The dark shape of a primate sat comfortably upon a lone leaning tree against a pale cerise sky, staring out at the lapping shore and the distant over-grown frame of the Golden Gate Bridge. Below was a young woman, dressed in fresh jean shorts and a shirt of the palest blue, her feet bare and her shoes settled beside her in the sand. A small fire smouldered away, dying to embers, the second chimp beside her finishing the remnants of their breakfast. Their journey had been long and tiring, yet they had persisted instead of turning around, the three finding that gazing upon the long-abandoned and empty city in the distance to be enough of a reward. The girl looked up at the male outcross, gazing wistfully off at the towering skyscrapers and the decimated windows. It wouldn't be long before they reached the end of their journey and went through with the duty they had come to fulfil.

Winter had come and passed, the newly-devised Island Colony finding that adjusting to their new home hadn't been so difficult in the long run. In fact, with travel across the lake becoming easier thanks to the boats that Molly had left behind, it had been almost too easy. Krissa, of course, had to teach the apes to steer and sail, but in spite of this, Slate watched his small tribe grow and adapt with little trouble. They listened to her, and they followed her just as they would any leader. He often found himself reflecting on her ceremony and final acceptance into their ranks, back in the frigid days of sleet and gales that often tended to whip up around the lake. It felt like a distant memory, their courtship following his confession only natural for the two of them. Liepa had become something of an adoptive child to the two of them, despite Slate's original discomfort toward the idea. There was no possible way that Krissa could bear his young- it was simple. They were from two different species, regardless of how closely related they were in kind.

The chinobo wondered, at times, whether this saddened the ravenette, yet never saw any sort of damper in her mood when they would come to discuss it. Liepa was enough for her, which made him happy. It wasn't entirely easy in other segments of their relationship either: the two of them were both hard-headed and prone to arguments, but in the end they would turn to each other in the evening and whisper about the times before. She'd make him laugh, or he'd make her smile, or they'd say nothing at all and simply hold one another, silently apologising. He found himself opening up to her completely, like a blossom finally coming to fruition, spilling everything whether he intended to or not. Some things came in blips, some in pools of ink, ever growing. Krissa saw his insecurities and she made the best of them, and in turn he tried his best to do so just the same. They were different, yet they worked like clock-work together.

It wasn't until one evening, back in early spring, that he had sat her down and discussed the topic of his father again. Krissa had crossed her legs and listened, eyes trained on him like two pits of glittering jade, intelligent and thoughtful. Her silence was appreciated. When he had finally allowed her to ask questions, they had been careful and well thought-out. She then brought up the topic of Mary, the woman's name scoring through him in one quick, cold, gouging claw. Maurice had told her everything, to his horror and disbelief, and she had hid that knowledge from him. Slate had been hurt by the fact that she hadn't let him know of this, but as she explained himself, he began to slowly understand. Granted, it had taken him a few days to come to terms with it, of course.

The afternoon it had finally understood, it had hit him hard, harder than any rutting buck. Slate had been alone, examining his father's spear while resting against the tree opposite of Krissa's father's rifle. The eldest outcross had focused upon the strands of auburn woven around its handle, along with the band of woven cloth he had tied back around it in loving memory, its violet and gold colour damaged and faded from years of blanching. Pine had taken the path that his father had without the severe heartbreak as added fuel. He had charged into the fray guns ablaze with nothing but only a sense of pure, ardent rage. Not only did he realised this, but Slate remembered Mary. He remembered her funeral. He remembered the mud and the rain.

For the briefest moment, he wondered what he would have done if he had followed that exact path; if history had repeated itself. It had, in its own unique way. The idea of having to bury Krissa, the idea of never seeing her face ever again, her electric gaze alive and glistening with life- it sent him back home, straight to her open arms. She hadn't been expecting him to bury his face into her neck, to breathe in her scent and relish it as if he had been apart from her for millennia. Slate even surprised himself when he had dragged her off to shower her in attention until she was breathless, to groom and braid her hair and to simply hold her.

That night he had woken up out of a dead sleep and laid eyes upon her face, peacefully and still. He remembered how fearful she had been of him when they had first ran into one another. In truth, he had been just as apprehensive. It hadn't been easy for him to come to trust her- not until he had seen her worth, her strength and her kindness that fateful day of their first hunt. Slate could replay it over and over again inside of his head and he would never lose interest in the way her arms and shoulders had moved when she would draw her weapon, nor in how dark her eyes had been when she had pulled him back to his feet before he could fall into the rapids that crashed and hissed hungrily around them. They had been in their own little world, it had seemed, that day. No soul would bother them, no animal or creature could top them, no natural force could separate them. From dawn until late afternoon they had worked together as a team, they had ran, they had hunted.

His breath had stirred her curls as he had pressed a kiss upon the top of her head, a soft and very sleepy sigh sounding in her throat as she settled closer to him. Something in the back of his mind suddenly stirred, and after a while of staring off into the inky black, the chinobo had made a decision. His eyes fell shut after some time.

Slate had told her he needed to return to his father's resting place during breakfast the next morning, and she had just about choked on her meal. 'Are you sure?' she had signed, gaping at him. Liepa, confused, looked between the two of them. 'That's days from here.'

'It's something I have to do,' he replied, head bobbing. His brows remained lowered, amber eyes resting confidently upon her emerald set. Obviously she doubted that it was a good idea. She had a point: the journey would be far from easy and it would take him nearly an entire moon cycle to get there, yet something inside him dragged him to the city in the south, back to the place he had been born. 'I'll have to visit Cornelius and Maurice, see what they have to say.'

Krissa had looked at him for a moment longer and sighed, shaking her head. She had said nothing more, eating in silence, although he could tell that the gears in her head were turning violently. She was upset with him, or, at least, unimpressed.

Maurice and the Ape Counsel were just as confused by his preposition. The prince implored that he remain home- his colony was small, after all, and still adjusting to their new home. Children were being born, coming-of-age ceremonies were going to need to be performed sooner than later, whether they were for apprentices or for those becoming fully-fledged hunters and scouts. It hadn't been until later that evening, while settled around the smouldering hearth and preparing to turn in for the night, that Rocket had asked his true reason for wanting to return.

'To pay respects to Caesar,' he had signed. It was his best excuse: most leaders would want to visit their king's resting place, so what made this any different?

Rocket had been sceptical. 'Seems more than wanting to see Caesar's grave,' he had cajoled, offering a slight sniff and a smirk. Slate felt as if he could see right through him, yet held his ground as always. 'Why want to travel that far?'

'Visiting home, returning to roots-'

'You are always a bad liar!'

Needless to say, it hadn't gone over well with the lieutenant whatsoever.

Rocket had insisted that he tell Cornelius, as well as that he lead them to San Francisco. Although it had been unwanted company on his journey, he had found that it had been incredibly useful, for he would have surely been lost and would have never returned home. At least, that is, he wouldn't have returned home alive. Krissa, on the other hand, had sweet-talked her way into go, her understanding of the city coming into play as well, seeing as she had grown up for a good portion of her life there. Somehow Slate, being the leader of his own blasted colony and a fully-fledged warrior, had been swayed by a pair of shamrock eyes.

Ridiculous.

Nonetheless, she read to them until they were all asleep, no matter the time or weather. It had kept their spirits up along the way. From snowball fights on the cliffs to swimming in the waterfall deep in the Muir Woods, it had all been worth it.

The small group meandered into the crumbling city in one wary clump, each exploring on their own as they travelled one-by-one. They passed street cars still attached to cables, ivy and other plants smothering every single shop and building in view. Window panes were shattered and cracked, dust coating every surface within untouched stores and human homes. Trees grew tall and proud along sidewalks and out of car windows, twisting and shaping naturally in order to swallow the city, little by little, up into its starving jaws. The earth was taking back what was rightfully her own. Slate was proud.

Rocket lead the way, down along the broken roads, stepping around chunks of blasted asphalt and stray tires, kicking pieces of newspaper out of the way that had been reduced to plaster upon the road and then dried in the hot summer sun. Krissa stuck close, but gaped widely at the memorable changes that had taken place during her absence. It was oddly concerning when Slate noticed how her eyes welled with tears, pausing near the rusted hinges of a broken door, long since destroyed during pillaging. Everything was falling to pieces around them with each growing day. It broke her heart, he could see it in her anger-drawn face. With a reassuring hand, he pulled her away and their journey continued.

It took them perhaps two hours to find their final destination.

Slate went in alone. The underground was caved in, so he climbed up the broken and mangled building, once a towering frame, now crushed like a piece of paper. Inside the carnage was a gap, an opening, big enough for a body to fit through. His stomach pitched as he took note of the deep, dark streak of crimson that stained the concrete platform beneath his feet. Slate eased his way carefully through the mutilated iron, its orange paint now completely replaced by rust. A few feet from the gap was another deep gouge below. He paused, gazing hard into the orifice in front of him, picturing his biological father spending his last moments crawling pitifully to die somewhere safe.

He then took a deep breath and crouched, climbing beneath the ferrous tomb.

The bones were as white as the moon, pale and sickening, curled in a final, painful position of sleep. Slate reached up and out of the crevice, retrieving Koba's spear and pulling it inside with himself. He sat there in the mouth of the entrance for the longest time, up until his tailbone grew numb and he didn't think his chest could grow any heavier. He sat and thought, thinking about the most distant memories of Koba and how he had treated he and his siblings. Once he felt nothing, once his thoughts ran still, the chinobo turned his head slowly and looked upon the bones one last time. With a steady hand and an flush of closure, Slate dragged his right hand up the shaft of his weapon and untied the band of cloth that Mary had left behind so long ago.

He untied it, rose and approached his father's body. One more long look, and he leaned down, draping the old, tattered material across the skull's gaping, empty eye sockets. His fingers hovered, resting upon what would have once been his father's glabella and his eyelids pressed shut. An ache passed through him, one last wave of pain.

Slate let go, and when he returned to his home on the lake, he never looked back.