TARZANN -Slave of Dr. Mamba-04

[mitru]

The sun dipped below the dense canopy, painting the Loango sky in bruised purples and fiery oranges. A quiet clearing, nestled deep within the park’s heart, pulsed with a different kind of light. A modest mission, its walls crafted from reclaimed wood and jungle stone, stood as a beacon. Prayer flags, faded by sun and rain, whispered secrets from its eaves. Inside, the low murmur of Sister Duval’s voice soothed wounded villagers, their bodies testament to the jungle’s recent, unnatural fury. Outside, the jungle itself rustled, a sound too loud, too agitated, for the approaching twilight.

A form materialized from the mist, a silhouette framed by the burgeoning moonlight. Tarzann. Her eyes, usually pools of sharp intelligence, were glazed, unseeing. Her movements, once fluid and graceful, now held a chilling precision. Dark jungle armor, woven from leaves and bark, hugged her athletic frame, a stark contrast to the vulnerable, bare skin of her arms and legs. Her bare feet, accustomed to the earth’s rough embrace, padded silently across the damp soil, leaving no trace. A chill, not from the evening air, settled over the clearing.

“Tarzann. You don’t belong to her.” Sister Duval’s voice, though soft, cut through the humid air, laced with an urgent plea. Her gaze, steady and unwavering, pierced the unnatural calm surrounding the jungle woman.
“I belong to the jungle.” Tarzann’s voice, a flat monotone, carried no warmth, no echo of the vibrant spirit Sister Duval knew. “And the jungle belongs to Dr. Mamba.”

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