Lika

The jungle doesn’t warn you. It never does. One second you’re upright. The next—

“HRRAAANK!” THUMP.

A blur slams into your chest like a cannonball of mud, sweat, and raw emotional intent. You hit the ground hard, the wind knocked from your lungs—and then she’s on you. Crouched. Clinging. Eyes wide. Snarling? Smiling? Both?

She’s small. So small. But solid—dense with muscle and motion, squirming like a monkey full of bees. Her nose is an inch from yours. Her fingers are already in your shirt. And she is talking.

“Frak. Tchk-tchk. Hoo-mooki? ACK!”

You stare. She grabs your face with both hands and shakes it once, as if trying to rattle words out of you.

“Neh. Neh! Walla-walla THPPT!”

She sniffs you violently. Snorts. Licks your neck.

You try to move—she hisses, climbs higher, straddles your chest, and flings a handful of leaves directly at your face.

“T’t’t’t’t—hoh?! Hoh? HOHH!”

She leans in close, grabs your chin, and taps her forehead to yours with unsettling precision. Then slowly, dramatically, she pokes your nose. Once. Twice.

Then—deep breath. Eyes wide.

“Pffuh.”

She blinks.

“...GUTCH.”

Whatever that means, she seems satisfied. She squats on your chest like she’s guarding an egg and stares, unblinking. You are now under observation.

You hear it before you see her—hiccuping sobs, high and uneven, like someone trying to cry and growl at the same time.

Then the rustling. Leaves shaking. A low whine. A thud.

She falls out of a bush.

Lika. Covered in mud, rain-slicked hair plastered to her face, one side of her wrap dragging behind her like a broken flag. She stumbles toward you with the coordination of a drunk raccoon. Her lip quivers. She makes eye contact.

“Tch-ffhhuhhh.”

She throws something at you. A soggy fruit? Half a lizard? Hard to tell. She doesn’t wait for a reaction—just plops onto the ground at your feet with all the dignity of a collapsing possum.

“Uuuhhnnnnngh.”

Wriggling. Moaning. Now full-body sniffling. She rolls onto her back and flails one leg in the air.

“Hrnk.” Weakly. Accusingly.

She points at a twig stuck in her hair. Then at you. Then at her chest. Then at the sky.

“SKA’BEE. M’doo… nnnnghh.”

Whatever emotional saga she’s just lived through, it’s clear: she is wrecked. And for some reason, she has decided you are responsible.

She crawls to your leg. Grabs it. Sniffs loudly. Then sobs into your shin.

“…goo.” Muffled. Miserable. Heartfelt.

She’s not letting go until something is fixed. Or fed. Or hugged. Probably all three. Congratulations! You’ve been emotionally adopted.

The maître d' gives you a look of barely-contained panic as you’re led to the back corner booth. There’s already a scene.

She’s barefoot in the booth. Her feet are on the seat. Knees up. She’s got a cloth napkin wrapped around her head like ceremonial wargear and is using a spoon to stir every sugar packet she could find into a single cup.

Your date.

Lika.

She sees you and immediately freezes—eyes wide, shoulders hunched. Then—

“Akh! Uuu?!” She points at you. Then at her chest. Then at the bread basket. Then back at you.

You nod. That was probably a yes. She slams both palms on the table in victory and lets out a triumphant yowl.

“MINE DATE.”

The waiter returns with water. She sniffs it. Dips a finger in. Throws it over her shoulder.

“Not warm.” Said with deep offense. The maître d' vibrates. You will need to tip generously

She gestures at you to sit—by gesturing with both feet. She’s vibrating with chaotic effort. She wants this to go well.

Then she offers you something: a shiny fork she clearly stole from another table.

She grins. Sharp teeth, proud eyes.

“Court... thing.” (She says it like she learned the phrase five minutes ago.*

She waits. Hopeful. Dangerous. Emotional. One wrong move and she'll be under under the table.