A scarf of warm Rottweiler puppies wagged behind Kalon as a flag of his Road. His tanned skin received the fresh shadow cast down by an angry, unleashed Chloroplast. He had taken it out there, in the open, far from Yggdrashell and its offspring, that now crawled around the ground, because if they fed on stupidity and Kalon was the main source, it made almost no sense to grow upwards. They had lost their phototropism, and now grew towards the moron, such that the trunks of most nutrees now bent towards Yggdrashell. He had taken his enemy out into the sun, because there would be no more chances to do so, and he needed to test himself.

There would not be more chances to do so, because Jagger and him had killed all but one of the avenging Chloroplasts. It had been a dangerous task until the first breakthrough, and a rather easy qone since the second. Now, at the edge of breaking through to the Reputable Spirit-Rottweiler Breeder stage he wanted to reenact the battle he had had against the first one, the battle that would have resulted in their death, were it not for Jagger’s fortuitous finding of an ancient artifact of power.

Wind howled desperately, a furry whose W key broke. Sand struggled to escape the grasp of the nutree trunks, and percolated through the openings between the tightly-packed inhabitants of the combed forest. Metal sounded inside the chloroplast’s scared mind, but this time it wasn’t Beast in Black: it was Megadeth. Countdown to extinction, to be precise. Jagger remained sheathed in his scabbard sewn out of flattened down, whining Rottweiler puppies. Having grown, he was now too thick to be called a sword. Too thick, too fluffy, too prone to hip dysplasia.

Brunhilda, sleeping loudly by Yggdrashell’s nutoxyleman nodes, had broken through to the Internationally Wanted by Drug Cartels murderhobo stage about five… yes, five snores ago. She ignored what happened outside and just waited. Her prey would come someday: they always did.

The chloroplast finished the growth of its thylakoids blades and sank them downwards. Kalon, favorite practice target for angry organelles, took Jagger from the tail/hilt/hiltail, and swung him in an arc before him, hitting nothing but air.

And so the air began bleeding ozone from the deep wound created by Jagger’s sharpened nose. Kalon hadn’t learned to use sword intent, or killing intent, but he had sharpened his stupidity with the help of Yggdrashell, learned to condense it into a blade capable of cutting deep into nature’s common sense. In other words: he moved, and the world cringed.

The instant before the blades pierced Kalon’s head he raised his free hand and grasped the bundle of thylakoids tightly: no need to dodge, when he could intercept. Around his hand a transparent silhouette, like the head of a Rottweiler, had formed, and it bit at the blades, using Kalon’s fingers as its jaws.

Applying a what to him felt like a little pressure, he crumpled the thylakoids as he curled his hand into a fist. “This thing caused us so many problems back in the day? Seems unreal.” Kalon boasted, and then left Jagger to the side and began pulling, collapsing even more of the blade, using them as a rope to try and pluck the organelle from the deflowered skies.

The chloroplast saw the face of death, and it was the dumbest teen it had ever met.

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The only teen it had ever met.

Therefore, the most intelligent teen it had ever met. That all of his species had ever met. A very sad existence, if you ask me.

Terror seized the organelle, and it truggled to get free, and it didn’t understand this sort of stress. Fear was animal, fear was for those that had for millions of years been given the options of flying or fighting. Plants, even during stress, at most fought dirty, but, overall, endured. And the chloroplast didn’t wish to endure now. It wished to flee, and it didn’t understand what fleeing entailed.

And it lamented this, another part of freedom plants ahd forever stolen. Why did it fear? What entailed to fear? How to flee, why to flee?

And so, the chloroplast fled: Headlong onto Kalon it charged, its understanding of what to escape meant as clear as a piece of coal. Kalon readied Jagger, turning his tail on his sweaty hand as he prepared himself to cut the thing in two. But… maybe he wouldn’t need the sword at all. The chloroplast wasn’t worth of him using his main weapon. So Kalon sheathed Jagger and uncoiled his pup scarf from around his neck, ready to use it to whip the monster with.

In a last desperate effort, the chloroplast combined all of its free thylakoids into a new blade, dark green and wet, sharpened it with all of its vital aura and extended it to reach Kalon’s face.

Surprised, Kalon barely dodged, getting a little cut he didn’t notice on his cheek.

No, before you start making conjectures, the blade wasn’t poisoned. This is not that kind of story.

The line of puppies lashed against the Chloroplast, digging past it is membranes, obliterating its subcellular body and causing it to pop like a balloon, as many before it had done. Jagger looked at Kalon’s face with eyes wide open. The eyes of a maniac.

Noticing his dog’s stare, Kalon touched his warm cheek, and then stared at the blood on his hand. He began quivering as fear seized him too. “No! I am bleeding! Not again!”

The boy began scratching and pitching his little wound, hurting himself more, a desperate attempt to avoid suffering yet another episode of that malicious illness.

“We could disinfect the wound and then finally get you an injection of tetanic toxoid,” Jagger suggested, keeping a neutral dog face.

Kalon slapped Jagger on the nose and he, in turn, snarled like the bad dog he was. “No Jagger! Vaccines cause altruism!”

Jagger elevated a silent pray to the god of tetanus, assuming it existed. He assumed wrong.

The chloroplast had not died yet, deflated and with difficulty to keep its stroma inside its body as it worked overtime to regenerate the membranes, it tried to crawl away, finally meeting its demise when a panicked Kalon stepped on it as he ran uselessly from side to side, his scarf-pups holding onto each’s other tails for dear life.

“No!, I did nothing wrong! Then why did it have to hurt me! I am going to suffer!”

“We… we can disinfect the small wound and kill the bacteria before they enter your bloodstream if we hurry, Kalon.”

Brunhilda came out of her thousand years’ meditation to see what the fuss was about. He went back into the hoard room, a cavity inside Yggdrashell where she stashed her foraged goods, and when she emerged from her deep dive, she did so with a cast iron pan in her jaws. She mouthed it to Jagger, who took it and with a skillful leap in the right moment, used the inferior of the utensil to introduce Kalon to the concept of slapstick comedy, knocking him out, his body lumping down and onto the thick layer of nutty pollen that covered the ground.

Jagger wagged his tail in a respectful gesture towards his senior, mouthing the pan back to its rightful owner. “This one is humbled to use such powerful and ancient a tool of discipline, Mistress.”

Brunhilda retched while she held a stern stare. She had mastered the Dao of Vomiting, and was using her mastery to emit, or rather eject, an opinion of Jagger’s imitation of lambasting.

Jagger eyed the mound of metal she had vomited. It was a small catalytic converter. “We are selling that. Such things fetch a lot of tramadol money.”