Swimming.
Mark loved swimming.
Except this was different.
Instead of swimming, he was being dragged over the rocks.
The rocks on the riverbed.
Now why would somebody drag him like that? Rocks were . . . rocky. And hurt.
“Need to my house . . . least safe.”
The words registered, distantly. Who was that? Where did they think they could go?
Didn’t they know that very few places were about to be safe?
And he was still being dragged, rocks digging into his skin.
Come to think of it – where was the water? If Mark was at the riverbed, why he couldn’t he feel it?
Instead, he just felt the same muffled dullness from being surrounded by it.
But he could still hear. And now he picked up a different sound.
Ktack-ktack-ktack-ktack-ktack-ktack-ktack.
What was that? Mark knew it, but couldn’t place it. The sound was almost pleasant in its repetitive execution.
Then, alongside it. High pitched trills. Singing?
Mark felt his entire body seize up as he registered what it really was – screaming. The other sound was gunfire. “Need to go to my house . . . least that place safe.”
The earlier words arrived back to him in his mind, an echo of thought. But he was still having trouble putting the situation together again. Mark, think!
Using much of his might to pull out memories, Mark could think back to arriving. And the imminence . . . of the invasion.
Mark forced himself to continue thinking, despite the immense effort it demanded of him. The invasion had been coming, they’d said that. And his mission, his mission, it was ever so important. But . . . he couldn’t continue, could he?
No, he had to. He would. The mission brings peace, and peace would bring joy. Joy was the secret to a happy life.
So since Mark needed to continue his mission, he needed to stop swimming. His mind was becoming more coherent by the second, but he needed help. And help, friends, was only a hypodermic needle away.
Finally coming to consciousness, Mark felt, vividly, the shearing pain in his side. Thankfully, though, his left side had been cut open and exposed, so rudely exposed, while the needle he sought was in his right pocket, meaning he wouldn't have to move on that side. Now, this was supposed to be a last minute resort. Or, rather, more accurately, the needle had a specific use unless he had to use it for an emergency before that specific time came. An emergency like now, he thought, qualified nicely.
He was aware of the fact that he’d been correct – he was being dragged over rocks. And a shockingly tiny Red Panda was dragging him – shockingly tiny for all his (her?) strength.
Wait, think back. That voice had sounded female. Assuming it had come from the Panda before him, then this Panda was probably a her.
As his trembling hand slipped into his right pocket, claws closing around the needle, he heard a new voice.
"I hear you! Come out with your hands up! I also saw you! Red Panda and a Otter! Come out or we will burn this forest down with you in it!" The voice was serious, demanding, rough. And Mark couldn't be sure without visual confirmation, but he was pretty sure that it was a human voice. An Arestoskan soldier, likely.
Shit. This was getting worse by the second. Vigor renewed at the newfound threat, Mark jammed the hypodermic needle into his leg right there in the pocket and let the rush of adrenaline come over him.