2Author's note: Mentally using the term 'opossum' to refer to the fluffy cute rodent-like creatures in my dream stems from a game I've played. I'm sure many of us who have never seen opossums live can relate to this. However, if you live on the opposite side of the globe and have actually experienced something as elating as an opossum raiding your kitchen at night, you may benefit from replacing all mentions of the word 'opossum' with 'extra fluffy beady-eyed hamster of love' in this story.
Sweet Little Things
I am an opossum spy, and I have slipped into a nice, peaceful village on a mission to poison its water supply. These kinds of covert operations are what I do; I've got the perfect face for the job, and I can run like the wind to get away once the deed is done. My masters have been generally pleased with my work. Sometimes more pleased than I am.
Come to think of it, lately my mild dislike of the things I do has been turning into a somewhat more active distaste. I cannot seem to motivate myself as well as before. I suspect that is part of the reason this gig has been going so badly; I must be subconsciously sabotaging myself.
Whatever is causing it, the fact is I've been spotted. This part involves fleeing, and hence dashing around and hiding ensues on different layers of the foliage. We all keep at it for a while.
A tough-looking opossum, who I suspect might be a member of the local leadership, catches up with me. He demands to know what business I have in the village. Instead of pouring sweet diplomacy on him to throw him off guard, I surprise even myself by staring at him in silence. I can be such a nuisance when I forget the good ideals of self-preservation! He glares back at me, his impatience clearly growing as I fail to answer.
When the setting starts to shift from ripe to suspect, and a ring of other opossums is forming around me, I break out from our little communion and run for it again. I think half the village starts after me. It would be nice to be so popular if their goal were not to kill or capture me.
I run around in circles, not really leaving the area. A part of me is needlessly delaying. Sure, I make mental notes of the layout of the village and gather valuable information, but there is no real justification for this kind of risk-taking. At some point, a couple of villagers who look like they have some experience in battle start to aim blowguns at me, and I figure it is really getting to be the time to leave.
On my last pass through the village, I manage to grab a local whelp to use as a shield. This move is immediately rewarded by a furious growl from the nearby hunters; I can hear villagers gritting their teeth as I accumulate some distance between myself and them. When I get a bit further away, I take a moment to calm the kid down and let him go.
I hear movement in the bushes, and manage to duck a dart. It hits a tree behind me, and I notice something dripping from it. Oh, great. They use poison darts, I had better get serious and fast.
I notice my planned way of exit is blocked by a thickening brush, and leap to some low branches to circle around it. An unexpected crack reveals my position, and I jump back down before several darts arrive to greet me.
I miscalculate my hasty move, of course, and land right in front of the opossum I was pissing off earlier. My brain takes a moment to register this turn of events; he does not wait for me to get moving again, and blows a dart at me before I jump aside. It connects with a disturbing small "thud", and I bet it has poison coating it. I seriously hope that not enough of it seeps into my system, and take flight again.
I even manage to take a few leaps towards escape. Then, as I try to get on a branch, I miss it and drop flat on my belly. I can feel my muscles shutting down and panic threatens to overwhelm me as my pursuers press close again. More darts follow the first one; I can barely feel them.
I guess playing dead won't get me out of this one.
Darkness ensues.
I come to with a headache that makes me hope the poison had killed me. It seems it was the non-lethal sort after all, though. I scan my surroundings. I have been brought into a large tree hollow. Not much light shines in. After getting up and taking a few tentative steps on my wobbly legs, I also notice I am tied to the wall.
A female shows up to ask me questions while I am still groggy. I am not feeling particularly helpful, and simply sulk at her. She remarks that I won't be getting any food before I learn some manners, and leaves.
A while later her threat proves all too true. Hunger and thirst take turns with the headache and compete for the honour of being the thing to make me feel the most miserable. When I see the female return with a bowl of water, I am feeling almost cooperative already, and come to meet her as far as the rope lets me.
However, the little vixen leaves the bowl just out of my reach, and reveals mockingly that the leader of the village is heading over to have a discussion with me. She remarks that he is somewhat miffed about my using the young one as hostage earlier. Also, given that I am not likely to be of any help otherwise, he can now feel free to take his frustration out on me. I curse myself for getting into this kind of trouble in the first place, and then some more for helping it get from bad to worse.
The female seems to be only encouraged by my appalled expression. She notes that she will leave the water for the leader, for cleaning up afterwards, and suggests that I will probably not be needing it once he's through with me.
At this point, my sense of cooperation has fully awakened. I make quite a few sincere promises to her to answer any questions brought to me. The female just turns to leave, and bumps into the leader on her way out.
By the gods. The angriest opossum of them all, and the one I went to lengths to piss off, is indeed the leader. And I seem to have succeeded in baiting him beyond all expectations; his face is a mask of cold hatred. This is really not my day.
To top it off, he is carrying a complicated-looking muzzle, no ordinary fare. I recognize it from my masters' tool selection; it should stop torturees from biting through their tongue. Why the leader of a peaceful small village would keep one handy, I do not really want to even try to guess. My stomach ties itself to knots. I retreat towards the wall and desperately try to formulate an argument about how I would be more useful alive and in good health.
Never underestimate an opossum's capability for cold cruelty. The moment for the leader to cut through the distance between us runs out quickly while I try to get my drained mind to cooperate. By the time he's already lifting the muzzle towards my face, I come to my senses for long enough to quickly blurt out that the village water supply has been poisoned and that I think I know the antidote.
This leader is very close to being as scary as the people I take my orders from. His eyes narrow into slits and he looks ready to knock me out, but pauses his muzzling operation just long enough that I hastily name the wormwort I suspect the poison was made of, and the herb I that know would work as an antidote for it.
I brace myself for the blow to silence me, but it never lands. When I open my eyes, the leader is already heading for the door, and grunts that I've bought myself a momentary respite.
He will no doubt be back later to demand more information about what plans my masters have laid for this village. I have no answers to give him; as a lowly spy, I am not privy to such information. I really have little material for coming up with a very convincing sales pitch for my well-being and continued breathing in general.
I slump down against the wall and ponder if my life would have been different, were I born into a less vicious species.
A while passes, and I hear movement on the door. I hastily stand up. My hopes for negotiations are crushed; it is the leader, again. I decide the best approach is to drop down on all fours and avert my eyes in a gesture of utter submission.
The leader snorts at me. "You were right about the wort. So, you poisoned our wells. What else did you do?" I sense him stepping towards me, and I reflexively crawl backwards until I hit the unyielding wall behind me.
I lift my head, but cannot bring myself to look him in the eye. "My mission was just that. I also scouted the village, as is routine." I look down again, and remember the female's remark. I seriously need this opossum's sympathy now. "I... am sorry for using the cub. Is he alright?"
He moves fast; I am halfway to glancing up when he strikes me. I barely have time to turn my head back before I feel a paw squeezing my windpipe and freeze. It occurs to me that the grip is a result of training, not one of spontaneous anger. He presses his face closer to mine. It shows no emotion; he does not even register me as a fellow opossum right now. "You are not going to sweet-talk your way out of this," he coldly spits out.
When he releases the pressure on my windpipe to let me speak again, my adrenaline-flooded mind has prepared an answer that is not quite the bravest I've ever uttered. "... Please don't kill me." As the words escape my mouth, I realize they are useless. My shoulders slump; I have thrown away the chance to bargain for anything. Being reduced to a whimpering coward will hardly attract any sympathy either.
For a moment I consider inventing something that would sound valuable enough to hear more about, but a glance at the eyes of the village chief wipes out my imagination. I try to resign to my fate. "I'm just a low-ranking spy; I get orders and follow them, and the first order is to not ask any questions." Maybe he'll kill me quickly instead of bothering to torture me. "Many of the villages I've been sent to with these orders seem to have been organizing an uprising against my masters, so I can only guess that's what they suspect you're up to as well."
Something clicks in my head as the words roll out of my mouth. "That muzzle, and your..." I rub my windpipe to finish the thought. "You've worked for the King in the past, haven't you?" I immediately realize I've crossed the line by asking my own questions, and flinch in expectation
of a new strike.
It does not land; instead, the chief snorts derisively. "So you recognize the tools, huh? Have you been delivering many victims to the interrogation pits then?" The malicious look he throws my way makes my skin crawl.
I thank the heavens I never rose in ranks enough to be entrusted with prisoners; he sounds like he's looking for an excuse to pull out my claws and roast me slowly over an open fire. "No, I, we... new recruits are shown around the pits to remind us to follow orders. I never had the stomach for anything but surveillance."
"That and some improvised sabotage and kidnapping, eh?"
I know better by now than to apologize for the whelp again. "The well was a part of my orders. But I should have just run at that point, instead of lingering on enough for your people to pull out the blowguns. I've lost count of all the mistakes I've made on this run. If you hadn't caught me, I probably would have been gutted by my commander to set an example." I sigh resignedly, deciding that maybe dying in the hands of the tyrant's enemies is slightly better than being endlessly abused and eventually killed by your own masters.
My reverie is interrupted by the chief's comment. "Why they'd send an amateur like you to our village is beyond me."
My cheeks are burning. "I'm not usually this bad, I've just been... distracted lately. Maybe I was worth risking, if they weren't sure how well-protected you are."
He hmms non-committally. "Distracted, you say?"
What is he up to, stripping away the remaining crumbs of my professional pride before leaving me to die feeling a useless outcast? I snap an edgy response: "I've had my doubts, alright? What's this got to do with anything?"
His ears twitch; I can't tell if he's amused or annoyed. "So, you've not yet lost your teeth completely? Do you need reminding who asks the questions here?"
I try to push back my own anger, but have trouble finding enough motivation for it, given the situation. "You, my masters, everyone uses fear to control. But I'm dead already, what else can you threaten to take from me? Good luck trying, since there's nothing left." Defiance. That's what's left, it seems. I can't say I feel actual pride over my accomplishments, my dignity got lost a long time ago when I chose to work for a ruler who has no respect over his followers, but anyone else than me bringing that up is sure to feel my burning annoyance.
My captor remains unimpressed. I cannot say I'm surprised. "So, you've figured out how the world works? You're nothing but a cub yourself. You think death is the only thing that comes after this? You've seen torturers at work. Do you think most people in there wouldn't gladly accept death to be freed from the mind-rotting pain? The damage your body takes is nothing compared to what your mind suffers." Have I struck at his professional pride, of all things? "I've seen the bravest and sharpest of men be reduced to deranged, babbling lunatics who cannot even control their bowels any more. You are too innocent to even imagine the ways you could be broken."
Calling me an innocent in a situation like this is a good way to give me pause, I must admit.
My confusion is not reduced when the chief suddenly turns and leaves the hollow. I slump down to the floor and a shuddering sob escapes through my battered throat. I am more disturbed by the sudden return of emotions than any threat of future torment; I didn't know I could still cry.
Author's note: Sorry about ending it there for an undefined period of time. If you feel like hearing more, drop me a nudge in a review and I'll see what I can do. I kind of like the mad opossum king, I just ran out of dream-induced ideas at this point.