cop car — herb patrol

★

It feels like a cloud is hanging over the jungle, lingering in the sticky mid-spring air like the sour taste of sickness in the back of his throat. He doesn't know much about the plight of the Flights, but he knows enough to figure out that is something is wrong — he'd learned much that from the Volarians' discussion about the Exiles, with their words of battle that ring in the cowardly man's ears like a foreboding howl. Herb training was already covered but Autopilot had volunteered to collect additional supplies in preparation, and though he cannot promise to always be a man of his word he intends to keeps to this commitment if nothing else. There's a voice in the back of his head that worries worries he's stepping on the toes of any local healers to his senior, though there is another part of him that reasons how it can't possibly hurt to offer his aid. Then again, the tom has a sneaking suspicion said aid it comes from a place of selfishness (it always must, he thinks), that he only wishes to know the comforting sense of normalcy that the gathering herbs brings. Maybe it's true, that his motivations are really so narrow — he can't see how it makes a difference anyways.

The ivory-furred feline is limping towards the camp exit when he peers into the jungle and begins to reconsider the nature of his solo venture. All around him towers a maze of tree trunks and overgrown paths, all so very large and he so very small — even if Autopilot weren't still healing his broken paw, his heartbeat quickens at the idea of losing himself in this foreign terrain where danger surely lurks in every shadow. He thinks himself hardly more comfortable with the members of the Flights, most of them just as unfamiliar anything else he might encounter, but if he must weigh his options... A grimace briefly passes over his features before he relaxes into a weary sigh and turns heel to face the ruins once more. "I was, uh, going to go out and look for herbs, if anyone wants to join me," he calls, sounding not entirely certain of his words despite the thin layer of resolve that guards his amber gaze. At least he'll have the chance to become better-acquainted with the territory after so many days of resting his leg, but it'll require a guide besides his own aimlessly wandering paws.

★

The first face to arrive is a familiar one — Freya was among the first to greet him when he'd stumbled upon the jungle not-so-long ago, and one he's encountered since. Her approach brings with it at least a small sense of relief; in a sea of strangers he's meant to know as clanmates, the tom finds himself clinging to anything recognizable as a comfort. Besides, the Vice-Empress seems kind enough. Autopilot offers her a dip of his head in greeting before any potential response to her query cut off by another set of footfalls. His citrine gaze shifts to follow Seventhdevil as he nears, only to stiffen when he makes note of his broken paw.

The words cause him to grit his teeth with restraint as he forces himself to bite back a harsh reply, a defensive I'm fine still hovering on the tip of his tongue even after he swallows bitterly. The injury, temporary as it is, reminds him that he's vulnerable, weakened, unable to run — the already too-wary man doesn't take well to others pointing it out. It takes a moment of reminding himself that no one here will hurt him, but the stir of uneasiness in his stomach finally settles and he admits to himself a reluctant gratitude for Sev's words. Not enough to say aloud, of course, though there's a hint of it behind the weariness of his amber gaze when he finally offers stiff a nod in thanks. The remark is one made out of kindness, after all — Autopilot feels a sting of guilt at his failure to accept it with warmth. Shaking the thought away, he looks to the cheetah now, another foreign countenance with a name he does his best to file away in his brain. And you are? "Autopilot," the alabaster feline states plainly. There's a reserved hesitance to him, not altogether cold and yet deeply guarded, but he gives a twitch of an ear and adds politely, "It's, um, nice to meet you both."

Autopilot finds growing himself increasingly eager to escape the exchange of pleasantries and get on with the patrol. With a flick of his tail, the tom turns back towards the forest and begins to limp along. His companions claim to be amateur healers at best — lucky him — so that leaves it up to the feline himself to start barking commands. He wishes he knew where to start; the jungle is still so new to him, what herbs do they even have here? A silent moment passes as he racks his brain for answers to their questions, and Autopilot eventually announces with faux decisiveness, "Best to stock up on the basics, I guess." If the Flights do end up getting into any scraps with the Exiles, they'll certainly be needing plenty of herbs for wound-dressing. Face screwing up slightly with thought, he begins listing off information. "Uh... look for marigold, goldenrod. They're little yellow flowers. Anything that seems especially fragrant is probably a good start." It's probably the most he's spoken in one go since he's arrived here (a low bar to exceed to begin with), and yet the words are still kept clipped.

★

The rumble of Atlas's voice catches the feline by surprise, so single-mindedly focused that he jumps at the realization that the wolf had joined their group. He stiffens on instinct and too-fast whips his head toward the words, only to smooth down his fur as his gaze falls upon the familiar form of the other Volarian. Hot flush blooms beneath his white pelt and he hurries to ignore it in favor of the query posed, instructing with mustered resolution, "Look around trees. And in clearings." He cringes inwardly as soon as he falls silent again — real specific, might as well have said anywhere, basically, Autopilot nearly mutters aloud. Yet the tom holds his tongue, pushing forth with ears half-flattened and shoulders held rigid with embarrassment.

Attempting to distract himself, the feline's lips part to taste the air. It's fresh with the taste of vernal rebirth, notes of earthy soil and tree bark and the taste of distant prey lingering on his tongue — nothing of any interest to the medic's mission. He halts in his tracks with a scowl, claws flexing into the dirt as he grasps at a stream of thoughts that rushes through his mind. At last he turns back to the group and proposes, this time with twitch of his whiskers and a new kind of hesitant receptiveness, "Are there any... uh, rivers nearby? We might have better luck near water." He doesn't like asking for help, but he's well beyond that point now and Autopilot doesn't want to get caught leading his clanmates in circles. The jungle is full of so many sounds and sights that he struggles to orient himself, any trickles of nearby creeks obscured to his untrained ears by the chattering of birds and the rustling of wind in the lazy spring breeze. For a man so often kept on-edge, hyper-vigilant and prone to starting at every snapping twig underpaw, the dense web that makes up his rainforest surroundings proves a difficult one to detangle.