Suddenly, a heavy gust tore through the garden. Ronette's wig nearly launched skyward like a startled bird, but my reflexes won out—I snatched it down just in time, saving it from vanishing into the gaping maws of some carnivorous flower.
Before we could catch our breath, a booming voice thundered across the garden, rattling leaves and bone alike.
"Welcome, visitors!"
I turned to Ronette, forcing a grin. "See? It welcomed us. Bit dramatic, but still."
The voice dripped with mock delight.
"Congratulations on triggering the traps, despite there being only a 0.00000001% chance! Wow! You guys must have rotten luck!"
My grin froze.
"…What?"
"So… the tokens were useless?" Ronette's voice cracked, despair dripping from each syllable.
"In order to deactivate the traps," the voice proclaimed, grand and theatrical, "you must reach the center of the garden and hit the buzzer. If you succeed, you'll be declared the winner, and the lord of the mansion will grant you a wish!"
I hesitated, raising my hand as though the disembodied voice might actually see me.
"What if the lord of the mansion isn't, uh… available at the moment?"
A beat of silence. Hope bloomed—small, fragile.
"Too bad, so sad! Anyways, let the game begin. Tadaa~!"
Silence crashed over us, thick as oil.
For a heartbeat, my mind blanked. I just stood there, blinking stupidly into the breeze.
Then, with a slap that cracked the garden air, I struck my own cheek. Not a soul flinched—not even Ronette.
'No use crying over spilled milk,' I thought grimly.
Straightening my clothes, I dusted off clinging leaves. "Well, that's that. We're exploring this place."
Ronette stood frozen, mouth gaping so wide it could catch a passing bee. With a sigh, I reached over, pushed his jaw shut, and grabbed his collar.
"Come on." I said, hauling him deeper into the garden. "No time to mourn our cursed luck."
As we stumbled forward, a thought needled at the edge of my mind.
'Though… it's probably my own rotten luck that triggered the traps in the first place…'
Behind us, the garden seemed to chuckle—a low, sly rasp through shifting leaves.
Five minutes in. That was all it took for the universe to sign our death warrant in cursive.
A carnivorous flower, massive as a family sedan, lunged at Ronette.
Naturally, I did the only sensible thing.
I jumped. For the wig.
"MY HAIR!" Ronette shrieked as petals snapped at his ankles.
"PRIORITIES, RONETTE!" I barked, hugging the wig to my chest like a holy relic.
Around us, flowers reared up—somehow radiating spite. Another blossom spat darts, sharp and fast as crossbow bolts. I ducked smoothly.
Ronette, on the other hand, caught a dart between his butt cheeks.
"AAAAAAAAGH! That was way too close for comfort!" he howled, spinning in frantic circles like a doomed parade float.
"Nice catch, Ronette!" I cheered, pinching my fingers a hair apart. "Your butt was this close to becoming abstract art."
"HEEELLLP MMEEEE!!!" Ronette screeched, limbs flailing, dignity already six feet under.
"FIGHT FOR YOUR LIFE, RONETTE!" I encouraged, tactically staying out of range, adjusting the wig now perched triumphantly atop my own head. "I BELIEVE IN YOU."
"YOU ABANDONED ME!" Ronette sobbed, swatting away a vine trying to dance the waltz with his leg.
"Words, Ronette—choose your words!" I scolded, ducking as a dart hissed past, close enough to whisper death.
Ronette stumbled over a gnarled root and face-planted into a suspiciously damp patch of moss. It squelched.
Overhead, the monstrous flower loomed, jaws dripping rot.
"OH, THE SMELL!" Ronette gagged. "IT SMELLS LIKE… LIKE CURSED SEAFOOD!"
"USE YOUR BODY TO DISTRACT IT!" I suggested, skipping back like a court jester on a death stage.
"HOW?!"
"What are you good at?"
Ronette paused in the midst of his existential crisis. Then nodded. Slowly.
He let out a wail so shrill, so gut-wrenchingly pathetic, it echoed through the garden like a dying tea kettle.
Even the flower paused.
Its leafy head tilted.
It hesitated.
It felt something.
"YES!" I clapped. "That's it, Ronette! Cry like the tragic little side character you are. Make that plant question its carnivorous career."
In my triumph, the wig nearly toppled. I gasped, hands flying up, shielding it like a knight guards a sacred relic.
"NOT TODAY, SATAN," I hissed to the gods of bad hair days.
The wind howled. Darts flew again.
Meanwhile, Ronette was crab-crawling for his life, batting away snapping vines, his legs kicking wildly as he retreated backward like a traumatized crustacean.
"I'M TOO YOUNG TO BE FERTILIZER!" he squeaked, voice cracking under raw terror.
"You're old enough to fertilize someone's garden," I corrected brightly, sidestepping a dart with theatrical grace. "Think of it as a promotion, Lord Mulchworth."
Ronette emitted a noise somewhere between a deflating balloon and a dying crow.
I nodded solemnly. I suppose Ronette approves of the name as well.
By divine luck—or because even the garden's bloodthirsty traps were laughing too hard—we dove behind the nearest cover: a grotesque stone gnome, its grin frozen in glee.
Darts thunked harmlessly into its fat nose and stubby cheeks.
Ronette flopped beside me with all the elegance of a dead fish tossed onto a hot sidewalk. He lay there gasping, limbs splayed, eyes wide with the glazed horror of someone who'd just watched their life flash before their eyes—and it hadn't been a flattering highlight reel.
His clothes were in tatters, his pride was reduced to rubble, and his wig…Well.
It was safe.
Flawlessly perched atop my head, undisturbed, radiant. A victory crown.
"We're alive," he wheezed.
"Debatable," I said, slapping at sticky dirt. "I've seen fresher corpses."
Somewhere, a flower belched—wet, low, and profoundly indecent.
"Maybe," Ronette whimpered, "if we play dead, they'll leave us alone…"
"Ronette," I sighed, gaze scanning rustling vines, "even if we did die, this place would still find a way to slap our corpses around like piñatas."
Behind us, a flower coughed. Politely.
Then belched again. Longer. Wetter.
I planted my hands on my hips, turning.
"Excuse you," I scolded. "Cover your mouth next time. Didn't your pollen-mother teach you manners?"
The flower rustled—offended. Perhaps even hurt.
Ronette, crouched beside me like a scarecrow missing half its straw, stared up with glassy eyes, as if this was the final proof I'd snapped.
And maybe I had.
But at least I still had manners.
A breeze drifted past, unnaturally warm, carrying with it something far worse than floral toxins—the unmistakable sound of stifled giggles.
The garden was laughing.
At us.
I pretended not to care. Denial was survival. Ronette, however, blinked slowly, then perked up with a sudden spark of inspiration.
"I just thought of more names for the garden," he murmured.
"Oh?" I flicked a leaf from my sleeve.
"Professor Doomleaf. Or… Lady PetalMurder."
I nodded, deadpan. "Fitting."
I pointed toward a vine that had nearly throttled Ronette two minutes ago. "That one's Captain Vinewrath. And the one that belched behind us? The Mighty Belcher."
Ronette, ever the scribe, whipped out his pen and paper and began jotting our ideas with the frantic, reverent energy of someone writing names into a grimoire.
We dropped unceremoniously to the dirt, elbows deep in leaves, and scribbled with dramatic seriousness:
Sparky
Murdertron
Sir Gardenbane the Third
Professor Doomleaf
Lady PetalMurder
Captain Vinewrath
Count Sporebreath
The Mighty Belcher
He paused, tapping pen to chin. "Should we add 'Daisy of Doom'?"
"Only if we survive long enough to crown it," I said.
Overhead, vines rustled—pleased, almost flattered.
I reached over, patting Ronette's head softly—the kind reserved for small children, elderly pets, or emotionally unstable teammates trapped in cursed botanical nightmares.
"Come on, my little compost pile," I coaxed. "The day is still young, and I'm sure there are at least fifteen more ways to die out here. Creatively."
Ronette whimpered—a long, thin sound of surrender.
And somewhere in the shadows, the garden chuckled again.
Delighted.