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In which three espers enjoy the fruits of their labor
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Everyone agreed with him on the thing he didn't want to be true. Tragic. He marches across the fields ahead of the other two. "Still no chocolate pigs. Did your rescue teams kill everything before we got here?"

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You were at the same briefing I was!!!  "Killed some, at least.  Not like they're all that threatening."  That's not fair, they'd be a menace to someone without powers.  "Well.  Not for us, anyway."

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Is that a lock of hair, hidden behind a a thicket of peanut brittle?

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Misha is busy examining a different thicket. "What even is this stuff? Is like... lumpy brown cement? Not appetizing."

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"It's peanut brittle! It's...mostly peanuts and sugar I think. Is that a person over there?" Hey there!"

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Sugary peanuts sound gross, but he's at low enough backlash that this does not immediately come out of his mouth. Instead he walks, cautiously, toward where Fiona was looking, being sure to keep plenty of distance in case this was some sort of dungeon mimicry.

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"Hey!  C'mon, buddy, get your shit together, rescue's here."  One of the rescuees is trying to convince her fellow to not stuff as much peanut brittle in his mouth as possible.  She hasn't been successful, if his smeared hands are any indicator.

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"Yeah we gotta go."

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Notwithstanding that he wasn't ever trained in American-style exfiltrations over in East Russia, Misha also is the only non-native speaker of the local language present, so he just crosses his arms impatiently and waits. If this were Russia, he'd just grab the guy by the collar and send him on his way with a few expletives to demonstrate that he's serious. Let them do things their way, though. If nothing else, it's sort of sweet, and they don't appear to be in any particular—

—wait.

"Movement at dungeon-east from us, five-zero meters maybe."

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It is.  A darting brown shape, quickly lost against the peanut brittle trees.  The thought of it strikes terror in the hungry man, enough to get him to stop eating.  If Misha is paying attention, his desire is to not be attacked again.

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Misha most certainly is, but he's also on good behavior. "You all want this one? I have wish to pull if not."

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"Take it if you can, I only saw a flash of something."  Tim's wish right now is to kill that fucking monster.

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"Yeah, I don't know where it is right now either, it was gone too fast for me to react, if you can get it you can have it."

She wants to keep the civilians safe.

 

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So many options! It's been so long since we were this spoiled for choice. There's just something about life-or-death that really hones the will. Everything else recedes into the ether and you get just the brute impulse of the fundament. Well, a good strong sex urge works, too—that counts as the "life" in "life-or-death," though, perhaps? Also spicy carrots, occasionally, for some reason. That was a really good trick.

Are we rambling? We're rambling. Let's move on to today's contestants:

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Fear! Death comes! It haunts us like the unfurling monsoon, ever more rain, ever more pain! Churning, whipping, every which way, and we are gorged and tired! There is no rest, there is no rest among these smells!

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Passionate! Harrowing! What do we have from our second contestant?

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Our grand purpose is these little hapless ones, these lively buds. We will shoo the rabbits and preserve the tender lettuce! Ours shall be a garden of peace! There shall be sun and rain and good nourishment only for them! We shall drive out the predators and the poison and leave only solace!"

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Selfless! High-minded! And for the last one, what do we have?

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Kill the thing.

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That's it? We're usually a bit more verbose—

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We don't like murder fantasies.

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Okay, sure, but—

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WE DO NOT LIKE IT.

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Okay! Okay! It was three-to-one, anyway, if you count the other victim here.

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We all count.

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