Locustkit sneezes. It is a sharp, whole-body thing, the kind that makes their ears flatten and their paws skid a little on the packed dirt beneath their paws. Dust puffs up. The sound echoes, small but dramatic, and for a brief moment Locustkit freezes, wide-eyed, as if the sneeze itself has startled them. Then it happens again. And again. A series of miserable, squeaky sneezes rattles out of their tiny chest.
From a distance, it must look alarming. Locustkit's nose is scrunched, whiskers trembling, eyes glossy with offended tears. They sniff, inhale too hard, and immediately sneeze once more, head jerking downward as if bowing to something unseen. Their tail flicks in clear irritation. Whatever unseen force has afflicted them is persistent. Locustkit sits back on their haunches and lifts one paw, pressing it solemnly to their nose. They sniff again—carefully this time. It does not help. The tickling, burning sensation remains, and Locustkit lets out a soft, wounded chirr as though personally betrayed by the world.
They tilt their head upward, squinting toward the light. For a heartbeat, their expression grows thoughtful rather than distressed. Sneezes, Locustkit has decided, are signs. Small ones, maybe, but signs all the same. The body does not rebel without reason. Something unseen has brushed against them. Something has noticed. Another sneeze interrupts the thought. With a tiny grunt of effort, Locustkit leans forward and paws at their nose again. A dry, pale stalk of tall grass pokes out just slightly, stiff and ridiculous against the dark fur of their muzzle. Locustkit blinks at it, cross-eyed, as if trying to look directly at the source of their suffering. They sniff. The grass quivers. "Oh," Locustkit murmurs, voice muffled and reverent, as though they have uncovered a sacred truth.
From a distance, it must look alarming. Locustkit's nose is scrunched, whiskers trembling, eyes glossy with offended tears. They sniff, inhale too hard, and immediately sneeze once more, head jerking downward as if bowing to something unseen. Their tail flicks in clear irritation. Whatever unseen force has afflicted them is persistent. Locustkit sits back on their haunches and lifts one paw, pressing it solemnly to their nose. They sniff again—carefully this time. It does not help. The tickling, burning sensation remains, and Locustkit lets out a soft, wounded chirr as though personally betrayed by the world.
They tilt their head upward, squinting toward the light. For a heartbeat, their expression grows thoughtful rather than distressed. Sneezes, Locustkit has decided, are signs. Small ones, maybe, but signs all the same. The body does not rebel without reason. Something unseen has brushed against them. Something has noticed. Another sneeze interrupts the thought. With a tiny grunt of effort, Locustkit leans forward and paws at their nose again. A dry, pale stalk of tall grass pokes out just slightly, stiff and ridiculous against the dark fur of their muzzle. Locustkit blinks at it, cross-eyed, as if trying to look directly at the source of their suffering. They sniff. The grass quivers. "Oh," Locustkit murmurs, voice muffled and reverent, as though they have uncovered a sacred truth.
