Synchronised

The air in the forest was brittle.

Every leaf, every branch, every blade of grass seemed to vibrate with tension—each one trembling with the hum of invisible storms. Stray sparks curled along the roots and stones, licking the earth with thin tongues of lightning. The ground itself pulsed, slow and steady, like something ancient and massive was breathing just beneath the surface.

And there, at the center of it all, stood a creature—alone, majestic, and terrible.

A deer, if one could still call it that, with a coat as pale as winter moonlight and antlers wreathed in electric halos. Five sapphire-blue orbs shimmered between the branching horns, lightning leaping from sphere to sphere in lazy arcs. It grazed calmly, each movement unnervingly tranquil, as if unaware—or uncaring—that a storm followed every step.

Shaun crouched on a ridge just above the glade, eyes narrowed, heart steady. Beside him, Panda remained still as a statue, only the twitch of her ears betraying her alertness.

This wasn't chance. This was necessity.

The Thunder Dropper, as he'd come to name the species, had crossed into dangerous proximity. It was tracing a path—expanding territory—and if left unchecked, it would soon mark the hillside Shaun called home with one of its orbs. Once dropped, each orb turned the surrounding hundred feet into a lightning-choked dead zone. These spheres didn't simply shock—they scorched, they cooked, they disintegrated. Shaun had once watched a bird fly too close, only for its wings to vanish in midair, vaporized in a flash of light like a bug on an electric grid.

And then there were the larger creatures—ones that didn't die immediately, but emerged with their hides peeled like fruit, their reflexes slowed by electrical burns, and their organs cooked from the inside out. Easily vulnerable to those antlers.

The orbs stayed active for weeks.

To step into one of those zones was to risk walking into your own cremation.

Even the plants spoke of death. The trees within its radius stood charred and stripped. The ground was cracked dry, like heat-baked clay. And the underbrush—blackened threads of ash that crumbled beneath a boot.

And still, the creature wandered.

That was the strange part. Thunder Droppers rarely left their established zones. They had no need to. Their lightning fields were protection and dominion both. But this one had been expanding its reach every day. Shaun had tracked it for nearly ten hours, noting the precise path it took, the way it stopped only to graze on specific vegetation, and the way it dropped its orbs one at a time—slowly, deliberately—like it was redrawing a map.

This wasn't its original home.

The orbs confirmed it. It had five, nearly fully charged, but nothing more. An adult, but not quite in its prime. Others of its kind bore dozens. More than anything, this scarcity told Shaun a story he'd begun to piece together—one of rivalry, of loss.

Thunder Droppers were solitary males, but once matured, they vied for territory. When multiple fully grown males occupied a zone, bloodshed was inevitable. The winner kept the field. The loser was exiled—left to wander, to find unclaimed ground where it could start anew.

Judging by the scars across its flanks and the slower, wearied gait, this one had lost.

It had survived, but only just.

The problem was, even weakened, a Thunder Dropper wasn't something you approached. Its lightning could be triggered instinctively—any flicker of danger could set off an orb. And once released, the ensuing storm would vaporize everything around it in seconds.

Shaun had seen enough charred animal corpses near older orbs to know the difference between bravery and stupidity.

That's why, from the very beginning, he never intended to fight it head-on.

He'd poisoned the Honey Locust pods along the deer's intended grazing line. The plant had existed even before the world changed—its long, sweet seed pods were a delicacy among deer species, and even now, their flavor remained irresistible.

Shaun had carefully infused each pod with a trace amount of venom extracted from a Death Wish. Not enough to paralyze. That would trigger panic. He shuddered at the thought of all five orbs activating at once in a last ditch attempt to protect itself.

No the intent was clear. Just enough to slow reaction, muddle its instincts. To make it just a little too late.

And now, after consuming its third pod, the creature grazed sluggishly, arcs of lightning skipping less frequently between its orbs. It didn't seem to notice how its hind legs dragged just a touch. Or perhaps it noticed—but didn't yet understand.

Shaun did.

He and Panda had trained for this moment.

The technique had started as a mistake. A spar gone wrong. One mistimed kick, one misjudged staff swing, and Panda had gone soaring into a tree like a launched projectile. It had ended with bruises, squeaks, and two very sore egos.

But that mishap planted a seed. The mechanics were sound—momentum plus precision. Over the next few weeks, they refined it. Practiced the arc, the launch, the angle of takeoff, even air resistance. A two-body maneuver. Weaponized cooperation.

And now, crouched in their patch of brush, they were ready.

Shaun's knuckles whitened around the staff. Panda crouched low, coiled and focused.

He swung.

The staff cut through the air with a deep, thrumming roar, displacing wind and scattering leaves like startled birds. At its apex, Panda launched—her body flipping mid-air with perfect timing. She became a streak, a blur, a black comet against the electric sky.

The Thunder Dropper noticed—too late.

It reared, charging energy into its antlers, and the world flared blue.

Lightning erupted like grasping tendrils, writhing skyward, lashing up into the air in defense.

But Panda barely slipped past them—lucky to even keep the hair on her toes.

And then—impact.

Her horn plunged into its eye socket, digging deep through nerve and skull. The beast spasmed, legs buckling as a scream of light burst from its crown—and then it collapsed.

The lightning field didn't fade so much as evaporate. The air cooled. The ground stilled. Silence returned to the glade like a sigh of relief.

Shaun didn't move immediately. His breath was slow. Measured.

He approached the corpse carefully, warily, watching the orbs dim—one by one.

Except for one.

It pulsed.

Not blue.

Red.

A low, molten red, deep as magma. The lightning inside it twisted violently, not like a storm but like something feral and wild. It didn't hum—it growled. 

Shaun crouched beside it, eyes narrowed. He had studied dozens of Thunder Droppers—adults, juveniles, even stillborns. But none had ever borne this color.

He had watched this beast for hours, tracked it, studied it, poisoned it, and still—still—if Panda had missed...

Face to face, he wouldn't have been a match.

And yet even this wasn't its limit.

That orb… it wasn't just a remnant. It was a signal. A warning. Proof that even this mighty creature, with its terrifying field and devastating grace, wasn't done evolving. It had grown.

He glanced at Panda. She stared at the orb, ears pinned back, nose twitching, body poised.

Shaun wrapped it carefully in hide and slipped it into his pack. He didn't know why. Maybe instinct. Maybe denial. But as he walked back through the underbrush, the forest whispered things he hadn't heard.

He paused near a tree he'd passed dozens of times. Its bark was mottled now, patched with deep red vines that hadn't been quite so crowded the day before. Another tree leaned differently, its roots thicker—like muscle flexing beneath the earth. Foliage that once brushed his knees now grazed his hips.

Even the air felt heavier, denser—charged not just with heat, but with intent.

Had these changes happened overnight?

No. They had been gradual. Subtle. Like the slow push of a tide against the shore.

He'd walked this path a hundred times. Trained in it. Killed in it. Bled into its dirt. Thinking he'd made it his own.

But this time, it felt foreign—like the forest had let him borrow it, only to take it back all at once.

For all his growth—for all the monsters he'd outsmarted, killed, dissected—he wasn't getting ahead of this world.

The fact that he was alive meant he was still keeping pace.

Barely.

The question was- for how long?