The rain seeped into his scalp, his coat stuck to his sinewy body. The woods were dark and dreary and deep, coaxing him further and further away from home, his little search party coming to stop near the old mill pond. A spider's web stretched between two blades of grass, the droplets from the misty haze of precipitation turning to glass in the tinny light. His chest felt heavy and hollow, as if his lungs were a burden within his rib cage. He felt nothing: food never tasted right, colours were absent, and even his sense of smell was lacking, only filled with the damp smell of water and earth. Heavy, hollow, colourless, tasteless, musty. Slate's amber eyes gleamed with nothing but burning ire, his stony facade having returned after the human he cared for had all but vanished, her whereabouts and ultimate fate unknown to him.

Ilam stirred the dirt beside him, leaf-litter slick from the sky's endless crocodile tears, the mud coating his feet. Slate wandered over toward the edges of the long-since empty, partially collapsed grain processing edifice. The rest of the group was settled amongst one another, huddled against the autumn chill, heads ducked as they spoke and made small-talk. They were reviewing evidence while their chief instructors explored the rest of the premises. It was human-made architecture, which had always been boring to look at until recently. Now, with nature claiming the earth as its own after a horrible battle against man, the woods were beginning to expand and feast upon once barren land. Moss and lichen choked everything in its path, emerald vegetation spreading like wildfire.

Slate disturbed a nesting rock pigeon, the bird taking flight in a panic and racing for safety. With a chuff, he raised a hand and warded off its vigorous wing beats, the concussive sound filling his ears. The floorboards of the old mill were stingy and beginning to bow, the concave ceiling and western wall allowing a steady stream of pooling water to fall to earth, along with slick tendrils of algae. The building stirred, the chimp following along behind in tandem. "Your brother," he rasped, drawing his attention as they split, scrounging for clues. Slate's head tilted up over his shoulder, raising one of the old floorboards, as if his hulking sibling could be hiding there.

'He has gone mad.'

"He has managed to," Slate paused, grunting within his throat, speaking drily to his companion. "Flee like.. a coward."

Ilam's amused bray hit the air. 'Much like Koba.'

The mention of his father had become something he was indifferent to, especially since the entire issue of Pine's sudden homicidal actions arose. Slate could still feel Krissa's constricting throat, hear her strangled cries as he held what little of her blood he could within her lacerated neck. 'Too much like him,' he agreed. Even after it had been four days since the incident, he still awoke each morning with that nagging fear, hoping that she would be dozing beside his sister in the next nest over, and that he hadn't watched her nearly bleed to death before his very eyes.

"Poppy," his companion piped up. His hands moved with hesitance, unsure if he should be bringing up his timid sibling at this moment. The petite female had not spoken a word to anybody, whatsoever, not even to old Maurice. 'Is she talking at all?'

Taking a deep breath in through his nose, he did not dignify the chimp's question with an answer. Those thoughts about his sister- the ones about how she could have been connected all along, the ones where he could not even trust his dear sister, the ones where he sometimes found himself wondering if perhaps Pine had not threatened her innocent soul into silence - they grew thick and heavy in his coarse fur. It was as if he had been spattered with hot beeswax and he was struggling to tug it out without losing hair or bleeding. The subject that was Poppy was something he wished to keep on the sidelines. His main concern: the devil that was his brother. Slate crept along to one of the doors, hanging unceremoniously upon its eroding hinges. Dusty remains of human bones were tucked off in the corner in the neck room. A mouse skittered across the floor, as large as his palm.

Normally, Slate would have had the urge to crush the creature, but instead, he allowed it to scuttle away, safe and sound. Just as he did with Krissa. The very thought made his belly turn. The chinobo heard some, whom he was assuming was Ilam, push his way into the room, standing bipedal behind him as he examined the mess of detritus in the corner. Slate's ears pricked and his head tilted slightly in order to allow him to listen. "We should be moving," the older ape explained, swaying over to rest a moist and cool hand upon his shoulder.

'Gather them,' he concurred, head bobbing as his nose twitched. A low rumble of thunder rolled overhead, and he had to wonder, could Krissa hear it? They were under the same sky, were they not? Was she even still breathing? Retrieving his spear from where it had leaned beside the skull he had examined, he palmed a piece of vertebra from the unknown being, his thumb rubbing the rough, almost chalky texture, the marrow blanched and porous from years of exposure to the elements. Who would tell his story when he was gone, he wondered, and if he left too soon... Slate found himself stepping outside of the building, pausing with one paw cradling his newfound treasure. His eyes found the vegetation, the pines turned a rich and irriguous shade of umber.

It was still: the wind absent, the leaves motionless, the birds silent.

His hair stood on end. Something deep within his chest arose: some sort of carnal instinct, his head bobbing as he eyed his surroundings, knowing well that he was being watched. Slate had been waiting for this moment. A crackling flame grew hotter and hotter in his belly with each idle moment, scalding his insides. All sound had stopped, his mind focusing on the tiniest disturbances within the undergrowth. Patches of clovers stirred and Slate jolted, wheeling around. Nothing but thin air.

"You've changed," came a whistling voice. Chills raced up and down his spine. Titling his head, the chinobo grew uncomfortable. His heart pounded hard within his chest, repeating his brother's unholy, tainted name, and yet it had not been him to speak. Slate was alone, was he not? The air smelled damp and fresh as it had before. There was no musk, nor was there the tang of blood that assaulted the back of his throat. Nothing, then all at once, something. Feet along the grass, a crouched frame hunching over behind him. An illusion, he knew, as he turned himself to gaze upon the partially visible frame of Koba. The bonobo's teeth gleamed. This was not a dream. 'See human as ape. What happened to you, son?'

'I grew up,' he pointed out, startled at first before his blood eventually began to simmer. His entire body was rigid. 'You are not real.'

'Yet you answer me?' Koba shot back, clearly amused by this, given away by the taunting smirk plastered to his marred features. His scars were revolting, his own blood tacky upon his dark skin. Slate's lips peeled back, glowering at his father. This was all his fault. He was the reason Pine was like this. He had lived to become him, to follow in his footsteps and to wreak havoc. Perhaps the stories of guts and glory had knocked a few of Pine's already loose screws out of place. "It's in.. your blood."

Slate stepped toward his father, rising slightly in height. Dominance, testosterone, intimidation. The opposing male matched his height, as if he were merely his reflection. "To kill?"

'To make them pay.' Crack. Shattered panes of glass. Images of red hair flashed through his mind, buzzing between his ears and causing him to flinch back. His eyes peeled open momentarily to stare upon the sight of his father now sitting with his back to him, a waterfall of auburn tumbled across the grass in front of him. The bloodied hand of a pale woman was partially visible. Caesar was knelt facing him, his expression gaunt and hollow, his hazel eyes slowly rising to fall upon the chinobo standing a foot away, barely swaying as he stood bipedal-

Somebody brushed the back of his shoulder and the male flinched, amber eyes moist with emotion. A snarl ripped from his throat, his fangs clicking as he fended off his pursuer. Ilam's head drew away and his flat lips peeled back, stumbling a few steps back and coming to stand further away. The other members of the small patrol stared, exchanging wary glances.

One of them, an orangutan, signed cautiously in his direction. He offered a hand directly after, just as one would to one of the council members. It struck him for a moment, startling him. Were they afraid of him? 'Is something wrong?'

At first the others visibly held themselves at a submissive stature, up until their second leader rose to match Slate's height. "Staring," he mumbled soothingly, his raspy voice like smoke off a lake. "At nothing. Talking to.. thin air."

There was absolutely nothing more he could say. Slate pushed past the group, shaking his head as he came to all fours once more. His followers meandered after, a chilly breeze like none they had felt before stirring their coats.

They kept looking.