…
It’s dark, the nighttime all around abuzz with the sounds and activities of the creature of the evening going about their individual lives with little interference or need for pause. A fox, a regional variant found only in the part of the world, its fur a shade of maroon so dark and lustrous that under the shine of moon, its soft and pristine coat shines a succulent magenta, quietly stalks its prey nestled deep with the underbrush. A dormouse, nibbling on its recent kill, a praying mantis. The fox hunches over, its figure shielded from view by tall grass, stalks toward the mouse on all fours, its ears swiveling in all directions, carefully listening and detecting movement and trepidation from all directions within its hearing for nearly 100 yards in all directions.
Another easy prey. Another delightful dinner.
Then.
The fox stops, bolting upright from its cover, ears honing in. it’s picking up something. Something big. The mouse continues to eat, rubbing its whiskers while eating, having now moved from mantis’s abdomen towards its thorax.
High above, the sudden whooping sound while faint due to distance is growing ever louder as it descends from the clouds. The fox, still listening out of instinct, has noticed this, and is currently analyzing the pitch, length, and distance the sound is making. It’s calculating the time of approach; it’s calculating the depth of descent.
It’s weighing its options.
A ray of light from above shoots downward towards the forest, high-beamed and blinding to most nocturnal creatures. The fox blinks, and the whooping sound is all but deafening. The fox hears a squeak and looks back at it prey. The mouse is fleeing, scared out its wits. The fox scowls, its prey is getting away, but before it can give chase, the intense sound parts the trees from the canopy above to reveal its source. A large helicopter, painted in gray camouflage, hovering loudly above the clearing the fox is in. its searchlights darting every which way. A second later, and long spindly ropes tumble in heaps onto the dirt directly under it. The thud the ropes create frighten the fox, who quickly darts into the underbrush, finding shelter under a large root. It knows these things very well, these flying creatures of metal. They make loud noises, and create loud booms, but do not always hurt.
Not always.
“Sir, we’ve touched down at the coordinates given to by command, team is good to go”, says a young man turning his seat to face the front of the helicopter. He’s addressing another, clad in the same gear. The older figure is looking at a screen, a radar, eyeing carefully for any changes.
Then.
Ping.
“There”, the man in charge says, pointing at the green dot that’s appeared, “our target is there.”
Taking the information seriously, both men immediately join the others as they grab their gear. Then with the all clear to proceed, the 15 man group begins their descent, each soldier taking a designated rope and rappelling down onto the forest floor. Touching the ground, the soldiers quickly gather into a central point, densely spacing out themselves to form of defensive line. Their movements are fast and light, their rifles drawn and pointed.
Quick and efficient.
“Command, this unit one”, says one of the soldiers, “we've touched down exactly 57 yards away from the target and proceeding with our mission, over.”
Back in the helicopter, the pilot, having the same radio frequency taps several buttons on the dashboard before lifting the stick shift a tad to the left. The words “silent mode” flashing, the sound of the propellers and engine are immediately muffled by noise dampeners as he lifts off.
“Roger that unit one”, replies a female voice in response, “Command reads you loud and clear. Please be advised that the target in question is well aware of your arrival and has taken several steps deter outside interference. Whatever you do, the primary objective is a search and rescue, capturing and detaining secondary. Do you copy unit one?”
“Copy Command”, replies the older man, clearly the leader of the outfit, “we read you loud and clear. Proceeding to location, over and out.”
His voice was crude and worn, but still capable of carrying a ring of authority. Like a well oiled machine.
“Tenfin”, he called, “you take point. Saman, Adele, you two man the rear, Ire, cover our blind spots.”
“Our target knows we’re coming people”, he continued, “but our goal isn’t arrest this time, it’s rescue. Clear?”
“Sir!”, they all responded.
He nodded. “Good, proceed.”
It’s dark, the nighttime all around abuzz with the sounds and activities of the creature of the evening going about their individual lives with little interference or need for pause. A fox, a regional variant found only in the part of the world, its fur a shade of maroon so dark and lustrous that under the shine of moon, its soft and pristine coat shines a succulent magenta, quietly stalks its prey nestled deep with the underbrush. A dormouse, nibbling on its recent kill, a praying mantis. The fox hunches over, its figure shielded from view by tall grass, stalks toward the mouse on all fours, its ears swiveling in all directions, carefully listening and detecting movement and trepidation from all directions within its hearing for nearly 100 yards in all directions.
Another easy prey. Another delightful dinner.
Then.
The fox stops, bolting upright from its cover, ears honing in. it’s picking up something. Something big. The mouse continues to eat, rubbing its whiskers while eating, having now moved from mantis’s abdomen towards its thorax.
High above, the sudden whooping sound while faint due to distance is growing ever louder as it descends from the clouds. The fox, still listening out of instinct, has noticed this, and is currently analyzing the pitch, length, and distance the sound is making. It’s calculating the time of approach; it’s calculating the depth of descent.
It’s weighing its options.
A ray of light from above shoots downward towards the forest, high-beamed and blinding to most nocturnal creatures. The fox blinks, and the whooping sound is all but deafening. The fox hears a squeak and looks back at it prey. The mouse is fleeing, scared out its wits. The fox scowls, its prey is getting away, but before it can give chase, the intense sound parts the trees from the canopy above to reveal its source. A large helicopter, painted in gray camouflage, hovering loudly above the clearing the fox is in. its searchlights darting every which way. A second later, and long spindly ropes tumble in heaps onto the dirt directly under it. The thud the ropes create frighten the fox, who quickly darts into the underbrush, finding shelter under a large root. It knows these things very well, these flying creatures of metal. They make loud noises, and create loud booms, but do not always hurt.
Not always.
“Sir, we’ve touched down at the coordinates given to by command, team is good to go”, says a young man turning his seat to face the front of the helicopter. He’s addressing another, clad in the same gear. The older figure is looking at a screen, a radar, eyeing carefully for any changes.
Then.
Ping.
“There”, the man in charge says, pointing at the green dot that’s appeared, “our target is there.”
Taking the information seriously, both men immediately join the others as they grab their gear. Then with the all clear to proceed, the 15 man group begins their descent, each soldier taking a designated rope and rappelling down onto the forest floor. Touching the ground, the soldiers quickly gather into a central point, densely spacing out themselves to form of defensive line. Their movements are fast and light, their rifles drawn and pointed.
Quick and efficient.
“Command, this unit one”, says one of the soldiers, “we've touched down exactly 57 yards away from the target and proceeding with our mission, over.”
Back in the helicopter, the pilot, having the same radio frequency taps several buttons on the dashboard before lifting the stick shift a tad to the left. The words “silent mode” flashing, the sound of the propellers and engine are immediately muffled by noise dampeners as he lifts off.
“Roger that unit one”, replies a female voice in response, “Command reads you loud and clear. Please be advised that the target in question is well aware of your arrival and has taken several steps deter outside interference. Whatever you do, the primary objective is a search and rescue, capturing and detaining secondary. Do you copy unit one?”
“Copy Command”, replies the older man, clearly the leader of the outfit, “we read you loud and clear. Proceeding to location, over and out.”
His voice was crude and worn, but still capable of carrying a ring of authority. Like a well oiled machine.
“Tenfin”, he called, “you take point. Saman, Adele, you two man the rear, Ire, cover our blind spots.”
“Our target knows we’re coming people”, he continued, “but our goal isn’t arrest this time, it’s rescue. Clear?”
“Sir!”, they all responded.
He nodded. “Good, proceed.”
And so began their trek, deep into the underbrush of the forest. The fox, still hiding in the safety of the root’s shadow, didn’t move an inch. It watched them with silent eyes and ears, never once leaving the group as they made their way. It watched them leave the area, but continued to hide, unsure and untrustworthy of their departure; years of hunting creatures big and small had etched this level of wariness into its soul, and it knew well from experience to never once trust the silence of the forest. It waited a few moments before, and then feeling its nerves settle, it left the safety of its makeshift hovel. The fox blinked, and looked around. Its prey, the little dormouse, was long since gone, frightened off by the tall creatures, and given that these tall things, these ‘Oomans’ were still in the area, even if the fox managed to find food, it would have to fight for it.
The fox was not the only predator awake during this hour, nor was it the most powerful or the most dangerous. It would surely face steep competition, and if it came to violence, the fox would most surely die. As such, there seemed to be only one viable option for the poor creature to choose: to return to its nest and wait until the following morning or evening to hunt.
Of course, that would be good, if not for one glaring problem: the fox’s nest had been taken earlier that day; stolen by a larger, by a larger more devious rival. Thus, the fox found itself at a crossroads, unsure of the path that would lead him to safety, and yawning from the strain of overthinking, it lowered itself onto its stomach and closed its eyes.
Such actions help it think.
Then, out of curiosity, a thought occurred to the fox.
The ‘Oomans’ are looking for something, something here within the forest. That much it could tell, based off of the scraps of legible words it could decipher from their language. It wasn’t much, but enough to understand. Moreover, they were not the only ‘oomans’ that lived here in forest.
There was another, a small ‘ooman’ who spoke to the fox, or rather the fox was able to understand them. The ‘ooman’ the fox spoke of was small and thin, covered in metal things the bound him in place, but unlike the other ‘oomans’ who come and go, this one was quiet, sleepy, and most all, he was warm. His scent was not like other ‘oomans’; or rather, he did not carry the same pheromones that most ‘oomans’ carry with them. Whereas ‘oomans’ carry scent of blood, sweat, and rocks, other noisy things, the ‘ooman’ the fox knew of carried the scent of the forest itself, of honey and jasmine, mixed subtle traces of pond reeds and lilies.
It was completely by accident that the fox stumbled across the smell while hunting one day, the scent itself wafting from looked like a cave. Thinking that fruit had ripened, the fox made a daring attempt to crawl into the weirdly shaped entrance, falling into a pit. When the fox straightened itself up, what awaited it wasn’t fruit at all, but to its surprise, a small ‘ooman’ cub, wrapped in blankets. Shocked and wary, the fox carefully eyed the little thing, its eyes closed and its breathing shallow. Then just at the fox reared its nose close the cub’s own, his eyes opened and the two stared at each other face to face. The fox, evidently scared and fangs ready to pounce, waited with bated breath. The ‘ooman’ cub blinked, and then closed its eyes and turned over on its other side. It was ignoring the fox.
The fox blinked, and its brow furrowed.
It was annoyed.
To think that such a weak, pathetic little thing would ignore him, a majestic creature; such arrogance. The fox titled its head, evidently refusing to be outdone, and jumped over the other side, and demanding attention, pawed the little cub’s nose. This cub maybe a tad big, but the fox is far more important to just turn away from.
Who knew from that moment in time, that the fox would come to regard the little cub as more than just another stupid ‘ooman’. And yet so it was.
No doubt that its nest was no longer an option, the only other refuge for miles around that no other creature would dare enter was that of the pit in which the ‘ooman’, the cub, resided. It wasn’t much, but at this point in time, the fox had little in the way of choices. A rustle from the wind, and a cold but gentle breeze nipped at the tips of the fox’s ears. The fox looked up, the moon was out, the cover of clouds dissipated. Looks like the safety of the ‘ooman’ cub’s den was assured now. The light from the moon now making it near impossible to hunt, as the shadows would easily be see-through.
With that mind, the fox stretched its body and limbs, opening its maw long and wide with a yawn. Raising itself up, it sniffed the air around it, looking for the trail typical ‘ooman’ scent from the group earlier. Instinctively following its nose, its head turned in the direction of the east. It blinked, and then realized something.
The scent of the cub, which had been imprinted on the fox by memory, was in this direction. The mixture of scents and smells could only mean one thing: the group of ‘oomans’ were heading in the same direction as the little ‘ooman’, or at least going the way. A sudden sense of urgency rang clear as a bell, while the alarm from this realization left cold fear in the fox’s paws.
What would happen if the big ‘oomans’ discovered the den of his little one?
Could he defend himself? Would he survive?
All these thoughts flooded his brain before the fox in annoyance, shook them away like flies buzing about his skull.
Enough chatter, the fox resolved, now’s not the time for that.
What matters is reaching the den first. What matter is reaching the little cub.
Resolving the matter like, the fox started trotting, carefully jogging in the same direction its feet alighting upon the ground like dancing; a soft tap like that of a ballet, its paws practically gliding in the air with each step.
The fox was not the only predator awake during this hour, nor was it the most powerful or the most dangerous. It would surely face steep competition, and if it came to violence, the fox would most surely die. As such, there seemed to be only one viable option for the poor creature to choose: to return to its nest and wait until the following morning or evening to hunt.
Of course, that would be good, if not for one glaring problem: the fox’s nest had been taken earlier that day; stolen by a larger, by a larger more devious rival. Thus, the fox found itself at a crossroads, unsure of the path that would lead him to safety, and yawning from the strain of overthinking, it lowered itself onto its stomach and closed its eyes.
Such actions help it think.
Then, out of curiosity, a thought occurred to the fox.
The ‘Oomans’ are looking for something, something here within the forest. That much it could tell, based off of the scraps of legible words it could decipher from their language. It wasn’t much, but enough to understand. Moreover, they were not the only ‘oomans’ that lived here in forest.
There was another, a small ‘ooman’ who spoke to the fox, or rather the fox was able to understand them. The ‘ooman’ the fox spoke of was small and thin, covered in metal things the bound him in place, but unlike the other ‘oomans’ who come and go, this one was quiet, sleepy, and most all, he was warm. His scent was not like other ‘oomans’; or rather, he did not carry the same pheromones that most ‘oomans’ carry with them. Whereas ‘oomans’ carry scent of blood, sweat, and rocks, other noisy things, the ‘ooman’ the fox knew of carried the scent of the forest itself, of honey and jasmine, mixed subtle traces of pond reeds and lilies.
It was completely by accident that the fox stumbled across the smell while hunting one day, the scent itself wafting from looked like a cave. Thinking that fruit had ripened, the fox made a daring attempt to crawl into the weirdly shaped entrance, falling into a pit. When the fox straightened itself up, what awaited it wasn’t fruit at all, but to its surprise, a small ‘ooman’ cub, wrapped in blankets. Shocked and wary, the fox carefully eyed the little thing, its eyes closed and its breathing shallow. Then just at the fox reared its nose close the cub’s own, his eyes opened and the two stared at each other face to face. The fox, evidently scared and fangs ready to pounce, waited with bated breath. The ‘ooman’ cub blinked, and then closed its eyes and turned over on its other side. It was ignoring the fox.
The fox blinked, and its brow furrowed.
It was annoyed.
To think that such a weak, pathetic little thing would ignore him, a majestic creature; such arrogance. The fox titled its head, evidently refusing to be outdone, and jumped over the other side, and demanding attention, pawed the little cub’s nose. This cub maybe a tad big, but the fox is far more important to just turn away from.
Who knew from that moment in time, that the fox would come to regard the little cub as more than just another stupid ‘ooman’. And yet so it was.
No doubt that its nest was no longer an option, the only other refuge for miles around that no other creature would dare enter was that of the pit in which the ‘ooman’, the cub, resided. It wasn’t much, but at this point in time, the fox had little in the way of choices. A rustle from the wind, and a cold but gentle breeze nipped at the tips of the fox’s ears. The fox looked up, the moon was out, the cover of clouds dissipated. Looks like the safety of the ‘ooman’ cub’s den was assured now. The light from the moon now making it near impossible to hunt, as the shadows would easily be see-through.
With that mind, the fox stretched its body and limbs, opening its maw long and wide with a yawn. Raising itself up, it sniffed the air around it, looking for the trail typical ‘ooman’ scent from the group earlier. Instinctively following its nose, its head turned in the direction of the east. It blinked, and then realized something.
The scent of the cub, which had been imprinted on the fox by memory, was in this direction. The mixture of scents and smells could only mean one thing: the group of ‘oomans’ were heading in the same direction as the little ‘ooman’, or at least going the way. A sudden sense of urgency rang clear as a bell, while the alarm from this realization left cold fear in the fox’s paws.
What would happen if the big ‘oomans’ discovered the den of his little one?
Could he defend himself? Would he survive?
All these thoughts flooded his brain before the fox in annoyance, shook them away like flies buzing about his skull.
Enough chatter, the fox resolved, now’s not the time for that.
What matters is reaching the den first. What matter is reaching the little cub.
Resolving the matter like, the fox started trotting, carefully jogging in the same direction its feet alighting upon the ground like dancing; a soft tap like that of a ballet, its paws practically gliding in the air with each step.
The fox didn’t need much in the way of markers to find the optimal route. It was a native of the forest, and had explored every nook and cranny, every creek and stream, every root and bark. It knows where everything is and knows how to reach the den.
And so, trailing after the group of big scary ‘oomans’, the fox sped onward towards the ‘ooman’.
Towards its “little cub”.
And so, trailing after the group of big scary ‘oomans’, the fox sped onward towards the ‘ooman’.
Towards its “little cub”.
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