A semi-sequel to my other fic Solitude, done for my world building class. As always constructive criticism is welcomed!

The first light of day shimmered off of the cave's stone entrance, lighting it's interior with a clean, warm light. Steve came to lazily, taking the time to stretch every limb and pop every joint before getting to his feet. After a breakfast of cold meat and somewhat stale bread he folded up his bed roll, shouldered his ore heavy backpack and stepped out into the bright forest. He had lost track of time the day before and decided to err on the side of caution, shack up in the cave and walk back to his home in the morning. He felt shockingly well rested, despite sleeping on hard stone with only a chicken feather mat to lay on. The sun warmed him in just the right way to put a spring in his step and he took long deep breaths of the birch scented air. As he made his way towards the edge of the forest, however, something was off.

It started as a small niggling in his brain, the kind that one gets when being watched, then the bird song steadily grew silent, even the hush of the leaves felt muted. Steve found himself becoming hyper aware of his surroundings, jumping at every snapped twig and sudden flash of sunlight. Then he began to smell it, fishy and metallic, something was very off. Hand on his weapon, Steve moved towards the source of the odor, a nearly perfect oval, free of trees barely a few hundred feed ahead.

The grass in the clearing was drenched in red and the stench had become cloying. At first Steve assumed that some wolves had taken down one of the wild cattle or sheep but the grove was bare of any remains, if it truly had been wolves there would surely be bones and offal scattered about.

A soft gurgling sound caused the man to jump, hand instinctively curling around the well worn hilt of his sword. Was this some sort of trap? The tanned man's eyes darted around the clearing, sweeping the area for monsters when he saw a flicker of movement down by his foot. He glanced down to see a tiny mottled green form. It was free of blood, as if it had been licked clean…

Carefully, as to not injure the… thing, Steve nudged the form with the tip of his boot, the thing struggled weakly but relented as it was turned over. He was met with a pair of beady black eyes and a frown. The miner sucked in a breath.

A creeper. A tiny creeper.

For a moment he couldn't move, paralyzed with something akin to shock as the little creature began to breath harder at his feet. Once the miner regained control of his limbs and without taking his eyes off of the creeper, he took three large steps back before relaxing his stance. The small creeper wriggled helplessly where it lay, four stumpy legs kicking.

…Something about the creeper wasn't quite right, Steve observed. With one last glance around the clearing to ensure their was nothing trying to sneak up on him, the miner stepped forwards and knelt down to examine the little body closer. Its chest was simply wrong, a large, alien mass hung off of its ribcage and below that was an ugly, seeping wound. That's why it was left by whatever had birthed it. The deformed thing blinked at the man above it in a manor that seemed almost pleading, if the bizarre kamikaze monsters were even capable of that emotion…

He should kill it, it was the humane thing to do. There was no way it wasn't in pain. The miner reached for his sword when an unfamiliar sensation lanced through his chest, squeezing his heart like a vice, a sensation that he had blocked out months ago (or was it years now).

I can't.

His brain tried to force him to draw his blade and end the thing's short, sad, painful existence. But his heart, his heart stayed his hand. He had seen death before, he had been the cause of death more times than he can count. The man had even killed his fair share of adult creepers but this creeper, this creeper with its malformed body and pitiful cries, the thought of hurting it made him sick to his stomach. He knew that leaving it where it lie was too cruel, it would either be picked apart by birds and wolves or suffer starvation. There was really only one option left, to take it back to the base.

What did he know of the creepers? They were territorial, they exploded thanks to the gunpowder-like substance in their bellies. He now knew that they gave birth to live young. Beyond that, Steve had no knowledge of the things. What did they eat? Did they eat at all? Could it be trained? Could he safely keep this creature if it did survive? God knows it would never last in the wild if it became too aggressive to keep.

A strangled peep pleaded by his boot. Godamnit…

He scooped up the little body with one hand making the creeper utter a tiny babbling noise. The little body felt too delicate for such a fierce creature, it's skin thin and loose and textured somewhat like a peach. Steve brought the creeper closer to his chest, holding it like he would a human child and resumed his treck with an urgent pace, knocking away grabbing branches with his iron blade.

Steve's mind was racing as he hoofed it back to base, trying to cobble together some sort of plan. Back on Hawaii his mother had been a pug breeder and was always enlisting her sons help to take care of the squat little things, maybe this little whelp wouldn't be too different, but that was for after the weeping gash was healed. He had a medical kit, however modest, back in one of his storage chests. He had a glass bubble of honey, splints, needles and some cotton bandages but not much else. This was fine for small cuts and splinters but would it be enough for the little creeper? Steve frowned as he waded through a river, of course it would be enough, he had kept himself alive for so long, hadn't he?

The sun was almost at it's peak when Steve began to cross over into his usual stomping grounds. Axe marked trees with ever burning torches guided the miner through thick undergrowth, along a well walked deer path towards the warm light and familiarity of the cliff side hovel. When he reached his no-longer-as-humble home the man didn't even bother to stop and check his growing farm, instead choosing to bee-line for the door and the warmth of his cave-made-house. The sound of the heavy wood door shutting startled the little creature at his chest, causing it to squirm and cry out.

"Hush, hush." Steve murmured in a gentle voice he forgot he could use.

Thinking quickly, the Hawaiian native set his creeper on the bed, tossed his pack and tools into the nearest corner and headed right for one of the large chests by the forge. Inside was a microwave sized box filled his medical supplies, cotton bandages and a glass bubble of dark honey. Steve brought the box over to his bed and began to tend to the gash under the bizarre growth. Pulling the stopper on the bubble, he dipped two fingers into the honey, scooping out a good chunk of the syrupy stuff and slathered the wound. The creeper whelp squeaked as its torn skin was rubbed.

"You're fine, little guy. I'm keeping the germs out." Steve explained, more to himself than to his patient. The miner then cleaned his fingers off in a pail of clean, cool water he had left the day before and began wrapping the wound in the rough cloth, being sure to tie it snugly. Satisfied with his work, Steve turned his attention to the fireplace, kneeling to ignite the flames. It was late Spring and, for Steve at least, the fireplace would fall into disuse until Fall rolled around, but if the creeper was anything like his moms puppies he knew that it needed to be warm.

Warmth permeated the cave like a strong perfume and Steve went back to the open chest, grabbing a pile of neatly folded wool blankets from where they were stored and dumping them by the hearth. He arranged them into a nest before gently lifting the little form and depositing it in the center of the soft mound. He stared at the creature for a moment and it stared strait back not unlike the others of it's kind that once peered through his windows at night. But this was different; the frowning faces of adult creepers were full of malice, their eyes like dim lumps of coal, this little whelp's eyes were just as dark but not dull. With one gentile finger, Steve stroked the whelp's head and it seemingly pressed upwards into the contact like a puppy. Yes, this one was special.

Satisfied with the impromptu nest and bandages for now, Steve lifted himself from the floor. He grabbed the water pail before heading out to tend the animals he had left the day before.

Evening was creeping up on the horizon by the time the miner returned to his home, fresh water in hand. The creeper was silently curled on the blankets, little ribcage expanding and contracting unevenly, if he was silent an unnerving crackling could be heard one that wasn't coming from the embers in the furnace. Oh Christ. In less than a minute Steve was cradling the creeper whelp with one hand and holding a well used wooden spoon in the other.

Steve took the creeper's head in his hand and pinched (gently) at the hinge of its jaws and tipping the contents of the spoon into the open mouth. Working its little tongue, the whelp choked the water down and a flood of relief eased the tension that had overtaken the miner. Suddenly the creeper sputtered and struggled before ceasing to make sounds all together, the man felt his body tighten like a bowstring. After a moment of silence the tiny body convulsed with a cry and the liquid came right back up.

"Please, just…"

He didn't even bother to finish. The dark specter of reality was closing over him, snuffing out the tiny flicker of hope (hope for what?) that he has been nursing since he had taken the whelp in his hands. The sight of the ugly thing suddenly made him sick with pure disgust. How could he have been so selfish, he wasn't a vet, he wasn't a biologist, hell, he wasn't even CPR certified, what made him think that he could do any thing but prolong the suffering of this despondent little creature? Stupid, greedy Steve.

In his hand the creeper had begun to whimper in protest of being held so roughly, squirming its long torso making the growth swing and the bandages loosen. It only lasted a few seconds before the green creature had expended the last of its strength and hung loosely in the mans grip. Stupid, stupid, stupid.

With a weak twitch, the creeper seemed to settle itself on Steve's chest, moving so that it was curled with where Steve assumed its ear was over his heart. Through the fabric of his shirt, the miner could feel the little thing's quick shallow breaths and warm skin. Carefully, the man brought one of his callused palms to cover its quaking form. It could have been his imagination but the miner could have sworn the little whelps frantic panting slowed down just a fraction at the contact. He stayed like that for several minutes, mind blank of everything but the life slipping away over his heart.

Alone

Alone again…

Steve felt sleep pulling at his eyes, just as the warmth on his chest pulled at his heart and he sunk into unconsciousness feeling more content than he had since he landed in this hellhole of a place. He held on to it, even in the morning when the little scrap of a creeper had gone cold and still.