The morning was warm. The tortoise's burrow was a hearth cradling it. No more were there nights of extreme cold and afternoons of unbearable heat. This simple shelter, a literal hole in the ground, provided so much in return for so little. Generations of tortoises both before and to come have had sharp claws for this reason. Their claws were tools, not weapons, designed for traction on slopes and digging.

The morning sun eclipsed a distant horizon. The wastes seemed to stretch endlessly with the only evidence of their limits was the rise and fall of celestial beings. These burrows represented an escape from their influence, only coming up when they were at their weakest. These were lands graced by the presence of these outside influences the most, yet was barely liveable by the hardiest of creatures.

The tortoise went out on its daily schedule. Moving like clockwork to achieve its necessities without much effort. Go here and get a drink, go there to eat something, then go back and continue digging the new burrow. If all went well, something like this could stretch on for years on end while the tortoise grew up, using this oasis as a cradle for growth and security.

It was boring and as stagnant as the water in the lake. Things were too easy. Risks were low. The tortoise could avoid ants if it kept an eye out. Vultures were well fed and cautious. Foxes proudly announced their presence with a yip or bark. The only ones that had presented any real danger were the ants and maybe the vultures when the tortoise was injured.

Of course, it can’t be forgotten that the tortoise was young. It had no reason to leave. Boredom did not drive the tortoise, survival did. As long as it had food, water, and shelter it was fine. What more could one ask for?

However, these times will not last forever. As the tortoise found out when it tried to retire for the night in the hole that maintained warmth. It had gained an unwanted guest. When it poked its head inside, it saw a dark spot where it wanted to rest. This dark spot moved towards the tortoise. It couldn't tell what this thing was and caution made it withdraw. This dark spot followed along to the entrance.

There, the sunset's glow glanced off a pitch black creature. This was not an ant; it was something worse. Both of its pincers stood ready to tear into the tortoise's soft flesh while its tail stood ready to deliver a fatal blow. A scorpion.

The tortoise instinctively feared this minuscule creature, and for good reason. A single sting from this would kill unlike the petty venom from the ants. Even its armor outclassed the tortoise. The entire body of the scorpion was covered rather than just the main body and a stronger material was used, chitin as opposed to the tortoise’s keratin shell.

Even if the tortoise risked it and bit down on the scorpion, the scorpion’s tail stinger would still strike, killing both of them. Not even that, the scorpion might even survive if the tortoise couldn’t crush it. A real fear with the size of the tortoise. It was only twice the size of the scorpion, how could it properly bite and crush such a large insect when it was just a baby. No matter the strategy, the scorpion would win or there’d be a tie.

The tortoise backed off further and the scorpion returned from the depths from which it came. This wasn't fair. The tortoise had put all the effort in to make that burrow and now some insect comes out of nowhere and takes it because it can. Such is the law of nature. Perhaps, if the scorpion lacked a stinger, it would be worth fighting. Instead, the tortoise had to live with this new neighbor.

And if it wanted to escape the night's ravages, it could only start making a new burrow. Which it did. Before the night air got too cold to work in, a new indentation into the ground was made. The tortoise set up camp in it and was tortured by the occasional breeze. The half moon felt like an open mouth laughing at its misfortune.

A week ago it had trekked through these lands at night, toughing out the extremes. Now, it was bothered by the wind when sitting in a perfectly good spot. Oh, how it had fallen. Did it get used to that new cozy lifestyle after a few days? Was it coddled by how easy it was to survive? Old wounds from the ant venom weakening its body?

Or worse of all, was it not the wind that bothered it? The wind was just a reminder of something far more painful than a cold wisp brushing against it. What was being truly riled was its pride. It was bitter about having to give up its home. It was angry at the scorpion with no way to vent. After all, the driving force behind it was its desire to survive. Without that, there was no meaning in its existence. If only there was something that could replace that desire.