Technically, he's not sneaking out of camp. He's walking out, brave and bold where everyone can see him. Everyone but his mother, but she's always busy. He has privileges, this tiny patchwork kit with a streak of arrogance far too big for his body to contain.
He spends a few minutes in the forest at most. It's a sensory overload, all these smells, the rich sights and the loud sounds. Something twitches near his paw; he glances down, spotting some green insect with bowed legs. The kit pokes it cautiously, and it hops out of his reach. He scoffs at this. For him, nothing is untouchable.
He swaggers after it and spears it with several thorn-sharp kit claws, smirking. Picking it up, he decides he'll show his mother. So he ends his outing early, strolling back to camp with the insect clamped between his teeth. She's sitting near her den, conversing in low tones with the pale-furred deputy. He saunters up to the pair of them; Iceface glances at him with dull, bored eyes.
"Not now, Strongkit." She barely looks at him, but irritation flashes across her face.
So he walks away, and learns not to be disappointed. Learns that it's not now, not ever.