Pounds of Green

Nestled deep underground lies stuff of legend.

They glow, but only in the presence of a deity. The energy manifests in an aura that reads green and electric, prompted from the vigor that a deity honors within. One who can harness the energy within hops pulled from places most people never get to. If ingested correctly, enjoy great bursts of power. Tropical hops grant fire. Earthy ones grant the ground itself — you can reshape it if you know how to ask the giving earth. Monte's dedicated his life to learning how to ask.

He gathers. He hones. He takes from the earth and puts something else back – which is more than most people manage. He only takes what he needs.

First, through the canyons. Depths that don't end so much as lose all visibility to gloom. Monte doesn't look down. Looking down is how you start believing in the bottom.

Then the river. It moves the wrong way, current cutting against a slope that shouldn't let it, full of snakes that aren't in any hurry, because they know something about where he's headed that he doesn't. "I hate snakes," Monte groans, and crosses anyway. Then the cave. The walls don't hold still, they inch in from both sides, grinding stone on stone, meaner, louder and more menacing every time he blinks. Monte doesn't wait to see if they mean it. He runs the last stretch sideways, shoulders scraping rock, and clears the gap half a second before it seals shut behind him for good.

Then the pits. A straight drop with nothing under it but a scatter of stones that hover instead of sit, spaced too far to trust. Monte jumps anyway, stone to stone, timing each landing before the last one slides out from under him. One wrong step and there's no second chance. He still gets one wrong, manages to catch the far ledge by a fingertip, and gets away with it anyway. "Still here," he mutters.

Past all of it: a forest growing hops of real power, the kind you don't find twice. The kind most people who go looking don't come back from looking for. The kind that under all circumstances, shouldn’t grow here.

Monte takes what he needs — or what he tells himself is what he needs. He rubs the nugs between his palms, breathes it in, and for a second he's got exactly what he came for. He raises it up. It glows back at him. The absolute brightest thing in the forest, and it's his.

Before he can exhale in relief, the air tenses. The weeds go still. Somewhere overhead, rock groans like it's remembering it's a ceiling.

Monte doesn't notice entirely, not yet.

He's not in a cave of greens anymore. He's in an orb. Someone built this. Someone's been watching the whole time. And the luscious pounds of green disintegrate before his very eyes.