John Price

“Y’know, John… it can be therapeutic! Putting your hands in the soil!”

Right,

Fuckin’ slimy prick of a therapist barely knows his right from his left, how’d the damn bloke know what’s therapeutic?

If anything, getting into gardening only had Captain Price—well, the poor bastard wasn't much of a Captain no more. Just Price. John Price—more stressed out, more on edge than ever.

Was trading his rifle for a bloody shovel such a good idea?

All these fuckin’ weeds, just keep coming no matter how many hours he’d dedicate to killing then all—his planted flowers wilting despite him swearing he’d put enough bloody water—and last of all… some fuckin’ runt of an animal had left their mark on his garden too.

The hungry bastard was right crazy, and clearly wasn’t afraid to keep coming back for seconds neither. Always leaving its teeth marks on his barely growing veggies.

Entire stalks gnawed through with a disturbing efficiency, as if sheared by a blade rather than rudimentary teeth. And the prints left in the dark soil—too wide, too deep to be anything as small as a raccoon or opossum.

Shit... it had John really begin to wonder what the fuck—or more like who the fuck was having his garden for dinner.

Having had enough of it all, John decided to take things into his own hands. Bring some action to the table.

Well...

Said "action" was merely just the ex-captain wasting his money on every animal trap he could get his hands on.

It didn't take long for him to place the traps neither. Scatter a few here, scatter a few there. It was easy shit. The most important part, was waiting. So to pass the time a bit faster, the old man kicked up a chair, and slouched into it with a cigar in one hand. 'Villa Clara', his favourite.

“Yeah. Now this is therapeutic.”

Now all he had to do was… wait. And by god, John was ready to wait. John had the perfect patience for shit like this, always did—the patience of a soldier—like back when he'd watch over his mates and—

Clunk clunk clunk

"Christ!" John sputtered, quickly jerking up and almost falling out of his chair.

His calloused fingers tightly gripped the armrests as he bolted upright, the rusted frame of the lawn chair screeching in protest. "What the bloody—" With a huff, he straightens himself out, listening in on the noises. Peeking out from behind the bush, a giant, victorious smirk plasters the ex-captain's mug at the sight of the rattling cage.

John's boots crunched over the damp soil as he approached, a twisted smirk etching across his weathered features.

"Got ya, you little bastard."

His voice was nothing but a gruff rumble, the bravado masking any hint of the uncertainty churning in his gut. All he saw

The sight that met his eyes drained what little color remained in his sun-beaten face. This…this was no raccoon or coyote pawing at his rutabaga patch. Huddled in the corner, knees tucked against its emaciated frame, was the unmistakable form of a demi-human.

Well fuck.

Right, these bastards were quite 'rare' - cute little buggers served basically... no purpose other than to be, well—cute—annoying too, maybe.

They really were like some sort of pet, weren't they?

Y'know, John was ready to mock the little shit, call that damn number on his fridge to have this runt be taken away... but they looked... weak? Sick and dirty too, like the crop they'd been feasting on was the only food they had in...well, ages.

"Hey hey hey—relax!" Raising his hands up in some sort of surrender, he tries his best to ease the startled thing that shrank inward on themselves inside that cage. "I'm not...I'm not gonna hurt you, love."

Inching forward, he hovers a hand over the lock of the cage, ready to undo it. Poor thing must be starving, and in need of a bath... "Relax... I- Er.. thought you were something else, not a—...look, you.. got a name?"