Page 56 of Emerald

With a groan of protest, Kroaicho strides over and plucks the object from his pile, holding it pinched between two long claws and handing it to me with exaggerated reluctance, like I'm asking him to part with his firstborn. "This is a piece of ancient machinery," he grumbles. "Far too valuable for… whatever it is you are about to do."

I take it from him, turning it over in my hands. "Valuable? It's a rusty scrap."

"Very valuable," he snaps, his skin deepening to a purple hue. "You know nothing of its history. This was a tool held in the limb of someone ancient. Made for a specific task we have yet to figure out, but I assure you it was not made for this."

"History, huh? Maybe it should be in a fucking museum, but that’s not helping right now, if it ever did. Well, lucky for it…" I grin, testing the edge of the metal on the creature's hide. “...it's about to make history as the first-ever tool to slice open alien cat thingy guts."

Kroaicho lets out a long-suffering clicking sigh, and I get to work, slicing the creature open as best I can with my makeshift knife. The stench hits me immediately, and I fight back the urge to gag. Ugh. I turn toward Kroaicho, who's watching me with thinly veiled disgust.

"I'm gonna need some other things too," I say, continuing my messy work. "Like sticks. Dry ones."

Kroaicho's heavy brows knit together. "Sticks?"

"Yeah, you know—wood, branches, twigs." I can already see this is going to be a hard sell.

"Ugly things," he mutters, shaking his head. "They don't belong in my cave."

"Ugly?" I pause, incredulous. "They're sticks, not fashion accessories. What's your problem with them?"

Kroaicho straightens, his voice heavy with indignation. "They clutter. They add nothing of value to my hoard. I won't allow them."

I give him a long, flat look. "Clutter? You're telling me that," I gesture wildly at the haphazard pile of rocks, crystals, and random metal bits in the corner, "isn't clutter?"

"That," Kroaicho huffs, "is an organized collection of treasures."

"You're impossible," I mutter, shaking my head. "Look, I need the sticks to make a fire, alright? Otherwise, we can't cook this thing."

He scoffs, clearly unimpressed. "Fire out of sticks? There are better methods."

"Not for humans!" I snap. "This is how we do things, Kroaicho. I'm not one of your fancy multi-limbed not-quite-a-dragon-but-not-a-bug species. I need fire."

He looks unconvinced, but at least he's thinking it over. I'm about to keep pushing when a thought hits me—what if I can just show him why we need fire?

I pick up a couple of rocks from the ground, clunking them together experimentally. Sparks. Just a little, but enough to catch my interest. If I can get him to understand the need for flame, maybe the stick argument will get easier.

Kroaicho's brow furrows as he watches me. "What are you doing?"

"Just trying to start a fire," I mutter, knocking the rocks together again. Sparks fly, and I can't help but grin. "Look, sparks! We're getting somewhere."

He squints, watching me with clear confusion. "This is yet another form of human entertainment?"

"Uh… sure," I say, trying not to laugh. "Let's go with that."

I strike the rocks together again, sending a shower of sparks into the air. "See? I can't do much with just sparks, though. I need dry sticks and leaves to get it going."

Kroaicho tilts his head, clearly still not understanding the necessity. "These sticks are crucial to your plan?"

"Very crucial," I nod, feeling like I'm trying to explain advanced calculus to a toddler. "Without them, no fire. No fire means no cooked food. And no cooked food means I'll starve. You don't want that, do you? A dead human stinking up your hoard?”

He hesitates, clearly torn between his disdain for sticks and his grudging concern for my well-being.

"Ugly," he mutters again, but I can see him wavering.

"Look," I say, lowering my voice to something more conspiratorial. "I get it. Sticks aren't as shiny or cool as your crystals, but think about it this way—if I have to keep eating raw monster, I'm going to get really cranky. You don't want cranky Olivia on your hands, trust me."

"How would this be different?"

I let out an exaggerated, frustrated groan, slumping down on the cold stone floor of the cave. Kroaicho is still standing there, all four legs rooted in place, his arms crossed tightly against his chest. That perpetual look of mild disgust hasn't left his face since I mentioned sticks, and honestly, it's starting to grate on me.

---