The skiff drifted with the patience of something that had done this before.
Heat rolled off the desert in visible waves, blurring the horizon into something unreal. The skiff’s shadow slid slowly across the sand, stretching, shrinking, never quite touching the edge of the pit beneath it. Chains rattled softly as captives shifted their weight, the sound sharp in the open air.
The pit breathed.
That was the first thing Lysa noticed.
Not a roar. Not a scream. A rhythm. A deep, wet inhale that pulled hot air downward, followed by a slow exhale that carried the smell of rot and minerals back up into the sunlight.
She kept her eyes on the deck plating.
Looking down made the breathing feel personal.
Lysa had stopped counting the hours days ago. Time behaved strangely when death waited below you with infinite patience.
The pit wasn’t still. Its rim twitched in small, almost polite movements. Rings of muscle shifted under the sand, tightening, loosening, as if testing its grip on the world above. Every so often, something deep inside it moved, and the sand slid inward in a soft avalanche.
The pit was awake.
A man next to her whispered a prayer under his breath. Another laughed once, sharp and broken, then went quiet. Chains pulled tight as someone lost their balance and nearly went over the rail.
The guards shouted.
“Back!”
Lysa obeyed instantly. Survival was a habit now, not a hope.
She dared a glance sideways — not down — and saw one of the guards standing rigid near the skiff’s control post. He was young, younger than most, helmet tucked under his arm. His jaw was clenched so tightly it looked painful.
He wasn’t looking at the captives.
He was looking at the pit.
Joren told himself this was just another duty rotation.
That was the lie he used when the skiff lifted off. When the heat rose. When the pit came into view, wider than memory ever allowed.
But the lie fell apart the moment the ground started to move.
The pit wasn’t supposed to shift.
It was supposed to wait.
Joren tightened his grip on the railing as the sand slid inward again, exposing darker layers beneath. The creature’s interior flexed, opening slightly, revealing ribbed surfaces that glistened wetly before retreating again.
The pit was feeding already.
His superior barked orders down the line, voice loud and confident, but Joren heard the strain underneath it. Everyone did.
This execution wasn’t scheduled to be dramatic.
It was becoming dramatic anyway.
The skiff drifted lower.
A lever creaked as restraints were adjusted. One prisoner was pulled forward — not Lysa, not yet — and her heart slammed hard enough to make her dizzy.
She watched the prisoner’s feet scrape the deck.
She watched his shadow stretch across the sand and disappear.
She did not look down.
The pit exhaled.
The skiff shuddered as if something beneath it had brushed the air.
“Hold steady!” someone shouted.
The prisoner screamed once.
Then the pit surged.
Sand collapsed inward in a sudden rush. A thick, muscular tendril lashed upward, slamming into the skiff’s underside with a wet crack. The entire platform tilted violently.
Chains snapped taut.
People fell.
Lysa hit the deck hard, breath knocked from her lungs. Hands grabbed at her, fingers digging into fabric, into skin. The railing loomed inches away.
Across the skiff, Joren lost his footing as the deck pitched again. He slammed into another guard, both of them crashing down as the pit’s tendril recoiled and struck again — higher this time.
The skiff screamed metal.
A guard at the edge tried to recover, boots sliding on scorched plating.
Joren saw it happen in fragments:
- The guard’s hand slipping.
- The prisoner beside him, already half over the rail.
- The pit opening wider than before.
For one frozen second, their eyes met — guard and captive — both realizing the same thing.
Then gravity decided.
They fell together.
The pit swallowed them whole.
The sound that followed was not a scream.
It was a closing.
The skiff rocked violently, then steadied.
The pit settled.
Sand slid inward slowly now, covering the disturbance like a scar closing. The breathing slowed, deepened, satisfied — for now.
No one spoke.
Lysa lay on the deck, staring at the sky, chest heaving. She realized her hands were shaking uncontrollably. She pressed them flat against the metal to stop it.
Across from her, Joren sat against the railing, helmet forgotten at his feet. His face was pale beneath the dust, eyes locked on the pit’s surface.
They were both still alive.
The weight of that realization came down harder than fear ever had.
Orders were shouted again — sharper, angrier, rushed.
“Raise altitude!”
“Secure the deck!”
“No more delays!”
The skiff climbed, pulling away from the pit’s edge. The creature did not follow. It didn’t need to.
Lysa finally looked at the guard.
Joren finally looked at the captives.
Their eyes met, just briefly.
No hatred. No triumph.
Just understanding.
Not today.
As the skiff turned away, the pit sank deeper into itself, its surface smoothing, breathing evening out into something almost peaceful.
The desert swallowed the moment like it swallowed everything else.
Lysa closed her eyes and let the wind dry the sweat on her face.
Joren picked up his helmet with hands that still trembled.
They would remember this day forever.
Because the pit had chosen.
And today, it had chosen someone else.
This is an original work of fiction created by Brick Crossing, inspired by the design themes of LEGO® set 75396.
LEGO® is a trademark of the LEGO Group, which does not sponsor, authorize, or endorse Brick Crossing.