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“Those are some very large Growlers,” Azlan says, glancing at his monitors.
“They’ve been growing husky on my crops,” I say bitterly.
My crops have been dug up and routed, much of them laying on the ground wilting, with a careless bite taken here and there.
I want to cry, but I know that crying makes you look like a girl, and there’s nothing men hate more than a crying girl, at least according to my grandmother. So I stiffen my various lips and I do my best to appear stoic.
“Come inside,” I say, remembering my hospitality. I should offer him some lemonade. At least the kitchen will be clean and tidy. I’d be absolutely mortified if I brought him into a dirty house.
Azlan follows me, a perplexed expression on his large leonine face.
Inside is no better. Nowhere is safe.
“MAROW!”
Left to defend the homestead by himself, my cat comes springing down from the top of the stairs. A big ginger tomcat, Buttface is a force of nature. He has a Growler tail in his mouth, and a screaming Growler is following him, holding a knife in its ratty little hand. It is up on its clawed back feet, bouncing down the stairs, a little Grumbler head sticking out of its pouch.
“You no take tail! You no take tail!”
It is screaming at Buttface in a high-pitched wail. Growlers have a limited ability to speak. That’s what made them such appealing pets for early human settlers. Growlers were sold as the perfect companion, smart enough to interact with in an allegedly unchallenging way, and could be somewhat useful with their opposable thumbs and prehensile tails. Then, of course, early settlers got tired of their pets, abandoned them to the wilds, and now feral Growlers are an infestation risk almost everywhere humans live.
“Buttface!” I scream his name, as if it matters when you do that to a cat. He’s not listening to me. He’s going to be feasting on Growler tail for hours.
Azlan
This is a scene of pure chaos. The charred remnants of farm are obviously a problem but my attention is largely consumed by the farmhouse itself. As we enter, it is clear that the farmhouse has been constructed over generations by craftsmen of varying skill and means. The exterior walls are a weathered red with white trim, all of it peeling away in flakes to reveal gray wooden boards.
This could be mistaken for any rundown asteroidal hovel, but there are too many touches of care. Potted plants, some knocked over and broken by the Growlers, all hand-painted with various cheerful floral and geometric motifs. Somebody sat on this old porch and painted each and every one of these with care. I don’t think it was Ava. The paint looks too weathered to have been her handiwork. Perhaps her grandmother, someone who wanted the place to look nice. I can imagine a young Ava playing on this porch in better times, barefoot and in a plain dress while a maternal figure watches over her, painting pots while her grandfather and perhaps uncles work the fields that are now surrounded by repeatedly broken and corroded fences.
A lot of my fellow Leonids wouldn’t pay attention to these kinds of details. They’d be distracted by the fast moving Growlers, high-pitched shrieking things that demand my instincts react with extended claws. But I am a predator, and a good predator notices everything. He is also capable of great imagination. How else can one predict the movements of prey, but through observation and imagination?
Ava looks thoroughly defeated. I can see the frown lines of her face where her worries have gotten the better of her. She seems ripe to be swept up and taken away from this place. But I can tell she is determined too. This battle has become part of her. It is not just the farm and the house. It is the struggle with nature, the Growlers themselves, that draws her.
“You’re just staring at me,” she comments. “Aren’t you going to”— she waves her hands about—“do something?”
“Certainly. Eventually.”
“They’re taking Grandma Sylvia’s silverware!” She dashes into the kitchen and begins swatting at the Growlers with a straw broom, entering a flurry of activity that only serves to disperse the Growlers throughout the house.
She’s right. It is time to do something. I take in a deep breath, hold it for a moment, and let out a roar that shakes this rickety old house to its very foundations. Every stick of furniture and decaying wall resonates with the sound of my fury. It is a deep roar, a proud roar. It is a roar of territory claiming and possession. It is a warning, the only warning anybody here will get that this place, and this woman, is mine.
When my roar ends, the house is clear, and so are the surrounds of the farm. The Growlers are opportunistic, but they’re not stupid. They respect true wildness. The roar of a true apex predator has likely never been heard on this rock before. It will give them something to think about for a while.
It has also given my mate something to think about. When I turn to her, I see Ava looking at me with wide, perhaps frightened eyes. I hope I did not scare her too badly. The first time a creature with even a little prey in them hears a Leonid roar, they are at risk of losing more than their nerve.
“That was so fucking… hoo…. Impressive.” She changes the word she was going to use at the last moment, but I can see the desire in her eyes. I can smell a sudden release of human pheromones. She is ripe for her second mating.
“Come,” I say, sweeping her up into my arms. I carry her up the stairs. I have to be careful not to hit my head as I ascend, for this dwelling was not designed for creatures of my size. It was made for little humans and their brides.
The stairs creak beneath my boots, and I realize I may be taking a greater risk than I had imagined in trying to lull my human mate into a sense of familiar security. I could take her back to my ship and be more assured of structural safety, but it wouldn’t have the same resonance as claiming her in her own home, preferably in her own bed. I want to be linked with her life. I want to bond with her primally.
“Which one is your bedroom?”
She casts her eyes in the direction of a nearby door. It has been gnawed through in the Growler invasion, and the interior has been gone through quite thoroughly. They’ve opened every drawer, pulled out every bit of clothing, and gotten into all her jars of creams and things. I don’t want her to notice any of that, so instead of letting her look around, I claim her lips in a passionate kiss, tasting her humanity as my tongue enters her mouth, taking one part of her hot interior with no resistance whatsoever.
I have fulfilled my end of the bargain. Now it is time for her to show me her willingness once more.
And show me she does.
