Throw Ariadne at the monster and run.
>>295
So, it's come to this, you think to yourself. Like some contrived thought experiment, you are forced to decide between your own or your daughter's safety. Your garden variety psychologist - precisely the sort who would come up with this ridiculous situation - would expect you to commit the ultimate act of altruism, laying down your own life that your genes may live on in your daughter, and so on and so forth.
Just to spite them, you grab Ariadne by the waist and toss her as hard as you can into the maw of the approaching behemoth. The creature reels backwards slightly, but has difficulty dealing with its own immense inertia. Ariadne screams. Her scream is cut short. You don't stick around to see the results of your handiwork, but instead sprint away as hard as you can into the sheltering vegetation to the South.
>>296
After a few minutes you collapse from over-exertion. You sit against the trunk of a nearby tree for a few moments, chest heaving, unable even to think. Finally, the enormity of what you have done settles upon you. You stare at the palms of your hands. What have you done? You have left both your daughters to die. Even if they survive, are you fit to call yourself their father any more? Were you ever?
But wait! You already established, right about when the brontosaurus showed up, that none of this is real anyway, so it doesn't count. Or does it? Is committing an atrocity in a false reality that you believe to be real at the time - as you did when you abandoned Jack to the night - really, morally any different from doing so in reality? You bury your head in your hands, trying to force the rainforest around you and the mud under you and the sky above you and the damp, humid air all around and inside you to cease to exist by sheer force of will. You fail.
>>297
You try to throw yourself at the monster, but you are the monster now. You cannot run from what you have done.
You try to run anyway, for lack of anything else to do with yourself. The ground here is almost completely waterlogged from the torrential rain earlier, and the thick, black soil pulls your ankles in, like the souls of the dead begging for you to join them. You are almost sucked into the quagmire on several occasions, and have to use the wiry, twisted trees to pull yourself out and onwards. You continue to run, as best you can, through the thorny undergrowth. You almost - but not quite - succeed in forgetting what you are running from.
Hours later, you emerge, breathless and plastered in mud and minor injuries, onto a fairly well beaten track. The damage of last night's storm is evident, with fallen boughs and tree trunks scattered about, but nonetheless you recognise it as the same path you were on back at >>164.
>>298
Words begin to spill from your mouth, unbidden. "Title: >>301", you say. "First verse: >>298,312,333,369." What are you saying? "Chorus: >>354,372,321,93." What does this mean? "Second verse: >>303,399,296,378." You clamp your hands over your mouth, suddenly terrified by these bizarre verbal explosions. Is this aphasia? Or mind control? However hard you try to hold it in, however, one last phrase leaks from your mouth. "Last line: >>400." Then, all is silent.
>>299
You cannot find any synchronised translation versions of foreign media in your vicinity.