Chapter Text
The desert is a brutal beast for those unfamiliar with her- especially for those foreign to her and egotistical enough to believe themselves capable of taming her. Wile has seen many humans in the past come into the desert to walk her valleys for sight seeing and need to be escorted out by more humans either in cars with blinking lights on the top or one of those loud flying machines that Wile drools of the thought of one day having one himself. Even knowing that the desert is a beast though may not even be enough to save you either; not with her ‘survival of the fittest’ mentality in play at all times. Had Wile not been a toon, he’s sure he would’ve been vulture food many, many, decades ago.
The Chase has ended, the cool relief of night is set to come upon the desert’s denizens soon enough. Nights are, arguably, even worse: there is always a predator- those of the night and those in desperate need- lurking about for their next meal, the next stepping stone on the path of survival. Coming across dead animals is as natural for Wile as it is to chase Roads. Most of the carcasses are from roadkill, but sloppy hunters tend to leave behind chunks or partial bodies. Sometimes, Wile would come across bodies with an extensive amount of unexplainable damage- like a wind storm or tornado ripped them apart from the outside in.
Point is, death is an unavoidable fact when living in the wild and the sight he happens upon doesn’t turn his stomach or frighten him. It’s a nest of twigs, feathers, and desert flowers- a road runner nest. Specifically a toon road runner nest. A rare sight for sure, possibly only the third one Wile has ever found in his lifetime, but it’s creators are no luckier than the next inhabitant of the cruel Sonora Desert. The closest body to himself is a body of dark blue, what feathers are left of their wings are torn revealing the ripped meat underneath. The damage, what really gives away the attacker’s identity, is permanent- no getting up after a real predator tears your leg off and thrashes your head off to carry it off into the darkness. This male must have attempted to protect the nest, valiant and respectable, but without the proper tools or weapons to do actual damage their attackers would never have taken actual damage. Toon logic, of course, but it’s always funnier that way, right? Closer to the nest is the female, as expected of their mating dynamics. The poor toon is no better than her mate, but at least the blood is easily overlooked in her pink feathers. She died in the nest she had made, body slumped in the center of the circle with wings spread wide.
There is something that overtakes his thoughts as he investigates. A silly thought in hindsight but one that he can’t help but fret over- are these road runners related to his road runner? He can only stand there in silence as the question remains unanswered, never to be answered any time soon, and swipes the bubble thought from above his head. Not because he doesn’t worry for Road, but because death is, again, inevitable. Especially with how unprotected this area is: open to the sky, a singular wall to defend their backs only, and the nest is shoddy. They must’ve been young. Naive. How sad, Wile thinks, they never got the chance to learn anything more than what comes for those naive in the desert.
He can only shrug and carry on his way. Nothing for him to do here but leave the corpses for the vultures in the morning. He nods to himself and watches his feet as he walks through the carnage to his own cave- he refuses to step on a scorpion again, but as he is passing the nest his ear swivels as a sound begins to rise. He pauses mid step. What a strange sound to hear just before dusk- high pitched, like an anvil dropping from the sky but there is none; and pathetic, but not a whine of pain from h- once more, the sound- more warbling than before- sings out. The sound seems to pierce his heart, pulls on its strings, and leave an aching desire to soothe and be soothed in his bones. Turning in the direction his ear had flicked to leaves him once more with the sight of the road runner couple- the only ones around that Wile can see in the quickly dimming light.
Nothing immediately catches his eye; the corpses stay corpses, the buzz of flies remain buzzing, the sun setting continues setting… The whining, as that’s the only word to describe the noise, continues- becomes louder as his eyes scan and nose sniffs the wind- and the ache in his chest begs him to find the noise and stop it.
It is subtle, he almost believes it to be a gentle gust of wind that does it, as the pink feathers of her wings shift and tremble with each hurried pause between each cry. For a split moment, Wile’s sensibilities leave him and his heart jumps from his chest as the horrifying thought of zombie road runners crosses his mind. It is as he slams his heart back in his chest, therefore slamming himself into the sand below, that he manages to catch a glimpse of a cruel gift from the desert herself- small and fragile and, no doubt, traumatized: a young road runner, the deceased couple’s child. Their only child it appears, and one that witnessed how dangerous the desert is first hand. At least the whimpers have stopped.
Side-eyeing where the child is hiding under it’s mother’s protective wing, Wile is able to witness the young thing peaking out to investigate as much as it’s courage would allow- merely a single beak and two large wide eyes. He isn’t sure how much time passes, but he knows the sun has kissed the sand goodnight by the time a comically large head begins to emerge. A female road runner pup- no, wrong term- chick- yes, yes that sounds correct- slowly pokes out from her hiding spot. She is a light purple from what Wile can tell. He’s still prone as the cold of the night begins to seep under his fur. He knows the poor child can’t be fairing much better than himself. The shaking he sees from the corner of his eye is worrisome.
Slowly, he lifts himself from the ground- stopping when the road runner child’s head retreats and only continuing when her head returns. She catches on- good, she will need that intelligence to survive- and stays silent until Wile has risen completely to his feet.
“Ch-cheep?” So softly, the young road runner calls out to Wile, but does not emerge from her safe spot. “cheep…”
She cries to him for help; possibly recognizing him as a fellow toon, and, likely, someone safe. Wile is not cruel, not like the desert he calls his home, and is as gentle in his approach as his clumsy self is capable of.
“Cheep!” She wriggles, feathers of her mother rustling, but the child doesn’t get far from under them and lets out another whine- this one seemingly out of frustration- as her little wings try to claw their way to him.
He quickens his steps, not that he had far to go anyway, and is just as quick to take a knee to raise the stiff wing. His breath stutters as he takes in the child. The desert is a cruel, cruel, mother even to her youngest. The young road runner was not as lucky as Wile had presumed, but the damage appears not… extensive. Scratches, bites, and scrapes are the least of her worries; and it’s no wonder now why she was struggling to leave the nest. She has a leg missing, no- a leg torn from her, taken by whatever beast made a messy dinner of her parents. The bleeding has slowed, the wound inflamed and agitated, and her eyes look to Wile in desperation. A silent conversation takes place between them- one pleading her case to be saved and the other already nodding in agreement to take her home and do just that.
She is weightless in his arms, a mere bundle of feathers that shivers in the night’s cold caress. From behind his back he pulls from thin air a soft sweater- one he hasn’t worn in quite some time- and wraps her gently. Her pleased coos fill the air between them and Wile does what he does best: plans.