metallic glint of what looked like stacked weaponry near one of the larger tents.

The sight of the encampment below – orderly tents like pale fungi sprouting from the valley floor, a contained fire whose smoke had been their deceptive beacon, bipedal figures moving with a disquieting, disciplined purpose, and the unnerving, cold glint of stacked weaponry near a larger command tent – sent a fresh wave of conflicting, sickening emotions through the students and adults huddled on the rocky outcrop. Hope, so recently and desperately ignited by the distant smoke, now battled with a primal, instinctive fear. Were these potential saviors, a bastion of civilization in this savage, alien world? Or were they the very soldiers the Demon had alluded to, the enforcers of this new, hostile reality, merely another, more organized breed of predator?

"The moment of truth approaches!" The Great I, announced with considerable relish, settling back into my couch of solidified despair, a connoisseur anticipating a particularly fine vintage of suffering. "Will they find gentle shepherds or more likely herders to guide them through this valley of shadow? Maybe ravenous wolves in soldiers' clothing, eager to tear them limb from limb? Oh, the delicious, exquisite uncertainty! Their little hearts must be hammering like trapped birds against the bars of their ribcages!"

"They're… they're definitely people," Shirou said, his eyes wide with a mixture of awe and terror, trying to make out details through the distance and the shimmering heat haze rising from the valley. "But those weapons… they look… serious. Military-grade, almost." His voice was barely a whisper, lost almost immediately in the anxious murmurs of the group.

"We need to know who they are," Ms. Linz said, her voice tight with anxiety, her hand instinctively going to push the feathery down back in place that now graced her neck. "We can't just walk down there. That would be madness. But we can't stay here either; we're too exposed on this ridge. If they are friendly… if there's even a chance…" Her words trailed off, the unspoken plea hanging heavy in the air.

It was Will, the Bird of Paradise and their comedic DJ, who stepped forward, his vibrant plumage, a riot of iridescent blues, greens, and oranges, seeming to pulse with energy. He had tasted true flight, seen the world from above with a freedom none of the others could yet comprehend, and his earlier confidence, though perhaps dented by the long, arduous trek, was rekindled by the sight of potential civilization, however armed it appeared. "I can go," he said, his voice surprisingly steady, cutting through the group's fearful indecision. "I can glide down and approach them. I'll be careful, keep my distance, make sure they see I'm not a threat." He flexed his magnificent wings, the movement sending shimmers of color through the air. "With my experience in flight, I'm sure I can handle the descent and approach smoothly. If they're hostile, if they even look hostile, I can get away fast, get back up here before they can properly react." He looked at the other adults, his gaze earnest. "Someone has to find out." He said, trailing off while looking down below.

A murmur of debate, urgent and hushed, went through the adults. It was incredibly risky, a gamble with potentially fatal stakes. But Will was right; his flight gave him an advantage no one else possessed, a real talent for it yet. He should be able to make a rapid retreat if things went sour. Pat Duvall looked uneasy, his bloodhound nose twitching as if catching a scent of danger even from this distance.

Coach Roberts, his face set in grim lines, his small eyes fixed on Will, finally nodded slowly. "You're sure about this, Hopton? Absolutely sure? No heroics. No grandstanding. Just look, talk if you can, and get out. First sign of trouble, you're gone. That's an order."

Will nodded, a determined set to his jaw, his colorful crest ruffling slightly. "I understand, Coach. Scout's honor." A faint, brave smile touched his lips.

"Annnnd cue the volunteer!" I cackled internally, the sound echoing with pure, unadulterated amusement in the vastness of my being. "The flamboyant one, and a small symbol of hope, a hero no less! Stepping forward to play ambassador to the potentially genocidal locals! He thinks his fancy new wings and a bit of weekend thrill-seeking make him an expert diplomat and an untouchable aerial ace. Confidence: one hundred percent. Situational Awareness: critically, hilariously low. A classic recipe for disaster we see time and again in the wild kingdom, and indeed, in the annals of human folly. Glorious!"

With a deep breath that seemed to fill his entire chest, Will backed up a few steps, then launched himself from the cliff edge with a powerful beat of his wings. His brightly colored feathers caught the updrafts, and he spiraled downwards in a series of controlled, graceful glides, a vibrant speck against the vast green of the valley below, aiming for a small clearing a short, respectful distance from the encampment. The group above watched in breathless, agonizing silence, every eye fixed on his descending form.

Sarah Lugwid, her dwarfed field-mouse hands clasped tightly, whispered, "Please let them be friendly, please let them be friendly," her voice a tiny thread of hope against the vastness. George unconsciously put a heavy, reassuring bear-paw on Fiona's trembling, feathered shoulder, though his own eyes were narrowed with apprehension. Their collective hopes and fears rode with Will on the alien wind.

He landed relatively smoothly, if a little awkwardly, with a final flutter, at the edge of the trees. He took a moment to straighten his tattered, party-ruined clothes as best he could, trying to appear presentable, less like a monstrous apparition and more like a lost, harmless traveler.

Then, he took another deep breath, squared his shoulders, and stepped out into the open. His hands were held up, palms open, in a clear, universal gesture of non-aggression. He began to walk slowly, deliberately, towards the nearest figures he could see near the camp's perimeter – soldiers, their armor glinting dully in the sun, their postures alert.

From the cliff, the students could see the soldiers turn, their heads snapping towards Will. There was no immediate alarm that was discernible from this distance, no sudden raising of weapons. Will stopped a respectful distance away, perhaps fifty yards.

They could see his mouth moving, though his words were lost on the wind, carried away from them. He was gesturing, pointing back towards the forest from which he’d come, then towards himself, a universal pantomime of being lost and needing aid. He kept his posture open, unthreatening, his vibrant plumage making him an unmissable, almost supplicating figure.

"He's doing it," Katy whispered beside Shirou, her voice tight with a mixture of unbearable hope and suffocating fear. Her eyes were narrowed, trying to decipher every minute detail of the distant scene. "They're… they're listening to him! They haven't moved yet!"

The soldiers – perhaps three or four of them initially, then a few more drawn by the unusual sight – had indeed gathered, looking at Will. One, seemingly an officer, stepped slightly forward, appearing to speak, gesturing. For a heart-stopping, agonizing moment, it looked like a dialogue was beginning. A fragile, almost unbearable hope surged through the onlookers on the cliff. Maybe, just maybe, this wouldn't end in disaster.

"Observe, Humanity, the delicate, dangerous dance of first contact!" I narrated with mock solemnity, as if presiding over some sacred, ancient rite. "The lost traveler, resplendent in his accidental finery, pleading his case! The armed guards, stern and watchful, assessed the potential threat! Will compassion prevail? Will they offer succor to this strangely adorned, desperate creature? Or will they adhere to the more common, and infinitely more entertaining, protocol of 'shoot first, ask questions never'?"

Then, it happened. As Will gestured, turning slightly to indicate the direction he'd come from, one of the soldiers appeared behind him moved with viper-like speed. There was a glint of steel – a short blade – suddenly visible. The soldier lunged, and even from the distance, the watchers on the cliff saw Will's body arch, a choked sound torn from him as the blade was driven into his back and out of his stomach. His vibrant wings spasmed and twitched, beating the air uselessly. He stumbled forward, then collapsed heavily onto his knees, his hands clutching at his chest, his brightly colored head bowed.

A collective, horrified gasp, a sound of pure, visceral shock, went up from the cliff edge. Time seemed to freeze.

Before Will could fall further, or even cry out again, another soldier-the one who had seemed to be the officer, simply the nearest one with a rifle–calmly raised his weapon. There was no malice in the action, just cold, practiced efficiency. A bright, almost silent flash of searing light lanced from the rifle's muzzle, striking Will in the head, which started to burn. His body went limp, a discarded puppet whose strings had been abruptly cut, and he pitched forward onto the cold earth, a splash of vivid, tragic red color painted around his body that started to smolder. He didn't move again.

"Ah, perfection!" I laughed then, a sound that was pure, unadulterated delight, echoing only for myself and for you, Humanity, my privileged audience to this grand unfolding. "The bright bird falls! A splash of gaudy color extinguished against the drab canvas of their new reality! It's almost poetic! Like one of your tragic little fables – the beautiful, hopeful thing, so full of life, struck down as an omen! A scarlet ibis heralding a season of storms! A monkey's paw granting wishes that curdle into nightmares! This, my dears, this little tableau of sudden, pointless death, is but the first verse of a very long, very painful song I intend to compose for them! A beautiful, bloody prelude to the true horrors yet to bloom! Savor it! It's a promise!"

Shirou felt the air leave his lungs as if he'd been struck himself. Beside him, Katy let out a choked sound, her claws digging into the tree beneath her paws. Time seemed to freeze, the scene below burning itself into their retinas. The students stared, their minds refusing to process what they had just witnessed.

The casual, brutal efficiency of it. The utter lack of malice, or indeed any emotion at all, from the soldiers. One moment, Will was talking, alive, a beacon of their desperate hope; the next, he was a still, broken form on the ground.

One of the soldiers nudged Will's body with a booted foot, a gesture of contemptuous dismissal. He then turned and gestured back towards the main camp, perhaps calling out a report. Another soldier laughed, a sound too distant to be heard clearly, but the dismissive, almost bored posture was unmistakable. They showed no more concern than if they had swatted an annoying insect.

"Clinical. Efficient. Pest control," I stated, my voice devoid of its earlier theatricality. My earlier amusement solidified into a cold, satisfying certainty. These soldiers understood the natural order. "No muss, no fuss. Note the technique – clean, minimizing struggle, preserving ammunition. This one's done this before, many times. A valuable lesson demonstrated with perfect, brutal clarity for the onlookers: You are not lost students seeking aid. You are not individuals worthy of consideration. You are vermin." "Vermin," I explained to the suddenly very attentive Humanity, my voice a soft, chilling whisper that carried the weight of undeniable truth as the full horror of the realization crashed down upon the horrified audience on the cliff, "are to be exterminated. Without question. Without mercy."

The silence on the cliff shattered as Fiona let out a raw, animalistic screech of pure rage and despair, a sound that was more macaw than human, quickly choked off into a strangled sob. It was a signal, and a rising tide of horrified cries and choked sobs followed as the terrible truth landed with the force of a physical blow.

They weren't just transformed and stranded. They were considered monsters, things to be killed on sight without a word, without a chance. There was no reasoning, no explaining, no possibility of appeal. There was only survival, or a death as swift, as impersonal, and as unceremonious as Will Hopton's. The distant plume of smoke, once a symbol of hope, now seemed like a funeral pyre.

The final, chilling words of The Great I – "Vermin are to be exterminated. Without question. Without mercy." – did not just remain my private thought words for you, Humanity. No, I allowed a subtle, sibilant echo of that pronouncement, like the driest whisper of autumn leaves or the rustle of a serpent in sand, to brush against the minds of every student and adult huddled on that cliff edge. It was a parting gift, a seed of pure dread meant to take root in the fertile soil of their terror, overlaying the rising tide of horrified cries that began to erupt.

Ms. Greene’s raw, animalistic screech had broken the spell of those stunned in silence, and now, pure, unadulterated panic took hold.

"And... action!" I, your gleeful narrator, announced from my prime viewing spot. "The illusion shatters! The pretty dream of rescue curdles into a nightmare of imminent, violent death! Look at them scatter! All that talk of cautious investigation? Gone! Replaced by the far more entertaining spectacle of headless chickens fleeing a fox... a fox with energy rifles, swords, and a distinct lack of anything resembling compassion!"

There was no order, no thought of stealth. The carefully laid plans of Coach Roberts, the cautious approach, all vaporized in an instant. The sight of Will Hopton, their vibrant, hopeful envoy, so casually and brutally dispatched, had ripped away any pretense of safety or the possibility of reason. These weren't people they could talk to; these were executioners.

"Move! Back to the ravine! Now!" Ms. Linz shrieked, her voice cracking, her grace forgotten as she shoved students away from the exposed cliff edge.

Coach Roberts bellowed, a sound more hippo than human, "RUN! GO! GO! GO!"

It was a rout. A terrified, disorganized flight back through the dense forest they had so hopefully traversed just hours before. Branches whipped faces anew, thorns tore at their tattered clothes and newly formed hides, fur, and feathers. Those with speed – Mallory Weiss, the Roadrunner, the Hare-hybrid, even Shirou and Katy with their enhanced agility – surged ahead, driven by raw terror.

Slower, heavier forms like George Handcock the Bear, Danny North the Musk Ox, and the teachers struggled to keep pace, their own fear warring with the instinct to protect the students stumbling around them.

"Such chaos! Such delicious disarray!" I savored the scene. "No thought for strategy now, is there? No careful placement of scouts! Just pure, unadulterated flight response! Their earlier hopes, so bright and foolish, now serve only to make their current terror all the more piquant! Oh, Humanity, your capacity for self-delusion followed by utter panic is truly a gift to observers like myself!"

The faster students quickly outpaced the main group, their individual survival instincts overriding any sense of cohesion. Sarah Lugwid, the Field Mouse, was nearly trampled before George Handcock scooped her up, his massive bear-paw surprisingly gentle as he tucked her into the crook of his arm, never breaking stride. Kent Adler, the Green Crab, scuttled sideways with surprising speed, his stalked eyes swiveling wildly, looking for any escape route, his earlier bravado completely gone.

The sounds of their panicked retreat – crashing through undergrowth, snapping twigs, muffled sobs, and gasps for breath – were dangerously loud. The fear of the soldiers spotting them from the valley, or worse, already having a patrol circling around to cut them off, lent wings to their terror.

"Will they make it back to their pathetic little ditch?" I mused, thoroughly enjoying the spectacle. "Or will the soldiers, having finished their target practice on the feathered fool, decide to follow the rather obvious trail of broken branches and terrified shrieks? The suspense is almost too much! (Not really, I know exactly how this plays out, but it's fun to pretend, isn't it, Humanity?)"

They didn't dare look back. The image of Will's crumpled form, the casual cruelty of the soldiers, was burned into their minds. The smoke from the encampment, once a beacon of hope, now seemed like the exhalation of some monstrous, indifferent god of death. Their ravine, so recently a symbol of their miserable confinement, now represented the only sliver of sanctuary in a world that had just declared open war upon their very existence.

The terrified, disorganized remnants of the student body and their adult chaperones stumbled back into the relative concealment of the ravine, collapsing in heaps, their earlier hope utterly extinguished, replaced by a raw, visceral terror. The image of Will Hopton's vibrant form crumpling under the soldier's casual brutality was seared into their minds. The subtle, whispered echo of The Great I's announcement – "Vermin are to be exterminated" – resonated with chilling clarity.

"Home sweet hellhole!" The Great I, commented with a satisfied sigh, observing their ragged return. "Back to the ditch! So much for 'civilization' and 'rescue'! It seems their first foray into diplomacy ended with a rather definitive 'no.' Oh, the crushing disappointment! It's like watching a child's favorite balloon get popped – repeatedly, and with extreme prejudice before their very eyes."

For a long while, there was only the sound of ragged gasping, choked sobs, and the low moans of those utterly overcome. Sarah Lugwid, the Field Mouse hybrid, was trembling uncontrollably in George Handcock's protective embrace, her tiny form almost invisible against his massive, bear-like frame, nestled into one side as if a small child seeking refuge from a thunderstorm.

Fiona Greene, the Scarlet Macaw, who had let out that first piercing shriek on the cliff, her vibrant plumage now dirty and disheveled from the panicked run, spotted them. Exhaustion and fear warred with a desperate need for comfort. She wanted George, her big, strong Cuddle Bear. Seeing Sarah already tucked into his side sent a brief, hot flare of jealousy through her, but the sheer terror of the moment and her own bone-deep weariness quickly extinguished it.

Letting it slide for now, Fiona pushed herself against George’s other side, burrowing into his warmth and the solid feel of his arm, seeking his touch. George, sensing her distress, gently adjusted his hold, pulling her more firmly against him, offering what silent comfort he could to both frightened girls.

Even Kent Adler, the Green Crab, was silent, his usual abrasive nature completely subdued by the sheer horror. Only seemingly in a daze as he looked at their feeble makeshift home, which he believed could protect them.

Shirou found Katy, and they simply clung to each other, starting to form an unspoken bond. The faces around them, transformed and alien, were united by a common expression of dawning, abject despair, and slight relief as they were currently far away from the soldiers. The world wasn't just hostile; it was actively, murderously intent on their destruction by beings who looked, for all intents and purposes, like the humans they once were.

Ms. Linz, pale and drawn, her eyes reflecting a deep anguish for Will and for all of them, was the first to try to impose some semblance of order. Her voice, when she finally spoke, was hoarse but steady. "Everyone," she began, her gaze sweeping over the traumatized group, "everyone, listen to me. What we saw… it was horrific. Unspeakable. Will… Will was brave. And we will mourn him. But right now," her voice gained a desperate urgency, "right now, we cannot afford to fall apart. This ravine… it's no longer safe. They saw Will come from this direction. They might not know exactly where we are, but they'll search. We have to assume they're already searching."

Coach Roberts nodded in agreement. "She's right. That smoke might as well have been a trap that we walked into at that point, and no point in arguing at this point any longer. This place," he gestured around the ravine, "is a coffin if they find us."

The brief respite afforded by their meager meal and slightly improved shelter now felt like a cruel joke. Any thoughts of establishing a more permanent base here, of slowly learning to survive, were shattered. The immediate, brutal reality of Will's murder had transformed their fear into a desperate urgency. Now, as they huddled in the ravine, the discussion about what to do next – the true "Planning the Exodus" – began in earnest, no longer a tentative exploration of possibilities but a frantic search for any viable escape from certain death. The fresh image of Will's murder infused every suggestion with a terrifying weight, so they don’t face it as well.

"Ah, the dawning of true desperation!" I noted with keen interest. "No more leisurely debates about the best type of berries or the optimal weaving technique for leaf-based water carriers! Now it's 'Run or Die!' Much more engaging! Their previous, tentative 'plans,' so carefully constructed in their brief moment of false security? Obsolete! Irrelevant! Annihilated!"

"The smoke came from the west," Pat Duvall, the Bloodhound, said, his voice rough, his nose still twitching, though now more with anxiety than focused tracking. "The soldiers should still be in that direction. We need to go east, north, south – anywhere but west. And we need to move now, before they pick up our trail back from that cliff."

"But where can we go?" a student wailed, his voice cracking. "We don't know anything about this place! What if we run into something worse?"

"Something worse than that?" Katy spat, her eyes blazing with a mixture of grief and fury. "They killed him without a word! They will be hunting us, next mark my words!"

Conrad Castillo, the Pit Viper, observed this exchange with a cold detachment, his earlier suggestion to split the group perhaps resurfacing in his thoughts as the most 'logical' course, though he likely kept silent for now, watching the leadership crumble or coalesce.

Mrs. Winifred Weiss, the Jeweled Wasp, her iridescent body gleaming faintly, her delicate antennae twitching with agitation, exchanged a sharp look with her husband, Brett. Her earlier assertiveness, which had been simmering beneath a layer of shock, now resurfaced, sharpened by the clear and present danger and her impatience with what she perceived as indecision. "Wailing won't help," she snapped, her voice cutting through the fearful murmurs, though not unkindly, more with a brisk, pragmatic edge. "Pat's right. West is death. We need a new direction, and we needed it five minutes ago. Sitting here makes us easier targets. What are our options, people? Not our fears!"

"We take what we can carry – water, the food we prepared, any useful tools or materials we've made," Ms. Linz declared, her voice gaining strength, bolstered by Mrs. Weiss's blunt practicality. "We move as fast as we can, as quietly as we can. Pat, Jack – you'll have to guide us, try to find a path that leaves the least trace. Birds are going to need to fly high and be our scouts," she looked to Fiona and the others, "you'll be our eyes, but stay low, stay hidden. We need to put as much distance between us and those soldiers as possible before they organize a full sweep."

The fragile sense of order they had built in the ravine, the small comforts of their temporary base, the meager resources they had gathered – all of it had to be abandoned. The taste of their first cooked meal in this world was now ashes in their mouths, tainted by Will's death and the horrifying certainty of their predicament. Their "home," however wretched, was compromised. The exodus was no longer a plan for the future; it was an immediate, desperate necessity.