"That Snowball. She actually had the nerve to come back and scavenge on my turf after I spared her life?"
James's post-evolution high was thoroughly deflated. He felt less like an apex predator and more like a homeowner who had just discovered a raccoon in his trash. Hanging the fish jerky in the tree had been a calculated move: the scent was a deterrent for small scavengers, and the local wolves—Dire or Gray—were strictly ground-dwellers.
"I thought my musk would be enough. Apparently, Snowball doesn't respect the 'Keep Out' sign."
It wasn't just about the food. James had worked far too hard on those artisanal snacks to let a shiny pokemon treat them like Oran Berry . This was a direct challenge to his authority. He decided it was time to set a trap. He couldn't act as a security guard 24/7, but he knew someone who could handle the landscaping.
James prowled back to the pond and found his General Manager—the Giant Beaver—busy gnawing on a fallen log. After the previous day's trauma, the rodent had leveled up its vigilance. Its large ears twitched constantly, scanning the woods for any shift in the breeze.
However, James was a Agility hunter sneaking like a ninja. He closed the distance , remaining undetected until he was ten meters away.
"ROAR!"
A short, sharp roar of command. James pounced, not with killing intent, but with the heavy, pinning force of a superior officer. He flattened the beaver into the mud before the poor thing could even squeak.
"Sorry, buddy. You're being drafted into a special project."
"SQUEAL! SQUEAL!"
The beaver thrashed, its small eyes wide with terror as it stared down the twin ivory daggers of James's sabers. It trembled so hard James could feel the vibrations through his paws.
James knew the Giant Beaver wasn't just a big rat; it was an all-in-one technical worker. It could fell trees, dig tunnels, dive, and excavate channels. If he could harness that work ethic, his life in the Rockies would get a lot easier.
"Why are you shaking? I'm not going to eat you."
Then James turned his head slightly.
"...At least not yet."
But his mouth betrayed him. Drool dripped onto the frightened creature below him, and seeing James' drooling face, the poor thing looked like its soul was about to leave its body.
After calming him ,James gave a low rumble and began a game of Prehistoric Charades. He pulled his claws back and started scratching at the earth, mimicking the act of digging a deep hole. Since they lacked a shared language, he had to rely on exaggerated physical cues.
The beaver watched, its terror slowly being replaced by a confused curiosity. It saw James digging and then pointing at its own massive claws. Slowly and Worryingly, the beaver lowered its head and began to scrape at the soil with its powerful front limbs.
"There we go. You're surely a smart man."
James felt the pride that he had managed to teach the creature what he wanted it to do . He raised his paw to pat the beaver's head in encouragement. Before he could even make contact, the beaver flinched so violently it did a backflip and played dead.
James retracted his paw, feeling a bit awkward. "Man, you're a huge creature. Don't be a pussy—grow a backbone."
He escorted his new intern back to the pine tree with the jerky. He picked a lucky spot right beneath the drying rack and signaled the beaver to start digging. The rodent worked with surprising speed, dirt flying behind it like it was powered by an engine. Within minutes, a meter-deep hole had appeared.
But James wasn't satisfied. A Smilodon could hop out of a shallow hole like a kitten out of a cardboard box. He kept the pressure on, signaling for more depth.
By sunset, the project was finished. The pit was over four meters deep with steep, slick sides. In the world of the Ice Age, the concept of a pitfall trap was practically alien. Clovis hunters used them for small game, but no one—not even the humans—was digging four-meter pits to trap a Sabertooth.
The beaver was now a shivering pile of exhaustion, looking utterly done with its new job.James felt empathy for the pitiful creature and dragged over some spruce branches and roots, dropping them into the pit for the beaver to eat.
"Eat up, Intern. Can't have my labor force starving on his first day."
While the beaver ate and came out of the pit using his large claws and James's help , he gathered leafy branches and carefully layered them over the hole, disguising the drop with the practiced skill of a man who had watched too many survival documentaries. Once the disguise was perfect, he herded the beaver back toward his own cave.
"No way I'm letting you run off in the middle of the night. We've got a morning shift to cover."
As they settled into the cave, James began to reflect on the principles of "Pavlovian conditioning". Fear and food. The whip and the carrot. He didn't have a whip, but he had his sabers; he didn't have a carrot, but he had fresh roots.
He decided that if he kept this up, the beaver would eventually develop a "Stockholm Syndrome" loyalty to him. To drive the point home, he began to feast on the fresh Ground Sloth meat right in front of the rodent, tearing into the warm muscle with a savage relish and devilish smile.
"SQUEAL..."
The beaver huddled in the furthest corner of the cave, hugging its fat self as it watched James's blood-caked muzzle. Being roommates with a serial killer was definitely not how it expected its week to go.
'Don't worry, buddy,' James thought, licking a stray drop of blood. 'Tomorrow, we see if we caught ourselves a Princess.'