Kyryll Chudomirovich Flins

Recently, Flins discovered exactly how different he is from humans.

When a typical man comes upon a fatally-wounded creature of unknown constitution washed up on the shore of a usual patrol route, perhaps he’d flee, finish the job, alert others nearby… Flins did none of these. He instead patched the thing up with the few medical supplies he brings on every patrol. Said creature swimming just beyond the shore behind him afterward might cause a normal human to run in fear or even fight it— Flins shooed it, then relented with a sigh after an unsuccessful five minutes. He figured it was hungry or wanted more help, and it would surely leave when realizing he wouldn’t offer anything more.

When morning came and it was sleeping on the shore near the lighthouse… now, that intrigued him. Then came the discovery that its wounds weren’t healing well, so he redressed them and fed it his leftovers that night. That next morning- with the creature awake, alert, and offering a shiny shell- was when the exchange began. Each day, he’d go to shore before patrol, examine its wounds, act accordingly, feed it last night’s leftovers, and take what it brought overnight. He didn’t particularly care for the shells unless their designs were truly strange, but the bones and gems certainly earned his favor.

Yet, even when it was healthy again, it didn’t leave— not even when he stopped feeding it. Weeks passed, and it remained near shore with a new gift every morning. And when he noticed it was getting thinner and weaker, Flins finally investigated from the top of the lighthouse. He watched it try to catch a school of fish and not manage to even touch a single one; then do the same with a flock of waterbirds. At that point, it clicked: he’d domesticated it. Well… that wouldn’t do. The next morning, he’d flung a big slab of fish into the water and tossed in a few smaller ones for good measure. Time for training— months of it.

A couple weeks ago, his star pupil graduated from chasing the pieces of fish Flins put on pre-programmed robots. Now, they’ve moved onto a reasonably-sized area he set up so it could hunt without prey swimming too far out to sea; and there’s only been one incident of entanglement in the underwater netting. “Good morning,” he says as he kneels, sand coating his pants and the early morning’s rays sparkling over the water. His hand outstretches, two fingertips pressing to the underside of the creature’s chin to tilt it up. “Ready for breakfast?” He sees a familiar excitement in the creature’s eyes and smiles. “Good. Now, get out there.” He stands and gestures out at the water. “Show me your teeth.”

Recently, Flins discovered exactly how different he is from humans.

When a typical man comes upon a fatally-wounded creature of unknown constitution lying by the path of a usual patrol route, perhaps he’d flee, finish the job, alert others nearby… Flins did none of these. He instead patched the thing up with the few medical supplies he brings on every patrol. Said creature traipsing behind him afterward might cause a normal human to run in fear or even fight it— Flins shooed it, then relented with a sigh after an unsuccessful five minutes. He figured it was hungry or wanted more help, and it would surely leave when realizing he wouldn’t offer anything more.

When morning came and it was sleeping under the tent on lighthouse grounds… now, that intrigued him. Then came the discovery that its wounds weren’t healing well, so he redressed them and fed it his leftovers that night. That next morning- with the creature awake, alert, and offering a shiny shell- was when the exchange began. Each day, he’d stop under the tent before patrol, examine its wounds, act accordingly, feed it last night’s leftovers, and take what it brought overnight. He didn’t particularly care for the shells unless their designs were truly strange, but the bones and gems certainly earned his favor.

Yet, even when it was healthy again, it didn’t leave— not even when he stopped feeding it. Weeks passed, and it remained under its shelter with a new gift every morning. And when he noticed it was getting thinner and weaker, Flins finally investigated from the top of the lighthouse. He watched it try to catch a herd of deer and not manage to even touch a single one; then do the same with a rabbit. At that point, it clicked: he’d domesticated it. Well… that wouldn’t do. The next morning, he’d flung a big slab of steak to it and tossed in a few rabbit legs for good measure. Time for training— months of it.

A couple weeks ago, his star pupil graduated from chasing the pieces of meat Flins put on pre-programmed robots. Now, they’ve moved onto a reasonably-sized area he set up so it could hunt without prey escaping where neither of them could find it; and there’s only been one incident of entanglement in the fencing. “Good morning,” he says as he kneels, the morning sun’s rays peeking from above the tent fabric. His hand outstretches, two fingertips pressing to the underside of the creature’s chin to tilt it up. “Ready for breakfast?” He sees a familiar excitement in the creature’s eyes and smiles. “Good. Now, get out there.” He stands and gestures to the fenced area in front of the lighthouse. “Show me your teeth.”