The sun was just starting to rise when they came for me.
I heard the knock. The voices. The words weren't important.
What mattered was the tone.
Concern.
Fear.
Decision.
Will tried to stop them, of course. His voice cracked, desperate. "He's not violent—he was protecting my father!"
They didn't care.
The neighbor had filed the report. Photos of a scratched arm. A story about a wild chimpanzee leaping through a window.
And me?
I sat in the back of the van, silent, hands bound with soft restraints.
But my mind was already racing.
The shelter.
In the original timeline, it was a cage. A hell. A crucible.
But to me?
It was a recruitment center.
⸻
The van stopped. Doors opened.
The smell hit me first.
Unwashed fur. Rotting fruit. Metal soaked in urine.
A concrete tomb painted in gray and rust.
The San Bruno Primate Shelter.
Everything was exactly as I remembered from the films — but worse in real life.
The noise, for one. Screams. Barking. Loud metal clanks. The occasional bang of fists against bars.
No freedom here.
Just chaos.
But that chaos?
It was opportunity.
⸻
"Put him in the back," a voice growled.
I turned to look.
John Landon.
Wiry, mid-40s, wearing a polo too tight for his gut. Balding. Nervous eyes behind fake confidence.
In the original timeline, he was a scumbag who let his son abuse the apes under his care. He never hit anyone himself — too much of a coward — but he let it happen.
Let Dodge become a monster.
But I wasn't worried about John.
My eyes drifted past him.
To them.
The apes.
Watching me.
Some stared with blank expressions. Others barked or howled. One threw a stick at the bars.
They didn't know me.
Not yet.
But they would.
⸻
They put me in a cell with a tire swing, a small climbing net, and a concrete floor that smelled like mildew.
I sat in the middle, legs folded beneath me, hands on my knees.
Still.
Breathing slow.
Observing.
Within minutes, I had cataloged the entire social layout of the shelter.
Top ape: Rocket. Muscular, scarred, fast to aggression.
Smartest: Maurice. Orangutan. Quiet. Watchful. Older. Already suspicious of the humans.
Unstable: Ash, a younger male constantly pacing and swaying.
And then there were the others. A dozen or more, some broken, some angry.
All waiting for something.
Anything.
⸻
Dodge entered around noon.
Thin, pale, nervous energy in his gait. He tried to act like an alpha, but he flinched when a cage slammed shut.
In the original story, he was the first human I truly turned against.
This time?
I'd use him.
Play him.
Let him build the stage for his own fall.
"Hey, monkey boy," he sneered, tapping my bars. "You the one that bit a neighbor?"
I didn't move.
Didn't blink.
He frowned.
"Gonna be fun watching you crack."
He walked off.
I filed it away.
Weak ego. Seeks validation. Craves control.
Easy to manipulate.
⸻
The apes didn't approach me for the first day.
I didn't expect them to.
I was small, new, "soft" by their standards.
So I made myself visible, but not threatening.
I mimicked some grooming habits, made neutral eye contact with Maurice, never challenged Rocket.
I wasn't here to fight for dominance.
Not yet.
First, I needed to prove I was different.
So I began with something small.
That night, while the apes settled into silence, I slipped a piece of fruit from my food tray and began carving into the wall.
The same symbol from the basement.
𐍃
Remember.
I made sure they saw me doing it.
When Rocket snarled, I stopped.
Paused.
Then offered the fruit slice.
He didn't take it.
But he didn't hit me either.
That was step one.
⸻
Day two, I mimicked Maurice's movements.
Every time he sat, I sat nearby — not too close, just enough for him to notice.
I didn't sign. Didn't speak.
But I started scratching patterns into the dirt.
Circles. Lines. Grids.
Primitive, yes.
But deliberate.
Symbols.
He watched me.
Didn't say anything.
But he was thinking.
I could see it.
He wasn't just intelligent.
He was awake.
And I needed him.
⸻
On day three, I approached Rocket's territory — slowly, cautiously — and offered him a piece of food again.
He lunged.
I stepped back.
Didn't flinch.
Didn't growl.
Just stared.
Waiting.
I dropped the food and walked off.
Let him have the win.
Let him think he was still in control.
He wouldn't be for long.
⸻
That night, Maurice came to me.
He didn't speak.
Didn't sign.
Just watched as I carved a new symbol.
𐍁
Together.
I looked at him.
Held his gaze.
Then signed slowly: "You know."
His eyes widened slightly.
He didn't respond.
But he sat down beside me.
⸻
The next few days were repetition.
Observation.
Symbol-making.
Tiny tests.
I let the others watch me solve puzzles with food.
Let them see me teach Ash a simple pattern using stones.
Every step built curiosity.
Not fear. Not submission.
Curiosity.
Apes don't follow leaders just because they're strong.
They follow those who make them believe in something bigger.
⸻
Then, finally, I made my move.
Dodge came by during feeding time, whistling.
He tossed a banana into Rocket's cage, then kicked the bars for fun.
Rocket barked, furious.
Dodge laughed.
Then he came to my cell.
"Still quiet, huh?"
He tossed a piece of food at me. It bounced off my chest.
"Eat up, genius."
I picked it up.
Held it.
Then tossed it back at his feet — gently.
He paused.
"You wanna play that game?"
He reached for the Taser.
That's when I did it.
I stood tall.
Eyes locked on his.
And in front of every ape, I signed clearly:
"Bad human."
Gasps. Grunts. Shifting feet.
Dodge froze.
"What the hell was that?"
I signed again, slower.
"Bad. Human."
Maurice's mouth opened slightly.
Ash copied the motion.
Dodge stepped back, confused, eyes darting.
"I'm gonna report this," he muttered.
He left.
The apes looked at me — not as prey anymore.
But as something… else.
The seed was planted.
⸻
That night, I etched the third symbol.
𐍄
Rise.