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Chapter Text

The beautiful blue left the ranks of the sky, giving place to the dark red of the sky, crowding the last donkeys of normalcy behind it, until the red won out and brought the gray clouds behind it. 

Below the sky, a representative of the mammal poked its nose into the torn flesh of the deer's body, shoving its paws away at the carrion carcass, clawing the remnants of the tasty morsel away from the rib bones, while the entire load, including the creature's undigested food, flowed out sideways, soiling the crushed grass below. A mammal grazed over the carcass, separating everything that came into the path. 

Several smaller mammals came closer and the large mammal snatched a piece of meat, throwing it at the herd of small animals, squealing in joy. 

The cubs ate in joy, filling their bellies to capacity. One of the cubs, the one with the crooked muzzle, snatched some of the food from its siblings' mouths, growling and dragging the food to its own side in a failed game of tug-of-war. The benefit was none when the mother roared loudly, calming both cubs. They let go of the meat in defeat, handing over the victorious purchase to their siblings, and left the leftovers to the vultures themselves in the caecum. 

The wily birds flew overhead, waiting for the right moment to abandon the carrion.

They circled in wide circles until the animal family departed with full bellies, the wily birds landed on the remains of the deer's pet, and a red-winged bird plunged its beak into the head of the carrion, snapping its beak in proclamation to the rest of the herd - at the same time benefiting from the scavenger's existence. Vicious eyes blinked at the back of its head and looked out for danger. 

The sun was steaming into their heads, but they had only a meal in mind. 

The red beak was the leader of the flock. An elusive bird larger than the rest of his companions, he was the only one who had the privilege of tasting the food first, and only later allowed his mates to join the table. 

With the patience of an angel, the rest of the flock joined in time, their beaks playing in their lungs and uneaten thighs.

Someone clamped his hand on the metal and prepared to throw, and the heaviness of the object landed in the back eye of the vulture leader, driving the unmoving body into the leg of a vulture eating close to the king. The vultures flew away, and the one seduced loudly with the flapping of its wings in an attempt to fly away and escape, but the metal and the remains of the king's skull did not provide a bargaining chip to complete the deed - and so it was doomed to fail. 

Consummation by the larger predator was out of the question, and he seduced so loudly, so intricately fluttered his wings and twisted his body, until he released the injured part with a burst of muscle and leaving a claw at the beak of the dead leader. 

It fluttered vigorously, and the larger-than-life predator pounced on the blameless bird, wrapping its arms around its upper body, gagging its wings in a bear hug. They rolled together on the ground, blinding the sand, and the sound of the vulture's struggle reverberated in an area of several meters. The neck stretched to an impossible size, and the viscous creature emerged from inside its mouth, cringing and stretching out its legs in a slow gesture, until the main culprit of the vulture attack bit the vulture's artery, sinking its teeth into the skin to let out the first drops of blood. 

The inert body stopped willowing and sank into the predator's grasp, and the sticky legs shot out of the bird's throat like crazy, whipping high into the air, falling to the ground in a duck's reflection on the water - one, two - and pac!

A spider with six legs and two longer ones in a twist of mantis legs. The creature circled two circles in a squeaking sound and, ready to attack its opponent, greeted the predator's heel. The life of the other creature escaped its body, and the splat it made was more like a fish falling into the water sooner. 

He sat on the ground like that, gritting his teeth at the vulture's pulse and looking at the mess underfoot. He didn't expect the vulture to take in a parasite in its throat - from the knowledge he had, parasites found a place in the abdomen, acting like tapeworms. 

He suspected that the spider-like thing, in the face of danger, was trying to find its way to the top and simply give a leg up before an optional death. And so he died miserably, under the heel of the green predator. 

He let go of the neck, and the vulture's head fell inert along the ground. 

He stared at the mess for a moment, until he stood up and reached for an improvised weapon made of scraps of metal and something that must have once served as a fiddly first-stage weapon. He couldn't name it exactly, so he called the strange conglomeration a cold something. From the scraps he remembered the word spear. 

Blood gushed upward when the tip was pulled out, and the predator reached into his belt for a rope and tied the legs of the two vultures together. He threw the prey over his shoulder. 

The sun was setting. 

It was time to go back.

He discovered that the first part of the place was a bizarre implication of the forests with the desert part, and there was water not far from them. He didn't get too close to it, as he hadn't explored the area thoroughly enough to feel okay with the lovely-looking water. A beautiful blue in which fish swam and other animals went about catching food. Crustaceans liked to come out onto the sand and hide under it, never to come out again. He remembered putting his foot in the sand and dipping his fingertip in. The little mouth bit through the skin and tore the nail halfway off. 

That's more or less why he doesn't go there. He needs to explore the sand and water. He doesn't know what he finds underneath the sand, but the thing must be small, maybe smaller than his hand, but definitely with sharp teeth and a firm grip. The bite hurt for a couple of days, and he got an infection. Only in time did he learn that certain leaves could act as a balm, and with them he got rid of the nagging pain. 

Leaves as wide as fins with the ends bitten off were the cure.

Leaves as wide as fins with full ends were poison. 

Everything had a weight and a price. Everything could, and would, kill and heal. 

He found a place not far from a large boulder, located on an incline, and if you look underneath, you'll find an entrance covered with leaves. He threw his prey in first, then entered next, sliding down on his bare feet until he fell on his feet. A ridiculously prepared nest of piles of leaves and rags of the previous inhabitants of civilization, clumped together in leaves and branches, and the torch continued to burn, hanging directly across from the house. 

He uninterestedly grabbed a string of lunch and moved it to a pile of other prey in the hunt. There would be enough for a few days. 

He had been carrying supplies since the sun was burning into his skin, a sign of the arrival of warmer days. This excluded going out on the mountain. The sun had a record timer and just extending a finger into the light rays could realistically melt a bone. 

The first time he didn't understand the danger, he was sitting on a crouch, preparing a makeshift bowl to take on water, when the sun was scorching and he sat hidden in the shade. The tip of his tail twitched behind his body and slid forward a bit. A sizzle and pain shot through the predator's body like a slingshot upward. The pain was indescribable, and the injury remains to this day. Then he realized that he was the only creature on the mountain, and all other animals buried away from the light. Not even his smug neighbor the rabbit with the long tail and funny beady eyes, who liked to drop by for dinner and bring fruit, poked his nose out of the burrow. 

Neither can you see the only neighbor who didn't try to attack and devour with relish, nor hear the distinctive squeak of the family's call. 

He wanted to look inside, but was afraid to go out into the sun. 

Then he knew that the sun is both salvation and death for the unlearned. 

He didn't pack his nose where it didn't need to be and bravely kept his ass in a safe place. He kicked off the remains of his goggles and sat down against the wall. He looked for a moment for a notebook he had found a long time ago and opened it to the first page, pattering with cursive lines meant to be a shabby imitation of a drawing. 

He flipped to the first page, clumsily aligning his tongue under the written words.

P̸͎̮̾͆̆̂l̸͇̜͋̿̿̍ǎ̵͎͕̲̲̣͒̏͆̏c҉̰͇̠̾̇e̵͍̭̮̮̰͆̓̍́

T̵̥̥̜̲̒͐h̸͕̣̮̘̳̃͊̀̍í̴̱̠͑̋͆̌s҉̞̙̭̅̄́ ị̷̖̳̘̟̀͛͆́s̴͓̟̣̈̂͋ n̶̯̙̣̳͋̇͗o҈͉̪͕̭̆̽t̸̥͖̞͖̰̾̑̌̅̒ m҈̦̤̮̘̓̉̂̌y̴͇̬̥̅̂̔ p҉͈̞̣͉̄̊̂ĺ̷͓̦͍̤͑̋̆́a̶͔̟̰̥̝͆̉̈́c҈͍̰͖͓̍̆̀̀̂e̷͎͕͂͂̽̒

W̸͓̣͓̩̱̾͊̀̂̄o҉̰͕̦̣̏̓̄r̵͇̣̓͑l̷̳̰̟̍͑̎́͗d̷̪͍̐̅̑͑ n̶̝̮̘̞̅̓̋o̸̜̤̯͚̱͂͐t̵͇͙͎̠̗̑̀͆̃ m̷̞̬̤̗͇̅͆i̶͇̠͆̀n̴̥̝̞̘̪̿̿́̔̿e̶̥̱̔̒

P҉͙̯̙̅̄ͅḽ̵̥̤͆̐́a̴̘͕̮͕̗̋̔̉̾̌c̶͕̮̤̙̜̎̊e̴͉̤̟̪͓͐̍͂̚

Oh, wait, a place?

Ah, oh-right. 

The place was not his. 

The scattered trash that had a forgotten name was a permanent reminder of the true essence of the predator. Grabbing his head, he moved his fingers along the material of the purple mask he was born with in this place and grounded his mind in a simple movement. 

The scribblers said it would help. They were right, something moved forward and slowly blurred the fog. 

He mumbled incoherent words under his breath, trying with all his might to read at least one line, until he gave up and tugged at the fabric with seam-punching force. Annoyed, he took off part of the mask and looked at the worn-out marker that once adorned the top and the dirty purple, long unwashed fabric. He left the notebook in his lap, grabbed the scribbles smeared with black from the wall, and with the help of his finger, drew two lines using muscle memory. 

He had to remember who he was.

He tied the cloth in half, leaving the bandage in place on the left side of his head, and took care to cover his injured eye.

He leaned the back of his head against the wall behind him, struggling to say the words.

 F̵͍̠̿̏̇̌a҉͍̗̽̏m҈̲͓̐̔͊ï̶͍̯͐͊̓l̵̰̘͓̞̄̍̈̑̌y̶̳̞̦͍͋̎̍̃

Ṃ̸͎̣̗̌̋̓́͊y҈͈̗͉̑͛̆͌ n̸̟͈̙̩̦͑̿à̷̗̜̩̥̓m҈̣̠̘͔͂̆̓̽e̴̮̙̱̊̇̓ i҈̖̱̿̊͛̚s̶͖͇̲̽̀͆ D҉̯͈̠̒̐ŏ̷͓̩̪͇͙̈́̀n̸̝̫͌̐̔a҈̩̄͗͛̐ͅͅt̶̜͍̣͚̖͋̎ẻ̸̗̫̣̪̄̿l̵̟̤̥̙͚̑͛̌̒̋l̵̮̳͈͙̍̐̔o҈͎͕͊̈̒̎

D҉̯͈̠̒̐ŏ̷͓̩̪͇͙̈́̀n̸̝̫͌̐̔a҈̩̄͗͛̐ͅͅt̶̜͍̣͚̖͋̎ẻ̸̗̫̣̪̄̿l̵̟̤̥̙͚̑͛̌̒̋l̵̮̳͈͙̍̐̔o҈͎͕͊̈̒̎

D҉̯͈̠̒̐ŏ̷͓̩̪͇͙̈́̀n̸̝̫͌̐̔a҈̩̄͗͛̐ͅͅt̶̜͍̣͚̖͋̎ẻ̸̗̫̣̪̄̿l̵̟̤̥̙͚̑͛̌̒̋l̵̮̳͈͙̍̐̔o҈͎͕͊̈̒̎

D҉̯͈̠̒̐ŏ̷͓̩̪͇͙̈́̀n̸̝̫͌̐̔a҈̩̄͗͛̐ͅͅt̶̜͍̣͚̖͋̎ẻ̸̗̫̣̪̄̿l̵̟̤̥̙͚̑͛̌̒̋l̵̮̳͈͙̍̐̔o҈͎͕͊̈̒̎

"D...-" 

Chapter Text

Food. 

Every form of food in existence has contributed to more than one culinary performance, more and less complex, and thousands of celebrities with a chef's hat on their head have confirmed to the world about abilities beyond the scale of taste. Taste buds in the air!

In the case of the place, everything was edible. Those stale, strange-looking rolls with black sand gave a taste known not only to him. The strange glaze of flavor reached the innermost nook and cranny, treating the temples of the mouth as its own deity. Rolling an impossibility, the predator realized that he was in fact consuming a piece of hopeless flesh. A yellow-gold fruit resembling a papaya grew in the trees, to be counted eighty feet away from the northern field of kites and a vegetable hidden in the ground. 

Here he needed to pause for a second, glance around to see if he was sure he was dealing with a vegetable and not a cleverly hidden worm imitating food to lure a hungry organism and burst into his throat with a scream of triumph. The earthworms of the place took a beating, causing paralysis in more than one organism. Softshell saw with his own eyes the degradation of the butterfly to an ounce of flightlessness, destroying lids, retreating in the realization of development. The beauty of the insect ended by the waywardness of the leader bug. 

Every being in this place does not belong to regularity. Everything is an anomaly of some degree, a strange infrastructure affected by the taint of pink dung. 

A thinking being, an enduring being, an inanimate being, a fluid being, all individually paid the price of the fate of his, his, that and the next to the endless circle of the gravity well. 

He had the impression of jumping into the event horizon. 

He returned to the flesh of the papaya. 

Papaya, vegetables, flesh, fruit, seafood, meat. 

The peel of the red fruit did not bring death at once. Softshell trained observing creatures in a bottomless place, playing at imitation to perfection. The wolf in sheep's clothing followed the herd, watching the sneaking of the cat-like animals to attack the motionless apple, vaguely situated in a pile of sand and stone the color of black diamond. Some of the fossils hid salts, and still others hid abraded turmeric. It was strange, and at first he didn't accept that something so strange could have a spice application. 

He abandoned the visions for raw fish meat. 

Something told him that a stone remains a stone and no thing in the world will turn a stone into a spice. 

A makeshift bag made from the liver of a dead mammal filled the inside with small balls, commonly called fruit, but whether they were definitely that, no one knew. They tasted like tart fabric painted with poster paint, and the smell was unlike anything he had ever smelled. Stubbornly, he was able to swallow, and no matter how much bile came up to his mouth, he swallowed a fair amount to satisfy his growling stomach. At this point, half the things could consume you before you had time to put your hand on the peel. 

An example of vegetables. 

These little balls made no movements and after tapping the stem with a stick for a thousand times, made no movement, growling, hissing, spitting venom from - God knows - where. 

He chewed the flesh to the end, threw a few balls into the bag, tightened the strings and marched on, tapping the spear-like thing on the ground. 

The tapping first frightened the gracing ladybug beetles, fleeing in all directions, one inconspicuously fell straight into a hole in the ground, from which Softhsell heard a swish, and the ladybug beetle's head flew up and hit the ground inertly, rolling a few millimeters into the grass.

He reflexively stood still, watching the little spider-like legs reaching back for its head, taking the meal back home.

Wonderful, cool, home. 

He repeated in his head like a mantra not to trust anything harmless. 

A few feet away and tarrying in the tall grass, Softshell discovered that the local imitation fish could come out of land and even avoid water. Grass fish leapt high into the air, flicking their tails and spitting elongated pee, blinding the oncoming threat. These little bastards have mastered tactics that are impossible to avoid when you're a rookie, and a fish jumping out of the grass takes all your concentration and you forget about the world you live in. 

Fortunately, the green predator managed to shield his eyes with his forearm preventing a momentary blinding of the fluids, and a practiced grasp with the animal's jumping calculation, allowed the fish to be hunted down before it could fall back into the sea of grass. 

The fish's body whirled in a frenzy until life gave way to an innocent creature just wanting to defend its home. 

Without looking at his prey, he carelessly removed the fish's body, threw it in his bag and went on, defending his eyes from further attacks, giving them a hunt. 

The first immutable fact, which he taught at length, was the functions of the acid fish. These small pests were okay to live with in nature, exterminating other insects and bugs, threatening flower life and eating infected bees. They were the opposite of basic fish. These couldn't live in water; any throwing into a body of water ended in drowning and sometimes an interior explosion. He reasoned that water acted on them like acid. 

The second thing was to eat the fish. 

Only one per day. 

Two give you a stomach ache and you don't have to ask for toilets. He proved that his stomach was one of those delicate ones, which he could straightforwardly blame on the origin. Dodo devoured five a day and ran happily, but already the snake-toothed rabbit couldn't swallow more than half. 

So he accepted that he wouldn't risk it and took one fish a day. Hunting more did not go well. They rotted incredibly fast, going moldy in a few hours, no matter if you previously roasted them over coals or cooled them in the sand. The little shits living under the sand parasitize and will eat anything you hide, and then run away with a growling warning. 

They molded and did nothing about it. Their short enough lifespan attracted other predators, enticing them with their scent, and Softshell really didn't feel like fighting another battle with a hungry beaver. 

Yes, he collected larger quantities to make traps when the nights got longer and longer and going out to hunt became impossible. He collected groups of fish, left them at a safe distance and waited patiently for the game to arrive. Infected cats came most often, so he enjoyed the eye and his stomach rumbled additionally at the awareness of the large consumption of meat. 

Fighting cats was arduous, and more than once he came out with wounds that reached his bones. On another occasion he lost an eye through a tactical error.

Softshell walked safely through the tall grass, tempted to take a black ball for a bite, knitting his eyebrow muscles at the unobvious taste. 

He reached a small pond where the water was clear, transparent, with fish swimming happily in the middle. 

Most of the water held the remains of eaten game, or particles of bones that could pass for human. He didn't confirm the thesis, he hadn't seen them in years.

Ponds with lots of red-black fish were the safest, and so he did not worry about the danger. Not here, a place checked with the accuracy of the boss. Satisfied with his moment of rest, he set his bag next to the spear and squatted on the ground, reaching his finger into the water. He whirled around for a fraction of a second before leaning in fully and dipping both hands into the basket. He scooped up the water, drew it to his mouth drinking in slow sips, taking his time to catch up.

A moment's rest did no harm to anyone. 

He disengaged his wet hands, droplets of water flowed down his chin, hooking the last will on his skin until they disengaged to bend into the skin of his knee. 

With a brief complaint, he bent over again and scooped up the water. He parroted the movement, drinking back with a quiet gulp, gulp, gulp, wolfing down his throat from yesterday evening.

He felt that something was wrong. The water tasted great, in fact better than he remembered. 

Something was wrong. 

Glancing down at his hands, he noticed floating fish scales, opening several tiny eyes with pink whites and yellow irises, and their pupils resembled those of a cat sooner. 

Softshell had a split second to jump back before the huge mouth leapt out of the water, snapping its teeth into the air. The headless clam, with teeth as sharp as pins, growled displeased and slowly retreated back into the water, not renewing its attempt to attack da times. Individual crustaceans detached from the clam and floated on the water until the weight brought them back to the bottom. Algae and leaves were left on the water, a reminder of the carrier's recent emergence. 

Softshell breathed heavily, looking hard into the water. Out of the corner of his eye, he spotted the creature's emerging flesh, improvising with its tail, taking the bag along with it to the bottom. 

He knew it was time to hunt another cat.