TRANSCENDENCE 14

And so, Savannah decided, she needed something with a soul. It was an intricate plan that took an eternity of thinking - for her, at least. She spent the day in Tilandre, strolling around and peering for what attracted the most animals.

It was food, she discovered. Rich in scent and richer in taste. They didn't care for freshness or quality - whether it was aromatic or rank, the animals cared not. It could be rotting and the dumb dogs would stick their noses in it.

And food was easy to find. A childhood on the streets taught Savannah the best way to retrieve an easy and free dinner.

When the sun set and the shops closed, her plan went into action.
(Savannah)
She had learned the hard way that stealing out of dumpsters was frowned upon. A hard lashing from an angry shopowner had taught her her lesson, and so, Savannah learned to live in the night. She charged through the alleyways with a quick step, wrinkling her nose for the smelliest of dumpsters.

She also learned not to be squeamish.

Savannah dove straight in, searching for the source of the scent. It was pungent and rank, likely rotten food from an unpleased couple who had turned their noses up at the chef's offerings. Her strong nose led her to one trashbag in particular, in the top corner of the dumpster.

Looks like she wouldn't need to dig deep today. Her fingernails scrabbled at the thick plastic of the bag until the material tore and the goodies spilled out. It was strictly a bag of food she had found - something rare in the world of dumpsters.

But it was just what she needed.
(Savannah)
The pile of rotten food sits in the middle of a dead end. Savannah is perched atop a dumpster, silent and waiting.

What feels like an eternity passes and all Savannah sees are flies and the occasional ant. She makes no effort to shoo them away - there's always a chance something more suitable is creeping up and her movements could scare it off.

But finally, there's hope. She hears a scrabble at the edge of the alleyway, and a curious sniffle follows. The cat is quick and light on its feet but not slick enough to avoid the watchful eye of Savannah.

It heeds no caution as it approaches the pile of trash. In fact, it walks straight up to it - right into the trap.

And that's when the stream goes up.
(Savannah)
A stream of mist erupts from the ground where condensate has gathered - Savannah's steam is powerful and blinding, and if the cat dares to try to run past it, its paws are burnt. A started yowl bounces through the walls of the alleyway but she is quick to silence the thing.

She pounces. Her knees are on the edges of the cat's torso and a hand presses down on its back - at the apex of its shoulderblades where it cannot reach. Its claws scrabble at the ground and a series of frustrated hisses and spits escape its mouth but she is unrelenting, she will not move.

This may be Savannah's only chance, and she isn't about to let it go easily.
(Savannah)
Her grip on the cat's back grows stronger, but its struggles do not cease. She needs to pacify it, and the only way to do that starts the job itself.

Without delay, Savannah begins. She shuts her eyes and falls deep in concentration, embedding herself within the flow of time. She is one with it, and she controls it.

The focal point of her focus is the cat's being. She imagines it withering, twisting with old age and starvation - time passes without change, without action on the side of the cat because it is her captive, but only it moves forward in the timeline.

And so it does. Under her grip, she can feel the cat's bones grow emaciated. It shrinks and twists and a startled, painful choke escapes the cat's chest. It's dying, quickly. Its frail bones shake beneath her and it the protests grow pitiful, weak.

It's so close. Savannah's breathing is heavy.
(Savannah)
She sees it clinging on to life. The decay ceases for a split second, and it all unfolds before her.

The soul of the cat lies in limbo, in her grip. It dances up and down, between the body and the sky - it's so close, so ready to let go. It's but a wisp, a piece of mana ready to be free, ready to be evicted by Savannah's forceful flow of time.

And she understands.

Time is the pushing force of the soul, of life and death, of decay and rejuvination.
(Savannah)
The sudden burst of enlightenment is so perfect, so joyous, that Savannah lets out a gasp. Her eyes open and she sees the frail, pitiful cat scrambling and struggling beneath her. It's shaky, it's panting. It's about to die.

But she feels nothing, because time is so beautiful, and time is so perfect, and she understands it. Tears are flowing down Savannah's face, and she's smiling, and she's laughing - she's so happy that she can't take it.

But she stops, because she remembers that its not done. She's never done. She takes in a sharp breath and her protective grip on the cat grows strong once more.

"Come back," she whispers to the soul, which is ready to depart, eager to depart. "You're not ready."

And it comes back. The muscles flesh out and the bones are covered. Fur un-grays and whispers perk up. The cat is plump and alive.
(Savannah)