Said tiger, who will one day soon come to have the name Stanley, is laying on the large soft thing in the center of the room when the wall opens. His – he’s a male, even if the one with the star in his chest hasn’t paid enough attention to figure it out – ears prick up and he lifts his large head to scrutinize the two-legs that made the hole. His nostrils flare, scenting the air, and what he smells is something new.

Blood and bone, hair and the strange, foul-smelling plant fibers the two-legs cover themselves with. And something else that he cannot name. Like the smell of a lightning strike, the smoke of a fire, and warmth of the sun on rent earth all rolled into one.

The two-legs comes in and he sits up, great golden eyes gleaming. He’s curious. Unlike the loud one, this one, at least, is quiet.