TICK
I've been strong every day of my life
The world still didn't make sense.
Tickpaw didn't understand how he'd ended up here, in this place that reeked of unfamiliar scents, caught somewhere between darkness and light. It wasn't the mill. It wasn't the suffocating heat of pressed bodies, the fear of disappearing, of never waking up again. But it wasn't safe either. Not yet. His limbs ached, and his fur was unkempt, but he was alive. Somehow. Maybe it was luck. Maybe it was something else. He didn't know. All he knew was that he should have been dead. He should have stayed in that bag, still and quiet like so many others had. But he hadn't. His body had fought. He had clawed and bitten and struggled, driven by something beyond sense, desperation, instinct, stubbornness.
Now he was here. Alive, but angry. Afraid.
Tickpaw pressed himself against the wall, orange eyes narrowed into slits as his hackles bristled. His torn ear flicked at the faint sound of pawsteps. His heart pounded, but he held his ground. Then... " Flea…? " His voice was hoarse, rough from disuse, from exhaustion. " Is that you…? "
His breath hitched. Hope and fear twisted together in his chest, tangled like briars. If this was a dream, he didn't want to wake up.
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