THE LION KING: MY NAME
Chapter 8: Homeland I: Unwelcome Guests (I recall that way back in the first chapter of the Freak, I said that these works would serve to display the suffering that minorities undergo. Thus holds true below.) The tree had stood for hundreds of years. Its toughened trunk had withstood tornadoes, lightning storms, hail, and other perils. Gnarled holes from fallen branches made homes for squirrels and birds, lizards and bees. It was a practical condominium of life. “Faster, Kifo, faster! One, two, three, go!... That’s better…” Deep, gouging slashes were hacked into the soft, yielding wood. They were perhaps five feet above the ground, but didn’t remain to perhaps be repaired and recovered from, someday, but… burned, or sickened, eating away at the tree, turning it into charred, decaying dust. The demon sat down, heavily. He was sweating, and the grip he had on his knife was tight. His chest—bigger and more muscled now than it ever had been—rose and fell, rhythmically, along with the pulsating malice in his eyes. “Ahh, my dear Kovu… Kifo…” Kishindo practically purred, slumping over next to the demon, confident of his ability to offer her protection, “you’re getting stronger,” she grinned, hissing, “stronger, and faster, and better than even I could imagine. When we attack the leopards—“ “Save it,” he said gruffly, sheathing his blade and drawing his GLOCK, checking the magazine, “I’m fuckin’ exhausted. …Kishindo, I like you, you’re a great teacher and all, but you can be a slave-driver at times, you know?” “Actually, I don’t,” the lioness said arrogantly, standing up to stretch, cracking her old but toughened bones, “we of the Outlands never had any slaves to keep. They say that the Eastern Nomads sometimes capture prisoners in their raids of the Cheetah Tribes of the Barren Plains of the Southeast… but it’s just hearsay,” she shrugged. “The lions of the White Sands are in a prime position to carry off leopards from this land whenever they want—but they have class,” the lioness said, “and generations ago, when the lion prides of the Land of the Spirits last met, Mohatu demanded that every alpha male of every pride agree to an anti-slavery pact.” “Of course, the Eastern Nomads didn’t exist, then. They were just a loose collection of savage rogues; not a pride, as they are today.” “The lions of the White Sands, they say, were reluctant to abolish slavery. You see, Kifo, they live on the very edge of the Land of the Spirits—they must not only keep in the Spirits’ good graces, they must appease other, Lesser Gods. They do so with treasure,” Kishindo said. “It’s too difficult for lions to search for treasure. So, what they used to do was invade the Black Hills, from time to time, take leopards as they needed, and work them. Food was provided, but often, when the leopards were released after years of dedicated labor, they were too weak and injured to live for long.” “It’s called predator control,” Kishindo grinned terribly, “if you make sure that predators aren’t too successful, that their numbers don’t increase too much… you can control the very infrastructure of a land, and ensure that the mouths of your people are fed first.” “Huh,” Kifo said noncommittally—he’d only half-listened to the long soliloquy, “Wait—so, let me guess… the hyenas didn’t just leave the Outlands because there wasn’t enough food there… they left it because every now and again, one of them would vanish, right?” “Why yes, yes, my dear Kifo...” Kishindo smiled, a horrible gleam in her eyes, “Vanish… and let me tell you, young one, the meat of a carnivore is so, so tender…” “…Spoil the surprise for me, will you? I’m going to find out, Kishindo,” the demon said, pointing his pistol into the more inhabited part of the Black Hills to the northeast, “real, real soon.” “Ah, Kifo…” the lioness chuckled, giving her tawny form a shake, “you’re like the best of Kovu—at least, the Kovu I used to know—and Scar… so powerful,” she said, eyeing the demon’s bulging muscles, “so terrifying,” she grinned, reaching over to flick a leaf off of his knife’s hilt with a paw, “so dominant…” “Yeah. Great. Dominant. Scar and Kovu,” the demon said sarcastically, before chuckling, dangerously, and turning to the lioness, “now… get me something to eat. I’ll keep training,” he grunted, performing a modified kung fu windmill to get to his feet, “but Kishindo…” he murmured, glancing behind him to show off a muscled, rugged frame as he screwed a long, fat suppressor onto the muzzle of his GLOCK, “bring me something alive.” The lioness gave a twisted, horrible smile, and rubbed herself against the demon’s leg. Then, with a grin, she bounded off. “Alive… I can do alive.” Back in the day, in New York, Kifo had never really taken care of himself. He was never fat; he didn’t have the money to buy an excess of food. He was scrawny, though, and what meat he did have on his bones was loose and weak. Now, though, after perhaps two weeks in the Black Hills with Kishindo, he was stronger. Thick bunches of muscle rippled over his frame. His build might be compared to that of a heavyweight MMA champ, but he could strike ten times harder with his fist than any human could with a foot. His black fur was thicker, now, and from endless training sessions with Kishindo, he was well aware of how efficient it was at stopping a clawed strike. Grunting as he cranked out the last of a set of three hundred pushups, Kifo knelt, for a minute, to catch his breath. Bullet-sized drops of acidic sweat poured from his frame to eat neat little holes into the forest floor. The demon moved, suddenly, jumping up, and did a quick somersault in midair. The backs of his knees caught on a branch and he hung there, for a moment, before started to do crunches. His face contained a harsh, angry, determined expression as his abdominal muscles began to ache. His weapons were laid down, neatly, on a bank of dark topsoil, just a few feet away. A paw’s reach, essentially, and the demon gave off such a horrible, unearthly feeling that everything living left him the Hell alone. Not even an insect remained within thirty yards of this forgotten corner of the Black Hills. Silence… Motion! A heavy, black, furred ball slammed into Kifo’s chest. And in his concentration, the demon was caught off-guard. He was knocked from the tree, to land, dazed and confused, on the ground. He groaned, clutching his head for a moment, before he managed to get to his feet. “The fuck…” he groaned, blinking his eyes rapidly until his vision cleared, “the fuck was that…” A brown, furry ball was the missile that had knocked the demon from his perch. But, rather than remaining whole or degenerating constantly like an inanimate projectile, it uncurled, letting out a bleating, whining, moan. Kifo paused, lip curling, then froze as he saw a flash of teeth. “Shit… a bear cub. …Momma Bear ain’t gonna appreciate this…” The demon moved, slowly, towards his weapons. He was large, though, large and heavy and built for stealth. He made good progress, though, so he was just a foot or so from the handle of a shotgun when a roar reverberated through the air. Kifo flinched, and, slowly, fearlessly, turned, and stood. He looked his enemy up, then down, then up again. She was bigger than he was in terms of both weight and height. This would not be an easy fight. The adult bear was snarling, livid, even as her cub ducked behind cover. Kifo hissed back, seethed, his lips pulling back in rage, before he roared back, sending birds to the sky for hundreds of yards in every direction. His enemy, however, was not intimidated. And despite Kifo’s nonverbal warnings—the display of his deadly, jagged claws, and the increased level of evil he’d directed at her to try to get her to leave… she tensed, preparing to attack. The demon felt no fear, despite the way he was caught with his trousers completely down. Fear wasn’t in his blood; his family had been fierce and warlike for generations. But, of course, Kifo had forgotten all that—all he knew was that the emotion that he felt, just then, was nothing aside from anger, so molten hot that it burned his insides as it churned, flowing, pouring to fill every crevice of his being with energy and purpose. Not so long ago, Kifo, just then, would have exploded into action. Maybe he’d have thought to go for his enemy’s throat or eyes, but, in all likelihood, he’d just act first and think second. But Kishindo had taught him that anger, while a powerful tool, could be a double-edged knife. Sure, anger was motivation and power, but anger was also a potentially overwhelming impetus to action. So, anger had to be controlled; cooled, forged into a razor-sharp blade to pierce right through your opponent’s heart. So Kifo circled his foe. His fighting stance could be likened to that of a tae-kwon-do expert’s—strong, steady, and, above all else, powerful. The static nature of his limbs, head, and paws in relation to his body made them seem like targets, but Kifo wasn’t stupid. He was just going to be reactionary, at first. “Let her go for something… she’s stronger than I am, but I’m faster, I think. Let her go for my hand, or my head, or try to tackle me… I’ll dodge, grab a knife or gun, and take her down before she can recover. … C’mon, bitch… go for something. Come on. I attacked your cub. Try me.” The bear’s hesitation made Kifo angrier than ever, if anything. The being wasn’t quite sentient, but she wasn’t brainless. And from her body language—the less confident manner in which she stood, and the way she’d turned, ready to run—it was obvious that she was, at least, considering flight over fight. “Come on… come on… come on… come on… COME ON!” Patience only got you so far. Kifo’s assault was vicious and unexpected. He sprang forward, roaring, jumping into the air. He bent his knees, bringing them to his chest, turning, a little, making himself a small and annoyingly hard to hit target. The bear recognized this, and attempted to turn to run. She wasn’t fast enough. Kifo’s foot lashed out, so his tough, spiked heel dug into her meaty cheek, striking her so hard that she dropped instantly. The demon continued forward, due to the force of his jump, and rolled to his feet, turning, instantly, to face his opponent. The Black Hills were silent. It was as if what few beings remained remotely near Kifo had decided to take time out of their day to watch his battle with the bear, because it would be long, brutal, and bloody The soil under Kifo’s feet was thick, and that was good. It offered him plenty of traction, compounding his agility and speed. As he circled his still downed opponent, it began to… not rain, not really, but mist. Moisture quickly began to collect on the leaves, the ferns, the bark of the Black Hills. Kifo shook his head, vigorously, so that, for a second, his mane splayed out. It was then as the bear stood, groaning, that she saw just how strong her foe was. Still, pain in her eyes, she circled, flexing the tough muscles in her shoulders, upper arms, and upper chest, to protect herself from another attack. The demon’s rage had been mostly expended by his kick. So, now, he was more analytical than anything, making his opponent feel like… like a fly, killed and pinned down in the slid of a microscope for the heartless examination of an out-of-touch scientist. Such was the lack of emotion, of sympathy, in her sure-to-be killer’s eyes. Kifo hadn’t yet killed a being that was intelligent. Not yet. None of his victims had spoken to him with words, but they’d all given him that look before. As his talons continued to dig into the ground, charring it, his lips upturned, slowly, into a horrible, twisted smile. He’d seen that look before, many times, now… but God did it make him quiver with delight, with anticipation. Silence reigned, for another moment, as Kifo continued to circle. He didn’t bounce back and forth; he didn’t have to—his opponent was heavy and powerful but slow, so he didn’t need to nubilate one of the viciously quick blows for which he’d soon become notorious throughout the Black Hills… and the White Sands. The bear’s cub was nowhere to be found, but that was the least of Kifo’s concerns at the moment. What he was interested in was the bear herself—he wanted her, dead, at his feet. Bloodlust was one of the relatively few emotions the demon now felt, but now, he was savoring it not only on a gut level, but on an academic level. Oh, how he wanted to look upon that downed body, how he wanted to taste the fresh, warm blood, and oh, how he wanted to feel that sense of power, of dominance… A strange sound, though, snapped Kifo’s head back to reality—shit. That was sloppy; he needed to have his head in the game. He needed all his wits about him, because with one blow, his enemy could disable or even kill him. But she didn’t seem to want to fight, just then. Not even a little—her expression was one of plea, and the low, bleating moan she emanated was a tentative armistice—a display of her total lack of desire to engage Kifo. The demon’s eyes narrowed, and he concentrated, for a moment. A dark, gaseous substance collected in each of his paws, and as he shadow boxed once, a quick left-right combat, the acrid scent of burnt air traced from his appendages into the bear’s nostrils. “Fuck you. We’re doing this shit,” the demon murmured, “Come on, bitch… come on. Come for me, you know you want to, come on…” Kifo’s words were incomprehensible to the bear, but she knew that he was trying to egg her on. It was madness—seconds ago, she wanted nothing more than to gather up her child and run, but he was manipulating her. Purpose filled her, and she snarled, once, but flattened her ears as Kifo snarled right back, so that spikes of terror sliced into her innards like shards of broken glass. Silence… Motion! The fight started up with a thundering roar, and charge, on the part of the bear. She dropped to all fours and barreled towards Kifo. The clearing in which he’d been training no longer had saplings or other insignificant forms of plant life to obstruct him, so she threw up columns of dirt with her paws as jumped. Kifo, for a moment, was like a deer in the headlights. Indeed, his opponent’s tackle—if it connected—would easily knock him off his feet, and could even toss him, like a ragdoll, into a tree. He considered, for a moment, tensing. He could knee the bear, forcing half her teeth right down her throat… and mutilating his own knee, or, worse, shattering his patella. That was a no go, and time was short. A decision had to be made. Rather anticlimactically, Kifo dived to the side. His arms outstretched, the curled as he tucked, slamming his paws on the ground, then rolled. Thanks to the skills Kishindo had pounded into his body like a blacksmith might pound shape and meaning into an otherwise mundane piece of metal, he landed, perfectly, facing his opponent. She knew better than to try to stop, and, instead, circled around, baying loudly, and lowered her head as she had another go at Kifo. She’d left the impromptu fighting right, and so had torn up and shattered vegetation with her claws and paws. Trees, everywhere, obfuscated her view and her course, but Kifo still had to think quick. He couldn’t outrun her for very long, but he could outmaneuver her. The demon sprinted, bear hot on his heels, and bent down to pick up his dagger. A snarl ripped his face, baring those unnatural, sword-like fangs for the Black Hills to see. He too ripped apart foliage as the bear closed in, lowering her head—but then, he jumped. The bear jumped, too, turning in midair, and, with the use of her claws, ground to a halt, several meters later. She growled, slowly standing, glaring at Kifo. The demon had taken refuge in a tree. His dark form was in a crouch, and, due to lighting conditions and the shadows cast upon the ground by the Black Hill’s enormous pines, looked like some freakish owl. The way those hollow, dark eyes bored into her… God, it was unsettling. Kifo toyed with his knife, for a moment, as the bear circled below him. He might be within her reach, so, he knew, she would try to take the fight back down to the ground at any time. He could easily climb, or, better yet, throw his dagger and land a debilitating or even fatal wound. The demon grinned, at that prospect, and flipped his blade around several times. But then, he sheathed it, and again, accumulated that dark, acrid mist into his paws. “Not my style… I want to do this fight hand-to-hand. No weapons. If I can take this bitch out with my bare paws… I’ll be able to drop leopards like they’re fuckin’ cubs. And lions won’t be hard, either…” The bear jumped up, ending Kifo’s thoughts, but he was ready for her. Extending those talon-like claws, he slashed at the backs of her digits. Fur and blood flew free, and, as she recoiled in pain, Kifo saw that he’d dug right to the bone—that was good. The injury wasn’t mortal by a long shot, but the pain and suffering it caused was worth it. By the time the bear was ready to attack again, Kifo was on the ground. He didn’t circle, this time, but assumed a low, powerful fighting stance, a variant of the agile posture that Kishindo had determined to best supplement his natural, or not so natural, agility and speed. His paws were smoking, now, but the bear had blood in her eyes. All she saw was her enemy… and the blinding desire to paint the Black Hills with his innards. Her lack of foresight was her downfall. She lunged forward, in a stereotyped but deadly attempt at a bear-hug. Kifo didn’t recoil, though, as most did—he rose to the occasion, bringing a pawful of dark, evil energy with him. The bear’s eyes bulged, and a few tablespoons of bile leaked from her maw as the demon’s blow caught her in the stomach. It didn’t break flesh, but, disturbingly, it caused such internal trauma that all the mass; all the fat and gut and muscle on her belly was shoved aside. Feeling the spikes of his enemy’s vertebrae brush against his paw, Kifo knew that he’d done his job, and danced away before the bear could recover. He laughed, cruelly, as she looked down. Instead of being uniformly tough and fat, two large globs of flesh, displaced from her lower belly, had created bulges both upwards and downwards of the cavity. Slow, the wound healed, in a fashion. Her belly bulged outwards, again, and the intense vacuum created by it attempted to suck her meat back into place. It was counter-productive, though, and, as he casually collected his weapons, keeping a paw free and an eye on his enemy, Kifo smirked. The bear groaned, as dull, overwhelming pain emanated from her gut. Confused, she attempted to prod her belly, to see what was wrong, but her paw drew away instantly. Pain… Kifo worked the slide of his GLOCK, so that the two metallic clacks echoed, a little. There was plenty of wet vegetation on the ground of the Black Hills, and mist was still working to coat Kifo and his opponent with water droplets. “Y’know,” Kifo said, as he leveled the pistol at the dazed bear, “…Hell. I’m hungry. Where’s Kishindo with my food, bitch? Did you eat her? Is she in the big, ugly belly of yours? Ha…” the demon scoffed, holstering his weapon. He paced, waiting for the bear to recover from the devastating blow. “Come on. Don’t bore me, come on. I have to train, see, bitch? I have big things to do in this… existence, of mine. My master’s no good to me, isn’t that sad? Huh? Isn’t it, bitch?” he said. Kifo pulled his shotgun, now, and, continuing to pace, spoke in a harsh, caustic tone instead of the conversational air he’d previously employed. “Come on. C’mon, please? I promise, if you attack me now, I’ll finish you quickly, see?” To demonstrate, Kifo put the muzzle of his weapon against he head, and pretended to pull the trigger. “C’mon… it’s not a big deal. Just a fight, see? Hell—I’ll even finish your cub humanely… …maybe. But come on, you won’t get a better offer than that, right? Come on, bitch. Come on. Get up, bitch, fight me, get up.” “Come on. Come on. Come on. Come on… …COME ON!” the demon suddenly yelled. Slowly, eventually, reluctantly… the bear stood. It was, in a way, madness; this was not a fight she’d win. That much was certain already—she might take a few chunks of the demon down with her, and she might injure him, but she could not win. And yet, she stood. It was courage in its saddest, most bleak displays. She could either succumb on the ground, curled up and pathetic, to a hail of bullets or blows… or she could stand, and look death in the eye as it came for her. Honorable. The meaning of the action escaped Kifo, however; he was merely grateful for the opportunity to put his skills to the test. His eyes narrowed in suspicion, though, as the bear brought her paws to her face, and breathed into them. Then, glaring at the demon, she moved them down, slowly. Her maw opened to help her vocalize her deep, booming growls, she placed her appendages on her lower belly. The demon’s lip curled into an arrogant sneer, but suddenly, he clutched his chest, as a dull ache washed over him. He was forced to take a step back with a surprised yelp, dropping to a knee to avoid passing out. Kifo had been struck with a practical warhammer—his enemy, it seemed, wasn’t down and out, not yet, not by a long shot. She’d healed herself, to a degree: she was out of immediate danger, for the most part, but it would take a great deal of rest, relaxation, and time for the grievous injury she’d sustained to completely repair itself. But the explosive field of positive energy that she’d exuded had dropped Kifo, weakening him. And then, as the demon stood, slowly, no longer taking this victory for granted, he understood. He began to circle, again, fists raised, but still armed. He was evil… she was good. This fight would not be easy. This time, the bear circled, too. Not for long, though; she took advantage of any dizziness and confusion Kifo might be suffering from by moving, almost immediately. She didn’t go in for a tackle, this time, and the demon had to duck, dodge, and block, as a flurry of awesomely powerful paw strikes attempted to reduce his flesh to hamburger meat. His face was intent, though, his ears perked up as he retreated, step by step. Kishindo had trained him well—his steps were short, quick, decisive. He knew when to duck, when to sidestep, and when to use one of his paws to parry, redirecting his enemy’s blows away, harmlessly. He was good, the bear thought, primally, as Kifo ducked, but not good enough. The demon had made an assumption. It was an assumption well supported by science—or, rather, the science that applied to his former home. His entire being was concentrated on the bear’s surprisingly rapid punches and grab attempts—he hadn’t conceived that she might use her legs. Kifo had moved his legs apart, a little, lowering his torso so that the wide, arcing hook punch the bear had shot at him would sing, uselessly, well over his head. His black mane was ruffled by the force of the sudden motion… but the bear didn’t retract her paw. She followed through on the motion, turning her body. Too late, the demon understood what was happening. He attempted to stand, going for a knife with which to cut open his enemy’s belly, but it was pointless. Her knee struck him with enough force to raise him off the ground, so that he fell over, moaning, groaning, clutching his jaw. She lumbered away, limping, a little—Kifo’s bones were strong. There was no more mist. The sky was darkening, slowly, as if it had consolidated all the moisture in the Black Hills for a powerful assault; a rainstorm that would soak the northeastern land. Thunder rumbled, in the distance, and the charge collecting in the sky made Kifo’s mane stick out, a little. The demon wasn’t down for too long, though. He stood, spitting out a mouthful of blood and a broken fang or two, and growled. Hate coursed through his veins, but still, he held. The temptation to draw his rifle and perforate his enemy’s head with neat holes was powerful, but Kifo knew that he could win this fight without weapons—because, right then, he was training. He could walk away, he was sure, and never, ever see another follicle of his enemy’s fur. This fight, though, this bear, was an opportunity… an opportunity to test out his combat skills. He could give his on-the-fly improvisation skills a work-out, and, if things really became desperate, he could always shoot her… There was still anger, of course, and a thick, black desire for revenge—which, Kifo promised, would be sated. But these emotions were positive, in a sense; they were empowering. And to win this fight, the demon would need as much power as he could get. “Pretty clever, bitch… gotta hand it to you. Never woulda seen a knee strike coming… all right. No mercy no more, bitch… no mercy,” he sneered, circling, again. The bear sneered right back, though, and, for a moment, the two combatants feinted, this way and that, trying to entice a response from the other. Kifo was quick, though, and knew when to hold his position, and parry, and when an actual attempt was made—at those points, he backed off. His strategy wasn’t set, though. It was doubtful that he could tire the bear out; shortly, he felt, she’d stop attacking, and let him come to her. By circling, though, constantly, Kifo could keep her on her toes… and not much else. “Damn,” Kifo thought, as he prepared an assault, “things are never simple.” There was no finesse, any more. The demon just advanced, suddenly, out of nowhere, and took advantage of his speed. No more pathetic parries and dodges, no more ducking and no more hiding. From here on out, the demon planned to be nothing but offensive. Kifo’s feet were as fast as his paws, and the thick muscles on his legs tightened with unnatural alacrity. His knees pistoned as, again and again, the instep of his foot drove into the bear’s arm or rib, or head. Sometimes he would turn on his heel and lash out with a powerful stomp-kick that would knock him as well as his enemy apart. The bear wasn’t doing well at all, and, within minutes, she’d all but succumbed to the vicious offensive. Kifo was just too fast—she caught some of his blows, taking them to her shoulders and arms, but her scant defensive net allowed for most of the demon’s deadly blows to pass through without contest. She tried to attack back, as blood filled her blurring vision. Her breath grew ragged and harsh, thanks to the heavy damage her chest had sustained, and she stumbled backwards… but the assault continued. Despite the speed of his blows, Kifo continued to apply pressure. Sweat dyed his fur darker, as his muscles began to cry out in protest—he couldn’t hold up an attack of this speed, this magnitude, for long. Most of his fights, thus far, had been won by surprise or creativity; but Kifo was careful, now, to use only the most simple of strikes: because if he could beat a bear with only basic techniques… what he could do with real maneuvers and weapons was, all at once, awesome, and terrifying. Her head snapped back from a vicious one-knuckle punch to her nose, the bear almost fell. But Kifo wasn’t finished, and grabbed her by the neck, as his fist slammed, repeatedly, into her ribcage, until he heard a loud crack. “COME ON! DON’T GIVE UP ON ME NOW, BITCH, COME ON! FIGHT BACK! F—“ Kifo was, suddenly, silent. The bear hung, limp in his paw—she wasn’t dead, not yet, technically… but the amount of blood gushing from her body and the less-than-natural angle her head was tilted at said that she was beyond assistance. Not that the demon was going to try to save her. The fight had been fun… but there were bigger fish to fry. Still, as Kifo let go of his enemy, so that she fell to the ground, bouncing, once, before coming to rest, he had to admit… the fight had been fun. Tiring, but fun. He took in a long, deep breath… then sat down, himself. Panting, he didn’t bother to brush the thick, overhanging fur in front of his eyes aside. Sweat made his form slick, and fatigue rendered him, for a moment, too exhausted to lift his head. “Damn…” Kifo thought, blinking, raising a shaking paw, “Fuck, I’m hungry… Kishindo… I hope you’re okay. I know you wouldn’t leave me for this long unless you were in trouble…” “…Or, if you were up to something…” Time flies when you’re having fun, but crawls when you’re bored. Kifo’s assault had been a lot longer than he’d thought, and he’d sat there, motionless, for only seconds, before a loud, cackling laugh tore through the Black Hills, just before a not-so-distant roar of thunder shook the Earth itself. “The fuck…?!” Carrying the bear cub by holding its neck scruff in her maw, Kishindo walked to Kifo, malicious pride in her eyes. She released the young being, and, to prevent him from escaping, struck him with her paw and held him down, rubbing his face into the dirt. “Mind your place, young orphan… on the ground, submitting to the greatness of Kifo, as your mother has.” She was still alive. Barely, though; but she could still think, and see. And so, as her eyes met her child’s for the last time, they leaked wetness that was lapped up by the hungry soil. Growling, Kifo got to his feet, drawing his blade. He held it at his side, holding back the temptation to point it at the lioness who was calmly looking at him, grinning, still blatantly proud. “The fuck is going on? You… watched all of this, and didn’t help me? In fact—it was you that threw that bastard at me, wasn’t it?” the demon said, jerking his head at the bear cub, who was groaning for mercy, “What the Hell is this, Kishindo…” he said softly, suddenly, suspicious, for the first time, of his mentor, “Tell me…” “It was a test,” the lioness said, stepping on the bear cub, then holding him down with her hind paw to rub her head against Kifo’s thigh, “It was a test, and oh, my dear Kifo, you passed with flying colors. I knew you could handle yourself, Kifo, so I didn’t step in. But trust me when I say this,” she said seriously, looking up into the demon’s hateful, untrusting eyes, “if I thought, for a second, that you were in any real danger, I would have stepped in.” “But you never were, Kifo! She gave you some trouble, I know, but in the end… heh. She’s met her end, but your story is just beginning, my dear Kifo. You were great—you took her down without weapons, and, despite being injured, you didn’t back down…” “So brave,” the lioness whispered, digging her claws into the bear cub’s flesh to pull her forth, ignoring the way Kifo sat, heavily, refusing to meet her eyes, “so strong…” she purred. Still, though, the demon didn’t look to her. So, she lifted the bear cub up in her paw. “Kifo… you asked for something alive… “Well…” “This one is young, fresh, and so alive…” Slowly, the demon turned. His movements weren’t lethargic, but he was tired—and so, they were heavy, and malicious. His eyes met the cub’s dejected, hopeless expression… and he grinned, licking his teeth, casually drawing his knife. “I call the tenderloins…” “Hard work will be rewarded with freedom.” Two years ago, that statement had a meaning, a ring, to it. Foolishly, it was accepted as truth. But after seven hundred backbreaking days of work, punctuated only by freezing cold nights spent either in the open or in hastily erected, minimalist shantytowns, it had sort of lost its zeal. The Hell of it was that escape was an impossibility. Beatings were routine, and liberally applied: if the lions caught even a rumor that a scheme was being brewed up, claws and paws were deployed. They ruled with an iron fist. Their slaves were tied with roots of the hardy cacti that sprouted up, every few hundred meters, in an otherwise barren landscape. Weighted with chunks of dried, dead wood, they couldn’t run, could scarcely walk… all they could do was dig, dig, dig in those damned mines until their paws were worn to the bone. Bright… It was bright. So bright. The White Sands, as implied by its name, was a land of dunes and barren, cracked plains. Were there oases?... Yes, but they were few, and far between. Control of these meager water sources meant control of the land itself, and, to ensure that they didn’t run dry, many, many things had to be done, and perfectly. Bright… The Sun was high in the clear, cloudless sky. It tended to do that, just that; beat down, mercilessly, baking the White Sands. Mirages were common, as were sandstorms… Hell couldn’t possibly be too much hotter, either. The heat was dry, though. The Lion Sheikh would liken it to his beloved Arizona, where a single gust of wind can dry a mouth, wicking away all moisture from a normal body. They couldn’t even keep their eyes open, more than a few degrees. So, half-blind to protect their sight from the sun and wind and sand, they dug, dejectedly, day after day after day, for years on end… As always… the sun beat down. It flogged the White Sands, really, burning every molecule of air and Earth with unadulterated, harsh, rays. White… Blindingly white. The sands were not like those of the Southern Desert, not that warm shade of tan like the soft fur of a lioness. They were white—stark white and their particles fine. Sandstorms were deadly; those ubiquitous particles would fly up in a flurry and get everywhere, into everything; eyes, ears, nostrils, throats… White… At first glance, one could quite reasonably pass it off as a mirage. For now, in the middle of the day, when the sun was at its peak, so that its incinerating rays shone down on everything, heat raves bounced, reflected, refracted off of everything. But it wasn’t a mirage. Not yet. The water, what little of it remained, released from a subterranean spring, was very nearly boiling. For most beings, it would be too hot to drink, but the lions of White Sands were well adapted to their environment. There were trees, humorously; two of them. What shade they provided, though, was insignificant—the sand was still so hot and churned by the constant, slow wind that it burned to the touch. Burned. The water… it was leaving, strangely, at a rate faster than that of its boiling. But there was nothing around… was there? Nothing to drink it… no. The White Sands did not support animal life—the lions ate, of course, they had to; but their meat was killed in the Black Hills. They were an interesting bunch, the lions of the White Sands—they didn’t hunt daily or every two or three days, as other prides did. But every two weeks or so, they assaulted the Black Hills. Sometimes they went no further than a kilometer in. Sometimes they almost found themselves in the Eastern Jungles. The males and cubs were left behind, of course, for the safety of the latter and so that the former could protect the White Sands. The females, though, the lionesses, as the real forces of the White Sands… They were as brutal as they were beautiful. Their light eyes—blue, yellow, lavender, or green—burned out from the slits of their large eyelids, striking fear into everything they met. Their bodies were slim and toned and fast. Though it couldn’t be implied that they were nearly as adept at prolonged combat against larger, tougher foes as their males, they were shock-troops. They went into the Black Hills, and, within a day, were gone, leaving nothing but blood and destruction in their wake. They were real hunters… And real mothers and mates. They were compassionate to their fellow pride members, their own flesh and blood, and harsh towards anything else. Talk about ethnocentrism. There wasn’t much water left in the oasis, now, at all. It was still being… funneled? Lapped?... away, by a thus far unknown force. The heat was oppressive, and made it impossible to tell just what was going on. Maybe, though, just maybe, if you were to walk forward, a few yards, right up to the oasis, and then circle around it, to view it from another angle… well, then, maybe, just maybe, you might be able to see a smallish, pink flap flick in and out of— “Akane.” There was a pause. The soft flit-flit that could be written off as the creaks of the nearby trees, or perhaps some miniscule, unseen lizard was gone. “Akane… there’s none left, son. What are you attempting to do? Polish the waterbed?” It was still white… so, so white that it hurt for most to open their eyes, fully. And yet, if you positioned yourself just right, and squinted, ignoring the heat waves shimmering from everything… then, you might be able to see a slight outline, a profile, a silhouette even, move. “…I’m sorry, Father. Just… I’m so thirsty…” If you were looking just right—the Lion Sheikh must impress upon you how difficult this is to do—but if you managed it, if you really concentrated, then you might see something more. You might see a few telltale black markings or orifices, if the blinding sun and the heat and its shimmering, dancing waves didn’t force you to cover your eyes with your hands. “Mm… well, don’t be so improper, son. What are you, a leopard, a slave, to lick at the ground? Show some class. You are, after all, son of Amir, alpha male of the lions of the White Sands… and heir imminent to that position, and the responsibilities it entails.” “I’m sorry, Father.” “Mm. And don’t worry about your thirst—we’ll work the leopards until midnight, today. Their digs have, for the past few weeks, been entirely unsuccessful. This can’t last, son, or the Northeast Deities will shut off more and more of the resources that keep us alive, son, because, to them, we have been doing just the same. It’s an embarrassment—it truly is—to go to them, at the end of the week, without my paws full with gold, diamonds, gems. You don’t understand that, though.” “I’m sorry, Father.” “You don’t understand that because you’re too soft. Don’t deny it—I’ve caught you looking at the leopards with—don’t dare repeat this to anyone else, or you and I will be shamed right out of White Sands—pity. That’s disgraceful.” “I’m sorry, Father.” “You’re soft, son. And, for better or for worse, softness is not a characteristic that this pride needs. Least of all in its leader.” “I’m sorry, Father.” “You don’t have guts. You say sorry… but if you truly were sorry, you would slice open the paws of leopard cubs when they beg for rest and water and food. But you don’t, son. You show them pity.” “I’m sorry, Father.” “You’re pitiful.” A pause. “…I’m sorry, F—” “Don’t say that again.” That voice—tougher, deeper, more mature—was sharp and curt. You can’t love someone who’s forged their voice to reflect their mentality like that without fearing them a little, too. Maybe even being disgusted with them. “Don’t be so apologetic. Acknowledge your inadequacies, then move forward. There’s no use in wallowing in guilt. Be a man, son… be a man.” There was another pause. The wind kicked up, though, a little, but it was from the south, from the Black Hills. Silence reigned for a moment... Then, father and son, two powerfully-built white lions, one still a small juvenile, moved. The younger one, the son, had chiseled, brooding features, while his father had a rougher, warlike face. Their camouflage was almost perfect—they walked along, more or less invisibly, tracking pugmarks behind them as they headed to the northeast. Akane, the son, was silent. In spite his father’s attempts to induce conversation by extolling the power and righteousness of their pride, he still didn’t speak. He closed his eyes for a long moment, shutting out his father’s words, and pulled some energy out from the rest of the world, and redirected it, internally. He wasn’t strong-minded, as his father had always suspected. His attempts at meditation were largely unsuccessful, because no matter where he went in the White Sands, he couldn’t escape the feeling that something was wrong. This was a feeling he’d held for most of his life… but in recent months, it had only gotten more palatable, like the bitter aftertaste of low-quality dark chocolate. To avoid a similar aftertaste, the Lion Sheikh recommends buying decent chocol— …Akane wasn’t strong-minded, but what he lacked for in willpower and mental fortitude, he made up for with fighting prowess. He was young, but, in a serious breach of tradition that had made the elders of the White Sands arch their eyebrows and whisper out of earshot of Amir, he’d been trained in the combat arts by both his mother and his father. It had been a consensual decision. Aisha had been reluctant, at first, and consulted with her peers. Aside from some traditionalists, they seemed agreeable—the consensus was that any loss of masculinity due to trading time with his father for time with his mother would be made up by sheer combat aptitude. And, in a way, they were right. Akane was a juvenile, but already, he could, at will, defeat most any White Sands lioness in single combat. In training, groups of two or even three sometimes attacked him, and, for a time, he could hold his own. He still couldn’t take on his father, alone, but the juvenile had plenty of growing and maturing ahead of him. He wasn’t rough and muscled, like Kovu had been prior to his spiritual trip with Rafiki, or Simba. His build could be compared to Freak’s, before his exile, but even that was too bulky. The li-tigon’s build had been slim, toned, and reasonably muscular, but Akane’s as like a knife—crafted from steel and forged in fire, and tough as nails. He was skinny, due to a tendency to pick at his food, almost unhealthily so, but he was tough. Though aristocratic and prosperous, the lions of the White Sands were not fat cats—their days consisted of training, overseeing their slaves, and, every fortnight, conquest. The White Sands’ rulers weren’t particularly kind to an only child. Akane was tough. That can hardly be overstated. But it could be clarified. He was tough… in the sense that he could run a mile before a spurt of water from an underground spring could totally vaporize, he could reduce a palm tree to splinters with his bare paws (metaphorically), and he could wrestle the most powerful lioness in his pride, his mother, to the ground consistently. But… He was gentle. It was one of nature’s paradoxes. Though capable of flattening any enemy he might encounter on the battlefield, he couldn’t—just couldn’t—do battle with another living being. It was, for him, unthinkable. In fact, a month or so before, Amir and Aisha had, again, breached tradition. Instead of leaving Akane in the White Sands with his father, they’d sent him with his mother and the rest of the lionesses into the Black Hills. He was supposed to be a leader, an example for them to rally around. But when they came across their first enemy, their first obstacle, a bear that had broken its leg and failed to escape… he didn’t fight. He didn’t make a speech, he didn’t posture, and he didn’t extol the virtues of the righteous White Sands pride, decrying the residents of the Black Hills as inferior and impure. He didn’t even stand his ground. He cowered. Now, let’s be fair: Akane was smaller than his enemy. Smaller. That was his sole disadvantage. He was stronger and faster and smarter and more trained than his opponent. But he wouldn’t—couldn’t—fight. He didn’t run in total cowardice, thankfully. But when approached by the enraged bear, he didn’t attack—he roared, threateningly… but then backed off. That day, the White Sands had very nearly lost some lionesses in the Black Hills. Akane was a leader, or, he was supposed to be. His parents were both incredibly dominant individuals, and they’d bred and raised their son to be the same. What was maddening about Akane was that he seemed to get everything they said to him, about ruling with an iron fist when necessary, about kindness and making tough decisions. He just couldn’t do it. His parents didn’t know why, but the young lion had a hunch. It struck him in the gut every single day—even now, as he finally opened his eyes, so that those narrow slits of blue, deep blue, pure blue, so blue that to look into them was t bathe in the cascades of the waterfall from the Jungle that fed the Southern Desert—even now, it struck him, hard. Guilt’s invisible hand clutched at Akane’s innards as he forced himself to look upon his people’s… slaves… “Spirits…” “…I’m… I’m sorry. I should be stronger—I know that since I was born as a lion, I’m superior to the leopards…” Akane thought, as his father lifted a weight with his powerful jaws, so that a troop of weary elders moved to excavate a new portion of the White Sands. “But… it hurts to watch them. It hurts. It hurts inside. I’m strong on the outside, but, as my father says, weak on the inside.” The juvenile paused, for a moment, and just watched, willing himself not to feel sympathy. “I know that you allow for slavery in extenuating circumstance like this—you can’t protect us entirely from the evils of the world, so we must protect ourselves. We must find treasure to appease the Lesser Gods in order to live—we must.” “And yet… “…And yet…” “It’s hard.” The earth in front of him had been opened up. The White Sands weren’t perfectly flat, but they were close to it. Artificial gouges like this were the exception. Akane stepped forward, a few feet, and peered down, twenty feet down. The earth gradually grew less white and more tan, and even brown, as his gazed dropped. It was still baked, though; it was hot and hard and tough to work with. And yet, inside that hole, into which sand and sun poured, there were perhaps two dozen leopards toiling, working, scraping away at the earth with their bare paws. Thankfully, Akane couldn’t see their faces. But he didn’t need to; he knew he’d see on them. Despair… Oh, not just any despair, mind you. Not a temporary emotion, not a feeling, not a thought—a state of mind that became so intrinsic to the being of a leopard slave that it was etched onto their face. Despair. Despair and hopeless; complete hopelessness. It hurt to see a face like that, but what hurt more was to know the cause of it… and to tolerate that cause. But what could Akane do? His paws were tied; he had to follow the word of his father, and he had to appease the Lesser Gods with treasure. The Spirits tolerated slavery; they had to. It was a necessary ev—no. Both of his parents had never allowed him to think that—slavery wasn’t evil. It was just a less enjoyable part of life. That’s all. It was natural and righteous. It was moral, and it was necessary. But still. Akane looked to his side, forcibly keeping his face blank. A captured leopard had given birth, not a week ago, and now, its child was learning to walk right in front of him. It stumbled, a little, almost falling into the hole excavated into the White Sands, but righted itself… and smiled. It smiled. Despite the hopelessness it had been born to, it smiled. Akane twitched… but, as the newborn cub approached him, reacted perfectly. As Amir looked on, his son lifted a paw, and slapped that smile cleanly off of the cub’s pudgy, dappled face. The juvenile’s face was stone-like as he stood over the cub, leering down at him. His shadow cooled the baby leopard, basking his fluffy, innocent form in darkness. The leopard blinked, repeatedly, trying to clear his vision—it was hard; his eyes had only opened a few days back. And he’d been hit hard, so hard that he’d fallen, and was splayed out across the White Sands themselves. It was hot. Very, very, very hot. Heat waves glanced off of everything, penetrated everything, roasted, baked, broiled everything. Akane’s family, though, had lived in the White Sands for generations. This was his ancestral home, and he was as much a son of this land as he was of his father. “Then… why… do my insides feel like sandpaper…?” “Why do I hurt…?” Juvenile years. Such an interesting time. You make relationships, then, that don’t fade no matter how old you live to be. The Hell of it is that you’re not yet mature enough to understand the gravity of your actions—the Lion Sheikh apologizes for being so blunt towards his readers. Accept the truth, though. Friends, enemies; it doesn’t matter. The nerd you pick on for not having a clique of his own can phase into your life again, thirty years later, and rub his brand hew Benz in your face, for example. The Pride Lands were no different, even, all those years back, in the time of Mufasa, Taka—or, now, Scar; Sarabi, Sarafina… and Zira. Mufasa and Sarabi and their accursed little pawns were the jocks; the football players and cheerleaders. Scar, Zira, and the others… they were the outcasts. It was terrible. Mufasa, by day, would badmouth his brother to the excited, euphemistic giggles of his female “friends”, but, by night, was the one next to that same brother’s side. And when he was sent out to run an errand, check out a disturbance, or execute some other task; when the females couldn’t come due to custom or hunting, his brother was his first, last, and only choice. Mufasa might be crown prince and Scar might be nothing but trash, but they were still brothers. And despite the ridicule Mufasa’s friends shot at him—no doubt, due to the role model set by their future king, their alpha male—Scar was loyal and helpful to the core. Usually. Several times, Mufasa had caught his inferior brother rolling his eyes, or perhaps, sticking up a certain digit. Once or twice, the tan lion hadn’t half-murdered his dark sibling. Scar, though, despite his disturbing tendencies to defiance or insubordination couldn’t—no, wouldn’t stand up for himself. Don’t misunderstand: he was masculine. Just… not in the in-your-face, do-as-I-say-or-eat-a-knuckle sandwich way that Mufasa was. Scar saw the beauty of the relationship he had with his brother, or, at least, wanted to have with his brother. Uru was gone, by then, and it was only due to her dying wishes that Scar wasn’t cast out, alone—because despite the grudging trust they placed in him, Ahadi and Mufasa… … did not love him. Well… Ahadi didn’t. Maybe Mufasa did. Maybe. And it was that vague glimmer of hope that made Scar sit up, glare, and, in harsh, curt words, tell what friends he had to shut up when they spoke ill of his brother. It was also that foolish hope that made him go out, that day, at the request of his brother, alone, to the northwest… The Forbidden Island was, of course, buffered from the Pride Lands by the wide band of rushing, clear water that fed the Western Grasslands. But… it wasn’t safe. It never had been. That’s why, years later, Rafiki would construct a raft to pass it safely, rather than risking a swim. But Scar did as he was told. What else can you expect? After all, who knew… maybe this time, maybe after this display of solidarity and loyalty… maybe then, Mufasa would come to love him; or, rather, display the love he felt for him. Who knew? Zira, though, was smarter than that. Scar had told her, of course, through a message-courier, a bird, to move along with the rest of the outcast lionesses, to reconnoiter the pride’s hunting grounds to the south. So, as a good lieutenant… Zira had done as she was told… mostly. “You heard what he said,” she’d said, locking eyes with all dozen or so of Scar’s followers, who would later form the personality cult around their beloved leader, then be exiled for it, then be welcomed back with open arms in a wondrous act of forgiveness, “go. Check out the hunting grounds to the south, before Mufasa’s sluts do it. GO!” The shout wasn’t necessary. By the time Zira’s sentence was half-finished, the lionesses had gotten up, assembled, and, already, were moving out. They weren’t just hunters and chatty juvenile females, they were remarkably disciplined shock troops—Scar’s own personal army. They knew their loyalties, and knew them well: they were to Scar, and, therefore, to his lieutenant and certain future mate, Zira. And so, as they double-timed it to the south, maintaining silence and formation, they kept that in mind, as well as the face of their leader… that mutilated, slender face; those lemon-lime eyes… that calm, confident sense of control and power… Zira allowed herself a satisfied smirk as her subordinates moved out. Her expression darkened, though, becoming serious, as she turned. She moved, silently, though the tall, dry grass that she and her friends were allowed, and hopped up onto a squat rock. Hawklike, she peered out over the Pride Lands, tail twitching, slightly, as she struck a noble posture. Her eyes peered over the landscape, scouring, searching for something… And, eventually, she was successful. “She’s good. I’m glad she’s on our side,” Zira thought, smiling, a little, and giving a slight, almost imperceptible nod. Her eyes had met another lioness’s. Zira had almost missed them; those black and green-rimmed pupils were the only part of Sarafina that she could find, these days. No additional signals were needed; Zira only needed to do that when she had orders to pass along to Scar’s trump card. Sarafina nodded back, though, and backed away, disappearing into the scorched blades. Zira was alone, now. Scar’s open supporters had gone south, Sarafina had gone east… and Scar had gone to the Northwest, alone. Not for long. Because, the second Zira was certain that she wasn’t being surveyed by Ahadi’s annoying majordomo or some other, less conspicuous spy, she was off. The lioness dashed, fast, her spine extending and retracting, repeatedly, as her paws pressed against the ground before shoving off, again, propelling her forwards. Her face, generally vaguely pissed off or discontent, was now determined… and a little worried. “Why would they send him to the Forbidden River? They’d never, ever usually entrust something that important to him, not in a hundred years. Fool—he’s too trusting of them, in spite of their treatment.” Zira growled at herself, angry that she’d thought ill of Scar, and moved faster. She bounded over hills and streams, panting, eventually, as she entered the barren northwest… There wasn’t much plant life here at all. No tall grasses, no trees, no shrubs… just prickly crabgrass or bare dirt, punctuated, here and there, by boulders. Up and over the next rise, Zira found him. There he was; walking in that cool, balanced saunter, plumey black mane whipped this way and that by the wind. Silence… Moveme—no. Silence… Nothing was happening. Scar was patrolling the shore, where the Forbidden River met lend, without difficulty. Zira had taken cover behind a large, slate rock, and peeked out, now and then, to ensure that Scar was alright. She didn’t trust Ahadi and Mufasa for a second, even if Scar did. But, as minutes crawled by, compounding, becoming hours… she had to wonder if they were as poor strategists as they were family members. Nothing was happening, still. It wasn’t rainy and it wasn’t sunny. Above, the skies were overcast; they always were, around the Forbidden Island. But nothing, really, was amiss… That all changed in a split-second. Zira was almost sleeping; resting her chin on the boulder, eyes drooping as lethargy took hold. But then, Scar yelled—her eyes shot open, as her adrenaline poured into her system. She couldn’t see what was going on, not exactly, not from where she was. But you don’t need 20/20 vision to see that huge, gray shape, thrashing and struggling, not two feet from Scar. The dark lion had jumped aside, though—barely. But, unlike any other sane lion, he didn’t run and didn’t strike back. He just stood there, ears erect, muscles clenched in case he really did have to escape. He stood, and watched, from a distance far, far too small, as the… thing… snapped its jaws, still hungry for him. His face was stoney, claws extended, legs still coiled in preparation for speed. But he didn’t— “Idiot! Get away!” Scar turned, or tried to, but it was too late. His attention was held, exclusively, by the monstrosity that had beached itself in an attempt on his life, and so, he didn’t hear the telltale thwap, thwapping sounds of a lioness’s rapid approach. The dark lion wasn’t a fighter, there was no point in denying it. He wasn’t a wimp, though, and in a square, face-to-face battle, he might have been a match for Zira. But the lioness was a hunter—she knew how to pounce, how to stalk and tackle, and Scar made her focus more than any prey animal ever could. Maybe he wouldn’t appreciate that just then, though. One can hardly blame him—he was taken off his feet, launched into the air, held, tumbled, and then pinned, only to stare at the wet, snarling maw of an enraged lioness. “What the Hell do you think you’re doing? That beast almost—almost ate you! And yet, you stood, and stared? Scar—your life’s not valuable to you, but it is to… me. I don’t want to lose you, Scar… so please…” The dark lion’s wits slowly started to return. It occurred to him that, for the umpteenth time, he was on his back, held down by the surprisingly strong paws of his second-in-command. Zira’s aggression and anger had shifted, quickly, to relief… and guilt. Though she hung her head, then looked away, purposefully, biting her lip, tinges of pink appearing on her cheeks, she didn’t let Scar up, even as that… huge, deadly… thing, flopped its way back into the Forbidden River. “Ah, Zira…” the lion said, eventually, in that distinctive, unsettling tone of his, that made Zira’s heart flutter, that made her feel, or hope to feel, the burn of his eyes against her, “I appreciate you, a lot.” The lioness blinked, and, despite the more pronounced blush she sported, felt suspicion. Scar was cushioning the blow sure to fall, in only the way he could. “I do. It’s nice to know that, wherever I go, I’ll always be watched on by a silent guardian… even if,” he said, his voice transitioning, seamlessly, from adoration to venom in the space of a second, “it means that I don’t have a moment’s privacy, and that my requests are outright defied—come. Get up,” he smiled sweetly, “or I might not be so appreciative of your nosiness…” he added in a coy, chastising manner. Instantly, Zira realized that she hadn’t yet released the dark male. She nodded, curtly, and hastily got up, jumping off, before sitting, several feet away, tail curled around her paws, as she licked at her collarbone, trying to nonchalantly evade attention. Scar glared at her, for a moment; she felt his eyes and the frustration behind him… and yet, he said nothing. Wordlessly, he turned, and began to walk away… then paused, before Zira could look after him in sadness, and jerked his head for her to take his side. All too quickly she did. He looked rather dully straight ahead, and the lioness attempted to speak, several times; each time, rendered dumb by the cold, independent manner in which Scar walked on, regardless of everything, of everyone, except for a few that, for whatever insane reason, he held dear. In the end, it was he who spoke, so softly and unexpectedly that Zira had almost jumped at hearing that rolling, purring voice that still made her fur stand on end every time she heard it. “Zira… I appreciate you. You’re a great friend, but… sometimes, you need to learn to back off.” Then, he’d turned, looking at her with a resigned expression. “There are some battles we must fight, some lessons we must learn… without others.” Then, he’d continued, tufted tail low, steady; confident yet sad, like a captured warrior waiting for his chance to rise up, and again, shine. Several seconds later, Zira had rushed to catch up, and, taking advantage of the soft, padding sounds of her footsteps, whispered back. “Then, Scar, perhaps the lesson you need to learn is that you need to be without others… or, rather, some others…” He didn’t hear that, or, at least, acted like he didn’t. He kept walking, his head slowly lowering—Ahadi would never believe his report, and yet, if he didn’t deliver it and another one of those deadly monsters appeared… he’d be killed, no two ways about it. Zira’s face twisted into an all too common snarl. Rage was her life; she’d grown up to it, achieved strength and influence from it, and, someday, she’d die from it. But then—just then—for the first time, her bitterness, her anger, her resentment had a specific target… Her name was Zira—hate. And then, for the first time, her mind worked, subconsciously, to act on the meaning of her name… “Y’know, Kishindo…” “You’re great. I like you, I really do, you’re a great teacher... not bad company, either…” “But seriously. Sometimes, you gotta fuck off. Cut a man some slack. I could’ve died.” They were reclining, now, the refuse of their meal cast aside, several yards away. Their maws and teeth were still bloodied, and, slowly, savoring the flavor, they started to lick themselves clean. “That’s true,” the lioness admitted, eventually, “but the only way to grow is to challenge yourself. And don’t be modest, Kifo—you took your enemy apart. She didn’t have a change.” The demon gave a noncommittal grunt… but, something about him, a slight change in his body language, said that he was, indeed, a little proud of himself. Kishindo smirked, a little, then sighed. “It’s going to rain a lot very soon,” the lioness said, reluctantly getting to her feet, brushing past Kifo slightly, “we should find shelter.” “Bullshit…” Kifo said, though, he stood, flicking his knife out to lick it, too, eyes burning into the lioness as he ran his tongue along its blade, “it’s been cloudy since we got here, and it’s been raining on and off pretty much 24/7. How do you know it’s gonna rain, Zira? Are your old bones aching?” he jibed, grinning, cruelly, before winking, a little. The lioness didn’t need to speak. She just gave the demon an exasperated look, not entirely impressed with his joke, and positioned herself, just so, watching as he obsessively checked his weapons. There was a slight, distant rumble of thunder, and, as Kifo looked up, realizing, too late, that he was positioned just under a rare, slight gap in cover, the rain came down in buckets. Though the demon was only exposed to the direct torrent of water for a second, that one second drenched him so thoroughly that long, grizzled tendrils of his charcoal mane dripped rainwater onto the soft, fertile soil of the Black Hills. Kishindo hadn’t completely avoided getting wet, of course, but at least she wasn’t sopping wet, unlike Kifo. The demon’s lip twitched, and he gave the lioness a somewhat sardonic look—she didn’t need to say thing, he was embarrassed enough as it was. So, she took pity on him, and just shook her head, in a motherly manner, then jerked it, turning, to lead him to the east. “Come. I saw a mountain in that direction coming in… it shouldn’t be too far, and it’ll give us much-needed cover,” she said. A difference in electric potential made her fur, and his, stand on end, slightly dancing with energy waiting to be discharged. The wind kicked up, rather suddenly, so that it was raining sideways; even Kishindo couldn’t keep dry now. Their steps were urgent. Kifo wasn’t harmed by climate; well, presumably, since he had, after all, held his breath for hours before. His mentor, though, his teacher and friend… she wasn’t as young as she once was, and though shockingly fit, such weather wasn’t good for her. She was a tawny, short-furred lioness, not a leopard with the advantage of a thick coat and streetsmarts in the Black Hills. There were no streams, no rivulets of water, mostly. Depressions in the landscape caused sudden, churning torrents of liquid that rushed through the Black Hills, rumbling, roaring, pouring. A sudden explosion of lightning—loud, and close—made Kishindo and, to a lesser degree, Kifo—jump in surprise. They no longer moved with mere urgency. Kishindo sprinted, and, behind her, Kifo thundered along. She turned, a little, and had to yell, despite the demon’s proximity, to be heard about the rainstorm. “I don’t think it’s too much farther… just keep running, Kifo, and—Aah!” The lioness had mistepped, a little. The ground was yielding and, due to the sudden influx of water, not at all stable. That, coupled with her speed and the fact that she’d turned to speak to her companion had set up a disaster that would have sent Kishindo slipping and sliding, directly into a suddenly created river. She’d fought water once, and won. But even the defiant lioness knew that it was too much to hope to do again… But a powerful limb wrapped around her torso, under the arms. She struggled, for a moment, trying to regain her foot, kicking in fear of the torrent not two feet from her, but it was no use; she was being sucked in, she couldn’t fight back, she wasn’t strong enough, she was dead— Then, all at once, a growl from just behind her, so loud and close that it took over her senses, for a long second made her freeze. She quit squirming, and that gave Kifo the chance to pull, hard, yanking her out of harm’s way. He was just on time, because, a moment later, the flow of water increased. If Kishindo had been caught in that, there wouldn’t be even a prayer for her. There was no time for her to be thankful, and she and Kifo knew that. They just got up, and, without speaking or making any more foolish mistakes, leaped over the river, and ran on. The cloudburst was sudden and unexpected, but was almost certainly unsustainable. That was some comfort to the duo, as they sprinted along through the Black Hills, rain dashing against their faces so hard that it almost wore them off. Visibility was low, if above zero at all. The clouds had thickened, blocking out the sun even more than they usually did. The wind and rain were fierce; almost hurricane force. The plant life of the Black Hills resisted, though, and its animals, Kifo sensed, took shelter in small cracks and crevices or, in the case of larger beings, in dens, stony shelters, or caves. The forest didn’t break as the ground under their feet suddenly sloped. Kishindo adjusted her momentum carefully, conserving as much of her inertia is possible, to smoothly start to run up the tough grade of the rock face. Kifo followed her, without difficulty—he had dexterous paws that he implemented to clamber up and over obstacles, shutting his eyes when they turned to the sky. He was chilled to the bone, but the demon knew that his discomfort couldn’t possibly compare to Kishindo’s. The lioness had survived a flood, that was true; but though there was plenty of water involved, that flood, she’d admitted, wasn’t nearlny as significant in terms of volume flow rate as the Black Hills’ miniature flooding. Kishindo had been tough, in the Forests of the Far East. She’d ignored her sudden, deep fear of water, focusing on revenge, survival, and getting back to the Pride Lands. But then, she’d found Kifo… and that ironclad exterior had shifted, or cracked, allowing some of her carefully concealed secrets past. That’s why the lioness’s movements were frenzied. Her face twisted with fear, she climbed, faster yet, never daring to slow down. She’d fallen down from tough, rocky faces before, into water, and that was an experience she had no intentions of repeating. Despite Kifo’s dexterity, Kishindo was beating him. He’d fallen behind, a little, and, as the lioness came to a flat cutout into the mesa, she exhaled, explosively, in relief, as her eyes found a cave. Her first instinct was to get in and curl up, shaking, holding her soaked, freezing form. And though she jumped off to do just that… she stopped herself, and turned away from the cave. Every instinct screaming at her to do otherwise, the lioness not only went to that desperately slippery outcropping, but she looked over. Kifo was stuck. She hadn’t had problems at that particular portion of the climb, since, when she’d shot up it, there weren’t two small waterfalls forming a V, isolating Kifo’s position from other handholds. Not even the muscled demon would be able to hold on if he attempted to cross through the falls. His own grip was becoming less and less reliable, as he became white-knuckled—water here in the Black Hills lubricated everything. He looked up, so that his dark gaze met Kishindo’s. He could fall. He could—he’d be injured, yes, but… well, he’d probably live. And if Kishindo did anything stupid to try to rescue him, she’d be putting herself in danger, too. She wasn’t a social worker or rescue operative; she was a military commander, trainer, and warrior. She wasn’t qualified to help Kifo. And yet, the demon was running out of time. The wind kicked up, howling into Kishindo’s ears, as if trying to whisper advice into her eyes. Her harsh eyes shut, for a moment, as she considered. Despite the precariousness of her position, she managed to calm, a little. She sat, thinking as rapidly as possible, as Kifo extended his claws in a last-ditch effort to secure himself to the cliff side. Her posture was rigid, tight-assed, but remarkably powerful. Her profile could have been described as harshly picturesque, but now, in the cloudburst, she looked grizzled, battered, and wild. She didn’t look she was considering saving anyone; her resentful gaze was 100% serious—as always. Kifo, apparently, agreed with the sentiment he saw on his companion’s face. He was snarling, but what else was new? The rain continued to pour down, to, with the wind, batter him, attempting to pry him from the rocky slope, form safety, from Kishindo. “Heh. I’m getting’ soft…” There was no point in denying it, though. Kishindo had been a mentor, a trainer, a guide, a friend, a big sister, a mother to him for more than just some time, now. He was fond of her. And it was sad to consider the possibility that he might never see the one with whom he’d done so much, yet had so much left to do, with. Ah well. Life had been Hell. The post-life existence was fun, but… it was wearing on Kifo. His bloodlust was harder and harder to sate each time he killed; it was a self-destructive process. Unless the world consistently offered him tougher and tougher challenges… Kifo was killing himself as surely as he was killing other living beings. He was as much of a plague to himself as he was to the Land of the Spirits at large. Ah well. He’d died once, before, and it hadn’t been unbearable. Maybe this time, he’d die for real, and… …who knew. Who knew? What was in store for Kifo if he died? Heaven, Hell, or something else entirely? And what if he lived—he was watching Kishindo abandon him, even as he struggled to cling to life. He’d never be able to be around her again—he’ d lose his temper, sooner or later, and his greater need for blood could easily be her death sentence. Ah well. The demon took one final, long look at Kishindo. “So powerful, so dominant… So willing to accept me… so smart. …It’s been fun, Kishindo, and… who knows. Maybe I’ll see you in the next… whatever.” Kifo wasn’t a deep thinker. He couldn’t be, because if he was, any brand of logic would lead him to suicide… So he shrugged, and quit trying to distract himself with useless predictions about the future. There was no point, and he was only prolonging the inevitable—he wasn’t getting out of his. Kifo realized how tired he was. Four hours of sleep each day, training from dawn till dusk, only a little food, and herbal supplements to make him bigger, stronger, faster, better. He was tired of existence. And, for a second, as the last of his fingers lost traction on the basalt face of his grip, he admitted to himself that his whole scheme for revenge, his entire goal in death was idealistic and unattainable. He was “living” because… well, shit, he had nothing better to do. It was with that thought that Kifo finally let go. He’d survive, or he wouldn’t; it was of little consequence to him. He’d survive and keep killing, or he’d die, and that would be the end of his suffering. Maybe Hell wouldn’t be so bad. “Heh. The fuck am I thinking about this for? …Heh. Nothing better to do…” He was grabbed, though, before he fell a yard. It was dangerous to the point of insanity. Kishindo had gotten off the safety of the outcropping, and circled around, trying to get an angle with which to access the demon. It was hard. But she managed to flatten herself against the rock’s face, relatively secure. Kifo’s arms flailed, a little, when he fell—that was her opening. She lunged forward, wedging her paw in a rock crevice, and bit her companion. The demon, of course, felt pain as those frightening daggers popped into, then out of, his fur, skin, muscle, bone. It wasn’t bad, though, they were too sharp to really kill—erm, metaphorically. That was the Hell of it, though. Kishindo had gotten a good bite on Kifo: her jaws had closed on his paw, but that wasn’t helping, too much. The demon was heavy, you see, and though he hadn’t built up much momentum in the first milliseconds of his fall, he had enough mass for gravity to pull on him, hard. Kishindo managed to control the situation, a little, by tugging backwards. This made Kifo flop and swing like a pendulum, for a minute, held by his paw. He bounced against the mesa’s face, once or twice, and hissed in hate, trying, again, to claw or clamber his way to safety; fed by pain, now, as well as a more specific purpose. But his claws, like Kishindo’s teeth, might have been a little too sharp. He was slashing the rock, exerting almost no force on himself, and she… she was biting, hard, but Kifo was slipping anyway, her teeth slicing through his flesh. The demon groaned, and turned up to Kishindo. Fortunately, she didn’t meet his hateful eyes; she was too busy—if she did, though, she would forget everything decent she’d conceived about her companion, and leave… Seeing eyes in him like that was great… as long as they weren’t directed at her. Then, though, inspiration struck. Kishindo tilted her jaw, as Kifo’s knuckles came to the inexorable path of her teeth. The demon himself sensed that something was being done, and clenched his fist, so that he wouldn’t fall. The flesh wounds would be long-lasting and painful. A cut is one thing, and so is a stab, but a prolonged… butchery like this… Kifo might be scarred for the rest of his existence, and his paw was out of commission for a while, anyway. He’d live, though. He would. Kishindo refused to release, so he managed to get a grip on the mesa again, despite its immeasurable slipperiness Still, the lioness didn’t let go, and pulled on the demon, hard, in case he was again considering release. Slowly but surely, Kifo clawed himself up, over a waterfall. His paw was mangled and bleeding heavily by the time he was out of imminent danger, but that was still their last concern. The rain and wind were still vicious. And, where they were, they could easily—all too easily—be flung off by the storm. Things weren’t yet winding down, though the downpour had lasted for perhaps a quarter of an hour already. But they were careful, and they were cautious, as they moved up the slope. Once they reached level ground, they dashed into the cave. Kifo drew his GLOCK, yes, but his erratic, shaky motions meant that he’d done a poor job of clearing it. Still, Kishindo sniffed, and he sensed nothing living in the cave. They were panting, chests rising and falling rapidly and greatly, as they sat down, heavily, shivering, too out of it to shake water from their fur. The cave was dark and a little dusty, but it offered great protection from the wind and rain. They were shivering, taking in deep ragged breaths, side by side, as they finally started to dry themselves, and each another, off. Ears flattened to protect their hearing from the thunder and air pressure outside, they suddenly stopped moving… and hugged, tightly. There were no words exchanged, and few emotions, either. There was no mistrust, now, on either end, and no self-imposed repression—it was all unadulterated…w ell, certainly not love, it was doubtful that either participant was capable of that. But there was affection, and a lot of it. The embrace wasn’t prolonged. Neither Kifo nor Kishindo was even vaguely unsure about how the other felt, and neither was even slightly insecure—they didn’t need to know that they were cared about… but God, it was nice. The demon sucked in a few slow breaths, arm draped over his companion’s body. It was suddenly drizzling—the cloudburst had finished. The Black Hills were soaked, but already, the near-flash floods had diminished. The sky was dark, grey, dreary, but, to Kifo, welcoming. The demon grinned, quietly, his shoulders jostling. And, a minute later, Kishindo joined him. And then, a minute later, their twin outcries of mirth echoed in the cave, and out of it, to slowly dissipate, penetrating miles of the Black Hills. This land was tough, but it was manageable, and so satisfyingly challenging. Kifo and Kishindo had every intention of using it as a training ground before moving on to the White Sands, and then, at last, out of the Land of the Spirts, and back to the land of men… The demon had, indeed, forgotten the sheer idiocy of his end goal already. That, or the fact that he’d survived the storm had given him arrogance, or confidence, depending on your ta—opinion. Regardless—they were safe, they were together, and the bonds they’d formed over the past weeks had now been cast in iron. The leopards of the Black Hills wouldn’t be able to stand up to them. Would the lions of the White Sands be able to? Would Freak…? (Review if you’re still with me. See you next chapter.)
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