Alonso sighed, tossing the stone aside. He ran his hand over the hide, then also tossed it to the side with a grunt of frustration. The idea of a makeshift shirt or pants was clearly a bust. Even if he spent hours trying to soften the hide, there was no guarantee he would succeed, and even if he did, the final product could hinder his movement—a risk he couldn’t afford in a place where mobility was survival.

He leaned back, staring up at the sky, and let his thoughts drift. A slingshot, he thought. The idea had merit. He could use rocks or a wrapped bag filled with the panthers’ fangs as ammunition. It wasn’t like he needed something fancy—just something strong enough to hurl projectiles with enough force to injure or kill smaller creatures. After all, a ranged weapon could mean the difference between life and death on this island, and not just against its original inhabitants.

But how to make it?

The traditional Y-shaped slingshot seemed inefficient now that he considered it more carefully. There was a better alternative: a sling. The kind you swung around and then released to shoot. It was simpler, required fewer materials, and could pack a greater punch with the right projectile. With his enhanced motor functions, timing the release and coordinating the motion would be a much smaller issue than it might have been before.

“Houston, I think we’ve found the better option here,” he said, a smile forming on his face as he imagined the possibilities.

"Yeah, sure. Because swinging rocks around like a barbarian is definitely a sign of progress. If we keep going down the line, why not just use rocks and sticks. Oh wait!"

“A literal thrown rock saved our life, Houston.”

“Well, trying to hit with a rock was also what got Jonah killed.”

“The lack of a ranged weapon, yes, I know.”

“And now your big brain solution is...a slightly more organized way to throw rocks. Truly a genius at work.”

“You flatter me.”

Alonso sat down, thinking about how to actually make the sling. He had panther tendons, scraps of his torn clothes, and hide from the animal. First, he examined one of the tendons, pulling at it experimentally. It was strong but flexible—perhaps too flexible. But what else could he use?

He decided to braid the tendon into something that might hold up under stress. His fingers worked methodically, twisting the tendon strands tighter and tighter. Without proper tools or experience, the task was difficult, but with nothing else available, he had no choice but to improvise.

After a while, he had a sturdy-looking cord. He gave it a few tugs; it stretched more than he liked, but it would have to do for now. Next, he needed a pouch. He grabbed a strip of softened hide, cut it down to a small, oval shape, and pierced holes on either end to tie the braided tendons through.

“This should hold,” Alonso muttered to himself, placing a round stone about the size of a walnut into the pouch. It wasn’t perfect—the pouch was slightly uneven, and the tendons still felt a bit too flexible—but it would have to do for now.

With the pouch and cords assembled, Alonso gave the sling a once-over. It looked rough, but functional. He gripped it tightly and gave it a few practice swings. The stone nestled in the pouch spun around, building momentum.

“Popcorn would really hit the spot right now.”

Alonso rolled his eyes but stayed focused, his attention on the sling. He flicked his wrist to release the stone, feeling the sudden snap of the cord as it unwound.

The stone shot through the air—a solid thirty meters before it dropped to the ground with a dull thud.

“Well… that was anticlimactic,” Alonso sighed. The stone barely had enough force to do any real damage.

“Great distance! If your goal was to gently remind your enemy that you exist.”

Alonso retrieved the stone and inspected the sling again. The flexibility of the tendons was the obvious issue—they were absorbing too much of the force, making the release weak. He gave the cords another tug, feeling them stretch under pressure.

He ran his fingers through his hair, frustration creeping in. "I could try braiding the tendons tighter, but that would take ages, and—"

Stolen from its rightful place, this narrative is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.

“No, no, no. Now you finish. Now I REALLY want to see that sling.”

Alonso sighed, still looking at the makeshift sling. “I need something that doesn’t give so much under pressure.”

He looked around, searching for a sturdier material. The tendons were good for their flexibility, but he needed more control over the force being transferred through the sling. His gaze shifted to the scraps of panther hide lying beside him, and an idea formed. It wasn’t ideal, but maybe if he combined the tendons with strips of hide, he could reduce the elasticity and give the sling more tension.

He reached for his sword—it wasn’t the tool he would have preferred for precision cutting, but it would have to do. Carefully, he used the blade to slice the hide into long, thin strips. The edges were rough, but functional.

"Sewing for beginners: grab the sharpest weapon you’ve got and just wing it."

Alonso was completely focused on weaving the strips of hide into the tendon cord. It was a delicate process, made harder by the limited tools and the stiffness of the hide. His fingers worked as quickly as they could, trying to balance tension and flexibility without over-complicating the design.

“I’m impressed. No, really. First the sling, now an impromptu tailoring session. Maybe you can make a matching hat while you’re at it.”

Alonso tightened the last strip of hide, testing the feel of the sling. The tendons were far more rigid now, but still flexible enough for a decent release. It wasn’t perfect, but it was better than the elastic mess it had been before. He placed a small stone in the pouch, swung it experimentally, and felt the difference immediately. The tension was just right.

He wound up for a real shot, slinging the stone with a quick flick of his wrist. It sailed farther this time, striking a coconut tree with a solid thud. He smiled to himself.

“Oh, a hit! My faith in your rock-throwing abilities has been restored. Now try it with a metal-like hide panther!”

He loaded another stone, testing the sling’s improved rigidity with each swing. His arms were beginning to move more naturally now, and the rhythm of the sling felt better controlled, though not yet perfect. A stone whistled through the air, striking the tree, but with less force than he'd hoped. The crack was muted, unsatisfying.

Alonso gritted his teeth and kept going. Again and again, he wound up the sling, releasing stones toward the tree. Some hit with a solid thud, others missed entirely, thudding uselessly into the dirt or skimming harmlessly off branches. Each throw taught him something new.

Dozens of tries. Dozens of corrections. Every swing felt like a gamble—sometimes the stone flew straight, sometimes it veered wildly off course. His arm ached, and sweat began to trickle down his forehead, but he pressed on, determined to get the technique right.

After a while, the movements started to flow better. His grip on the sling became more intuitive, and he adjusted his stance, timing the release with more precision. The stones began to fly straighter, harder.

Finally, he decided to aim for a more distant target: a lone coconut hanging from a tree, about fifty meters away. He picked up another stone—this one heavier, smoother—feeling its weight in his hand.

He took a deep breath, wound up, and let it fly.

The rock sailed off, but missed its mark by a meter, slamming into the trunk below the coconut. He cursed under his breath, but didn’t stop.

He loaded another stone and tried again. Miss.

Another attempt. Miss.

The misses piled up, each one gnawing at him, but he refused to back down. After dozens of attempts, he could feel his muscles tiring, but something clicked. His focus sharpened, his body moved instinctively with the sling, and when he released this time, the stone flew straight and true.

It struck the coconut dead on, exploding it in a shower of liquid and fragments.

Alonso paused, breathing heavily as a slow grin spread across his face.

"You were saying, Houston?"

image [https://i.imgur.com/EPU265m.png]

> August 6, 2024 - Melbourne, Australia

Pablo’s eyes widened as he stared at the officer in front of him, his mouth slowly falling open in disbelief.

"Is there a problem, Mr. Garcia?" the officer asked, frowning, his gaze sharp and unwavering.

Pablo blinked, snapping out of his daze.

"I… I don’t know, sir… I mean, what exactly do you need me to do? Alonso... he's really coming back?"

The officer's frown deepened. "You'll be briefed on the way, Mr. Garcia. For now, as I’ve already instructed, call your friend Jack Redwood and accompany us."

Pablo swallowed hard and nodded. He hurried back inside, bringing Jack, who was visibly confused when he arrived at the door. His face relaxed slightly upon seeing the officer but remained tense.

"What’s going on with Alonso? Is something wrong?" Jack asked.

The officer gave him a curt nod. "Mr. Redwood, I’m Officer James Nose. I’ve been assigned to escort you both to the temporary base at Sugarloaf Peak. You’ll be briefed once you're there."

Sugarloaf Peak? A temporary base? Jack’s thoughts raced. Alonso is coming back? But how do they know? And why the urgent need to get us there? What about the scheduled online training sessions that start tomorrow for the public? Is this connected somehow?

Jack remained silent, exchanging a glance with Pablo, who had grown equally serious. He gave a quick nod to the officer before following him outside. Both were taken aback by the sight waiting for them: a military Humvee idling next to the police car.

The heavy vehicle seemed like overkill for transporting two civilians to a campsite. Something was definitely off.