Rick looked around the barely standing remains of the settlements.
It took Ginny a whole of ten minutes to claim the area safe. And it took Monica a whole two hours to do… whatever it was that she was doing. At first Rick had suspected she was trying to catch and kill, but it was clear Monica was playing with the feral now, chasing her down, catching her, and then tossing her very high into the air.
The feral would land, sometimes well, other times not as much, and make a run for it. And Monica would repeat the chase.
The group unilaterally decided not to pay further attention to her. The trio of younger humans grimacing and focusing on the exploration of the area while Mr. Gabriel, Tess, and Rose stayed at the periphery and well away from everything that might pose a threat to them.
“There were survivors, but they left. At least a week ago.”
Freya’s declaration drew their attention. They found a dozen lumps of ash, each no larger than a bowl. “Are those…?”
“Symbolic burials.” The Elf shook her head, pointing at the pieces of wood that had been placed next to each lump. Each piece of wood had a circle carved into it. “Whoever their owner was, they survived, but they couldn’t find the maiden’s bodies. Ferals likely took them.”
“How do you figure he survived?”
“A full circle means they fulfilled their final task: protecting their human.” Ginny muttered with a bowed head. “They died with honor.” The young maiden pressed her palms against her shoulders.
The gesture was repeated by Dia and Freya, the moment of quiet having the three humans awkwardly lowering their heads in sympathy. Rick noticed Dia’s face darken as she lowered herself to her knees, placing her hands on the opposite shoulder. The bond with her was tenuous, but he could feel… shame.
With a sigh, Freya stepped away from the planks of wood, glancing around before directing her attention at Rick. “We’ll look for the black-box, hopefully we’ll find some details there.”
Tomas jumped up at that. “Black box?”
“It’s a book.” Dia explained softly, standing up and drying a tear from the corner of her eye. “It contains the logs for all important activity in a settlement, be it a village or a city. It’s meant to never leave the location, and whoever the last survivors are, they’re meant to also be the ones to leave the final log.”
“But why is it called a black box?”
“Because it’s put into a black box, one made out of heavily enchanted murisium so that it repels ferals.” Ginny replied with a simple shrug.
“I can’t be the only one who finds that weird… right?” Tomas glanced at Rick and Kat.
“Do you have black boxes too?” The Draco blinked, a bit surprised.
“For planes, they’re meant to be pretty damn hard to destroy, and it’s also meant to keep a record of what happened, in case one falls.” Tomas waved his hands around slightly, a slight eagerness in his voice. “And I’m sure this world has something to do with ours, because of all the weird coincidences.”
“Like everyone speaking English.”
“Exactly!”
Rick shook his head. “Let’s look for this box and get out of here. It’s not safe to stick around, and I doubt we’ll find many answers about why people speak and write in English here.”
That popped Tomas’ eagerness, but he would survive. The chemistry teacher had other things that were bothering him, more immediate ones. Such as how he could spot Monica fast approaching the group. He could vaguely sense that she was eager about something, though for the life of him he couldn’t tell what.
Which made him slightly nervous when he realized she was holding onto the feral she’d been toying with. The feral didn’t look alive. But as Monica slowed down, Rick could make out the feral was a Mousegirl, and barely breathing at that.
The feline was all smiles, hips wiggling wagging back and forth as she came to a stop in front of Rick. “No Monica food.” She said, tossing the nearly dead mouse at his feet. “Rick food.”
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He paled as she looked down at the feral. The mouse’s arms and legs were bent in the wrong way, her body battered and bruised, cuts littering her dirt-caked body. The human’s stomach did a somersault. “Monica-.”
“Rick food.” The feline spoke proudly, stepping over the mostly immobile feral and tapping the scabbard on Rick’s hip. The one that had the short sword. “Rick kill food.” Monica nodded emphatically, putting her hands together and doing a downwards motion.
As if stabbing something with the sword.
“Monica, no.”
His growl made her ears flatten, brows furrowing in confusion. “Rick?”
“Monica, NO.” He stepped towards her and frowning, keeping his voice steady but firm. “Rick no kill food.”
She growled back, gesturing at the whimpering feral. “Rick hurt food, hurt food, hurt food.” She waved again, harshly this time, claws coming out as she clawed at empty air, like she was… fighting? “Food no hurt Rick. No hurt Rick.”
A singular emotion twinged through him, frustration, followed by concern. The sensation was brief but intense, enough it knocked his annoyance down a peg as he looked at the feral and then at Monica. Putting aside the instinct to just flat out refuse her again, he grit his teeth, trying to puzzle what she was attempting to tell him.
“This is the deadliest game of charades I’ve ever had.” Kat muttered under her breath.
That popped any energy Rick had right away, he sighed and rubbed at the bridge of his nose. Failing at guessing Monica’s intentions, he grasped one of her clawed fingers. “Monica follow,” he declared, tugging for her to trail behind him. She tried to grasp the feral as he did. “No. Monica follow… no food.” His gaze darted towards the others, a quiet plea for them to handle the feral while he handled Monica.
Dia was included in that gaze. The nurse quietly nodded, staying behind.
Monica clearly did not like this, but a pointed look from Rick was enough for her to falter. It bought him the time he needed to get away from the others. He came to a halt after a quick check that there wasn’t anything of note around him besides crumbled houses of stone and wood. He turned his focus on Monica.
Deep breath, how to approach this? There was no room to try to explain… anything close to morality, not with the current limitations on her vocabulary. But he had to try something, right? Break the problem into smaller parts.
“Torture is bad.” Rick muttered to himself. Great, morality, there’s that wall again. “Don’t torture?” Close… “I don’t like torture.” Maybe that was the way to go?
“Tohr-tur?” The feline she tilted her head.
Hurting without reason, hurting in general? The white-haired Sabertooth kept her gaze focused on him as he paced back and forth, her head tilted a bit to the side. Nodding as he felt the idea materialize properly, Rick stepped to her. “Word.” The term used to signal there was a new term to be learned. “Hurt.” He said, pinching his arm. She nodded.
“Hurt.” She nodded, mimicking the gesture, pinching her own arm.
“Torture.” Rick then proceeded to pinch himself a lot all over his arms.
She tilted her head again, repeating the pinches. “Hurt, hurt, hurt, hurt, torture?”
Close enough. “Yes.” Rick nodded.
“Torture… no?”
“Torture no.”
“Food hurt yes?”
“Food kill yes.”
She frowned. “Food kill yes, food hurt… no?”
“Food torture no.”
This time Monica crossed her arms, cocking a brow at him in the most challenging look he’d seen her send his way. “Hurt food yes? Hurt food no?”
He grimaced. “Hurt food… yes, torture food no.”
Snorting loudly, the feline made an annoyed growl. “Hurt Dia no, Hurt Ginny no, Torture food no, no, no, no, NO!” She paced back and forth, grumbling, throwing her paws back and forth, using a gravely tone of voice that… was she trying to imitate him? She looked at Rick and… was she having a tantrum?
The feline got closer, poking his chest and making him step back, slightly surprised. “Bahron hurt Rick, food hurt Rick. Rick hurt Rick!” Snarling, she let out a growl, turning around, gesturing in the direction of the others. “Hurt hurt HURT!” She proceeded to grab his hand, moving it to the pommel of the short-sword. “Rick hurt Bahron, Rick kill Bahron, Rick hurt food, Rick kill food. Food no hurt Rick. Bahron no hurt Rick.”
This time she roared, stomping her feet, crossing her arms, and shooting a look at him that was so damnably close to disappointment he was surprised. There was something else in what she was trying to say, and it wasn’t making its way through the language barrier. She just didn’t have the right words.
Grimacing, he stepped close, taking her paw in his hand and slowly caressing the back of it. With an apologetic look, he rubbed circles into the over-sized claws, focusing on the puffy pads. He focused his mind on their form, hands that were half-way to paws, thick slightly stubby fingers that had room for retractable claws, but lacking in the dexterity for fine manipulation.
They were meant to fight.
Rick swallowed the knot in his throat.
“Word.”
Sighing, he pinched his chest. “Hurt.”
Monica snorted, rolling her eyes. “Hurt.”
Slowly, he pulled her paw against his chest, making a show of leaving it between himself and the pinching hand. His fingers pinched at the stripped fur. “Protect.”
“Prrroh-tec.”
“Hurt.” He removed her hand, pinching his own chest, then moved her paw back down. “Protect.”
“Prrotec.” Monica paused, frowning.
“Monica protect Rick.”
The feline focused on her paw, then at him, then on her paw again. She pulled away, stepping closer. “Monica hurt Rick.” She poked his shoulder with her claw, then moved to put her other claw in the way. “Monica… prrotec Rick?”
“Yes.”
She deflated, sighing as she shook her head. “No.”
“No?”
Leaning closer, she knelt in front of him, her head level with his chest as she wrapped her strong arms around his hip. “Monica prrotec Rick.” She declared, squeezing him, looking up into his eyes, then moving to grab his arms and pull them to wrap around her head. A second sigh. She breathed in and leaned into him. “Rick prrotec Monica.”
She was still frustrated, but at least in this shared hug, she eventually relaxed.
“Rick protect Monica,” he muttered, kissing the top of her head.