A Present?
The cold night air nips at your feminine curves. In the shadows of the large, towering trees your stripes give you natural camouflage. The soft dirt shifts underneath you as you step forward into the moonlight of the jungle. There is a small pond in front of you. You crouch down and stare down at your own face, amazed at what the costume does to you. You have bright yellow eyes that seem to glow in the night. Your fur is a luxurious orange on your back with a pure white on your chest. You smile somewhat at your new appearance. A soft breeze breaks your gaze and gives you an objective: find or make clothes.
You look around at what the forest offers you and the sensation of disappointment sinks in your stomach. There’s not much for you to find in terms of clothes. You’ll have to remain in the nude until a new option presents itself. You start to walk around the perimeter of the small clearing of the forest, to get an idea of where exactly you are. Your eyes adjust to the darkness and you start to see things better, seeing small details such as the rodents that scurry across the floor of the forest. And in the center of the clearing, you find a small box.
“Was that there before?” you ask yourself.
With hesitant steps, you approach it, bending down into a crouch to pick it up. You remove the lid from the small wooden box. On the very top there are a pair of nondescript pants that appear to be made for you. You pull them out and see a black tank top beneath. You bite your lip.
“Is this made for me?”
You take the shirt and slip it over your head. As you pull down, you wonder if it’ll fit or not because of your new-found cleavage. As it begins to tighten around your chest, it expands to allow for enough space before clutching to your body again.
“Weird,” you say.
You put the pants on and feel it adjust to hug your body, shrinking and growing where need be. You add that to the mental tally of questions needing answers. You look in the box again and see a small backpack and a large machete, about as long as your forearm. There is a sheath for it attached to the strap of the backpack. You bite your lip again and chuckle.
“What the hell is going on here?”
Putting the backpack on you grab the machete and swing it once or twice, getting used to the weight of it, to how it moves, how it slices through the air with a distinct swish. You take a swipe at the nearest branch and follow the branch as it falls down. The machete easily hews through the tree branches. You carve a path through the trees, walking over the fallen branches with careful steps.
You know better than to be brash and reckless in the forest. You continue your assault on the jungle’s vines and trees until you hear a loud growl that forces you to stop in your tracks with a gasp. You turn around and see a feral dog emerge from the forest. He moves in a disjointed motion, as if barely kept together, as if its bones were broken and healed in an odd way.
It lunges for you, and you jump back. You have two immediate options, fight or flight.
Written by kergiby on 29 July 2011
