193 days ago…
He should have told them where he was going, but at this moment, any rules or restrictions would only make him more irritable. He needed some private space, desperately, as urgently as he wanted to howl at the moon. He was never a sociable person, preferring to work alone; what he wanted to do was none of anyone else's business. To him, the "species" sometimes felt like a shackle, taming him, controlling him, choking him. Leaving here would make him feel alive, free and unrestrained
—even though he immediately realized he was being followed.
Head down, he moved silently through the heather thicket, casting a shadow on the moor. The locals all knew the legends of wild beasts roaming the Dartmur Plateau, and no fool would dare venture out at night, especially on a full moon. Of course, some claimed to have seen them, but how many who actually did survive?
A thought tugged at him, urging him to escape the polluted, congested, and stench-filled London for a peaceful haven. He wouldn't normally do this; the "swarm" would easily figure out his plans—but that wouldn't be until tomorrow at the earliest, and they couldn't help him tonight.
He was being hunted.
A group of humans, a group of hunters.
They might have heard somewhere that he was passing through today, or perhaps they'd simply had a stroke of luck.
He had to adjust his state of mind, seeking advantage and avoiding disadvantage: the desert air was filled with the scent of mint, disrupting his sense of smell. He wandered around, feeling dizzy and lightheaded. He tried to reduce his reliance on smell to avoid affecting his other senses, but giving up his sense of smell did nothing to help his foggy brain.
To make matters worse, the sky was now overcast, not because he needed the stars or moon for guidance, but because after his unreliable sense of smell, he had now lost his sight, which he could rely on.
To his right was a river, its clear, cold water beckoning him. He ran with all his might, quickly, and his malfunctioning senses seemed to slowly return, but he knew this state wouldn't last long. A fierce wind brushed against his fur; the November night was dry, cold, and refreshing. Snow was brewing in the sky, and perhaps it would fall in a few days, but not today. Then he would be back in busy, bustling London, surrounded by all sorts of smells—some pleasant, but most nauseating—those familiar, homey smells.
As he approached the river, he slowed his pace. Tiny silver snakes darted among the flowers. He stopped and sniffed, trying to discern the scent in the air, but all he smelled was the pervasive scent of mint.
He had no choice but to prick up his ears, scurry into the river, and drink.
Suddenly, he felt a sting in his left abdomen—like a dart, a burning pain. He raised his foreleg, trying to pull the thing off. He bit and howled frantically, but to no avail, and could only slowly sink into darkness.
He was awakened by an itching sensation on his skin.
He had had too many terrible experiences over the years, but clearly, his current situation was the worst.
He lay down, curled up, and tried to use his willpower to fight his instincts and clear his head, but his mind wouldn't obey him, chaotic and accompanied by waves of pain, like
...