Callisto

Dune-Runner

A tiny creature sprinted towards the horizon in the middle of the barren, sun-scorched desert.

Well, this was not entirely true - he was running towards something, but this something was as nebulous as the sands that flew under his four tired paws. He thought the thing that rose above the empty sea of sand and dust before him looked like some kind of canyon. But, hey, it could just as quickly be a hallucination.

If that was the case, he clearly had a shittier imagination than he thought.

He chanced a look back, saw an arrow fly towards him, and threw himself out of its trajectory just in time for it to only skim the side of his fur and sting his side. He cursed loudly and then felt like he had to chuckle. Because he'd always been running from something. That was just who he was. It was who he'd always be.

Now, in fairness, running from a bitch who he'd two-timed under the influence of some intoxicating meatballs was slightly different from running from the two blokes with spears and bows that were chasing him.

Just a tad.

As he panted under the weariness of his exertions and their constant attacks against him, he reflected that if this was some shitty movie made in the old days of his youth - back when he'd sit in an unnecessarily darkened room while she played him some sci-fi or fantasy chick flick - this would be the part where there'd be this pretentious voice-over narration saying something along the lines of "well, bet you're wondering how I got into this situation, eh? Let me just go back to the beginning..."

"Well, hard luck," he said to no one. "Because that ain't what's happening here."

Yet, despite his stubborn refusal to initiate a sustained flashback, he did reflect on why the two tattooed lads had been chasing him across these endless dunes for as long as they had been. He'd met them on his path through this dry world of sand and scorching winds, and they'd muttered something about him being...Okay? Okka? Occult? Or some bullshit tribal word. Initially amused, he looked at their feet and saw the dead creature they had laid to waste there - some fluffy hyena-type thing that bore too much resemblance to his own species. So, as both the tribal lads reached out to touch him, he politely told them where they could shove their big spears.

It was just a suggestion. Just a simple word of advice from a creature who'd lived for years longer than he should have. He was basically a venerable, wise sage at this point. But, regardless, they didn't take the suggestion in the best way. In fact, he'd say they overreacted entirely.

Honestly, these Tribals were so touchy.

So, as another arrow flew by him and embedded itself into the sands, he kept running. He ran through the curses they hurled at him in their guttural tongue and only turned his head to throw some of his own back at them. He assumed the canyon before him was real. Whatever. He could lose them in there, right? He could find some respite. Until then, he kept going, watching the sands fly beneath his skittering paws. There was nothing to do but keep going. Just keep moving forwards.

That's what she'd told him to do, right? What the hell choice did he have in the matter?

None. That's what. None at all.

Then again, he thought with a rueful chuckle, maybe no one does.