Proteus-Chapter four
Chapter one
Chapter two
Chapter three
Chapter four
It wouldn’t be the first time I’ve had to put my ribs back together. Learning to live and hunt on land permanently is a difficult task, but the feeling, while familiar, is no less unpleasant.
The neckbones are new, though. I don’t believe I’ve ever had to put those back in alignment.
“He was harmless. We spent the afternoon playing Go Fish!”
“They’re infiltrators, River. That’s what they do. You were being manipulated.”
“No, Dad, when his hood fell off, he—”
“Enough! You’ve had a rough night, you’re tired, and you need to eat something other than canned sausages. Go get some stew, then lie down in your cabin, and you’ll feel better.”
“He was my friend!”
“I’ll make a nice pair of waterproof boots for you to remember it by. Now go.”
I don’t think I want to be boots, but sitting upright now seems unwise. I should wait until there are fewer humans nearby. Since they’re hostile, I feel like I should take River with me when I go, so they don’t hurt her.
The cloth lying over me flies away. I sense a presence nearby, smelling of sweat and skin oil and humanity.
“Damn. Did you bag this yourself?”
“No,” human-River sighs. “Jason did it.”
I hazard to discreetly open my eyes and look through the slats in the box (again, boxes) I’m in, and watch the humans as I am brought away on wheels. It is fascinating, seeing how humans live in their natural environment. They socialize, young ones play, they attend to their clothing in metal buckets.
Humans are social animals, moving in herds, the most basal of which is a family unit consisting of a male, a female, and their offspring. Like any animal, humans need food, water, and familial bonds. Their little melodramas play out before me, mated pairs arguing, young squabbling, but there is also joy, sounds of laughter, smiles of delight, words off affection and instruction.
There is also a kind of stoic fear, given by the few who notice the box, and my still form inside.
“Jason got a protean?” some ask incredulously, staring gape-mouthed.
I hold as still as possible, smelling humans, unfamiliar animals, and a warm smell I can’t identify. I take in what I can from the box, biding my time.
Eventually, I am taken to a shady spot. The four-legged animal at the front of the box is unhooked and lead away. The human that spoke to River comes back, my eyes closed as soon as I sense its approach.
“They said you took a shotgun to the chest,” it muses thoughtfully. “But you don’t look dead at all. Means your hide’s in good condition.”
I am quiet and still as the human paces around the box, mumbling to itself. It rummages through things, making lots of noise. This part of the territory smells like fresh meat and blood, which is enough to make me hungry.
“Should be enough for a nice pair of boots…”
I’m not unfamiliar with the skinning of animals. My own face-covering is made from the flayed hide of one of the tree runners. I do not, however, wish to be a pair of boots, so as soon as the human sounds sufficiently far away and distracted, I use my secondary arms, freed from the confines of my coat, to heave myself upward and slip under the box, clinging to its underbelly.
The humans footsteps approach. I see them, upside-down, pacing the wet grass, standing near the box, silently and still. It shouts several words I don’t know, and then runs at breakneck pace somewhere else.
From here, I don’t know what to do. It’s only a matter of time until someone looks under here, but I don’t know the territory well enough to navigate through it. I need somewhere to run, to hide.
Glancing around under the box for other feet, I lower myself onto my secondary arms, and then roll onto my belly taking another survey. The place they have put me is another box, one soft and made of cloth, casting shadow over hanging pelts and draining animal corpses.
I lick my fangs. Having to regrow bone always makes me hungry.
Unfortunately, I seem to be in the middle of the den. I’m going to have to bypass a lot of humans if I’m going to get out of here not strapped to someone’s feet.
One of my other brothers, who stayed with Bismarck, could change the color and texture of his skin. That would be useful right about now. As it is, I’m a sub-human-sized stormcloud creeping from under the box into the cloth box, hardly discreet.
I resist my hunger, to keep moving and not be distracted by the hanging bodies, the delicious blood draining away into buckets. Why humans would do this, I’m not sure. Serve the blood as a beverage, perhaps?
The tubes of my tongue scrape the roof of my mouth. I’m thirsty, too.
I creep behind and under things, avoiding the touch of the light and staying to the shadows. My mottled gray coloring works best in the dark, which makes me miss the rain and the cloud cover. Fortunately, the humans are busy with their own lives and probably aren’t expecting me to be in the heart of their territory.
Crouched behind a stack of red and white, plastic boxes, I pause to take a breath. I really don’t want to have to fight my way out of here.
A murmur is beginning to move among the adults. A smell of fear is starting to permeate the air. The females are grabbing young and taking them into the boxes, the males are taking up weapons.
They know.
I need a place to go, where they won’t look until nightfall. But how am I supposed to know how these things think?
If the skittishness wasn’t beginning to permeate the herd, this might be fascinating. I have never seen so many humans, packed so tightly. I would love to observe them, the way they live, their habits and behaviors. Unfortunately, humans are even more dangerous in large groups, and any animal protecting young is violently defensive.
Smelling for the places with the fewest human smells, I sneak around as best I can, under boxes, on my belly, behind structures. I pause behind a shelter, scratching uncomfortably at the scabby scarring the weapon left behind, still raw and sore.
A small noise draws my attention. Something small stands little more than a grasp away, a juvenile, barely more than an infant, staring wide-eyed from beneath a mop of golden hair, cropped at the ears.
I don’t know how to speak to it, if it speaks. I don’t know how to beg for silence, and I’m reminded of the small, spotted tree runner with their spikeless mothers I didn’t want to hunt.
The little creature reaches a small hand, pointing a single outstretched finger at me, mouth agape.
I close my eyes and take a breath. The little thing is so vulnerable, all soft skin and dull teeth and no claws, not even any venom glands or electrocytes to protect it. Animals with young so vulnerable should not leave them to wander alone.
I run, bolting on all six limbs, trying to disappear into the next obstacle, the little creature standing still behind me, watching. Heedless of the danger, I throw myself within the nearest box, which smells too much of human sweat and musk than I’d like, but I’m running out of options.
As luck would have it, despite the thick smell of human, the box is empty. It’s full of cloth, clothing and body coverings, dangling from hooks and packed in more boxes and plastic.
This will help. This will be a big help.
At a distance, I pass well enough. Up close, they might notice the knots in my shoulders from my secondary arms, the protruding bumps from my spikes. River didn’t seem to expect me to be a protean, which is a good trait for me to exploit, if I can. Camouflage, the way the corals looked like brightly-colored rocks, the way the spots on the small tree runners blended them into the trees.
With luck, I can use these to walk right out of the den. As long as I don’t get too close to them, I should be able to pass unnoticed. I’ll have to migrate again, leave my pretty things and bone fragments and hides behind, but I’ve started out with less before.
I start digging through the soft fabrics, looking for things that fit or can adapt. Humans have only four limbs and flat feet, which makes it difficult to use their clothing without some creative modification. The tough, blue material is nice because it’s sturdy, but it’s also difficult to tear, making it equally suitable to cover my spikes as it is difficult to accommodate my ankles. Shoes are probably out of the question.
There is a noise at the door, a soft clicking. Someone is approaching.
I dive behind the racks of clothing, crouching behind boxes. The figure moves about, carrying a large box, which it sets down on another stack of boxes, and begins drawing out white, wide-based hooks and spearing torso coverings onto them.
I wait, watching patiently. This could take awhile, and the longer they’re in here, the more likely they are to notice. There isn’t enough space for me to slink back to the door unseen. I’m going to have to make a choice here.
With its back to me, I step over the boxes I’m behind, creeping like the eight-legged string dancers, approaching the person. My primary hands cover the mouth, leaving the nose free for breathing, my secondary around the waist. Hunting tendrils restrain the arms and legs at the wrists and ankles.
I smell fear, and I’m reminded of my hunger. The wounds in my chest are sensitive and burn slightly against the fabric of the human’s coat, reminding me why I’m hungry despite a good kill not so long ago.
The human’s feet are above the ground, shoes dangling. It kicks and struggles, but can’t move much, held in place by me. It squeaks and whimpers, unintelligible noises dying inside the mouth.
A drill from a tendril to the back of the skull, maybe a good twist to the neck. It won’t suffer, and it won’t make enough noise to attract any more.
The white spots and stripes along my sides begin to pulse with light, an affect of the shadows, but also a remnant of ancient hunting tactics that don’t know I live on land now.
The six slit nostrils at the end of my snout open, taking in the smell, of fear, of sweat, of recent rain and soil and open air and thick forests.
My tendrils slacken, the tight grip around the waist easing up. I lean in close, behind the ear, and whisper one of the very few human words I know.
“River?”
Chapter five
Chapter two
Chapter three
Chapter four
It wouldn’t be the first time I’ve had to put my ribs back together. Learning to live and hunt on land permanently is a difficult task, but the feeling, while familiar, is no less unpleasant.
The neckbones are new, though. I don’t believe I’ve ever had to put those back in alignment.
“He was harmless. We spent the afternoon playing Go Fish!”
“They’re infiltrators, River. That’s what they do. You were being manipulated.”
“No, Dad, when his hood fell off, he—”
“Enough! You’ve had a rough night, you’re tired, and you need to eat something other than canned sausages. Go get some stew, then lie down in your cabin, and you’ll feel better.”
“He was my friend!”
“I’ll make a nice pair of waterproof boots for you to remember it by. Now go.”
I don’t think I want to be boots, but sitting upright now seems unwise. I should wait until there are fewer humans nearby. Since they’re hostile, I feel like I should take River with me when I go, so they don’t hurt her.
The cloth lying over me flies away. I sense a presence nearby, smelling of sweat and skin oil and humanity.
“Damn. Did you bag this yourself?”
“No,” human-River sighs. “Jason did it.”
I hazard to discreetly open my eyes and look through the slats in the box (again, boxes) I’m in, and watch the humans as I am brought away on wheels. It is fascinating, seeing how humans live in their natural environment. They socialize, young ones play, they attend to their clothing in metal buckets.
Humans are social animals, moving in herds, the most basal of which is a family unit consisting of a male, a female, and their offspring. Like any animal, humans need food, water, and familial bonds. Their little melodramas play out before me, mated pairs arguing, young squabbling, but there is also joy, sounds of laughter, smiles of delight, words off affection and instruction.
There is also a kind of stoic fear, given by the few who notice the box, and my still form inside.
“Jason got a protean?” some ask incredulously, staring gape-mouthed.
I hold as still as possible, smelling humans, unfamiliar animals, and a warm smell I can’t identify. I take in what I can from the box, biding my time.
Eventually, I am taken to a shady spot. The four-legged animal at the front of the box is unhooked and lead away. The human that spoke to River comes back, my eyes closed as soon as I sense its approach.
“They said you took a shotgun to the chest,” it muses thoughtfully. “But you don’t look dead at all. Means your hide’s in good condition.”
I am quiet and still as the human paces around the box, mumbling to itself. It rummages through things, making lots of noise. This part of the territory smells like fresh meat and blood, which is enough to make me hungry.
“Should be enough for a nice pair of boots…”
I’m not unfamiliar with the skinning of animals. My own face-covering is made from the flayed hide of one of the tree runners. I do not, however, wish to be a pair of boots, so as soon as the human sounds sufficiently far away and distracted, I use my secondary arms, freed from the confines of my coat, to heave myself upward and slip under the box, clinging to its underbelly.
The humans footsteps approach. I see them, upside-down, pacing the wet grass, standing near the box, silently and still. It shouts several words I don’t know, and then runs at breakneck pace somewhere else.
From here, I don’t know what to do. It’s only a matter of time until someone looks under here, but I don’t know the territory well enough to navigate through it. I need somewhere to run, to hide.
Glancing around under the box for other feet, I lower myself onto my secondary arms, and then roll onto my belly taking another survey. The place they have put me is another box, one soft and made of cloth, casting shadow over hanging pelts and draining animal corpses.
I lick my fangs. Having to regrow bone always makes me hungry.
Unfortunately, I seem to be in the middle of the den. I’m going to have to bypass a lot of humans if I’m going to get out of here not strapped to someone’s feet.
One of my other brothers, who stayed with Bismarck, could change the color and texture of his skin. That would be useful right about now. As it is, I’m a sub-human-sized stormcloud creeping from under the box into the cloth box, hardly discreet.
I resist my hunger, to keep moving and not be distracted by the hanging bodies, the delicious blood draining away into buckets. Why humans would do this, I’m not sure. Serve the blood as a beverage, perhaps?
The tubes of my tongue scrape the roof of my mouth. I’m thirsty, too.
I creep behind and under things, avoiding the touch of the light and staying to the shadows. My mottled gray coloring works best in the dark, which makes me miss the rain and the cloud cover. Fortunately, the humans are busy with their own lives and probably aren’t expecting me to be in the heart of their territory.
Crouched behind a stack of red and white, plastic boxes, I pause to take a breath. I really don’t want to have to fight my way out of here.
A murmur is beginning to move among the adults. A smell of fear is starting to permeate the air. The females are grabbing young and taking them into the boxes, the males are taking up weapons.
They know.
I need a place to go, where they won’t look until nightfall. But how am I supposed to know how these things think?
If the skittishness wasn’t beginning to permeate the herd, this might be fascinating. I have never seen so many humans, packed so tightly. I would love to observe them, the way they live, their habits and behaviors. Unfortunately, humans are even more dangerous in large groups, and any animal protecting young is violently defensive.
Smelling for the places with the fewest human smells, I sneak around as best I can, under boxes, on my belly, behind structures. I pause behind a shelter, scratching uncomfortably at the scabby scarring the weapon left behind, still raw and sore.
A small noise draws my attention. Something small stands little more than a grasp away, a juvenile, barely more than an infant, staring wide-eyed from beneath a mop of golden hair, cropped at the ears.
I don’t know how to speak to it, if it speaks. I don’t know how to beg for silence, and I’m reminded of the small, spotted tree runner with their spikeless mothers I didn’t want to hunt.
The little creature reaches a small hand, pointing a single outstretched finger at me, mouth agape.
I close my eyes and take a breath. The little thing is so vulnerable, all soft skin and dull teeth and no claws, not even any venom glands or electrocytes to protect it. Animals with young so vulnerable should not leave them to wander alone.
I run, bolting on all six limbs, trying to disappear into the next obstacle, the little creature standing still behind me, watching. Heedless of the danger, I throw myself within the nearest box, which smells too much of human sweat and musk than I’d like, but I’m running out of options.
As luck would have it, despite the thick smell of human, the box is empty. It’s full of cloth, clothing and body coverings, dangling from hooks and packed in more boxes and plastic.
This will help. This will be a big help.
At a distance, I pass well enough. Up close, they might notice the knots in my shoulders from my secondary arms, the protruding bumps from my spikes. River didn’t seem to expect me to be a protean, which is a good trait for me to exploit, if I can. Camouflage, the way the corals looked like brightly-colored rocks, the way the spots on the small tree runners blended them into the trees.
With luck, I can use these to walk right out of the den. As long as I don’t get too close to them, I should be able to pass unnoticed. I’ll have to migrate again, leave my pretty things and bone fragments and hides behind, but I’ve started out with less before.
I start digging through the soft fabrics, looking for things that fit or can adapt. Humans have only four limbs and flat feet, which makes it difficult to use their clothing without some creative modification. The tough, blue material is nice because it’s sturdy, but it’s also difficult to tear, making it equally suitable to cover my spikes as it is difficult to accommodate my ankles. Shoes are probably out of the question.
There is a noise at the door, a soft clicking. Someone is approaching.
I dive behind the racks of clothing, crouching behind boxes. The figure moves about, carrying a large box, which it sets down on another stack of boxes, and begins drawing out white, wide-based hooks and spearing torso coverings onto them.
I wait, watching patiently. This could take awhile, and the longer they’re in here, the more likely they are to notice. There isn’t enough space for me to slink back to the door unseen. I’m going to have to make a choice here.
With its back to me, I step over the boxes I’m behind, creeping like the eight-legged string dancers, approaching the person. My primary hands cover the mouth, leaving the nose free for breathing, my secondary around the waist. Hunting tendrils restrain the arms and legs at the wrists and ankles.
I smell fear, and I’m reminded of my hunger. The wounds in my chest are sensitive and burn slightly against the fabric of the human’s coat, reminding me why I’m hungry despite a good kill not so long ago.
The human’s feet are above the ground, shoes dangling. It kicks and struggles, but can’t move much, held in place by me. It squeaks and whimpers, unintelligible noises dying inside the mouth.
A drill from a tendril to the back of the skull, maybe a good twist to the neck. It won’t suffer, and it won’t make enough noise to attract any more.
The white spots and stripes along my sides begin to pulse with light, an affect of the shadows, but also a remnant of ancient hunting tactics that don’t know I live on land now.
The six slit nostrils at the end of my snout open, taking in the smell, of fear, of sweat, of recent rain and soil and open air and thick forests.
My tendrils slacken, the tight grip around the waist easing up. I lean in close, behind the ear, and whisper one of the very few human words I know.
“River?”
Chapter five
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