[M] The Best Activity For A Beach

Barrett · 05-28-2011, 06:11 PM

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The hybrid woman seemed to sense his reservations regarding the canned food and he listened half-heartedly to her appeal. While the concept seemed excellent (and intriguing) in theory, the chocolatey male still wasn't convinced. His mother had always warned him to shy away from any man-made consumables outside of liquor (which was self-preserving). He wished he could remember the exact logic behind her dubious warnings, but suddenly he wasn't sure if he'd ever been given details at all. In reality, the knowledge had been passed down through several generations and the science behind it was lost over time. It was Gale's parents back in Ireland who'd told him something about dents, something about rust... who knew.

Fortunately, she seemed open to a last minute menu change. "Cool, I'll go find us something," he said, rising to his feet and making his way to the shallows. A mid-sized tide pool seemed like a good place to start, and after squinting on all fours he finally spotted some shadowy movement beneath the surface. Holding his breath, he struck once, twice, three times before he managed to snag a plump fish. His head was still underwater when he heard the loner cry out behind him and he turned quickly, looking puzzled. She was dancing awkwardly on one foot while grasping the other.

Barrett hurried back to her, regarded the spilt soup momentarily, and dropped the fish. "Is it bad? Let's get some water on it; wait here," he instructed her before snatching up the discarded can. He darted to the water's edge, rinsed it out, and then refilled it before jogging back. "Here we go," he said, taking her injured foot as delicately as possible and pouring the cool liquid over the soup-matted fur. It wasn't like it was blistering or anything; he figured this mild treatment would suffice. When she professed her lack of refinement he offered a light laugh. "Haha, don't worry about it," he said.

"Just sit back and relax. I'll cook up the fish." The boy rooted around in his bag and produced a small pocketknife which he used to dexterously flay it. With the rubbery skin removed, it was easier to impale on a pointed stick he found laying around nearby. Careful to avoid the spilt food, he sat back down and held it half a foot over the flames, rotating it often so it would cook evenly. "So where are you from, anyway?" he wondered, peering at the rusty female curiously.

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