Not Like You (The Simian Forest Saga: Vol. I)

The Bond [X]

Krissa felt nothing yet everything at once. Their return to the colony's home was slow and tedious, for each time she stepped, the jagged lashes upon her calf would scorch at a million degrees. Rocket and Nova patiently helped her hobble behind the group, Mist mourning the whole way there. Poppy remained by the female's side, and just behind Slate was guided by a grey-speckled ape with shaggy chin-fur, making sure that the younger male was balanced, even as he brushed him away and insisted he was fine. It was obvious that he was bleeding heavily, just as she was. Where was the notorious Pine and his goons on the other hand? To Krissa's complete surprise, he had taken the unharmed children and fled on a quicker route home, so as to get them the relief they needed. They had to rest on multiple occasions, seeing as Mist was still going through the cycles of her harrowing grief. This only upset Krissa further, who would look to Rocket for help. The near hairless male didn't seem too soft at all, more like he was made of stone and nothing else. He would sit, his face a continuous expression of steely thought, similar to how a gargoyle would appear to rest among the pillars of a church. Although he wasn't much for conversation, he stuck by her side, eyeing how the blood was becoming tacky upon her clavicle and breasts, her bandeau ruined from the dark burgundy smears. Krissa felt as though her hands were bathed in white glue, encased in a layer of dried goop. She remembered peeling it off her hands for fun, but the sticky dried crimson was far from something she wanted to play with.

Eventually they made it back, the rain coming down in sheets outside. The colony was silent as soon as they walked into the camp, over two-hundred heads simultaneously following Mist as she moaned pitifully, her deceased child's broken body held tightly within her arms. As she would pass, four or five apes would reach out and gently brush an arm or a leg with their palms outstretched in sympathy. Her stomach rolling, Krissa could feel their pain, their sorrow. They felt just as much as she... or perhaps it was that she was more ape than human? Her freckled cheeks were devoid of color, the whites of her eyes bloodshot from sobbing. She had once been full of panic and anxiety, but now? Now she was just hollow. Before she could really protest, Rocket handed her off to a few healers and she was guided toward a towering cypress. At first she was unsure of how she and Slate would climb: being injured so horribly, you would think that they would have something more convenient and lower to the ground, but as the healer supporting her weight and pushed through the raspberry bush clumps, she felt relief to see the same fan-like design winding up it's massive trunk. They hobbled up, Slate beginning to weaken and groan gently as he dragged himself along. Krissa ached to reach out and touch his shoulder, to somehow reassure him that it would be okay, but she remained still. She hated to admit it, but she had seen how easily he had thrown the predator off of him, and how menacing he had looked with blood coating his maw and gnashing teeth - and this made her wary.

They were escorted up the winding staircase and inside the main area where they were surrounded by apes - all female- in masks and headpieces of all different kinds, all beginning to tend to their wounds. The main female to come to her aid was a bonobo, which she had learned was similar to a chimp, yet not... or at least that was what Maurice had said. Krissa over time, with little to no pieces of information about this species of ape, began to pick up on key features. They were typically black or dark grey, smaller and more slender in appearance. Not only that, but none of them bore the milky face of some chimpanzees. Come to think of it, Slate carried quite a few bonobo characteristics, but that had to simply be coincidence. His frame was far too chimp-like. Perhaps she'd address it later. Why was her mind so flitty? The female bonobo's fingers found her bronze chin and tilted it up gently. Her voice came out in a reedy tone. "Shell," she introduced quickly. She then pointed to Krissa.

Oh, she wanted her name? Her throat was scratchy from screaming. She swallowed heavily and blinked feverishly. "Krissa," she croaked in reply, managing to smile gently. Her grin was returned as the female began to stoop down, propping up her leg on the bed of moss and fronds she was resting back into. Shell began to examine her limb, her fingers probing the wound with gentle precision. Although Krissa could tell that she was using amiable hands, she still couldn't help but retract and let out a soft yelp. It hurt so bad. Hadn't she read somewhere that feline claws were coated in some sort of venom? Her father had always dismissed it as simple veterinary legend, but she had never believed him. Krissa recalled visiting her older sister at her apartment in San Francisco, and playing with Caramel, her pet cat. Of course she hadn't meant to hurt her, but boy did those tiny scratches burn. She remembered how much it would hurt each time she would do the dishes, or water the garden, or even if she would simply brush it in her sleep. Krissa had found them so painful and had constantly complained, but compared to the cat-scratches she had now? She would give them up faster than you could say 'caramel' if she had the option.