The shelter burned with whispers.
Not of sound, but of meaning.
Symbols etched on walls. Motions passed between hands. Glances that held weight. Stillness that said more than roars ever could.
Something ancient had begun here.
And even the humans — blind as they were — could feel the tension building in the air.
⸻
Maurice met me at dawn, like always.
We sat in the corner of the yard, backs to the wind, where the cameras didn't catch angles clearly.
He brought pebbles today. Smooth ones. Different colors.
He laid them out carefully: one red, one gray, two black.
Then he looked at me.
Signed: "Language."
I nodded.
Signed back: "Stone becomes voice."
Maurice stared at the rocks as if they were sacred. And in a way, they were.
These stones would become letters.
Not of the human world.
But of ours.
Apes needed more than strength.
They needed memory.
And memory came with symbols.
⸻
That afternoon, I tested Ash.
I placed four sticks in a row, each carved with one of the five symbols: 𐍃 (Remember), 𐍁 (Together), 𐍄 (Rise), 𐍂 (Think), 𐍇 (Lead).
Then I pointed at each one.
Ash tapped them in order, then hesitated.
I waited.
He tapped the sixth — a new one I'd carved just this morning.
— "Fire."
Not literal.
Not yet.
I signed: "What does it mean?"
He looked confused.
Maurice signed in slowly: "Change."
I smiled.
They were learning.
Faster than I had hoped.
⸻
Dodge noticed.
Of course he did.
He wasn't dumb. Just angry. Insecure. Small in a cage of his own making.
That evening, he brought his lighter.
Clicked it once, twice, right in front of my cage.
"You like fire, huh?"
He stepped forward. Clicked again.
Flame danced between his fingers.
I didn't move.
He flicked it off and chuckled. "You're gonna burn, monkey."
Ash growled nearby. Dodge threw a dirty rag at his cage.
I kept my eyes locked on his.
Didn't blink.
Didn't flinch.
Just stared.
And signed once:
"Soon."
He scowled.
Walked off.
But the seed had been planted.
The echo of fire had begun.
⸻
That night, I gathered them all.
Maurice. Ash. Rocket. Cora. Flint. Baku. Even a few of the others who'd stayed on the fringe.
We formed a circle in the far corner.
Maurice laid out the stones like a prayer ritual.
Ash brought leaves with symbols scratched into them.
Cora held out a twig sharpened to a point — our first real writing tool.
I took it and began to draw.
Lines. Curves. Crosses.
A full sentence.
𐍃𐍁𐍄𐍂𐍇
Remember. Together. Rise. Think. Lead. Fire.
I signed as I traced each one.
"This is our law."
Maurice added: "Not cage. Not chain. Not whip."
Ash grinned. Signed: "Ape stronger."
Rocket, still bruised from our fight days earlier, stood tall and added his own symbol beside mine.
𐍆 — "Family."
I nodded.
Then turned to the wall behind us.
And with the sharp twig, I carved a phrase in our new script:
𐍃𐍁𐍄 — 𐍆𐍇
"Remember. Together. Rise — Family. Lead. Fire."
They stared.
Not with awe.
With belief.
For the first time in their lives, they weren't prisoners.
They were people.
And I was no longer a leader in secret.
I was becoming a king.
⸻
The next morning, Dodge brought in three crates of bananas and dumped them in the yard like we were dogs.
I didn't touch mine.
Rocket picked his up and set it near me — a sign of respect.
Maurice gestured toward the etched sentence on the wall.
Dodge noticed it for the first time.
"What the hell is that?"
He stepped forward.
Eyes narrowed.
He grabbed the twig I'd used.
Then laughed.
"Aw, isn't that cute. You writing monkey poems now?"
He raised the twig like he might snap it.
I stepped forward.
Signed:
"Touch it, burn."
He frowned.
Didn't understand.
But felt it.
He dropped the twig.
Walked away.
Ash chuckled — couldn't help it.
Dodge heard.
Turned.
Walked back.
And slapped Ash across the face with the back of his hand.
The yard froze.
Apes rose to their feet.
Rocket growled.
Maurice stepped forward.
But I raised my hand.
Stopped them.
Walked to Ash.
Checked his cheek.
Then signed: "You are fire."
Ash blinked, dazed.
I looked up at the sky.
Not in prayer.
In calculation.
The clock had started ticking.
⸻
That night, I told Maurice the truth.
Not everything.
But enough.
I scratched a map into the dirt.
The world.
Outlined the continents.
Then I marked red lines — paths of the Simian Flu.
He stared, confused.
I signed: "Human sickness. Soon."
Maurice signed: "They all die?"
"Most."
"Why?"
I hesitated.
Then signed:
"Because they tried to fix death."
His eyes narrowed.
He understood more than I thought.
Then he signed:
"We live… after?"
I nodded.
"Only if ready."
⸻
Maurice didn't sleep that night.
He stayed in the yard, pacing.
Watching the walls.
The sky.
The humans.
Everything.
Something inside him was shifting.
A piece of the past was melting.
And something new was being born.
⸻
In the coming days, the shelter saw strange behavior.
Apes sitting still. Watching. Not fighting.
Some huddled in groups. Whispering signs. Drawing in dirt.
Rocket mediated a food dispute instead of throwing the first punch.
Maurice requested two bananas and shared one.
Ash stopped barking at night.
The humans noticed.
John Landon wrote it off as environmental adjustment.
"Maybe they're finally getting used to captivity."
Dodge wasn't so sure.
"These freaks are up to something."
He wasn't wrong.
But he was too late.
The fire had already spread.
⸻
And in the deepest part of the yard, etched into the wall behind the climbing net, was the sentence that started it all.
𐍃𐍁𐍄 — 𐍆𐍇
Remember. Together. Rise — Family. Lead. Fire.
The first scripture of a new world.