The Hunter's Pet: A Scifi Dystopian Romance

Having judged those who considered her a mere pet, Sarah sat quite proudly on the rooftop and looked down her nose at the citizens. Not a single one of them looked up. They had forgotten about the sky, too busy living in the stink of their own flatulence to remember that predators liked high places.

She knew she would have to keep out of sight. It was not certain how the citizens would react to her presence if they were to become aware of it, but it was too great a risk to test. William must not know she had disobeyed him.

Turning homeward, Sarah realized that her journey back up the tiered houses would not be as simple as her journey down. There were plenty of pillars and ledges to climb on, of course, but it was a slower process. It was also less easy to see where she had come from when all she could see were towering walls which led to yet more towering walls. The houses were slightly staggered back and forth, which made navigating all the more difficult. To eyes attuned to plants and rocks, the plethora of stone facades and pillars looked like a great desert, every inch of it the same as every other inch.

After a good hour climbing here and there, Sarah had to admit to herself that she was well and truly lost. Worse than that, the light was beginning to go. William would surely have missed her by now. He would be angry. He would be looking for her, leather in hand, of that she was certain.

Crouching between an ornate stone flower and a wall, Sarah tried to work out where William's house was. It couldn't be over there, for over there was where she had just come from... or was it? There were so very many houses, a multitude of dwellings which looked the same when viewed from the exterior.

She was about to make a decision to go in a new direction when sharp twin prongs lodged in her buttocks and a jolt of electricity shot through them. Screaming with rage and pain, she fell to the ground, her muscles contracting uselessly as a strange citizen stood over her with a set of manacles. Cuffs were attached to her wrists and ankles, then she was picked up, still shivering with the discharged current and tossed into a crate which was much smaller and much dirtier than the one William used.

Whimpering to herself as her every muscle ached, Sarah cowered in the back of the crate. It was transported without any kind of care to a place much lower in the city, a place which was barely lit and which smelled of heavy cleaning agents. Worse than sterile, the air smelled lethal, so completely removed from nature that Sarah's heart beat faster at the scent alone.

The crate was pushed into a corner and left. She was cold. She was hungry. She felt the little pangs of needing to toilet, but there was no toilet in the little crate.

“Let me out!”

“Hold your tongue, or you'll get another dose of jolts!” The little man had a nasty, nasally voice which carried serious threat—and moreover, anticipation. He clearly enjoyed his job, every mean, painful part of it.

Sarah tried every panel and place in the crate, but although it was filthy, it was just as secure as William's had been. There would be no escape until the man let her out, at which point it was likely things would get worse. Much worse.

She took refuge in silence and fear, deeply regretting ever having left the comfort and security of William's home. She had been a fool to take his kindness for granted. Clearly these citizens thought nothing of using violence when it suited them. William's spankings barely registered on the scale when compared to the vicious device the catcher had unleashed on her.

A hatch in the top of the crate opened and a hand shoved its way in, grasping her by the back of the neck. Sarah shouted in panic as a cold metal device was pressed to the back of her neck. It made beeping sounds, but did not cause any pain aside from the unpleasantly rough, gloved grip painfully pinching at her nape.

“Tch!” A frustrated sound was made, and the hand withdrew. “Not marked. Not chipped. If your owner doesn't claim you in twenty-four hours it won't go well for you.”

Sarah could not imagine spending another hour in the crate, let alone twenty-four of them. A whimper escaped her lips and was swiftly punished when the catcher slammed his hand against the crate's side, half deafening her with the reverberations.

He left her with the echoes of the blow, in the cramped cold from which there could be no reprieve. The crate was not large enough to do anything but sit in. She could stretch her legs out in front of her, but she could not stand.