Kessel Run Week Two Challenge: Write a story between 400 and 800 words using second-person POV in which a character is lost.

Exploration (Alaine, Corissa, and Julian Vasseron, approximately 30 ABY)

You can hear the condensation dripping from the stalactites as you creep forward through the damp darkness, carefully measuring the narrow passage before you. It's a risk; if you get stuck here, you'll never see daylight again. Behind you, the bats chirp endlessly, a raucous cacophony that grates in your ears.

"I think I'm insulted."

You frown. Are you hallucinating? Have the endless twists and turns begun to eat away at your sanity? A metallic clatter echoes through the cave, bouncing off of walls and stalagmites—a harbinger of civilization ahead of you? If only you can reach it—

The gentle wind soughs past you, resembling nothing so much as a sigh as it rustles your hair. Surely a sign of some opening to the surface. You screw up your courage, knowing that it will take all your determination to find your way out of this endless labyrinth. Holding your breath, you begin to creep through the dusty tunnel, carefully inching past jagged outcroppings of rock.

"Don't hold your breath; you'll pass out. Then what will you do down there?"

You ignore the voice, its incongruous cheerfulness at odds with the precariousness of your situation, and continue hauling yourself between the rocky walls. Almost there…

"Is dinner ready yet?"

It's a different voice this time. Deeper, yet unconcerned. That can't be a good sign. You have to find a way to the surface before your mental state unravels entirely, crumbling like the rockfall that trapped you here in the first place. You knew the risks; explorers always face unknown dangers. But the quest for a new moss species was irresistible, and if you die in the search for knowledge, it will be a worthy death.

The first voice speaks again. "You can die, or you can have cake for dessert. I know which I'd choose."

You pause. The hallucinations are becoming more persistent. Still, you can almost taste the cake; chocolate, surely. What appeal does moss hold when compared to that?

"Not again."

It's the deeper voice that speaks this time, exasperation and resignation clearly mingled. You ignore it, and begin hauling yourself forward again with renewed determination. The samples are safe in your bag, and there's cake on the surface, if only you can reach it.

"This is my fault," the new voice continues, and you pause briefly to listen. "I gave her a book on subterranean ecosystems yesterday."

"Could be worse." The cheer of the first voice remains unimpaired. "You could have given her a book on the history of flight. Then we'd have to pull her off the roof. By the way, where did she learn the word 'cacophony'? She's not even ten yet and she sounds like a walking encyclopedia."

"Encyclopedias are awesome," you say out loud, then chastise yourself. If you stop to converse with apparitions, you'll never get out of here.

"They are," the second voice agrees with you, but you can hear the laughter that lurks beneath. Gritting your teeth, you focus your strength for one last tug that should free you from the tight passage. A puff of fresh air wafts past you, tantalizing; a sure indication of a surface opening not far off. The thought of cake awaiting you is a motivating one, and you're so close.

"Anyway," the first voice continues. "Dinner is ready" —a beep suddenly intrudes upon your musings. Technology? Yet another sign that the exit must be near— "now. And considering that you know how much I hate cooking, I expect lavish compliments on every dish."

"Your efforts are duly appreciated," the second voice promises, followed by a vague sound, and you wrinkle your nose.

"No kissing," you call toward the surface. "It's gross."

The deeper voice sighs, and the first one laughs. "Sorry," it calls back. "People who are irretrievably lost in deep dark caves don't get a say. You have to be on the surface for that."

You're almost there now, and your aggravation is a strong motivator. You reach out a hand and pull back the final obstacle, a curtain of vines with an oddly smooth, clothlike texture, and stick your head past it, squinting in the light of day.

Well, evening.

Well, the kitchen.

"I'm on the surface," you tell the voices. "No kissing. It's gross."

Your father raises his eyebrows; your mother laughs again. "Who knew an inveterate bookworm could be such an adventurer at heart?" she asks your father, then turns to you. "Do you know the word 'inveterate'?"

"Of course," you tell her with dignity, scrambling to your feet beside the dining table. "Is the cake chocolate?"

"Of course," your mother replies with equal dignity, and you feel the thrill of accomplishment and the warmth of home and the anticipation of dessert all rise within you as you take your seat.