A Few Hours Of Peace

Despite the **** discomfort brought on by each innocent shift and stretch, the pain in your side isn't able to deny the wave of exhaustion for long and soon you are fast asleep. The aches and worries of the waking world soon dissolve into an inky black void. It is a deep, dreamless sleep bereft of lucidity or delightful imagery; the kind of rest usually afforded only to the dearly departed. Regardless, it is a much needed bit of down time and your fried psyche appreciates it.

Rather, it would if not for the occasional flickers of light that start to distract from the blissful nothingness. It is hard to determine exactly where these occasional glints of blue and red come from. “Perhaps the beginnings of a dream that can’t quite seem to overtake the nebulous dark you find yourself floating in?”, you subconsciously ponder. Whatever the case may be, it isn't enough to stir you from your slumber and so time rolls on as the colors try and fail to take shape. So there you float; cast adrift in the endless abyss of your own making. Despite the minor annoyances from time to time, you eventually find yourself enjoying the peaceful nothingness.

It starts as a subtle caress, a cool wisp of frigid mist against the side of your non-existent face. It continues to creep along your fur, each hair bristling as the sensation spreads. Before long, the pleasant apathy of the void is replaced by an all encompassing bitterness, slowly injecting your phantom veins with biting cold. The sudden dip in temperature doesn’t let up as thoughts become foggy and each breath becomes a struggle. The ridiculous quandary of whether or not one could shiver without a body would need to be shelved for the time being as all of your attention is then directed to a searing heat that unexpectedly burns your left cheek. The shock turns out to not be a nightmare, rather it is something much worse…

Reality.

You can feel your body pitching to the side before your eyes find the strength to snap open. Even in your stupor from being so rudely roused, instinct pulls your limbs tight and the fall becomes a sloppy roll. Whilst the maneuver lacks any semblance of grace, it serves its purpose and in an instant you’re right side up, coming to a stop in a low crouch. Your eyes finally catch up and are brought to bear against the dark mass standing a few paces away.

As furious blinks battle away the haze of an interrupted rest, the first thing you can perceive clearly is the attacker's plump body, a mixture of yellow and tawny brown. Though more portly than tall, the figure’s purple eyes are still even with your own. Curiously, instead of immediately pursuing, it just stands there next to the tree with your discarded bag tucked among its roots. Slightly hunched over from the powerful wake up call it had delivered to your cheek (which still bore the burning 3 fingered hand print), you stare hatefully at the poor mannered feral, a disgusted grimace plastered across its short trunked muzzle. A small bit of foreskinned flesh hung flaccid atop an equally humble set of testes, denoting this Drowzee as a male.

“Though just barely…”, you subconsciously add. Normally, you'd have thought such criticisms of masculinity cruel and beneath you but in all honesty? Fuck it.. He'd ruined your precious little sleep and caused the wounds from the previous day to start their bitching again. You clench your teeth against their protests and rise to a firm stand and meet the pale regard of this latest threat.

Unimpressed with your scowl, the pudgy fellow gives the hand that woke you a slight shake of discomfort before setting it to work alongside its partner. Both hand paws wave about in the air before you, performing strange gestures that briefly steal your attention. Though the man has made no advance toward you since that initial slap, you doubt those signs he's making are harmless. Knowing the contents of that satchel are too important to be forgotten, thoughts of escape vanish as you strike a defensive stance.

The mystery of those hand signs is revealed when rippling pink rings suddenly shoot out from the feral's palms directly toward your face. A clumsy dive to the side has the rings rolling harmlessly overhead to disperse amongst the foliage, though it has the unintended consequence of reigniting the fire that still smolders beneath your bandages. The dodge had bought you some time, true, but the pain was a worrying confirmation that your agile skill set wouldn't be viable against this foe. Your slow recovery has obviously clued in your opponent to your plight if his widening smirk is any indication. Not wishing to squander the upper hand, the Drowzee again starts to wave its palms in the air, albeit at a much faster pace.

With only seconds before another barrage is launched your way, and knowing that retreat wasn’t possible in this state, you grimace against the pain and stand firm. True to his conviction, the Drowzee again fires a set of pale rings from his extending fingers toward your show of defiance. With no other option, you again duck to the side to find cover behind the large tree, its sturdy bark now serving as an obstacle instead of your rest spot. Again, the leisurely circles waft past your obscured form, a few colliding with the trunk and dissipating harmlessly. While it was nice to see the strange energy couldn’t bypass solid matter, the heavy paw falls that came padding around after you were more than a little concerning.

Providing proof to what you’d been hearing, it’s only a moment before the flabby fellow lumbered into view, its expression showing clear annoyance at your repeated retreats. You also note that his chest was heaving quite a bit, almost as if the miniscule chase had already begun to wear him out. The jostling belly and stubby little legs could attest to your fledgling theory. You’ve little time to ponder before once more those ham hock arms are set to work in a familiar fashion, though this time they do so with marked sloppiness the earlier projectiles lacked. You once more backpedal around the tree, putting the would be attacker out of sight and putting your theory into action.

A growl of anger, followed by another round of gasps and wheezes confirmed what you’d been thinking; that the feral was likely not used to prey that gave him a fight, and that your somewhat dishonorable tactics were working. Somewhere in your exhausted mind is the smallest bit of mirth at stringing along this pathetic excuse for a mindless hungering monster. This raises another question pertaining to the wisdom of waking a sleeping target. By all accounts, he'd had you passed out from dead to rights but for some reason the feral had chosen to rouse you with a slap.

Not that you weren't thankful, of course, as you now had the means to defend yourself. He'd even dispelled what had become one of your more distressing nightmares in the process. You'd have to properly ‘thank’ him once his exhaustion finally opened him up to a chilled slap of your own. With the plan forming in your head, the dimwitted tapir rounds the bend yet again in search of his slippery morsel. A smirk tries to bubble up as the Drowzee, now thoroughly flustered at the cost this laughable chase had exacted upon his heaving frame, once more raises his hands; obviously in the hopes that THIS time his slow moving rings would connect. The smirk finally wins the tug of war with your cautious optimism as you prepare to side step the latest attempt.

A few more of these ought to wind him enough for a quick-

The vicious, multicolored beam rips the air between you the second the feral’s finger touches his crown, colliding with your own stupefied face. Expecting the lazy purple rings as before, you are caught out completely when this new energy ray closes the meagre gap and are sent flying back into the weeds beyond your bark woven cover. The impact with the ground is registered somewhere in the back of your consciousness as the forefront of your mind is wholly preoccupied with the spinning colors and foreign shapes dancing about your vision. Instinctively your shaky palms reach up to access the damage to your mug. The pain is considerably lesser than you were expecting after such a blow, though the trade off with physical trauma is made clear the second you get a wobbly paw beneath and attempt to rise.

Where the beam had lacked solid damage, it more than made up for it with the nauseating calamity of lights and images now plaguing your perception. It is a struggle to keep your fragile balance as you quiver on the spot, one knee just barely keeping your form upright. Weak blinks try to dispel falsehoods swimming before you though they have little effect. Next comes the thought to rub your eyes in an increasingly **** attempt to regain some level of cognition before the feral is able to capitalize on your sorry state. The second your hand comes into view, however, the depth of your troubles is laid bare.

As it creeps up from the wavy lines of your periphery, it is clear that motor functions are all but shot. As the command to raise a palm to wipe the sweat from your brow is issued, you watch as a hand that appears to be yours instead extends out toward the steadily growing blob of brown and yellow beyond. The limb is yours, you’re sure, but it outright refuses your call, deciding it’d rather reach out to the encroaching threat. You growl at the disorientation racking your brain, and vigorously shake your noggin against the daze, demanding SOMETHING respond to your plea. The nausea returns tenfold at the provocation, though the upset stomach will have to wait as finally some of the hallucinations begin to retreat.

Your efforts are rewarded with a front row seat to the sight of a significantly more confident infected ambling his way up to your crouching figure. Though a few stars remain, you can clearly make out the cock-sure grin of the corpulent pachyderm as one last heavy hind fall brings him just out of arm's reach of his downed prey. It is hard to focus on that smug grin with every limb disagreeing on which way you should flee, giving the Drowzee plenty of time to drink in whatever defiant expression your panting face choses to make. You know that it won’t be long before the feral decides that depraved fantasies are no substitute for a proper meal, spurring your fractured mind to piece together something… ANYTHING that might keep you from meeting your end in that generous belly.

Times not on your side… so what’s the play?