James didn't bother asking for the Giant Beaver's permission; he simply commandeered the waterway.
Upon seeing the massive cat, the beaver didn't hesitate. It dove into the depths and vanished into its lodge, terrified to show its face. Despite its clumsy appearance on land, the Giant Beaver moved through the water with the fluid grace of an otter. James had no intention of hunting it. On the contrary, he wanted the beaver to stay alive and keep maintaining the dam—a free, instinct-driven laborer for his sustainable fishing project.
The ecosystem here was thriving. Dense clusters of aquatic plants provided a rich habitat for plankton and bottom-dwellers, which in turn attracted massive shoals of fish. During this spring spawning season, the density of life in the pond was staggering. Ripples and small eddies broke the surface constantly, signaling the bounty beneath.
James crouched at the water's edge, becoming as still as the boulders around him. His golden eyes tracked the silver flashes darting through the reeds.
Bloop... bloop...
Bubbles rose as catfish and sunfish navigated the shallows.
James waited. He had never been taught to fish—Mom and Dad were strictly big-game hunters—but he relied on his human logic. He knew the laws of refraction: the image of the fish was a lie, a illusion shifted by the water. To hit the target, he had to strike deeper and further than what his eyes reported.
He locked onto a large catfish.
SPLASH!
He lunged. His heavy paw, claws extended like a multi-pronged spear, slammed into the water.
The result was a total failure. He hit nothing but silt, and the resulting splash soaked him from head to toe. James shook the water from his ears, looking like a disgruntled housecat. But the lure of Gene Points and fresh protein was too strong to quit.
Observation. Anticipation. Strike.
He repeated the cycle for over half an hour. His progress was rapid. He went from missing entirely to grazing the slippery scales of his targets. Eventually, muscle memory took over.
BAM!
James struck again, his paw cutting through the surface with a sharp crack. This time, he felt the solid weight of a struggle. He hooked his claws and heaved a large, thrashing catfish onto the grass.
'Success. Persistence pays off.'
---
[DING! Host killed a Catfish. Gene Points +3.]
---
Three points was a pittance, but in this reservoir, it was a numbers game. James pinned the fish by the tail and tore into the meat. The taste of fresh, raw fish was a welcome change—a natural craving for any feline.
He caught and ate a second fish quickly, but he knew this window wouldn't last forever. Once the spawning season ended, the pond would return to a normal density. He needed a way to store this surplus without the benefit of the winter's ice.
The process was nowhere near as smooth as James had imagined. In his head, he was a chef. In reality, he was a two-ton killing machine trying to do delicate work with claws that weren't built for it. To cut the fish, he had to pin the slippery catfish under one heavy paw and use a single dewclaw—his most flexible one—as a crude blade. He didn't really slice it. He dragged the hooked claw through the flesh, slowly working it apart. Too much force turned the meat to mush; too little, and it barely scratched the skin.
The real problem was threading the meat. Without opposable thumbs, James had to rely on an awkward mix of his jaws and front paws. He chewed the end of a stiff reed until it sharpened, then propped the meat against a fallen log. Holding the reed in his teeth, he thrust his head forward to pierce the strip—often missing or knocking the meat straight into the dirt.
His neck started to ache from the strain, and his muzzle was soon coated in fish scales and mud. It took him nearly four hours of clumsy effort just to hang a dozen uneven strips. By the end, he was more tired than after a hunt.
But as the mountain breeze finally began to pass through the hanging meat, a rough, toothy grin spread across his face. It wasn't pretty work—but it worked.
The next morning, James returned to check his inventory. The fish strips were still there, swaying gently in the wind like golden ornaments. No scavengers had discovered his cache yet.
Over the next few days, James balanced his time between big-game hunting and his commercial fishing operation. The pine tree was now draped in golden-brown strips of fish.
Finally, it was time for a taste test. He took down the first batch, which had become firm and slightly translucent. He soaked a piece in a stream to soften it before taking a bite.
It was excellent. The texture was dense and chewy, the flavor concentrated and free of the muddy pond taste. His only regret was the lack of salt.
"ROAR—"
Suddenly, a thunderous roar erupted from the pond, followed by the frantic, high-pitched squealing of the Giant Beaver.
James's ears swiveled. That was the roar of a Smilodon. His beaver was his golden goose; he couldn't let some stray predator eat his engineer.
He bolted toward the water. As he broke through the trees, he skidded to a halt. Standing over the beaver's lodge was a sub-adult Smilodon roughly his own size.
But James stared in stunned silence. The cat's fur wasn't the usual tawny or spotted brown. It was a blinding, pristine white—as pure as the snow on the peaks of Mount Elbert, without a single mark or blemish on its hide.