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She watches the human, unimpressed with its gurgling. It flaps around too near her eye but she manages to stare right back; she’s nothing if not capable in the face of discomfort and the unknown. Although she knows humans: they come in groups in shells that break apart far too easily to keep them safe. Humans are lousy crabs.
Their unlikely forte is the way they work in groups. One growl and tens of humans can run in the same direction to attack and defeat an enemy much bigger than themselves. She’s been curious about how it worked, of course, who hasn’t? She is now subjected to its intricacies, the human behavior in display too close to her eyes.
The adult, a pale long example with a broad chest, clicks and growls at the little one. She has been a mother herself and she knows what a parent sounds like when a kid is being difficult. To her surprise, the kid always, always gurgles back. The baby’s sounds are higher, and they often dissolve into chortled gasps, but the adult is never worried, as she would’ve been of a kid of hers doing the same sound.
They make all kinds of noises at each other, all day long. They must have very specific noises for their lives, she thinks, for them to be so coordinated when the kid is so small yet. She can’t help but wonder when the baby learned all those clicks and clacks; it’s so tiny yet, like it just came out of its parent. The adult can carry her around with one thin flapper and still use the other freely. Such a small baby, she thinks, absolutely charmed as it hangs near her horn, babbling. She doesn’t mind. She’s had worse things on her face, the little human kid cannot harm her.
. . .
She’s decided that the adult is definitely a new mother. This has to be its first kid, or else it’s a horrible parent. It often doesn’t feed the baby until it cries out, then opens the hard fruits and leaves it alone to feed itself. She worries that the baby might choke, but so far it hasn’t. It also only holds the little one to sleep, leaving it to its own devices while it busies itself with the little piece of the shell it stubbornly brought. She wants to tell it to not bother, but humans are impossible.
She can feel the baby walk on her back, where she’s spattered with the long claws and teeth the humans throw at her to kill. She pays special attention to it then; it's dangerous for a kid to be there.
Or maybe it isn’t. It is a human baby, after all. Maybe it’s best to accustom it to such weapons now when it is small. What does she know about humans, anyway? She’s thankful for the favor: those things were itchy.
. . .
When she stops at the island, she knows the adult is making an effort in communication. She knows because it repeats its sounds loud and clear, and over and over again. She won’t get it but she can appreciate it. The kid gurgles and throws itself at her face; she wishes the baby would grow bigger, ever bigger, so she could hold her. She contents in closing her eyes and letting the kid rub its teeny-tiny flappers on her nose.
. . .
Crossing the island and hitting the human shell isn’t difficult. Taking the human’s hits isn’t difficult either. She’s big and she’s experienced, so there’s little that taxes her.
Facing the pale adult is difficult.
It’d been sweet of it, to befriend her, to ally itself with a predator. She had been flattered at the trust it had placed in her, allowing its baby so near her. Fellow mothers had to help each other, of course.
Seeing the adult holding the long claw was confusing, at first. What was it doing? She hadn’t seen it in the human hunting posture since she left them on the big island; crouching low, its little eyes so wide open she could see they were dark.
She barks at it, a little mad. What was that? Until she sees the little shape behind it.
The baby is so different from him; it’s got darker skin, maybe to mix up on land. That’s the only explanation as to why she didn’t see it before. It’s half curled, its little face hidden. When she goes closer to see what’s wrong, the adult gets between them and takes a different weapon from itself; a claw, no longer than its own extremities.
What does it even expect to do with it?
She looks at the baby again. It’s not moving. Why would the kid be down? Did it fall? It’s all covered in dirt and she aches to clean it; babies should be clean. If only she could ask, what happened?
She can see the adult. It’s silent, so different to what she has come to learn in the last few days. Usually, its face is scrunched up and shifting but now it shows nothing. It is mad. It is quiet.
Realization comes slowly. It's dead. Its baby is dead.
Before she can do anything else, a hiss comes from behind her. She turns in time to see her most dreaded red light.
She growls and goes back into the sea.
. . .
It hurts to move. It hurts a lot.
Her head hurts. Her throat hurts. Her limbs are stiff from being dragged but it hurts too much to care. She can hear noise, human noise, clicks and clacks and gurgling around her and above her.
When she finally feels her fin free, she immediately moves up, trying to get her bearings. She feels her face hit something, is it a coral reef? She rises again.
A lone figure runs ahead and she knows its shape. It’s the head of the shell that chases her. Dizziness or not, she’s a fighter, and she’s capable in the face of discomfort and the unknown. She goes after it, and thankfully her body is still in water. She’s faster than it. She’s bigger. She’s going to eat it whole. She opens her jaws and-
“No!”
She freezes.
She looks down.
The little baby. The kid. It stands before her, looking back with pure black eyes.
She huffs and growls her bewilderment. The baby is alive? Where is its parent? They should be together. Why is it in between her and her kill? Is it a social creature thing, like a school of fish? She’s not going to hurt the baby, of course not, but she would very much like to eat the other one.
The kid gurgles at her, familiar and close. The pale adult appears too, soon. It’s skittish but comes near, and she’s glad to see it unharmed. As it looks around, she notices; she’s surrounded by humans. They all stare at them with their little eyes, they mumble and chirp with each other- They’re nervous. Of her.
She’s a predator, right in their midst. Why would they bring her here?
The pale adult calls her attention; it’s holding a long claw again. This time, it breaks the claw right in the middle and growls loud enough to be heard by all the little humans. It sure is a gesture, she’s not sure of what, but it feels important.
She gets her face close to them. They’re both cleaner now, and the baby looks unharmed. Just a bad scare then? She knows how terrible those are. It must have been terrified of losing its kid. The adult picks the kid to help it climb her face. He feels a little pat pat on her nape, clearer to her than any clacking noise. Let’s leave. She’s happy to comply.