Bretonia's Great Purge

[jammi]

[font=Courier New]The trees clustered tight around the pool, leaning in over the water. Creepers hung from some of their branches, trailing their tips in the crystal clear water. A small stream trickled over the lip of the rock face the little lake bordered, tumbling down as a miniature waterfall. Save for the stream'€™s disturbance, the water was still now. Flailing at the very bottom of the pool, a small black smudge could just about be seen; the occasional bubble lazily floated up from it to languidly pop on the surface. A short distance above, the pseudo-monkeys leaped from tree to tree around the pond's perimeter.

The shape burst gagging and retching from the pool, having clawed along the bottom to the bank. It wore an extremely sodden BAF jumpsuit, with a face that was almost entirely concealed by a crop of matted hair and a huge bushy beard. Thick black hair even adorned the backs of its hands. It coughed again, bringing up more water, then collapsed on a warm rock it'd scrabbled onto. Here it stayed for several hours, mostly unconscious, until one of the monkeys decided to see what all the fuss was about and hopped onto the colourful newcomer's chest.

The shape voided a small scream and punched it off. The creature took off shrieking, a refrain its fellows soon adopted in sympathy. Groggily, amid the occasional shower of flung faeces, the shape sat up and looked about. '€œBollocks to ye all,'€ it muttered to itself despondently. Sir Marcus Aquinas and the bloody RSPCA were the bain of his life '€“ shortly after the snot-faced little weasel had outlawed '€œanthomorphs'€, a team of steroid pumped BIS goons had kicked down the door to his hotbunk on the Derby, and pulled him out. Several hours sat in a cage later, he'€™d been hit with a stun-baton and tossed out of an airlock into a lake. Not the best of days.

A particularly wet lump of dung splattered off his shoulder as he sat wringing his hands on the shore, darkly contemplating what he would do to the right honourable MP when he got his hands on him. Probably something involving breeding hormones, a colony of rabbits and a pair of handcuffs. However, before he could do that he'€™d have to find out where he was, and where the closest spaceport was. Resigned to a long walk, he slowly stood, hacking and coughing like an asthmatic in the process. There had to be people somewhere. Slowly, he set off into the undergrowth, leaving the primates to triumphantly heckle his retreat.

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