Depollute me, pretty baby

Her rebuttal bounced around in his mind—danger could be beautiful, she had said. Carnage, even. Her perspective twisted at something inside him, compelling in its own right. Naive? No, she was too sure of herself. His golden eyes gleamed curiosity, tracing her expression. She truly believed what she said, with no hesitation. This gave him pause. Danger was not beautiful. It could be thrilling, sure. But it could devour you if you did not overcome it. Had she a skewed sense of beauty then? That would explain her nickname for him.

He flexed his claws against the ground, his muscles tense beneath his ruddy fur. “Lea—sees beauty in—mess.” he muttered, not quite a question but an observation. He was no stranger to mess, but never had it been described as pretty. Nor he.

When she called herself strange, his golden eyes glinted, composed amusement filling him as he tilted his head again. "Strange is... not bad," he admitted, though his voice was struggling to maintain fluidity. He considered her next suggestion, her laughter catching him off guard again. He couldn’t begin to answer her suggestion at him trying his hand at dreaming. So, he left it unanswered.

Her gaze as he watched her only added to the unease in his chest. She didn’t flinch, didn’t falter, didn’t look away. And when she dismissed the notion of fear, her calm certainty left him strangely hollow. “No reason?” he echoed lowly, continuing with a furrow upon his brows. “Fear… keeps—us alive.” It was a survival instinct. Did she not have it?

When she offered her friendship, his gaze locked on her, searching for some hidden intent behind her playful smile. A lie, an entrapment. His tail beat against the ground, his body rigid as though bracing for an attack that never came. “Friend,” he repeated softly, almost like he was testing the word. Seeing if it would bite him. It felt unfamiliar, something to be wary of, yet there was no hostility in her eyes, no threat in her tone. “Leora… wants to be—Redrum’s friend?” he asked, a note of disbelief in his halting speech. “Strange,” he muttered again, but this time, the tug of amusement returned to his mouth; slowly morphing into a half grin across his lips “But… good.”

Her question about hunting made him consider his reply for many moments. Golden eyes narrowing thoughtfully, his tail twitching behind him. “Hunting is—challenging,” he said slowly. His gaze lingered on her longer this time, studying her. The freckles across her face caught his attention, an unusual detail—yet fitting for her he supposed. Her fur looked impossibly soft, and he wondered briefly what it would feel like under his touch. Plush like a rabbit in winter? Downy like a fresh spring chick? Silken like a dandelion puff? The thought startled him, and he shifted uncomfortably, his ears flattening as his lips quivered with more spasms. “Prey… is not—all the same.” The red brute paused, his gaze growing distant for a moment before snapping back to her with renewed intensity. “Big cats,” he said slowly, answering her question of his favorite prey. “They—fight back. Strong, clever. Equal.” His brow furrowed as he glanced at her again, tilting his head slightly, the motion sharp and feline-like. Equal had been entirely honest of a descriptor for his favorite prey.




"Murder"