FSE

Furry search engine

formerly SoFurry search engine

The inteleon is awoken by a strong wind, carrying a familiar scent. It's unidentifiable and subtle enough that the other inteleon would miss it. That is if he wakes her, not something he's keen on. She was insistent that they mate last night, but like always, his cock wasn't willing. He can control if he comes out of his slit or not, so he uses the excuse that he wants to wait until summer. That way the egg will be laid during winter when they have little to do except care for it, and hatch in spring. The problem is he has only gotten it up for a feline. And although they were also male, the inteleon must also be attracted to females. He wants hatchlings so he must want to mate with a female. He's hoping he either finds a way to get erect, or finds another mate that arouses him, before he runs out of excuses.

Another gust, another wave of fragmented memories. Pleasant emotions rush through the inteleon. Something from hathchlinghood then. The happiest phase of life and one he wishes to grant and experience through his own hatchlings.

He disentangles himself from his potential mate and rises from the forest floor. Being early morning, there is little activity, and the silence is only broken by the northern wind. It's coming down from the mountains. Though he doubts what he's struggling to recall also comes from the mountains. Still, he decides to follow the wind, and writes a message in the dirt with his hidden knife. He leaves it uncertain whether he will return to her; he never promised her anything for a reason.

The inteleon succumbs to wanderlust.

The next thing he knows, he is atop a spire-like rock and the once-pleasant wind is biting into his scales. With no other way down, he expands his membrane to its full span. It's sensitive to the frosty air as he jumps off the rock and glides down into the snow. Even when he tucks his membrane into his back, the chill doesn't leave. He can make it on foot from here, though his feet aren't any happier about transporting him.

The smell is gone and the mountain is a featureless blanket of white. He would believe he's in some frozen tundra if it wasn't for the gradual slope and his knowledge of Galar geography. Though, his knowledge is limited. He knows that if he follows the mountain down he's likely to find himself in a valley. But not how to return to the forest he came from. Maybe he's on one of the mountains on the edge of the range, maybe he's not. What he does know is that he doesn't want to stay here. There's not a berry tree in sight, and he hasn't eaten all day, which-judging from the sun's position-is almost over.

He decides to go up the incline and try to locate himself from the peak. Despite their complaining, his membranes are still capable of gliding. So he'll be able to get down quickly. He might find Wyndon; it'll make a great landmark even if it's not a place he wants to be. He's over the idea of civilization. Somebody weaker than him will try to capture him, and he doesn't want a repeat of that.

The wind brings something else to guide his steps before he reaches the top of the mountain. The same scent from before is now beckoning him around a cluster of snow-covered rocks. He begins to circle them until he sees something unexpected: a leafeon. Skidding in the snow, the inteleon presses himself into one of the rocks out of view of the leafeon.

"What was that?" The words are in English, likely from the leafeon's trainer and not the leafeon themself.

Hesitant crunches of snow coming his way activate the inteleon's camouflaging instinct. This leafeon isn't what he's smelling, yet the scent grows stronger. Giving up on analyzing it, he ensures his camouflage is perfect and it is. White reptile on a white rock in a white landscape; impossible to see unless you're looking for it.

The leafeon enters his field of view and keeps going. The next figure that passes him surprises him more than the leafeon did. Sandy-colored fur, and-after accidentally dropping his camouflage-blue eyes boring into him make him shout, "Jayce?!"

Embarrassment replaces the surprise. Those ears can't belong to Jayce; the long tufts are something a caracal would have, not a puma. By the time he figures that out, the caracal has the typical trainer response and throws a pokeball at him. The inteleon breaks free, since it's the only standard model. But when he does, he's sliced across the chest by a green streak. Staggering back, he realizes it was the leafeon's tail.

The wound is shallow and barely bleeding, however, the inteleon is still in no shape to fight. So he looks for somewhere to run. Nothing except a white expanse to retreat into. He could outpace them by gliding down, but he'll be struck before he gets far.

He unfurls his membranes anyway. TMs are the only thing trainers are useful for. And one of the last things Jayce gave him is TM040, perfect for when his water moves are ineffective. The leafeon tenses as the inteleon redirects and sharpens the wind in their direction. The leafeon isn't expecting it, but the caracal is, and commands the leafeon to dodge. The inteleon catches them with a shot of water from his finger, then sends more razor-like wind currents. He doesn't watch if it lands. Instead he jumps backwards down the slope of the mountain, rolls midair, and uses the membranes as designed.

He doesn't glide very far as a weight forces him into snow. Uncoordinated attacks with his tail gets it pinned with the rest of him. His efforts to lift himself off the ground are fruitless. The leafeon can't be heavy, any other day the inteleon would lift him without issue. Today, though, he doesn't have the strength to rise without the extra weight. Thus he doesn't resist when everything goes bright red then black.

*

"Whoa!" Pokemon language, a leafeon's. "Forgot how tall you are."

The inteleon only sees a blank, white wall. Turning, he finds the leafeon behind him. They're looking up at him with curiosity. Since it's not hostility he pays them no mind, instead he looks for an exit, finding two doors. One on the wall he's against and another on the opposite side of the room. Beyond those, there's a window to his left that he has to go around a bed to reach.

When he does, he overlooks a wide street full of movement. It's far down, so he can't see much detail, only scales, feathers, fur, and even metal figures all jostling into each other. The only way he can discern which ones are pokemon is by which are wearing clothes and which aren't. Despite being at least twenty stories up, the window is lower than most of the surrounding buildings. Meaning he can't see beyond the street.

He's in Wyndon, likely the heart of it knowing his luck. He could try to navigate the streets-this leafeon isn't likely to stop him when he's at full strength-but that would take forever. If navigation were something he was good at, he wouldn't be in this situation. And what skill he does have in the area is geared for natural settings, not a sprawling metropolis.

"Beautiful ain't it?" The leafeon says, their voice farther from the floor than before. The inteleon whirls to see them standing on the bed. "Name's James. You got one?"

"No." The inteleon did have a name, but not one he likes to hear. "Can you tell the way out of the city?"

"Dang, Rowan was right." James lays down. "You looked happy when you saw him. Guess I'm bad at reading you."

"Can you help me or not?" "I stay in my ball if we need to go on the street. Too much bumping and rubbing with strangers."

Determining the leafeon to be useless, the inteleon pads past him. Thinking that he can go to the roof and find the south wall of the city and glide over the streets from there. He tries one of the doors and finds a bathroom.

"Don't make me regret releasing you," James warns. "Rowan will be back soon and he can give you directions. Be sensible."

The inteleon stops turning the knob of the second door. The caracal could save him time and if Rowan isn't any help, he can continue with his plan anyway, nothing is lost.

Rowan is not, in fact, "back soon" and the inteleon loses track of time lying in bed waiting. The comfort of the bed is the only thing keeping him there. James falls asleep before the inteleon can think of anything to say, and he's far too restless to do the same. He wants a simple life where he finds a mate and has hatchlings, not whatever Rowan has planned for him.

When he hears movement outside the door, the only marker of time he has is the less crowded street outside. The caracal enters the room and, upon seeing the inteleon, gives an annoyed sigh.

"James let you out, ugh," Rowan says as he crosses the room and drops his bag on the floor. "We're doing this today then."

"I just want to leave." The inteleon rises from the bed to show his half-foot height advantage. "Tell me how to get back to the wild."

"I can't understand you."

Another detestable thing about these trainers. They can only understand their particular brand of speech and think it's the pokemon's fault. The inteleon has dealt with this before, and knows the necessary tools should be nearby. He mimes writing on one hand with the other.

"You need something to write with?" The inteleon nods. Rowan digs through the bag on the ground then gives the inteleon a notepad and pen. "I didn't think pokemon knew how."

Whether it is intended as one or not, the inteleon is offended by the insult. He writes how Rowan is the stupid one before crossing it out. It doesn't matter what the caracal thinks, the inteleon needs to get the information and leave. After writing a new message, he shows the notepad to Rowan.

I want to go back to the wild

"Wow." The caracal's annoyance is gone from his voice. "Your handwriting is better than mine." The inteleon taps his pen onto the words. "You're free to go if you really want. How can I stop you? With a sleeping leafeon?" He points to the inteleon's pokeball on the floor. "And you'll get to that before I can."

Don't know the way back

"Then I guess you're stuck with us." Pathetic creature he is, the caracal gives the inteleon a "do something about it" look.

The things the inteleon could do flashes through his mind, all violent. But he refrains for a moment to write, Do you know what Mach 3 does to bone? His eyes go black as his haw covers them, useful for intimidation and aiming. At less than half power, his Sniper Shot goes through the wall and beyond.

"Gonna be hard to leave when the police are after you."

Switching tactics, the inteleon unsheathes his organic knife from the base of his tail. Pointing the blue blade at the caracal, the inteleon inches closer.

Rowan acknowledges the threat this time, but with a smile rather than fear. "Are you threatening me with a butt-knife?"

The inteleon is out of ideas, short of hurting the caracal. Which won't get him out of the city anyway. So he sheathes his knife and backs away.

"Look, I'll help you if you help me." The inteleon glares at him, simultaneously writing something. "Nothing bad just..." A notepad thrust into Rowan's face interrupts him.

I WON'T BATTLE FOR YOU

The caracal brushes the notepad away. "Course not. That would be a waste of your true talents." He matches the inteleon's inquisitive look with a sultry one. "You're sexy. So I want you to do one contest with me and then you can go back to the wild."

The inteleon has never heard of these contests, but it can't be too bad. More than anything, he likes being called sexy so he hears Rowan out.

"You have a name?" The inteleon shakes his head. "You'll need one. Let's see, 'James' is apparently too bland so-If you got an idea go ahead, but I think," Rowan pauses, allowing the inteleon to write something, "Ignatius. That's plenty fancy."

He likes it, more than his old one anyway, so Ignatius nods and asks, "So what do I gotta do for this contest?" Remembering that he isn't understood, he writes his message down.

"I like your voice, even if I don't know what you're saying, so talk as you write. I'll learn eventually."

They discuss the details of the contest, which is being held in two days. Ignatius could find his way out of Wyndon in that time. But he would either end up in the same snowy mountains again, or on the other side of the city. He doesn't know what's there and doesn't care to find out. The forest he was in is where he wants to go. A potential mate is better than no mate at all.

What kind of performance they will do is where Rowan becomes hesitant, bashful even. "You don't have to if you don't want to, but I-well, I couldn't with James and I always wanted to um..."

The inteleon should be annoyed that the caracal won't spit it out already, and when he finds it cute instead, he's embarrassed. He cannot overcome his weakness for felines and their expressions. The ears especially and Rowan's move more than anyone Ignatius has ever interacted with. Even when he's not directly looking at the black tufts, he's watching them.

It wouldn't be a problem if the felines he found were compatible females instead of male trainers. And this one is worse than the last. Besides the fur, eyes, and feline shape, Rowan is different, worse than Jayce. The caracal is short and almost as thin as the inteleon is-hard to tell with the fur, even if it is short. His tail, too, is small along with his muzzle, which all gives him a weak stature. Something that the inteleon shouldn't be attracted to; weakness is something that he'll have to compensate for. His scent is the one thing that contradicts all that. It's more masculine with a smoky undertone.

"Dance."

"What?" The inteleon asks as his brain struggles to transition from deep thought to processing words. They must have been staring at each other for several minutes.

Before Ignatius can write anything, the caracal repeats himself, "I want us to dance as our performance. Like slow dancing." Rowan's words are coming faster and his ears are stuck pointed at Ignatius. "It'll be unique so we'll stand out and be easy, too, since you've got hands similar to my paws. And, I don't know, it sounds fun."

Ignatius is being courted, using the same method inteleons use. Until her hands wandered, it was fun with the other inteleon. But if he's going to dance, it shouldn't be with this caracal, especially if his paws wander the same way. "I can't dance."

Rowan walks to one side of Ignatius so he can read as he writes. "I can teach you and, honestly, we don't need to be that good. Doing it at all will be impressive."

The inteleon doesn't want Rowan's demeanor to change-wide eyes, swaying tail, restless turning of the ears-and knows that flat-out rejection would do so. This contest is becoming something he wants to do less and less. However, he can't think of another excuse and it appeals more than finding his way back on his own.

"If a dance is the price of my freedom, fine," Ignatius replies and writes.

"I'll have to teach you to act happy for the judges too. For now, though, I'mma join," Rowan gestures to the slumbering leafeon, "James over here." He cuddles close to James, leaving empty space.

An invitation Ignatius gives no thought into refusing and lays down where he stands. The carpet is more comfortable than the ground he's used to, but doesn't grant the same easy rest. Before he had only mating to worry about, now he has everything to worry about: past (Has he really gotten over Jayce?), present (How is he going to dance with a trainer?), and future (Does he want to return to the forest and to her?). He answers his nagging mind by telling it to shut up. All this thinking will only accomplish fatigue. Which would be yet another problem to add to the list.

An effective strategy and, by morning, the inteleon wakes first ready to...he doesn't know what. The contest is tomorrow so today he needs to...prepare? It hasn't been long since he's danced with his potential mate-she always wanted to be touching and that's the most touching Ignatius allowed besides cuddling. Though he never lets her lead anymore and refuses to Water Dance with her.

"Early riser, huh?" Rowan asks, then prods the leafeon. "James just sleeps until I wake him." Giving up on doing so, the caracal throws himself out of bed. He took his shirt off in the night, but before Ignatius can get a good look, he retrieves it from the floor and puts it on. "Shops aren't open yet, so we have time for you to learn the basics."

"Basics?" Ignatius sees Rowan approaching his pokeball on the floor and races past him to snatch it.

"First lesson: relax, already." The caracal reaches his true destination and takes a pokedex from his bag. "I just need music."

Right, his lie. The inteleon didn't foresee that it would lead to having to dance more than once with the caracal. "I don't need a dance lesson."

"I'm getting better." Rowan tosses the pen and notepad to Ignatius. "I got, 'I, something, something, dance lesson.'"

With time to think, the inteleon decides he doesn't want to admit he lied. Food first! he writes, then remembers to proclaim it out loud.

"Fair enough. I think there's some breakfast places open." Rowan shakes James awake. "Then we can go right to the shop."

"This early?" James says as he looks out the window. "Let me sleep, Rowan."

"C'mon breakfast! You wouldn't want to miss that."

"I guess." The leafeon gets to his feet and stretches on the bed. "But it would be just as good a few hours from now."

"Ignatius is hungry now."

"Ignatius?" The last vestiges of drowsiness fall off the leafeon and he jumps onto Rowan's chest, hindlegs still on the bed. "Why did you give him a cool name, but not me?"

The caracal contemplates James' words for longer than expected, so the inteleon speaks in his stead, "It's nothing special."

"He doesn't even like it. Can I swap names with him, pleeeeeeeeeeeeeeease?"

Seeming to have figured out whatever is in his head, Rowan scratches the leafeon's ears. "Not going to happen."

Leaning into the attention, but not letting it distract him, James shoots back, "Give me yours then."

"That's not how names work." Rowan's paws travel to the leafon's haunches. "Now either you drop it and come to breakfast or I carry you there."

"Fine." James hops off of the caracal and the bed to the floor. "You're making it up to me later, though."

The whole way out of the hotel and onto the empty street, Rowan and James are affectionate with each other; the caracal with pats and the leafeon with rubs along his leg. Combined with the last thing James said, Ignatius suspects they're mates. The leafeon could do better, like almost any pokemon, but it's a trap he almost fell into himself, so he doesn't blame him. However, it does paint Rowan in a new light. He was courting the inteleon, so he must be trying to start a harem. No matter how cute the caracal might be, the thought of joining repulses Ignatius.

They reach a place for Rowan to eat first. Ignatius is still holding his ball, so Rowan can't recall him like Jayce would while he eats. He doesn't mind the confines, but he doesn't trust the caracal. Why am I keeping it intact anyway? he thinks, It only makes it easier for Rowan to get me in a ball. Holding it in one palm, he readies a fingertip from the other hand to shoot it.

"Hey!" Rowan exclaims. "Don't do that!" He advances on the inteleon until the fingertip points at him instead, then he raises his paws in surrender. "You need to be registered as captured for the contest. Hold onto it, I don't care. It just needs to exist."

"Okay, but I'm destroying it after." Ignatius lowers his hands, followed by the caracal's paws. "Go eat and hurry up about it."

The leafeon at least should be able to understand him, but they both stare at him. James repeats what Ignatius said, adding that he's confused about what it means.

"You know how to write, but not how a restaurant works?" The caracal beckons him to the door. "C'mon, we all will be served food in this building."

The inteleon didn't lie about his hunger, so he needs no more encouragement to follow them through the door. The smells hit him first, too unfamiliar and strong to be identified as anything besides food. A vixen leads them to one of many empty tables and pulls out a chair that James hops onto. After an awkward moment, she pulls out another chair for Ignatius who finally sits down.

"Can I get anything for you right away?"

"Just a water for me, berry juice for James," Rowan points to him and then to Ignatius, "and for Ignatius..." The inteleon misses the cue. "Another water." The vixen confirms the order and saunters away.

"So, enlighten me, Ignatius." The caracal places a menu in front of both pokemon. "How do you know how to write, but not been in a restaurant?"

The inteleon is about to spit out that it's debatable if pokemon or trainers were the first ones to invent writing, but the tantalizing pictures of food stop him. He'll play nice if any of these are his reward. "My former trainer taught me."

James repeats what Ignatius said like before, then asks, "Did he not feed you?"

"Kibble."

Single words need no translation as Rowan interrupts the leafeon mid-word. "You can survive on that?!"

"And berries that I gathered."

The trio talk about the wonderful variety of food, even if you limit it to this restaurant. When the vixen returns with the drinks (two glasses and a bowl), Rowan orders a plethora of food for Ignatius and only a couple things for himself and James.

The inteleon isn't able to finish it all, though not for a lack of effort. He eats six pancakes, some soup or stew, an uncountable amount of chansey eggs, and many things Ignatius didn't ask what was. The leafeon and caracal pass their two dishes back and forth; and are long done with their meal by the time Ignatius gives up on his and they help clear the plates. They continue to share, sometimes eating something the other has already bitten into.

Ignatius doesn't realize the tables filling around him with pokemon and trainers alike, until he lifts his head from the feast. It's intimidating to him, but not as much as it is to the leafeon, who is recalled at his own request. The inteleon covers his ball on the table at the sight.

"Relax, I'm not going to ball you, though it would be easier. C'mon now, we're leaving." Without waiting to be followed, the caracal gets up and weaves his way through the patrons and to the exit.

Ignatius bumps into everything, animate or inanimate, attempting the same, and finds Rowan waiting for him outside. The street is as bustling as yesterday and, upon seeing him, Rowan enters the crowd.

Given only one of his senses, the inteleon would still be overwhelmed processing it all. Too many colors, smells, and textures rubbing against him. The black tufts of the caracal's ears guide his pursuit, growing ever more distant until they spin around. As tall as he is, he sticks out and is found easily by a paw, holding his hand. As he's yanked through the crowd, Ignatius realizes this is another ploy in Rowan's courting. A way to initiate contact. But what is he supposed to do now? Asking to be recalled is unthinkable, and if he wasn't sure before, he's sure now he can't escape Wyndon by himself.

The caracal's soft pads aren't unpleasant to the inteleon's scales, however, he knows where courting leads. First they're holding hands, then dancing, then cuddling, and suddenly he's got Rowan's cock up his ass. He's trained James to like it, even ask for it, but Ignatius won't be another conquest. If anything, the roles will be reversed. Though not appealing either, it would put the caracal in his place.

The crowd shrinks as they get closer to their destination. Not enough for Ignatius to pry his hand away until they're in front of a small shop. There's two patrons, a serval and a farfetch'd, browsing one shelf. All eight of which are full of miscellaneous accessories: hats, jewelry, corsages, bowties, and other things the inteleon doesn't recognize.

"It's second-paw," Rowan says as they enter the shop, "or second-hand in your case, but it's all I can afford. Especially after splurging on breakfast."

They look around on their own, not finding anything Ignatius agrees with. Anything that goes on his head or hand is a hard pass, which leaves little. Mostly cloth stuff that he can't stand the feel of. The focus sash (that did the opposite of helping him focus) he was forced to wear is enough torture for his lifetime. After browsing the entire shop, the caracal asks what he does want.

"If I have to have something, jewelry would be acceptable." Ignatius has to write that down on the offered notepad.

Upon reading the words, Rowan rolls his eyes. "Arceus, it's like you're trying to drain my funds dry." Despite his complaining, he asks the coyote shopkeeper if there's anything that fits Ignatius' "impossible criteria." They settle on a yellow pearl bracelet that, while scuffed, is expensive. The shopkeeper seals the sale with talk of how it matches the inteleon's eyes beautifully. Which the caracal agrees to without missing a beat.

Putting the bracelet in his bag for safekeeping, Rowan leaves the shop with the inteleon. "Pick up your pace, Ignatius. We need all the time we can get for dancing."

"Is there anything we could do first?"

"You'll have to learn eventually, but...alright." The caracal reverses direction. "There's one thing we could do so we don't have to tomorrow."

Ignatius lags behind because he is surprised how easily he's understood and got what he wanted. When Rowan looks back at him and offers a paw, he hurries after him. He needs to limit reasons for contact, not produce more.

Yet that is what the inteleon is best at. His suggestion to go somewhere else leads him to a bathhouse and, unlike all day, Rowan is inflexible. The only concession he makes is getting the inteleon a private room. The idea is that Ignatius can wash without the caracal's presence, but that backfires.

"Look, you need to be clean and, no, scrubbing your frilly bits with your tail isn't going to cut it."

Besides the inteleon's eyes and pelvic region, his membrane is the most sensitive part of him. Grooming it is the last step of courting an inteleon. Something he's done to the other inteleon, but he's never let anyone groom his own; why should Rowan be the first?

"That's how I've always done it." Ignatius juggles his ball from hand to hand, wishing Rowan would leave so he can set it down.

"All the more reason to do it properly." The caracal shepherds him to the bathtub that takes up the far half of the room. "Now get in."

Ignatius steps into the tub, the water coming up to his knees. "Are you not as well?"

Rowan stripped like he's planning to. "With all your dilly-dallying, there's no time. And besides," he shows off the bottle he is holding, then squeezes its contents into a paw, "I've only got soap for reptiles."

"Okay." The inteleon submerges himself in the water and, after resisting the urge to stay, rises to his feet again. "But once you're done with my membrane, get out."

"I buy a guy breakfast and jewelry and he's still a grouch." The caracal lathers the membrane on the inteleon's head. "What are you so embarrassed about anyway? You're always naked."

"I'm not embarrassed, I just don't li..." Ignatius is interrupted by a shiver down his spine; he can't say he doesn't like the attention. "It's weird to be touching with a trainer."

Rowan's paws travel to the main membrane that is unfolding for him. "Is that why you've been putting off dance practice all day?"

The reason for the courting custom is clear: the tingling across the inteleon's spine never ceases, and his cock responds to each one. He has the erection needed to make hatchlings now, but not a compatible mate. Or a mate worthy of his seed. A male or incompatible female pokemon would be fine for relieving tension, but not Rowan. He treats the inteleon better than most trainers would to make him another James, not because he is better than most trainers.

However, his maleness doesn't care about any of that. And Ignatius' ability to keep it inside is the extent of what he can do. His body still produces slit-fluid and precum. And will keep doing so until what's stimulating it stops.

"Get your paws off me."

"Halfway there." The caracal's paws cross the center of the membrane.

Ignatius is no longer certain that his cock is any more sensitive. A spasm courses through his muscles and, instead of fighting it, he lengthens the one in his tail. In a sweeping arc, his tail brushes Rowan off his feet and onto the tiled floor.

It isn't until the remnant tingling passes that the inteleon realizes what he's done. The same thing he did before; he forgot how weak these trainers are. Same mistake, same consequence he thinks, then rushes out of the room, past confused staff, and onto the quiet street.

Remembering his old plan, Ignatius finds the tallest building on the street and tests the door. Locked, but a quick jet of water takes care of that. It opens to a stairwell that he races up and onto the roof. It's not the tallest building of Wyndon, so he can barely spot the south wall. The snow-laden gales should be able to take him there or close enough. He jumps off the ledge and stretches out his membrane; it complains about the shift from grooming to gliding in frosty air. The wind picks up, and what seems to be a great distance is closed within minutes. Curling his membrane, Ignatius floats down in front of the open gate. He enjoys the cover from the elements while passing through the small tunnel, which ends when Ignatius reaches the other side.

Blizzard. The inteleon can't see, hear, or feel anything besides the snowy gusts. Even switching to infrared yields nothing, everything is below freezing. He knows how to return to the forest from here-down the mountain and west through the valley-but he isn't equipped for the journey. This short jaunt already has his body complaining, anymore strain and it'll make good on its threats to give out.

Figuring the weather has to calm eventually, Ignatius turns back to the tunnel. He can't return to Rowan's hotel. And he'll be caught if he breaks into a random building and stays there. So he plops down on the stone floor of the tunnel and leans against the wall. Almost anything else is more comfortable. Yet he sits there with his ball still in his hand and drifts off to the whistling of the wind.