Heron Lake Plateau [m] your hands can heal, your hands can bruise

Never before had the Wilds seen a pup born with so much drive and so much purpose. He was sooooo ready for this. He'd been ready before when his mother was miscarrying all over the damn place and he was definitely ready now that she had calmed the crap down. Ready and eager as hell to get out into the world and start being a mother fuckin' winner.

Problem was, Fig hadn't exactly planned on being born so... small. It was kind of cramping his style. His eyes and his ears were closed to the world and yet he could feel it in his wiggly, gelatenous bones that he had been cheated somehow. He was too tiny to conquer. Hell, he was too tiny to even compete.

What the SHIT, ma!??

So while he, his siblings, his parents, and anyone else would never know it, the real reason Fig unleashed his wails (which were also fkn tiny jfc) into the air was in anguish over the injustice of it all. His ambitions were too big for his teeny, frail little body, and he was going to make damn sure everyone heard about it, assuming they would all consent to listening very closely.

He'd probably quit once a nipple got shoved into his mouth - if that ever happened in all of this chaos. And then, he'd forget about all of his woes until probably sometime in his teenage years when it would all come crashing back down on him and he'd be forced to raise hell again, though likely a bit louder this time.

For now, he squealed weakly and kicked and begged for someone to help him right all of the world's wrongs. At least until he figured out how to do it for himself.