Chapter Text
The acacia sways.
When she wakes, the dusk is new. Zebra stripes are yawning against the golden sea below. The wind's whispers dance through the curve of her felid ears, and one twitches reflexively. Her jaw gapes in a yawn and she tastes the coming savannah air; dry, but alive with the promise of life. The sun, now, is not so much of a burning adversary as it is a tepid friend.
The small cat's barbed tongue grazes over her chops.
The hollowness in her belly is a dull throb of pain…
She hasn't eaten—not substantially—in a while now. Small creatures skittering about the undergrowth become fewer and farther apart with each fall of the sun. The savanna has become so quiet without the songs of fluttering birds. The same ones that are so fun to snatch out of the air; the ones that crunch so nicely between little carnassials…
A rumble rolls through her core, and she wilts... Her entire being aches—not truly, but in a sort of tortured, evolutionary sense… something deep inside of her,
an idea that cannot roll around in her head,
but it's always there, anyways,
the pit in her stomach; the weariness behind her eyes.
Serval cannot help but think that something bad will happen to her if she doesn't eat. Soon. What is it, anyways? Is it that solemn state of torpor a half-eaten rodent seems to lie in? The gentleness on its tiny portrait even as its ribs lie on a tapestry of glistening reds and pinks?
When she leaps down from the tree, her head spins — the ground feels so heavy, her long legs so light and almost escaping her. It isn't fair, it isn't fair that the hungrier she is, the harder it is to hunt. It's as if her organs are but a silent scream; one she's distantly aware of, but can do nothing about.
It's getting darker, and little bugs are singing in the grass. She manages to snatch some up between her teeth, and their wings chirp in protest as she scarfs them down. This… isn't going to sustain her, though; and so she pushes on despite herself. There are so few animals lately, even the big ones. The tiny ones that poked up from delicious-smelling holes in the earth. The annoying ones who ran after her tail and nipped at her heels. The brutish ones with hooves, that slammed their heads together with the sound of storm-ridden skies.
Big ears veer and pivot in hopes of picking up the soft scuttle of clawed feet beneath the grass — but her world has become silent.
Where is food? Where…
She chokes back the gnawing impulse to meander over to where the roads are. The spaces where the grass parts—desire trails left behind by slow, rumbling behemoths carrying humans in its mantle. Usually, they'd toss Japari buns toward her. Eagerly, as if meaning to, somehow… Sometimes, she'd even leap onto the muzzle of their giant carriages and meow insistently for those savory morsels. The buns didn't look or feel animal by any means, there were never any bones inside. But packed snugly in the center was a slurry of so many flavors — familiar and new… so dense, so fulfilling. She was a lot heavier and stronger then. Maybe she should not have gotten so used to such easy meals… It's been so many seasons since she last tasted the acrid sting on the breaths of those giants, the sound of gravel cracking under their rolling feet. It had to have been many wet seasons ago, now…
But these days, there remains no trace of those coveted bounties.
Suddenly though,
there's a tickle in her ear,
a visceral beckon;
there's something.
The deafening crunch of grass parting overwhelms her senses—her nervous system ignites; she crouches as her hackles quiver in anticipation.
What is it? What is it?
She stills (orient, nose/ear/eye);
muscles burning in anticipation,
her pupils have blown wide to see it all,
every movement, every breath —
ah.
It takes every fiber of her being
not to chatter with excitement.
Her jaw is tense,
fangs twitching behind her lips,
as if reciting;
imagining how they'll feel
slipping between vertebrae.
stalk; chase; bite (grab-bite, kill-bite); dissect; and
consume.
Another rustle comes.
Frenzied, she lurches upward, her long spine curling in an arch as she prepares to crush the unsuspecting animal beneath the weight of her claws.
But… it isn't there.
A sudden pain ignites and scorches through her skull as she makes contact with something—something cold, something heavy, something… very hard. She meowls in discontent, folding a paw over her muzzle tenderly. The scent of copper blazes deep in her nose. Her breath still comes in short, shuddering breaths; the sinews in her jaw searing white-hot, begging to snap shut and find purchase in warm, tender flesh. She hisses again, and then mewls under her breath, a long, pathetic and troubled hymn.
Ugyaaaaaa…
While she finds her bearings, she hears a high whirring just a few tail-lengths ahead. A prey-thing that smells like nothing at all. When she creeps forward, she notices it writhing pathetically in the grass and she feels a twinge of solidarity. It's not an animal—and yet, if she cocks her head, she thinks maybe it could be a crude caricature of the self… It hobbles upright, and two piercing lights bore into the serval, causing her eyes to scrunch half-way shut. It garbles something in a language that is both viscerally familiar and too artificial to mean anything to her.
「ジシンハッセイデス……ザザッ……ツヨイユレニ……※……ソナエテクダサイ……ガガッ……」
The Lucky Beast's canned voice is punctuated by bouts of unpleasant, crackling hissing. The air has chilled and feels exceptionally lonely, even for a solitary hunter. She paces a cautious half-circle around the visitor. Her head cocks to the other side and she extends a paw, swatting at the front of the Lucky Beast coaxingly. They've been known to sometimes come around and deposit Japari Buns… The strange noises repeat, and then stop—all the while, Serval baps it with long paws, mewling expectantly. She's even gotten used to the blinding, emerald stare it gives her. Some time passes, and the Lucky Beast gives one short trill of alarm that startles the cat. She's never heard that one before! The animal she isn't sure she can even consider an animal at all toddles forward, and an opening in its stomach gapes and extends forth a Japari bun.
Oh! Oh!! There it is!!
The threat of oblivion wanes again—for now, anyways.
Thrilled, Serval baps the bun into the grass and cranes her head to smell it. She can feel the heat radiating from it hit her leathery nose. The scent has always been unique… not necessarily like blood or offal. Not hare or rodent's nest or fledged chicks. So, initially, it took her some time to fully come to trust this strange prey-thing with no desire to flee. Usually that's a bad sign! Things that don't run are almost always things that pierce the face with too-long quills, or things that curl into a too-tight ball, things you waste much breath and much sunlight trying to catch… If this were any other animal, like the bad-tasting frogs on the riverbank—she'd think this was some kind of trick to fend predators like her off.
She wastes no time sinking small fangs into the doughy flesh of the Japari bun, grumbling in approval past its dense, puffy flesh. As she scarfs it down, the warm, gooey core seeps out so easily; there aren't any layers of muscle or fat to peel back… It's unlike anything she’s ever tasted. Maybe it’s some large game animal she’d never had the chance to take down? The image of large, migratory beasts inching along the horizon lingers in her memory. Wildebeest, oryx, kudu… No. This meat is ‘clean’, almost, carrying neither the taste of sinews or the musk of the savanna. It feels strange entering her body, but soothes the vicious hunger deep inside of her nonetheless.
When she lifts her head and licks globs of meat slurry from her whiskers, the Lucky Beast is already turning on its heels and toddling away. There's a sad feeling in her chest, distantly—like a cold gale coming when a cloud drifts over her sunning spot. But,
she doesn't recognize it.
She almost wants to follow the strange little 'animal', despite its disquieting words, its unnerving stare that glows with the light of long-extinct beacons—the same ones that humans once beheld. The same ones that lined the roads. The same ones she watched burn out until they were nothing more than a dwindling whisper on the horizon.
Many such things, too convoluted for a primitive brain to process. There's not really any advantage to chasing such intangible, silly things, anyways. So, she continues gobbling up the last scraps of the Japari bun until nothing remains. Pleased with herself, she gives a 'mrowr' at nothing at all and continues on her way. If there are no prey-things here, then there must be prey-things somewhere else—somewhere far away. She waits until the sound of whirring paws fades into the chirp of crickets and the sound of grass shivering in the dusk breeze. Alone again, she tilts her snout into the wind, following the trail of a familiar earthy dampness in the distance. On the coming breeze, she tastes it; that verdant vein of river that bleeds out from the large swath of deep jungle and down into the savanna woodland that borders her home. The woodland she's sure she's crossed before, maybe, maybe… Maybe in some other life? Or—maybe—not. The idea is so profound that it slips out of her grasp like the shiny little fish that fill the delta during the rainy season. But, Silent River beckons her, with so much more than just the promise of food. And so, she follows its scent with big, confident strides—a spotted head held high to the tapestry of stars she realizes now that she can finally see,
there are no lights left to hide them anymore, after all.
There is a certain lack of fear that comes with being so alone, and so even as she reaches the boundary of sparse woodland where acacia greet her with open arms, she feels content even on the ground. It doesn't look, or sound, or even smell like there has been any predator bigger than her here in a long, long time. Distantly aware of how wrong it all feels, she trots along, her strides long and bouncy.
Serval has walked this path too many times to count.
At least… she thinks she has.
She can’t actually recall ever coming here, but every turn and bend is etched into her memory. There is no novelty, no sense of adventure. And yet, she bounds down to the coming wetlands like this is all brand new. Her long legs graze the tops of savanna grass as she keeps up her cheery pace toward the river.
But, suddenly,
something shifts,
and her stomach sinks.
The elephantine grave beneath her paws is alive and breathing.
She feels it in every fiber of her being before the actual tremor comes.
Little paws scrambling for purchase, heartbeats beneath the earth that spike as a foreboding rumble surges upward from oblivion.
She bristles, faltering as the gnashing teeth underground become tangible now—shifting, lurching, threatening to swallow the savanna whole. It cracks, burning in her ears, deep and ancient.
Her entire world groans and creaks.
Wide eyes chase the fading boom from the ground below all the way to the mountain that sits on the horizon, a crystalline crown perched on its peak.
Plumes of glittering smoke are fiercely billowing out from the top, now, breathing stars into the night sky.
In the distance, a low rumble echoes through the savanna, fading into nothing. The only thing she can hear now is that tense rhythm in her chest; thrumming hot in her ears. The heady stench of rotting, scavenged eggs is flowing downhill and running its warm hands through her pelt. She wrinkles her snout with a huff and sticks out her tongue. The mountain is hissing, now—and Serval stumbles over long, trembling legs as she trots faster toward the riverbank before breaking into a sprint. All the while, that horrible hiss bubbles up from the mountain's chest, punctuated by those cracks that rumble deep in her bones.
She sees something bright race along the horizon, if only briefly.
Her paws don't stop moving until the ground beneath them is soft and damp. Past the reeds, the river sparkles under the fading light some leaps away. Maybe the tremors in the earth have stirred some tasty crabs and voles to the surface, but—without any regard for what bounty may be lingering just underfoot, she hurriedly parades into the warming water and caterwauls, long and desperate. And for a long while—there is no answer. She mewls desperately, again and again. It's the sort of tantrum she'd never have if anyone else lived here, but…
A laugh rumbles deep in the water. Serval stills, first, but her tail finds it substantially harder to settle. Despite the disconcerting heat in the night air, she knows, now! She's safe!
Thrashing and skipping about in the water, she meows again, flitting her tail behind her like a pennant. The warm water quakes around her as a gargantuan, dark mass creeps onto the bank, water pouring off of its back in waves as it rears its massive head. With little fanfare, it plots its whiskered maw down in the mud right in front of her. Nostrils hiss not unlike the mountain as they unseal and huff for air. Kind, dark eyes peer up at her, calm despite the savanna's unrest.
Hippo! It's Hippo!!
Serval props herself up on Hippo's muzzle, mewling and nuzzling her head into Hippo's pointy whiskers. Hippo chuffs and nudges Serval with gentle, swaying movements, her big brown eyes half-lidded and serene. It is certainly hard to feel even the most urgent feelings of ancient, primeval dread with Hippo here. Serval thinks she remembers talk of the might of the hippos who lived here once. Titans, vast as boulders, clashing with a sound like trees snapping—tusks gnashing, finding flesh—red blossoming in the current.
But there have not been hippos here in many, many seasons. Hippo is the exception. And perhaps because she is the sole inhabitant of Silent River now, no more blood needs to be spilled. Hippo rests her head on the warm bank of the river—and all the while, Serval lies atop her, purring and pressing her weight into the muscular sow. The cat can't help the rumble in her chest, and she notices she's even let her eyes drift shut in the wake of certain danger. Tomorrow hunger will seize her stomach. Prey will continue to dwindle. The water will warm until nothing remains. Perhaps, even the ground beneath them will crumble away. But here, tonight, the air is cool, and her belly aches with fullness. Beneath her, Hippo's heavy head bobs with steady breaths. They remain like this for a long while: still, easy, calm.
When Serval opens her eyes and looks downriver, she sees the skeletal remains of man-made beasts, lying in stasis all along the banks. It is not an unfamiliar sight by any means—from her favorite tree in her home range, she can see on the horizon flat structures depicting what-might-be animals. And then, there are those cold, dead giants that loom over the savanna; monoliths connected by inky vines that shimmer like spider's silk. She recalls once, traveling to the foot of one of the giants, just to investigate. The air tasted bitter around them—wrought with sharp, industrial dread.
They did not move. They did not cry.
But sometimes, Serval wondered if they spoke to the heavens,
for they buzzed and crackled with voices no animal should ever need bear witness to.
Serval is torn away from her thoughts when Hippo shifts below her. Her heavy head tilts back, enough to startle Serval, and her rich, brown eyes meet the sky. She grunts something, soft, but unspeakably deep.
Look.
Serval's gaze snaps upward, toward the coming noise.
Something bright whistles high over them in an arc, then disappears into the green of the jungle. The ear that faces the trees tenses, then swivels when it happens.
The unmistakable crackle of disturbed canopies.
The rumble of something hitting the foliage.
Serval feels a shiver roll through her, despite the uneasy heat of the river. She bristles all over, every hair on her body standing erect—like they did near the resting giant. It has been a long, long time since she has felt such a sweeping sense of both terror and wonder. Hippo looks at Serval inquisitively, huffing when the cat rises to her paws. She is curious—and then, even more so when the felid tip-toes off of her snout and stares off into the jungle.
Hippo grunts, incredulous. Serval doesn't understand, but she can sense the disapproval in her older friend's voice—'You aren't thinking about going over there, are you?' Serval is already ambling off toward the tree line, though. She quietly hopes that a placatory 'mew' and a friendly swish of her tail will suffice.
There is something in the woods, and Serval will be the first to know what.