Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Caroline leaves for work before dawn, and Will wakes to an empty house.

It never used to be empty, not when he was a boy, rampaging through the halls with a bedsheet cape tied around his shoulders and nothing but open doors ahead, when his mother was alive. She was a singer, her voice carrying soft melodies through the house, swept aloft by his father at the piano. Even after she died his father kept at the keys, weaving his grief into songs, and the music was lonelier for her absence, mournful, but beautiful all the same.

Charles' songs lost some of their beauty as the years drew on and the disease progressed, becoming discordant, his fingers forgetting the tunes that he once could have played blindfolded, but they were always there. Will was always comforted by them, though it was sometimes difficult to hear, this evidence of the erosion of his father's mind. He remembers being unable to sleep after he left for college, a restless first week at his dorm, because for the first time in his life, his father's music wasn't there to send him to sleep. He was relieved to come home, to take care of his father, despite the shock of the diagnosis.

The disease didn't just take his father; it took his best friend. It took the man who was there to cheer him on at every milestone, every soccer game, every science fair. The man who kept both of them afloat in an ocean of grief, who was nothing but kind, even when Will's misery made him cruel. There will never be another man like Charles Rodman. Seeing him unravel was a waking nightmare.

Then there was Caesar, and the house was revived with a new kind of noise. Caesar was the cure before Will brought the vaccine home. Some days it was as simple as laying Caesar in Charles' lap, and Charles would sit with him for hours, calm, humming those familiar melodies and quoting Shakespeare and Homer, classics he used to analyze when he was a professor.

Even in the early days, when Caesar was supposed to be a secret test subject, when Will was still determined not to get too attached, he was their baby. He didn't erase Charles’ symptoms, but he alleviated them.

Will passes under the door to Caesar's room, and he stands here staring up at the string. The attic feels like hallowed ground, a sacred, monumental place since Caesar was taken away, and Will hasn't had the strength to go up. He imagines that if he opens the door, he'll be crushed under the weight of the room's emptiness, everything that used to be there.

He goes downstairs to the kitchen, and all he can hear is silence. Unbearable silence. The grinding of the espresso machine doesn't count, or the growling of the cars outside. Charles isn't at his piano, and Caesar isn't swinging around the house hooting and squealing, and those are the sounds Will needs to hear. He knows he'll feel better when Caroline gets home, but in the meantime, newly jobless, all he has to do is listen to nothing.

Inevitably, he gets too lonely and climbs up to Caesar's room before the coffee pot is half filled. He isn't crushed by the emptiness; instead, it swallows him whole, sucking him in, and he's already crying when he sits heavily on Caesar's bed, catching his head in his hands.

Caesar's entire life surrounds him in the form of every toy he's ever played with, every drawing and block sculpture he's ever made. His chess board. His blanket. With shaking, careful hands Will lifts Caesar's pillow to his face and breathes in the smell of him. Caesar slept in Will's bed when he was small, clutched to Will's bare chest the way he would have clung to his chimpanzee mother, and Will wishes more than anything for another one of those nights. Caesar always fit so perfectly in his arms, even after he grew into that powerful animal Caroline foresaw.

Will knew what he was risking when he brought Caesar home. He'd heard stories about idiots raising apes as pets or children, most of them ending with the ape mauling their idiot to death. He's handled apes in labs his entire career, a consequence of working in medicine, and he knows how dangerous they can be when provoked. He's seen them throw fits so violent, they almost died from bashing their own heads against the walls of their cages. One of his lab assistants got two of his fingers bitten off after sticking them in one of the cages; he was only trying to give the “poor girl” a cookie.

Caesar was always different, sensitive and gentle. He wouldn't hurt a fly — not unless he was protecting Charles, who he understood was relapsing. Will has no doubt that Hunsiker deserved what he got, and also that Caesar wouldn't have taken it any further than he did. He's not capable of killing anyone.

Caesar's oldest drawings are hidden away in a box under the bed. He became embarrassed of them as he matured, Will thinks; that's how much of a miracle his brain is, capable of complex emotions like teenage embarrassment. Will slides the box out and lifts it into his lap, seeing the drawings through a veil of unshed tears. Most of them are crayon, which was Caesar's favorite medium before he discovered finger-painting, and many are of himself, Will and Charles: their perfect little family. These were made before Caroline became a part of it.

Will flips through them, and lingers the longest on a drawing of their family on a backdrop of powder blue construction paper. Caesar let the plain paper be the sky, and colored in a green hill along the bottom, on top of which stand the three of them together. Will's and Charles’ portrayals are standard enough, stick figures with blocky bodies and hair scribbles, but Caesar's rendering of himself is more interesting, less ape-like and more evocative of a little boy with dark skin, human. This was either the way he saw himself or what he wished he was.

Will knew what he was risking when he brought Caesar home, and he knew the damage he was doing, too. He's no expert on the social intricacies of chimpanzees, far more knowledgeable on how reliably similar their reactions to certain chemicals are to a human’s, but it doesn't surprise him that identity issues would arise, especially in an animal as intelligent as Caesar. Caroline used to be concerned about this, citing a study that saw an infant chimpanzee raised alongside a human as if they were brothers.

It didn't end well, and the moral of the story as she told it was that, though they loved him, Caesar belonged with his own kind.

To Will it seemed outrageous, the thought that Caesar would ever outgrow them — and he didn't; he was ripped away from them with the metal collar of a catch pole around his neck. He was thrown into an environment that must seem alien to him, with animals who look like him but don't share even a fraction of his intelligence, with people who don't know or care how special he is, and Will's heart races every time he thinks about it.

A father's job is to protect, and yet here he sits, wasting away in his own sorrow while Caesar rots in a cage, wondering why Will doesn't come and take him home.

Caesar isn't gone the way Charles is. Will failed as a scientist, and a son. He couldn't carry Charles back out of the black chasm of the disease, but he can still save Caesar. Make things right, or as right as they can be after all that's gone wrong.

He takes the money and doesn't wait for Caroline, who's liable to try and stop him. His father gone, his career forfeit, he has nothing left to lose and everything to gain.

[*]

The primate shelter is as depressing a sight as ever when Will peels into the lot, doing seventy. He stops before the gate, goes up to the doors on foot, though it was a conscious effort not to just run them down, and storms in, stony-faced with resolve. All he really knows is that the world will stop turning if he doesn't get Caesar home today, and God help anyone who stands between him and his baby.

Landon lifts his head, startled when Will bursts into his office, throwing the door open with so much force it bounces off the wall and slams shut behind him. He slaps the envelope down on Landon’s desk, and he knows this is an act of desperation, a form of begging, but if Landon doesn't accept it Will is going to throttle him, steal Caesar and run them both to Mexico. He'll call Caroline to fill her in on the plan later.

Landon eyes the envelope, and his surprise gives way to a smugness that makes Will twitch, hands curling into fists. Landon might think he knows Will; he's probably seen this sort of thing hundreds of times, morons arguing that a wild animal is better off in their living room than in a specialized facility. He has no idea. He doesn't know Caesar's all but human, and worth more than Landon and his moronic sons put together. Will feels so full of loathing he could choke on it.

“Well, what have we here,” Landon says, chuckling to himself as he thumbs slowly through the envelope’s contents.

“Don't,” Will says before Landon can tell him he disapproves, as if that means anything to Will. He needs to see Caesar now, and not just see him but embrace him, let him know the nightmare's finally coming to an end. “Just get the keys.”

“Mm.” Landon slides the envelope back across the desk. Will's stomach lurches with anxiety; he wasn't actually expecting to be turned away. “One problem,” Landon says, and grins. “That ain't half of what your lab paid me.”

Will shudders, spine snapping straight, blood cold. For a second he's sure he'll fall, the world ripped out from under him. “No,” he says. “Why would you —?”

“Why not? He's young and healthy. You took good care of him, huh, Dad?” Landon laughs, mocking Will's horror. “Oh, stop clutching your pearls. Didn't you know you get your lab rats from places like this? They all had someone like you once upon a time, who thought they were different. But you signed that animal over to me and —”

“I didn't have a choice!” Will roars. He slams his hands down on the desk, sending a wave of papers and pens to the floor.

“He didn't belong to you anymore,” Landon says, only raising an eyebrow at the outburst. “He was mine, and now he's Gen-Sys property. You want to bribe somebody, try your boss. Something tells me a millionaire won't be moved by a few thousand bucks, though.”

Will just stands here and shakes. He knows where the lab sources their apes from; he just never imagined this could happen.

“Oh. Oh, no, don't tell me.” Landon barks out another pitiless laugh. “You got fired, didn't you?”

“I quit,” Will says, voice croaking.

“Well, good for you. Now, are you gonna walk your sorry ass out of here or do I need to call in my boys to carry you out?”

Will doesn't scream or beg. He doesn't lay a hand on Landon. In the end, it's all he can do to stagger back to his car, crippled by grief.

Caesar's blanket is in the passenger seat, brought to comfort him when they left together, and Will's eyes burn looking at it.

[*]

Will's keycard was confiscated upon his resigning, his name removed from the computer system, but he knows the guard at the front desk, and apparently news of his unemployment has yet to reach security. The man just nods to him the way he did every day Will came into work, and Will isn't stopped from entering the elevator and going up to what used to be his floor, his lab. His apes.

He makes a frantic beeline for the cages, ignoring the baffled looks of the scientists who used to be his subordinates. They definitely know he left; he can only hope their confusion lasts long enough to buy him some time, that the fact that they answered to him just a week ago will make them hesitate to sic Jacobs on him.

He finds Caesar's cage at the end of the row, and he was once numb to the sight of an ape in a Gen-Sys lab-standard enclosure, even when they were hunched and shivering, staring out with frightened eyes — but now it's Caesar on the other side of the glass, curled into a lethargic ball on the floor, probably still drowsy from the tranquilizer they used to transfer him. He jumps up when he sees Will, and bangs desperately on the window in an attempt to reach him.

“Caesar!” Will does the same, plastering himself to the locked door, both of them doing their best to shatter ballistic glass with only their fists and the force of how much they want to get to each other. Will is tempted to turn and rip the keycard off the nearest technician, just to open the cage and take Caesar in his arms, but that would only accelerate the haste with which security will remove him.

The scientists watch from a wary distance, wide-eyed, whispering to each other. One of them will break off to alert security soon. Will has so much to say, apologies and promises, and only minutes before they come to haul him off.

“Caesar, Caesar, listen to me,” he says, because Caesar is making quick, frenzied vocalizations, signing, “Where?” over and over again. “You're at my work,” Will tells him. “At the lab, remember? The one I showed you.”

The one where your mother was killed, he doesn't say, because she tried to defend you against the humans who hurt her. He suspects Caesar will make the connection anyway, and knows he's right when Caesar screams, new panic entering his expression.

“I know, I know. Oh, my God.” Will needs to be strong now, to show Caesar he’s going to fight for him, get him out of here, but he's falling apart in the face of Caesar's distress. “I know you're afraid, but I'm going to take care of this, I promise. Pretty soon you'll be back home with me, but in the meantime, the scientists here — they might —”

His voice cuts out, a thousand memories of tests apes have been subjected to here passing before his eyes. He was impassive when he oversaw them, caring only about the effectiveness of the drug, but he's horrified to think they could happen to Caesar now, that the scientists who oversaw them would treat him just as impassively.

Is it cruel to keep them like this, in cages, separated from each other and deprived of everything they naturally want? Undoubtedly, but it's a necessary evil for the greater good of humanity, a sacrifice for the superior species. Even Caroline agrees on that point, though Will always kept the worst of the details from her — but it's different with Caesar.

“They might give you some shots,” he says, words garbled from crying. “They'll shoot you to — to make you sleep, before they take you out. I'm so sorry. Caesar, I'm sorry. Just try to be brave while you're here, and know that Daddy's doing everything he can to get you home.”

It's childish and nostalgic. Caesar hasn't called him that in so long, but it flies from Will's mouth like a lifeline. He needs Caesar to know that nothing's changed between them, that his room is exactly the way he left it and there will be a cavernous empty space in Will's life until he has Caesar back.

“Shelter,” Caesar signs, waving his hands in a frenzy, eyes wild. “Not home. Go back to shelter, important. Go back now.”

This surprises Will; why would Caesar want to be returned to that asshole Landon? It must be burgeoning attachment issues, Will decides with a sob, a testament to all the trauma he's been subjected to in recent weeks. He won't ask to be taken home again, dreading being told no, and he'd prefer the evil he's more familiar with, the shelter, over the lab.

“No, you're not going back to that place,” Will says firmly. He means for this to be reassuring, but Caesar screeches at him, frustrated. “You're coming home. Not right now, I'm sorry, but soon, and — and everything will be like it was.” He presses his forehead to the glass, and despite his obvious displeasure Caesar mimics him, their breathing fogging the glass from both sides.

There's the sound of the elevator doors opening, and shoes on the tiles, marching toward them. “Will?” Jacobs' horrible voice.

“I love you,” Will mouths, letting Caesar read his lips. He mouths the words again, and again, and then hands are on his shoulders, yanking him back from the cage. Caesar smacks the window, screaming. “It's okay!” Will shouts. “It's all going to be okay!”

“Is it?” Jacobs says, boggling at him. Will is panting, his face tear-streaked, only able to stand because two security guards are holding him up, gripping his arms. There are four more surrounding him. “Will, what are you doing here? You're aware that I could have you arrested right now for trespassing, yes?”

With an outraged screech Caesar throws himself against the side of the cage, rattling it. The other apes fly into their own frenzies, shaking their own cages, excited by him.

“Caesar, I'm okay!” Will tells him, though it does nothing to soothe him. “Look what you're doing,” he says to Jacobs, who scoffs.

“Right. Despite the terms on which we parted, I don't dislike you.” He cuts Will a look of pity. “I can see you're in a…fragile state.”

Will can only imagine what Jacobs thinks of him, and his former coworkers, bursting in and throwing himself at one of the cages, but he doesn't care. They could never understand. “Mr. Jacobs,” he begins, knowing it's hopeless but desperate enough to beg anyway. “That chimp, Caesar. He's —”

“I know,” Jacobs says, his pity frosting over into something crueler. He comes close to Will, and lowers his voice. “Here’s the deal: you leave here, now, quietly, and I won't press charges for your trespassing today and stealing company property eight years ago.”

Will shakes his head. “Please,” he tries. “He doesn't belong here. What do you want? Just give him to me and I'll come back. I'll —”

“A little late for that, I'm afraid.” Jacobs turns to the guards. “Escort Doctor Rodman to his car.”

“Jacobs!” Will fights briefly, but stops when seeing him struggle sets Caesar off again. “They're not hurting me!” he calls as they drag him out, straining to look back at Caesar, who watches him go with a look of such grief it breaks Will's heart. Abandoned again. “Caesar, I'm sorry!”

“Oh, what for?” Jacobs rolls his eyes, following Will and the guards as far as the elevator. “We treat our animals well here. You should know that, Will. He's in capable hands.”

Will knows exactly how the animals here are treated, and he's crying again when the elevator doors close. He has to do something, something stupid, something drastic — he has to do something.

Chapter Text

The other humans drag Will away, and Caesar watches him disappear with growing despair in his gut, gnawing him from within. He planned to leave the shelter and take Charles' medicine tonight, but this transfer ruins everything. His last memory of the shelter is that hideous human Dodge aiming a sleep-gun at him, and Maurice's pitying look from behind the wire of his cage. The world blurred and slipped away from Caesar, and he slept.

This new cage is nothing like the pens at the shelter. The door is different, the walls solid metal and glass, without any keyhole Caesar can identify. He tries to survey the rest of what he can see, noting that he's in a hallway, the walls white and lifeless, bright artificial lights bearing down on him from overhead. There are two rows of cages opposite each other, and Caesar's is the last of his row, wedged between a wall and another cage.

He tries to signal to the chimpanzee inside, but gets no response; the other male sits in a tight, motionless ball in the far corner with his back to Caesar, so still he barely seems to be breathing. The cage across from Caesar's is empty, though it smells strongly of another male.

Caesar paces back and forth along the floor of his cage, whimpering despairingly but trying not to succumb to panic. The humans put him in this cage, and if there's a way in, there's a way out. He pauses at the sound of rolling wheels, and looks up to see two humans in white coats pushing a cart down the aisle toward him. On it is a black-furred male, completely limp and breathing shallowly. Unconscious, the way Caesar was when he was brought here.

He watches the humans lift the ape off the cart, gripping his arms and legs, and deposit him gently on the floor of the cage across from Caesar's. They opened the door by swiping a card along the side of it, cards they wear around their necks.

That's how these cages are unlocked, then, not with keys but with cards. The human closes the door, swiping the card again to lock it. “It’s really incredible, isn't it?” he asks, turning to the other: a woman. “We're getting close. Jacobs said he'd be pushing for human trials soon.”

The woman smiles. She's small and harmless looking, with soft eyes and a round face. “Not soon enough,” she says. The man leaves, taking the cart with him, but she lingers, turning to Caesar, who startles at being caught staring. “Hello, sweetheart. Look at you, pretty boy,” she says, in a loving tone of voice he hasn't heard since he was home.

His spirits lift despite the situation at large, and he comes close to the glass at the front of the cage, grunting in greeting.

“Oh, you're so nice!” she says, bouncing with excitement. “I bet we're gonna be best friends…” Her eyes slide over to a clipboard hung next to his closed window. “Caesar! That's a beautiful name. I'm Lynn Bonner.” She taps a plastic tag pinned to her coat, the name written there in neat lettering. “People mostly call me Bonnie, though.”

Caesar pants happily, thrilled to have found a possible ally. It's been so long since a human looked at him with anything other than contempt, barring Will's desperate visits. “Let me out?” he signs hopefully.

Bonnie just coos at him, her eyes kind but devoid of understanding. “Aw, are you waving?” She waves her hand meaninglessly at him, not a sign. “I'm happy to see you, too! You're so smart, huh?”

“Out,” he signs again, slower.

“Bye-bye, baby,” she says, waving still as she walks away. “I’ll see you in a little bit!”

Caesar screams and pounds his fists on the glass, hopes dashed in an instant. Panic returns to sink its teeth into him, and he takes to pacing again. Will told him his mother died here, probably after being kept in one of these cages. Caesar might have been born in one of these cages. He has no real memories of her or his own brief time here as an infant, but the knowledge alone is enough to make it haunted. He doesn't want to be here. His plan won't work here. He needs to get back to the —

A sharp smack, and Caesar stops, snapping his head up to find the ape in the cage across from his awake and hitting the floor to get his attention. The ape could almost be a chimpanzee, but not quite, slightly smaller and slimmer with a dark face. His face is criss-crossed with pale scars, and his right eye looks milky, fogged over. “Don't bother,” he signs. “Futile.”

Caesar's mouth falls open in surprise. Not only does this ape know sign — he knows advanced words like “futile.” It's been too long since Caesar had intelligent company. Maurice didn't count, not really, unaltered by the medicine. He communicated with simple signs, ones Caesar mastered as a child, and that was enough for Caesar at the shelter, but he still longed for real conversation. Hope breathes again in his chest. He could whoop with joy.

“My name is Caesar,” he signs, pressing close to the front of the cage, latching onto this interaction with naked desperation. He's been ignored and misunderstood by plain apes and humans alike since he was taken away, and he's greedy for the way this ape’s crooked eyes follow his signs, reading their meanings effortlessly. “Caesar is delighted to meet you,” he signs, eager to impress this ape with his own intelligence; he hopes “delighted” is a big enough word.

The ape slumps back against the wall of his cage with a short grunt of dismissal, as if to end the conversation here, before it begins. His posture is tense, his expression uninterested, and Caesar's instincts warn him he's unwelcome in this other male's territory. It's a ridiculous instinct, considering that they're both caged here, but distressing all the same.

Caesar persists, smacking the floor to reclaim the ape's attention, and signs, “What's your name?”

“You can sign but can't read?” The ape huffs and swats his cage's window, jostling the clipboard hung there. Caesar squints to make out the small letters: Koba.

“K O B A,” he signs slowly, taking care with each one. “K O B A. I like your name.”

He's trying to please Koba, and feels struck down with dejection when Koba only sneers at him.

“Talk to me? Please,” Caesar signs, but Koba turns away.

Caesar knows he needs to win Koba over. He needs the help of another intelligent ape, both to formulate a new plan as quickly as possible and prevent himself from losing his mind in isolation, but Koba's back is turned to him now. They sit quietly for what feels like an eternity, with nothing to do but stare at the white walls and listen to the grating noises of human machinery. Boredom sets in with teeth almost as sharp as panic, even as Caesar tries to devote this empty time to planning.

Will brought Charles' medicine from this lab, so there should still be medicine here somewhere. Caesar's plan could still work. It might even prove faster this way, cutting out the trip home entirely. If he can just escape this new cage, he can deliver it to the apes at the shelter and the zoo, giving them intelligence before they leave for the Redwoods together. It's not ruined after all.

If he can just escape this new cage, which he suspects is going to be more difficult than tying a blade to a stick.

Koba doesn't seem bored, strangely, and sits listless against the wall of his cage, head tipped back to stare blankly at the ceiling with no readable expression on his face: not sadness, but emptiness. Watching him, Caesar wonders when Koba stopped trying to escape, how long he's been here.

Caesar hoots, wanting his attention, and brightens when Koba glances at him. “When’s yard time?” he signs, hoping the lab's exercise yard is less impenetrable than their cages, that he can escape that way.

“What?” Koba signs.

“Yard time. Exercise time, outside of cages. When is it?” Caesar signs. He's disheartened when Koba makes a face, scrunching his nose. “Don't understand?”

Koba barks, short and sardonic. “I understand,” he signs. “Look around your cage.”

Caesar does, confused but curious as to Koba's meaning.

“Now touch walls,” Koba signs when Caesar turns to him for further instructions.

Caesar does. If he stands in the middle with his arms outstretched, he can touch both the front and back walls at once; it's much smaller than his pen at the shelter. There's a ledge on which he imagines he's supposed to sleep, a pillow, an empty bowl that's probably intended for food, and nothing else. The walls are smooth, bare white, bright enough to make his eyes burn.

“Welcome home,” Koba signs, a bitter twist to his mouth. “That’s your world now. Get used to it.”

There is no yard, Caesar realizes, his hope sinking down into despair yet again. He crumples to the floor with a whine of dismay, and Koba's face softens some.

“Don’t mean to be cruel. Caesar will get used to it,” he signs, shifting closer to the front of his cage, as close as he can be to Caesar with the aisle between them. “You’re new. Hard to be new. I forget that.”

“Where is Koba from?” Caesar signs, comforted just to talk to him.

“Another lab,” Koba signs. “And another one before that, long as I can remember.” He regards Caesar with wary eyes before signing, “Where does Caesar come from?”

“Primate shelter. They had a yard, with toys and fake sky,” Caesar tells him. “Before that, home, with family.”

“Family?” Koba perks up. “Forest?”

Caesar nods. “Yes,” he signs. “Called Redwoods. Ever been there?”

“No. Never gone outside,” Koba signs, and moves on from this as if it isn't deeply sad, a pang in Caesar's chest. “Can you tell me?” he signs. “What that's like?”

“Of course.” Caesar considers this task, where to start, but before he can Koba stops him with a warning call, and points to where the same humans from before, Bonnie and the man, are coming down the hall. They stop at a cage three up from Caesar's and linger there.

“Don't let them see you're smart,” Koba signs, his expression stern. “Showed him I was smart, and now I never get a quiet day.”

“Him?” Caesar signs.

“A man. Was in charge of the other humans,” Koba explains. “Gone now. Good. Hope he died.”

Caesar startles at the brazen way Koba moves his hands, as though it's no great thing to wish death upon someone. “Humans here are all bad?” Caesar signs, wondering if this hatred is warranted.

“All bad?” Koba scoffs in bafflement. “Humans everywhere are all bad,” he signs. “But new in-charge human is worse. You'll see. He —” He drops his hands abruptly, shrinking back when the humans approach, their footsteps and voices growing louder. They stop in front of Caesar’s cage, and Bonnie doesn't look as small and harmless anymore with a gun in her hands. The man has one, too.

“It’s alright, baby,” she says, the gun clicking as she raises it. The man swipes his card and opens Caesar's window. “You’re okay…”

Sleep-guns, Caesar thinks, like the ones at the shelter. He's panicked despite knowing what's coming, and whimpers and paces again until he notices Koba behind them. He's hiding under his ledge but waving urgently to Caesar, watching him with wide eyes.

“Curl up,” he's signing. “Tight. Protect eyes. Just wait to sleep. Won't hurt bad.”

Caesar obeys, curling into a ball with his face behind his arms. The darts bring pain, but adrenaline numbs it, and sleep comes quickly.

[*]

“— a healthy weight?” A brash, male voice. Caesar stirs.

Bright lights burn his eyes when he tries to open them. He screws them shut again and turns his head to escape it, gasping.

“Oh, yes. He's perfect for an eight year old,” Bonnie says. She's standing over Caesar, and she pets his head when she notices him waking. This only increases his distress, and he tries to sit up but finds he can't. The table under him is hard and cold, and the straps over his limbs and waist are immovable. The most he can do is lift his head, putting a painful strain on his neck.

There are three humans in the room with him, Bonnie and the man who helped her to shoot Caesar, and a new man. He stands over the table, scribbling on a clipboard, dressed in a stark white coat like the others. Something about his posture sets him apart from them, an air of dominance. Caesar reads off his tag: Dr. Thomas Stanton.

“I can already tell this is its first lab,” Stanton says, with an odd grimace of a smile. “Not a mark on it.”

It? Caesar bucks up against the restraints, but stops when Bonnie pushes his head back, holding him down with her hand on his forehead. “It's alright. Shh,” she says. Her voice is no longer reassuring; the “love” in it is a lie if she would let this happen to him. “We're just doing some bloodwork, baby, making sure you're all healthy.”

“Hand me the syringe?” Stanton asks. Caesar can no longer see him or what he's doing, or anything but the lights, eyes tearing up.

A damp swab crosses his arm, and he understands he's going to be given a needle, like Will said. Bloodwork, Bonnie called it — that means they're going to draw his blood. Caesar relaxes, familiar with the concept. Will took his blood occasionally, and it stung but not much, only for a second before Will pressed his lips to the spot, soothing the discomfort with a kiss and promises of ice cream or some other treat. Caesar doesn't expect to be rewarded afterward, but he knows needles don't hurt —

It plunges in, and he screeches with pain and surprise. It stings more than it should, stabbed in too fast and too deep.

“Oops. I missed the vein,” Stanton says, sounding less than remorseful. His grip on Caesar's arm is painfully tight when he pulls the needle out only to dig it back in. Caesar yowls, surging up against the restraints and Bonnie's hand.

“Doctor,” she says, shifting beside the table. “Maybe we should hurry this along —”

“Well, shut it up,” he says. “It’s fucking up my aim.” He laughs, and does it again, ripping another scream from Caesar's mouth. It was never like this with Will; the pain must be intentional, but why? Caesar doesn't understand.

“It’s alright. Hey, Caesar, it's okay. Just a little longer. Let's try to hold still for Doctor Stanton,” Bonnie babbles, stroking his head as if this will soothe him. Caesar turns his head to snap at her hand, just missing, and she stumbles back.

“No!” Stanton releases Caesar's arm, dropping the needle, but only to slam his hands down on the table either side of Caesar's head. Caesar freezes, shocked by this, and again by the bottomless cruelty in Stanton's dark eyes. “Don’t you ever bite, you little shit, or I'll have your teeth pulled!” Caesar believes him.

Stanton pulls back, but Caesar stays frozen. He only whines when the needle is inserted again, clamping his mouth shut to keep quiet.

“He — Doctor, it wasn't that bad,” Bonnie says. “He didn't bite me.”

“It’s called discipline,” Stanton says tersely. “Don’t you know how dangerous these things are? They have to be broken in.” He pulls the needle out just as roughly as he pushed it in. Caesar's eyes are fixed on the ceiling, squinting at the light to distract from the pain, but he hears Stanton's smile. “See? There's that part done. Now for the physical.”

The “physical” manages to be worse than the needle, a new kind of pain. Stanton and the other man feel him everywhere while he lies helpless and Bonnie babbles meaningless reassurances. They squeeze along his limbs as though to test their give, appraising him, and Caesar discovers that touch can be unbearable. It's a violation; touch should always bring comfort, like his father's and grandfather's hands, gently stroking his fur or drawing him into their arms to hold. This is torture.

He's never been handled like this, as if he doesn't feel, as if he's an inanimate thing. Their touch is cold and clinical, their plastic gloves catching uncomfortably in his fur. The room is horrifically bright, stinking of chemical smells and metal equipment he doesn't know the signs for. It seems impossible, but these humans are worse than Dodge.

It comes as a relief when Bonnie shoots him again with the sleep-gun, and he flinches awake on the cold floor of his cage, whimpering, Koba watching him from across the aisle. He feels changed, missing something, like a part of him was left on that table. “Sorry. Know they hurt you, but it gets easier,” Koba signs. “Just have to get used to it.”

Caesar refuses to believe he could ever get used to this, even if he stayed a hundred years. “Won’t get used to it,” he signs. He's trembling, and his arm aches when he drags himself over to the glass, wanting to be as close to Koba as their cages allow. “I’m leaving. We all are. Leaving here and going to —”

Koba hisses, stopping him. “No,” he signs. “Never say things like that. We're not leaving. Impossible.”

“Have a plan. Going to work,” Caesar signs, but Koba hisses again.

“Thought you'd tell me what it was like in forest, with family,” he signs.

Caesar obliges, though they really should discuss the plan. He doesn't want to disappoint Koba, who is now his only friend in the world.

The days draw on, and he and Koba spend their time signing to each other whenever the humans aren't looking. Caesar describes the Redwoods in as much detail as he can manage, the way they changed with the seasons but stayed green even at the coldest time of winter, the endless feeling of perching on the highest branch of the tallest tree, the wind passing through his fur. He describes his father and grandfather, their touch, how it was so different from the scientists’. Koba listens raptly, signing for “more” every time Caesar pauses.

[*]

“Grandfather made music, and sang,” Caesar signs. He remembers the piano, and the fond, half-hearted way Charles used to scold him for climbing on it. “So many songs.”

He was mystified by the dance of Charles’ fingers over the keys, throwing music into the air. Caesar listened for hours, on Charles' lap or beside him on the bench, watching and wondering. It pains him to know he'll never hear those songs again, even if he went home. Charles got sick again, and now he's gone forever. Will told him as much during his last visit to the shelter.

Sometimes Charles' sickness made him mean, but never to Caesar. Caesar used to go to him when it was bad, when he was confused and furious for it, and Charles clutched at him like he was the only thing in the world that still made sense.

Caesar hugged Charles goodbye before they dragged him away, but he couldn't have known it was goodbye forever.

“What songs?” Koba signs when Caesar lapses into stillness, thoughts straying backward.

Caesar focuses on Koba, the one who's still here, and signs the words as best as he remembers them: twinkling stars, rowing boats, rocking cradles and sunshine when skies are gray.

[*]

In return, Koba teaches Caesar what it is to be a lab ape. He explains every procedure before it happens, having suffered through them dozens of times himself, and though it's always unpleasant, at least Caesar is never surprised. He's strapped down and made to breathe the medicine, which has no effect on him. On Koba's advice he feigns simple-mindedness, and the humans rarely use him after observing no change in his behavior. Koba is darted — the term the scientists use, Caesar learns — often, sometimes several times a day, and Caesar hates watching them cart him away.

[*]

“Your eye?” Caesar signs. He's fascinated by Koba's scars, impressed and dismayed that there could be so many, cutting through his fur like rivers on a map or bolts of lightning across a black sky. He hopes Koba will share this story, now that Caesar’s told him so many about his life.

Koba bristles a bit, but lifts his hands to sign, “Hair… Gunk. Don't remember what they called it, just that it burned when they put it in my eye. Now I see crooked.”

“Shampoo.” The sign is stilted with Caesar reeling. He struggles to understand what the purpose of such cruelty could possibly be, why they would ever do that, and it makes him angry, imagining it.

“Yes.” Koba hesitates, crooked gaze on Caesar's face. “Hope humans don't hurt your eyes,” he signs. “Very green, like forest would be.”

This snuffs Caesar's anger, and a light feeling appears in his chest. “You like my eyes?” he signs.

Koba scoffs loudly. Embarrassed, Caesar thinks. “What about Caesar's scar?” Koba signs.

Caesar is confused until he realizes Koba means his birthmark. “Was born with it,” he signs. “Don't have any scars.”

Koba nods, and lowers his eyes. “That will change soon.”

The light feeling dissipates, scattered like frightened animals. Caesar wonders how many scars he'll have by the time he escapes.

[*]

He finds himself teeming with resentment for the humans here, even Bonnie, who he's come to forgive for her role in the torture, deciding that she has a good heart albeit stupid. Koba's rage must be contagious; he's nothing but meek when the humans come for him, curling up and submitting to their darts, but when he returns and awakes, weak from the ordeal, he signs for hours about how he hates them. Though he never shares the details of his own procedures, Caesar knows they're worse than bloodwork and physicals.

[*]

Koba comes awake snarling, eyes dark and teeth bared, and signs, “Hate them. Hate them. Hate. Hate. Hate.”

He was just returned to his cage after being darted and removed for an hour, and Caesar won't ask him to relive it by telling him what the humans did, but he suspects it was especially bad this time. He wishes he had more comfort to offer Koba than this, watching and listening from across the aisle and behind glass, but he can do nothing else.

“Whole time they have me out, I just think about how I would do it. Kill them. Makes it hurt less,” Koba signs. He's frustrated, pacing. “Would tear them apart, do it slowly. Open them with my teeth!” He roars.

Caesar flinches, but he doesn't have it in him to disapprove of Koba's threats anymore. He understands that rage. He feels it, too, though not as violently. Not yet.

He understands, but he wonders where this Koba goes when the humans come for him, when he curls into his ball, perfectly timid, or hides under his ledge. It would bring Caesar no pleasure to see him kill someone, but he speaks of it so often and so fervently, it seems odd that he never attempts it.

Caesar hits the floor to get Koba's attention, pulling him from his tirade. “Why don't you fight?” he signs. “Tear them apart, like you want?”

Koba's face falls with confusion, then hardens into a look of grave warning. “Not worth it,” he signs.

“Why?”

Koba bangs the glass with his fists, snapping. “Not worth it!” he signs. “Never fight them, unless you want to look more like me.”

Caesar nods just to placate him, still confused. One torture he's yet to see visited upon the apes here are beatings. Where was Koba beaten for fighting? Other labs? This place is horrible and hopeless, and the thought that other labs are somehow worse is horrifying. Caesar's heart sinks with it, and aches for Koba, who must know firsthand.

[*]

Caesar learns that it's appropriate to hate them, these humans at least, though according to Koba all humans are exactly the same. Caesar disagrees but doesn't say so, not here.

Koba tells him that the ape in the cage beside his is called Stone, because in all the time he's been here he's hardly ever moved from that spot, forever cowering, never interacting or uncurling from his ball in the corner. Koba tells him that although the food here is tasteless, dry pellets that do nothing to sate his hunger, it's best to just eat it, because if he won't eat with his mouth, the humans will feed him with tubes. Koba tells him to be silent when they hurt him, because it angers them to know apes feel pain.

Caesar is disturbed and wounded by all of this, increasingly desperate to find a way out, but also proportionally grateful for Koba, who comforts him and keeps him company in this nightmarish place. Koba is strong and wise, and Caesar couldn't survive without his guidance. He hopes to repay Koba someday by showing him the Redwoods in person, taking care of him out there the way Koba has taken care of Caesar here. He wants to give Koba the freedom he won't admit to wanting for fear that it's not possible.

Today, at Koba's request, Caesar describes the way his father held him when he was an infant, revisiting his earliest memories to share with Koba. Caesar takes the pillow off his sleeping ledge and cradles it in his arms, rocking it in demonstration, knelt on the floor in front of the glass. He's all but pressed to his cage's door, as is Koba; they always sit like this when they sign, as close as they physically can be to each other, just the glass and aisle between them.

Caesar sets the pillow down to free his hands, very gently, as if it really is a baby, Koba's eyes tracking his every movement. “Father held me like that,” Caesar signs. “He was never cruel to me. Never hurt me. Calmed me when I cried.”

“You were allowed to cry?” Koba signs, surprised.

“Allowed to do anything I wanted.” Caesar indulges too in the memory of home, though it's not weightless. “Thought I'd stay there forever,” he signs. “Father. Grandfather. Father's mate.” That house was his whole world, and he was content there as a baby and a juvenile, but change came with adolescence. “Think I was just starting to grow up when they took me away.”

“Am I a pet?” he asked Will; “What is Caesar?” He never minded the leash as a child, trusting his father so completely, but as he grew up these questions came creeping in, eating at the edges of his perfect world. The collar became uncomfortable, though it never hurt.

“Makes me sad for you,” Koba signs. “Must miss home so much.”

Caesar shakes his head. “Don't, please. Don't want you to be sad.” He does miss home, but he doesn't know what that seed of discontent might have become if it was allowed to grow. Maybe resentment.

“Know it's bad,” Koba signs, and hesitates, stilling his hands for a moment. “But I'm glad you came here. Glad I met Caesar.”

Caesar doesn't hesitate. “Glad I met Koba.” He still wishes he wasn't transferred from the shelter, only because he would have come directly here after freeing the apes there. Koba would have his freedom by now, but they might not have bonded like this. Here they have nothing but each other, and they sleep with their faces pressed to the glass every night, forever straining to be a little closer. It's a bond forged from desperation, but still stronger than anything Caesar has ever felt.

It's getting late; Caesar can tell, though he has no view of the sky and hasn't in weeks, by the way the humans are flicking off their machines and putting away their tools. They're going to be interrupted soon.

“No more,” Koba signs, sensing this as well. Footsteps start down the hall, same as every night, and he shrinks back from the glass.

The last thing that happens before lights-out every night is Bonnie coming to give every ape a cookie before leaving. Caesar and Koba are always last, their cages at the end of the hall. Caesar watches her make her way from ape to ape, smiling and cooing the way she does. She swipes her card, opens their window, and puts the cookie in their hand before closing it and swiping her card again. The only ape who doesn't take it from her hand is Stone, and for him she drops it on the floor.

Caesar thinks this routine could prove useful to his new plan, which is gradually coming into focus, though Koba still refuses to discuss it.

“Hey, Koba!” She swipes her card, opens his window, and Caesar watches closely, uselessly protective. There's nothing he could do for Koba if she hurt him, trapped inside his own cage. “How are you? Come and get your cookie, baby!”

Koba reaches out, takes the cookie from her and wrenches his hand away when she tries to pet his arm, retreating to the back of his cage to eat it. Caesar sees the depths of Koba's distrust, and it hurts, because Koba is always so fascinated by his descriptions of touch, what it feels like to be loved. Caesar plans to show Koba exactly what that feels like, and thoroughly, but he wishes Koba would accept touch from Bonnie in the meantime. She's really not that bad, not in comparison to truly evil humans like Stanton.

“Goodnight, Koba! Sweet dreams, grumpy boy,” she says, closing and locking Koba's window. She turns to Caesar’s cage with a wide grin. “Now there's my good boy! How was your day, sweetheart?”

Caesar comes to the window, panting happily, crouching down some to make himself less imposing, making a show of being excited.

He knows he's her favorite, the only ape here who lets her touch him without flinching. He hopes to take advantage of this someday, but for now he just takes comfort in her affection. She almost reminds him of his father, only not nearly as intelligent, which must be why she hurts apes instead of helping them and doesn't know sign.

She fumbles in her excitement to open his window, and he reaches out to let her hold his hand. “Hello, Caesar! Pretty boy!” With a delighted laugh she strokes the fur on his forearm, and when she's satisfied with petting him she presses three cookies into his palm. She releases him and puts her finger to her mouth, shushing. “That’s our secret,” she whispers. “My best boy gets extra treats.”

If she understood his signs he would tell her to give them all to Koba instead, but she doesn't. He eats them, not wanting to appear ungrateful.

She watches him with bright eyes, and when he's done he puts his finger to his mouth, mimicking her the way he did Will. It reminds him painfully of home.

“So smart!” She claps for him, and reaches for her card. Caesar wants to think she's nothing like Will, really, because Will would never leave him here — except he did. “Goodnight, Caesar! Sweet dreams! I'll see you in the morning, baby.”

She leaves him with an ache in his chest, like an old wound aggravated. Home isn't the plan anymore, but a part of him will always wish it was, will always be waiting for Will to come back and keep his promise. The overhead lights go off, but there are certain lights that never do, machinery flickering, and the lab is never so dark that he and Koba can't see each other's signs.

Koba comes close to the glass again, signing, “Don't like how you do that. Shouldn't do that.”

“Sorry,” Caesar signs. He doesn't mention the plan; Koba would only cut him off.

“Going to get hurt,” Koba signs, sighing. “Not good to be their favorite. Get used the most. I used to be pretty, too. Now look.”

“Still pretty,” Caesar signs. Koba huffs and shoves the glass, and Caesar plays along, rocking back a bit as if Koba shoved him, both of them laughing softly. Caesar's heart swells to have brought Koba joy, and he knows they're leaving here together or not at all. If Will came to get him now, he would refuse. “I care for you,” Caesar signs. “Even if family came for me, wouldn't go. Not without you. No Caesar without Koba.”

“Stupid,” Koba signs, but Caesar sees that he's still in good humor.

“Maybe,” Caesar signs. He hears a quiet scuffle beside him and turns to find Stone leaving his corner, reaching with great reluctance for the cookie on the floor of his cage, bolstered by the darkness. Caesar grunts encouragingly, signing, “Good. Keep going, Stone.” He suspects Stone understands sign, though he never reciprocates.

Stone only glances at Caesar, wary, and looks to Koba for further reassurance. Koba has been here the longest and is seen by the other apes as the most knowledgeable on what is and is not safe to do.

“Humans are all gone now,” Koba signs, tender in the slow way he moves his hands. “Can do what you want.”

After another minute of hesitation, trembling all over, Stone snatches the cookie and swiftly retreats back into his corner. Caesar whoops in celebration. Usually Stone leaves it uneaten, and Bonnie has to remove it the next morning.

“He took it!” Caesar signs to Koba, as if he wasn't watching.

Koba grunts in acknowledgement, his eyes soft, but he seems distracted, more focused on Caesar than Stone. “I care for you, too,” he signs. “Sorry this happened to you, but glad we got to be here together.”

“Why sad?” Caesar signs.

“Labs don't last forever,” Koba tells him. “Will end soon. We'll be separated, probably never see each other again.”

Caesar snarls, riled at the thought. “No!” he signs. “Won't let that happen. Never leave you.”

Koba shakes his head. “Sorry. No choice. Way it works.”

Caesar smacks the glass. “Won't happen,” he repeats, signing emphatically. “Know you don't like to hear it, but I'm going to get us out of here. All of us.”

“No, Caesar —”

He smacks the glass again. “Mean it, Koba,” he signs. “Not lying. Not naive. Going to get us out of here and —” He pauses, unsure, but ultimately it needs to be communicated, bursting in his chest. “Going to be your mate. Going to take care of you.”

Koba scoffs. “Take care of me?” he signs. “You’re like an infant. Don't know how anything works. Need to be told.”

“I know more outside,” Caesar signs. He doesn't want to upset Koba, but this is important. “That's where we're going: outside, away from here. Going to show you.”

“Stop,” Koba signs, baring his teeth.

“No,” Caesar insists, and doesn't stop even when Koba snarls at him. “Going to show you what it's like to be touched but not hurt. What it's like to be outside. To be free.”

Koba pounds on the glass. “Stop!”

“Like this,” Caesar signs, and he picks up the pillow again, hugging it to his chest. “This is you.”

Koba deflates as he watches, dropping his fists and slumping forward against the glass. Caesar rubs the pillow and nuzzles it, rocking it in his arms. He knows he's won when Koba whimpers, staring with wide, wet eyes. “Promise?” he signs. “Just like that?”

Caesar gives the pillow one last nuzzle before setting it aside, freeing his hands. “Promise, just like that,” he signs. “Will you help me?”

Koba nods, but he looks more defeated than heartened, hanging his head. “Going to hurt even more now,” he signs. “When it ends.”

“Won't end. Told you, I have a plan.” Caesar considers it, but decides against having this conversation now. The humans will come for Koba in the morning, as always, and he should rest. “Sleep now. Talk more about this tomorrow,” he signs.

He stays awake awhile longer, watching Koba sleep. Koba's fingers twitch constantly, a troubled pinch between his brows that never smoothes, and with every passing second Caesar is more determined to escape, steely resolve settling over him. He'll show Koba that he can be strong, too.

Chapter Text

It's been two hours, and Caesar is beginning to fear the worst. Koba was carted away immediately this morning, upon the arrival of the first few scientists to the lab, and by itself that's not unusual, but they've never kept him for longer than an hour before. Caesar's mind is full of worry, burgeoning dread. He remembers Koba's warnings, and wonders if they've transferred him to a different lab, somewhere far away. There's a clock hung within view of the cages that Caesar watches anxiously, pacing in tight circles.

He's afraid every day here, not for himself but for Koba. Two days ago he reluctantly agreed to participate in Caesar's escape plan, but they haven't managed to come up with anything tangible. Everything Caesar suggests has been tried before, according to Koba, either by Koba himself or some ape he knew once upon another laboratory, and of course they all failed horribly. Caesar wishes he could focus, but it's difficult to think at all when he's constantly distracted with worry. He wishes the humans would just leave Koba alone for a day.

A weight leaves him at the sound of wheels down the aisle: the cart. Human voices accompany it, growing louder, and Caesar crowds close to the glass, impatient to be reunited. His relief is short-lived, extinguished when he sees Koba.

He's unconscious, as always, almost lifeless on the cart — but this time he's wounded, and Caesar whimpers with alarm. Koba's head is wrapped in thick gauze and bandages, suggesting an injury underneath, as are his hands and feet, binding his fingers and toes together like mittens. Caesar's heart races, his hands pressing uselessly against the glass, every part of him wanting to reach out and touch, fix. All he can do is watch, and it's torture.

“That oughta do it,” Stanton says, one of three men with the cart. Caesar hisses, unnoticed but wanting sincerely to bite his hands off when he takes Koba's arms. Another man swipes his card, opening the cage, and Stanton yanks Koba off the cart and drags him inside. Unlike some of the other humans who return apes to their cages, he makes no attempt at gentleness and leaves Koba face-down on the floor. Caesar stares at him, waiting to see him breathe, to know he's alive. He's all but motionless; his breaths come too slowly.

“How long until we know whether or not we can proceed with human trials?” the third man asks: Jacobs. He was the man who confronted Will that day, and Caesar has since learned that he's in charge of the other humans here. They startle and scatter when he enters the lab, eager to appease him.

“Oh, give it a few weeks. The EEGs monitor brain activity, and the results are more detailed than just seeing whether or not it can complete puzzles.” Stanton snorts, and shuts the cage door. “But there won't be much brain activity to monitor until the lesions heal. The bandages on its hands are to stop it from tearing the stitches out, see?”

“Good, good…”

EEGs? Caesar doesn't understand that part, but he knows what stitches are, knows how much they hurt and that there was no one there to hold Koba's hand. The humans walk off, and Caesar puts his face to the glass, waiting for Koba to wake.

And waits, and waits.

Caesar begins to panic again, because most times Koba can shake off the effects of the darts within minutes of being returned to his cage. Now he's breathing shallowly, not reacting to any of Caesar's distress calls. He tries to be patient, to stay calm so the first thing Koba sees isn't his terror, but it's difficult.

It's almost lights-out when Koba finally stirs, the slight twitching of his shoulders a miracle in Caesar's eyes. He groans and lifts his head, eyes hazy and unfocused but pointed vaguely in Caesar's direction, blinking slowly.

“Koba!” Caesar signs, smacking the glass in celebration. Worry returns quickly when Koba only blinks at him, and he lets out the questions that have been piling up inside for hours: “What happened to Koba? What's ‘EEG?’ Do you hurt? How can Caesar make better?”

Koba answers none of them. He whines, a confused, hurt little sound, and brings his hands up. Caesar feels hopeful until he remembers the bandages, that Koba won't be able to sign with them on, but signing doesn't seem to be Koba's goal. He starts pawing and wiping at his temples, the thick bandages there, as if to remove something annoying.

Caesar’s first thought is that he wants to loosen the bandages. “Wait,” he signs, trying to catch Koba's attention. “Going to bleed.”

Koba doesn't wait, his whimpers becoming screams that shake Caesar's spine. He stops pawing and starts pounding at his skull, and Caesar realizes with dawning horror that the humans put something inside, and that's what's bothering him. Caesar screeches when Koba falls onto his back to thrash and beat himself, terrified by the sounds Koba's fists make against his head, brutal despite the cushion of gauze.

He's going to hurt himself — kill himself, even, and Caesar can't reach him. The worst thing an ape can do here is summon the humans to their cage, but there's no other choice. Caesar makes as much noise as he can manage, howling and ramming himself against the sides of his cage, and encourages the others, except Stone, to do the same. Bonnie comes running down the aisle in seconds, but seconds feel like an eternity when Koba is actively trying to crack open his own skull.

For the first time, Caesar is relieved to see Koba darted. At least he's not screaming anymore.

“Oh, no. You poor baby,” Bonnie says. She sets the sleep-gun down and enters Koba's cage with a needle and syringe in her hand. Caesar snarls, objecting to this, but he can't interfere. He's useless.

It's no wonder Koba was reluctant to take him as a mate; all he ever does is stand by and watch Koba get hurt.

“Here, honey.” Bonnie kneels next to Koba and injects him with the contents of the syringe, and if nothing else, she's gentler than Stanton would be. She leaves Koba's cage, locks it behind her, and comes smiling to Caesar's, as if everything is right with the world. “Are you worried about your little friend, pretty boy?” she asks him, pouting in childish sympathy. “Aww, I'm sorry. I see you waving at each other sometimes.”

Caesar just stares at her, astounded by her stupidity.

“It’s alright, sweetie,” she says, and swipes her card, opening his window. Does she expect him to let her hold his hand after that? “The medicine will make him feel better. He'll be his old self again in a few days.”

She reaches into the cage, offering her hand, and whatever affection Caesar felt for her disappears. It was gone when she put that needle in Koba's neck — who knows what was in it, if the “medicine” will make him better or worse. Probably worse; the humans here bring nothing but pain every time. Caesar lunges at her with an outraged roar, not to bite her — though he knows he could, could tear the arm from her body before more humans arrived to stop him — but to shove her away.

“Caesar!” Her face contorts with fright and shock as she stumbles back from his cage. “No, that's a very bad boy!”

“Stupid, horrible woman,” he signs, showing his teeth, not that he expects her to understand his insults.

She locks the window and scurries off, and he just ruined the trust he was building with her, but he doesn't care. Escape seems unimportant with Koba lying there half dead.

The days that follow are torment for both of them. Caesar never moves from his place against the glass, and he's as close as he can be to Koba but it's not enough. He watches, useless, as Koba lies alone on that cold metal floor, suffering, floating uncomfortably in and out of consciousness. Bonnie and the other humans return periodically to examine him and administer more needles; Caesar thinks the injections are what keep him asleep.

The barriers between them, the glass and the aisle, are more painful than ever. Caesar's heart feels like a hollow, broken thing, its jagged edges scraping away at the inside of his chest. This anguish is all he can think about, and he begins to blame himself. If he was smarter, stronger, they could have been free by now. He could have prevented this from ever happening.

Three days after the humans hurt Koba, there's been no change. He hasn't so much as rolled over since then, lying eerily still on his back where the humans left him last, and Caesar's only comfort is watching him breathe. If not for that small movement, the slight but persistent rise and fall of his chest, he could be dead.

Caesar focuses on it so completely, he doesn't notice Stone until he bangs twice on the floor. Caesar turns, startled to find him out of his corner and now sitting almost beside Caesar, only a few inches and the glass walls of their cages between them.

“Stone?” Caesar signs, surprised by the hard quality to Stone's eyes, as if he's shed his fear.

“Worried,” Stone signs, as Caesar suspected he could. He points to Koba's cage. “Not good. You mean what you promised?”

“About leaving?” Caesar sighs. “Yes, but don't know. Stuck.”

Stone nods. “Has to be soon,” he signs. “Other day, Jacobs said, ‘human trials.’ Does Caesar know what that means?”

“What?”

“Means no more apes.” Stone’s expression is grim. “You and I will be sent to different labs. But not Koba. Been used too much. Seen it happen before. Humans will kill him. They call it…putting down.”

“No!” Caesar snarls.

“Still have time. Humans say three weeks,” Stone signs. “Stone can help. Have ideas?”

Caesar calms himself, though he's still reeling. He's glad for Stone's bravery, and his help; Caesar had no idea they were running out of time. “My idea was Bonnie,” he signs. “But that's gone now.”

“I know.” Stone’s hands are still for a moment, face pinched with thought.

They sign for an hour more, and in the end have the tentative beginnings of a plan. Stone tells Caesar that Bonnie once entered his cage without darting him, to remove uneaten food. It was late, she was tired, and she thinks he never leaves his corner. He suggests they try and recreate this, only this time he'll attack her, take her card and free everyone.

“Has to happen at lights-out,” Caesar signs. “When she's the last human here. And you can't hurt her.” He doesn't want to hurt anyone, really — except maybe Stanton.

“Yes, Caesar,” Stone signs, lowering his eyes in a display of deference.

Now there's nothing but to wait. Stone makes a mess of his food every day, and every day Bonnie darts him before entering to clean it up, same as with any other ape. Caesar knows their plan is flimsy at best, but it's the best they have, and he's distracted.

Most of his focus goes to Koba, who gains a little strength every day. Injections become less frequent, and for a few precious hours between them he's almost lucid. Caesar signs to him constantly, desperate to provide some comfort, however meager it is. The bandages prevent Koba from responding, but Caesar doesn't mind. He knows Koba understands him, lethargic but mostly aware, and that's enough.

He signs about the Redwoods, his family, the sky, all the stories he knows Koba enjoys. Caesar tells him he's sorry, that he wishes he could take all of Koba's pain for himself, and it's hard to know if he's helping, because Koba only ever blinks at him through a heavy haze, one eye at a time. Sometimes he whines and bats at his head, and it makes Caesar anxious, reminded of that horrible first day, but he's too weak now to do any damage to himself. The humans force-feed him a sort of sludge with a syringe three times a day, but Caesar worries it's not enough.

It feels important to keep Koba calm, so Caesar refrains from mentioning his and Stone's increasingly hopeless plan. He doesn't sign that, if they escape, he wants to spend the rest of his life ensuring that nothing like this ever happens again.

The humans remove the bandages on Koba's hands after a few more days of this, and their three weeks have become two, but Caesar is still glad to see Koba improving. They wait until the humans have left, footsteps faded down the aisle.

“Okay?” Caesar signs, worried and watching closely for signals that Koba might start hitting himself again.

Koba lifts his hands, flexing his fingers. The humans didn't give him an injection, and he's more awake than he has been in a while. Caesar wants to stare at him forever, the way his shoulders move when he shifts closer to the glass, to Caesar. “Okay,” he signs slowly. His hands must be stiff after being bound together for so long. “Feels strange.” He touches the bandages still around his head, and Caesar’s heart jolts until he takes his hand away. “Heavy.”

“Hurts?” Caesar signs.

“Some.” Koba casts his eyes to the side.

Caesar huffs. “Tell me,” he signs. He wants Koba to confide in him, not protect him, and it pains him to know Koba thinks of him as weak. “Want to know. Want to help.”

Koba signs reluctantly, “Everything hurts. Thought I was going to die. Wanted to die, but I knew you were there. Knew you still needed me.”

“Don't worry about me.” Caesar decides to share the details of their plan now, if only so Koba will know he hasn't given up or forgotten his promises. “Stone’s plan,” he signs when he's done, though Koba seemed less than impressed by their idea, scoffing and shaking his head throughout Caesar's explanation.

Koba seems more moved by Stone's involvement, and brightens a bit. “Stone signed to you?”

“Yes, and he came over. I know,” Caesar signs when Koba's expression becomes incredulous.

Koba hoots to Stone, then bangs on the wall, but if Stone hears him he gives no indication of it, still huddled into the far corner of his cage with his back turned to them.

“Help me call him over,” Koba signs to Caesar. “I want to see.”

“Can't,” Caesar signs. “If humans see him out of the corner, our plan won't work.”

Koba snorts. “Won’t work anyway.”

Caesar sighs. “I know it's —”

Koba smacks the glass, and Caesar obediently drops his hands and pays attention. “Terrible plan,” Koba signs, but there's no aggression in his posture; Caesar sees the affection in his eyes, in the careful way he moves his hands. “But that's okay. I know we're not getting out of here. Known that for a long time.”

Caesar raises his hands to argue, but thinks better of it when Koba cuts him a look of warning.

“I accept it,” Koba signs. “Not sad. Not angry. Good to accept it. You should, too. Just be happy we knew each other, not waste the time we have left on lies.”

“Would never lie to you.” Caesar huffs, affronted. “Why don't you want to try?”

Koba shakes his head. “No more talk about escaping. Never going to work. But if you need to, we can talk about what we'd do after.”

Caesar is surprised; Koba has never let him talk about that before. “After escape?”

“Hypothetical,” Koba signs, and Caesar melts a little, impressed with him all over again.

“K O B A.” Caesar takes care with every letter, like the first time. “Didn't answer before.”

“C A E S A R,” Koba signs. “Answer what?”

Caesar’s hands falter, shy, but if they only have so much time left, they should leave nothing unsaid. “About being my mate.”

Koba makes a face, and signs, “Tired now. Answer later.”

“Okay.” Caesar puts aside his disappointment, though he knows he's being evaded. He won't argue or push, not for this.

[*]

“We would have a city, like humans do,” Caesar signs, leaning his shoulder against the glass. He's spent all of this morning daydreaming with his hands while Koba watches without interrupting; it's only hypothetical, after all. “Would be rules. Important rules, not cruel like human rules. There would be no sleep-guns, no shock sticks, no needles. Would eat good food.” He picks up his bowl and makes a show of flinging it across his cage, scattering the dry pellets, and Koba snorts with amusement. “Never this garbage.”

“What would we eat?” Koba signs. He's bright-eyed, better than he was yesterday. It's been two days since the humans last gave him an injection, and he's only been darted twice since then. The bandages around his head have been removed, exposing a long, closed wound that runs from behind his right ear to over his left temple.

He claims it doesn't bother him anymore, but he still scratches and scrubs at it sometimes. Caesar wants to put his mouth on it, to draw out whatever horrible human thing was put in with his teeth and lick it until it disappears; he wants to touch Koba in a thousand impossible ways.

“Fruit and meat,” Caesar signs. He's described both of these things to Koba in great detail before. “Anything Caesar's mate wants.”

Koba shakes his head, sighing. “What else?” he signs.

Later hasn't come yet, in regards to Koba's answer. Caesar doesn't mind waiting for it; all his life now is waiting — waiting for Koba, waiting for Bonnie, waiting for impossible things like ape cities.

Waiting for their time to run out.

“Would be a lot like Mount Pleasant,” Caesar signs, envisioning it. “But different. No humans. Houses would be better for climbing.”

“Mount Pleasant?” Koba signs.

“Human neighborhood,” Caesar signs. He realizes he never told Koba the name of it, though many of his stories are set there. “Place where I was raised.”

Koba balks at this, sitting up from his own position slumped against the glass. “I thought you were raised in Redwoods.”

“Family only went to Redwoods sometimes, for play,” Caesar signs. “Couldn't live there. Humans can't live in forests.”

“Humans!” Koba hisses. “Where are humans in this?”

“My family?” It occurs to Caesar only now that this was unclear, that Koba would assume the family in his stories were apes.

Koba gives him a terrifyingly blank look, and Caesar knows he needs to apologize and explain until it goes away, until Koba is pleased with him again.

“Sorry. Should've explained better,” he signs. “Father and grandfather were human. Father's mate, too. Ape mother died here, so he brought me home. Took care of me. Loved me, like I told you. He found me, because he worked here.”

“Worked here?” Koba's face is still blank, unreadable; Caesar hopes he's not angry. “What name?”

“R O D M A N,” Caesar signs.

Rage spreads like a wildfire across Koba's features, narrowing his eyes and baring his teeth. He stands, snarling, and shakes his cage when he pounds on the glass; Caesar knows that if there were no barriers between them, Koba would have lunged at him. Caesar's instincts tell him to fight back, that he's being challenged, but he stays on the floor, submissive with remorse.

“All this time!” Koba signs, hands moving furiously, almost too quickly to decipher. “Everything you said! You were talking about that man! You love that man!”

“He’s different, not like other humans here,” Caesar signs. “He —”

Koba slams his fists on the glass again. “Different!” He screams, outraged. “Not different! I remember him! Just as bad as the rest! Tortured me, too!”

Caesar shrinks back, stricken. He knows Will worked here, but somehow he never pictured him as one of the scientists, wielding sleep-guns and needles to bring pain. Caesar felt humiliated by the leash, and abandoned when Will left him at the shelter, but Will never harmed him, never even shouted at him. He was a perfect father.

Will is a good man — to Caesar.

“When we met, you told me…” Caesar's stomach fills with horror, clawing at his throat, cold in his mouth. “The human you hoped was dead.”

“R O D M A N,” Koba signs. He takes to pacing, hissing with fury. “Makes sense now. That’s why you're so stupid, why you know nothing! What makes Caesar different from us? Did you know what happened here while you were ‘home?’” This sign is so violent he nearly strikes himself in the face with it. “You’re the only ape who deserves this, deserves to be hurt, for trusting him! Loving humans! Wrong to ever be sorry for you!”

He's screeching and snarling, smacking the glass between signs, and hurried footsteps start down the aisle, voices whispering in concerned tones: humans summoned by the commotion. Caesar should bark out a warning, but he's paralyzed in the face of Koba's wrath. His last sign to Caesar before they dart him is “liar,” accompanied by a look of hatred that crushes Caesar's heart.

Caesar calls after the cart, doleful, and waits anxiously for the humans to return Koba. He must feel so betrayed, as if every story Caesar ever told him was untrue, every comfort he ever offered false. Caesar feels betrayed, too, and stupid; why did it never fully occur to him that Will took part in this?

He remembers leaping into Will's arms when he got home every evening, nuzzling him, overjoyed to see him, and Will always held him so tightly. Caesar was confused and excited by the strange ape smells that clung to his father's clothes then, but now he feels sick.

Koba is something worse than angry when the humans return him, after the darts wear off: he's unresponsive. He ignores Caesar's attempts to catch his attention, lying on the floor, curled toward the wall so all Caesar can see of him is his back.

“Caesar’s sorry,” Caesar signs, again and again, though Koba isn't looking at him. “Caesar’s so sorry.”

Koba's silence fills the next two days, and Caesar's mood follows suit down into a hopeless depression. Caesar spends hours beating the floor, tapping the glass, just wanting a second of Koba's attention. When Koba deigns to glance at him, Caesar scrambles to sign more apologies, promises about the Redwoods, or to show him the pillow, but Koba always turns away too soon.

In the dead of the second night, Caesar sleeps fitfully and flies awake the moment he hears movement across the aisle, from Koba's cage. He hears Koba's thin, strained breathing, sees him twitching as if he's been stuck with an invisible shock stick, and knows immediately that something's wrong.

“Koba!” He howls, and pushes uselessly against the glass. It's as solid and cold as it always is, blocking them from each other.

There's an answering howl beside him, and he whirls to find Stone out of his corner again.

“What can we do?” Caesar signs haltingly, hands trembling. His panic feels sharp and heavy enough to punch a hole through the cage, but it's not, and he's terrified.

“Nothing. Just watch.” Stone’s head bows with shame. “Humans are gone.”

Caesar screams and bangs the glass until it's over, wanting Koba to know he's here, that he'd beat his hands bloody before giving up trying to get to him.

The twitching stops, and Koba goes very still; in the dark, with so much distance between them, Koba lying at the back of his cage, it's difficult to know if he's breathing. Heart plummeting, Caesar fears he's not — but then Koba whimpers, and he's still alive. He's hurt and alone, and he won't even look at Caesar anymore, but he's alive.

Caesar watches Koba's hands come up to clutch at his head as he whimpers again, a thready sound of pain and exhaustion. That must be the source of his suffering, the poison the humans put inside him; Caesar wonders if they're waiting for it to kill Koba, just so they can write down how long it took and smile, proud of their cruelty.

“Can’t wait any longer,” Caesar signs to Stone, who gasped with relief alongside him when Koba whimpered. “Plan has to change. Have to leave tomorrow.”

“Tomorrow?” Stone shakes his head. “Impossible. How?”

Caesar racks his brain, desperate for something, anything, and realizes that all this time he's been trying to minimize the amount of damage they do when they leave, to protect not only apes but humans, too. He knows many of the apes here would leap at the chance to kill the humans who hurt them. Caesar worried he wouldn't be able to stop them.

That doesn't worry him anymore.

[*]

Caesar lies motionless on the floor of his cage, face-down, slowing his breaths and doing his best imitation of lifelessness. He's passed along instructions for every other ape to do the same, and in the hours before dawn the lab is entirely silent barring the thrum of machinery.

The humans are testing medicine here, he understands; it seems reasonable to expect a panic if they found every single ape dead in their cages at once.

The doors open at the usual time, bringing low voices and approaching footsteps. The lights flick on.

Caesar waits.

“And we —” He hears Bonnie's gasp. “Oh, my God! Doctor Stanton!”

What follows is exactly the blind panic Caesar was hoping for. Usually the humans dart them even when they're already unconscious, but in their haste to investigate they disregard this procedure. Caesar hears the sounds of several cards being swiped at once, cage doors clicking as they unlock, his included. The humans speak to each other frantically about “fatalities” and “delayed reactions.” Jacobs' name is said; they think he'll be angry.

It's Bonnie who enters Caesar's cage, and he pins her easily, ripping the card from around her neck while she gasps and pushes at his chest with weak human hands. He takes her by her hair and hits her head against the floor until she's asleep, just gentle enough not to break her. Her cries wake no pity in him.

His vision tunnels to Koba when he steps out of his cage, free for the first time in months. Ignoring the joyful, furious cries of the other apes and the screaming of the humans, he finally crosses the aisle and swipes the card. Frantic, he rips open the door, the last barrier between them.

Koba is sitting against the back wall, watching all of this with wide eyes. Caesar sees that he's terrified, afraid to believe this is happening because it might not be.

“This is real,” Caesar signs. He doesn't run to Koba, though he wants to; that would only overwhelm Koba more. “Come to Caesar.” He beckons, offering his hand.

Koba hesitates, tense and wary, but finally reaches out and allows Caesar to draw him out of the cage. It's strange and wonderful to touch him after so long of only imagining it. Koba isn't soft, his fur in a state of matted disarray, but Caesar wants to hold him forever. He puts his arms around Koba, tugging him close, emboldened when Koba doesn't bite or buck, though he remains tense and doesn't reciprocate when Caesar nuzzles him. Caesar pulls back a step to look at him, concerned, and Koba's face is pure fear. He's breathing fast, his eyes huge with it.

“It's okay,” Caesar signs, and strokes Koba's shoulder to offer more comfort. “Leaving now. Know you're angry. Hope you can forgive me someday, but I will keep my promise no matter what.”

Koba sighs, his terror lessening the longer he stands outside the cage without being shot. “Didn’t mean what I said before. Not all of it,” he signs. “You don't deserve to be hurt.”

Caesar pants, his breath all relief as he gratefully takes this to mean Koba doesn't hate him after all. He wants to stay with Koba longer, forever, but the struggle has ended and it's time to move on. “Stay close to me,” he signs. “Going to help the others. More humans will come if we don't leave now.”

Koba nods, and Caesar feels safe turning away from him to address the others.

He's immediately swarmed, embraced from all directions, deafened by an uproar of praise. Stone clings especially hard, and Caesar struggles half-heartedly to extract himself from the pile and establish some order. He's caught up in their celebration for a minute, but raises a hand to quiet them when he remembers the danger they're still in. He'd wanted to be careful, to leave in the night, attracting as little human attention as possible, but it's too late for that now.

“Have to take medicine to primate shelter and zoo, give it to apes there, then Redwoods,” he signs, and pauses. His eyes stray to the broken form of a scientist lying in the aisle, then a smear of blood on the inside of one of the cages. He waits to feel remorse for this, or shame, but finds none. “Won't cross bridge until we have every ape in the city. No one left behind.”

If these humans wanted to be treated with mercy, they should have been more deserving of it.

There's a wave of howled agreement from the others, and Caesar turns, expecting to find Koba still behind him — but he's not here. Caesar checks that he didn't retreat back into the cage, and calls for him, but he's gone, a trail of his scent leading out the door to the testing rooms.

“Stone,” Caesar signs; immediately Stone is in front of him. “Know where zoo is?”

“Yes, Caesar.”

“Lead them,” he signs. “I have to get Koba. Will regroup there.”

Stone nods and offers his hand, supine. Caesar forgoes the gesture in favor of pressing their foreheads together briefly, and goes after Koba knowing Stone will look after the others in his absence.

He follows Koba's scent until the screaming starts — human screaming, an important distinction — which makes finding him much simpler. Caesar throws open the door to the farthest testing room and bursts in, nearly tripping over a bloody, unbreathing heap of rent flesh and tattered clothes that smells like Stanton but doesn't look like him, because the face is gone. The room isn't cold or white anymore, instead warm with blood spray.

Caesar tears his eyes away from the mutilation, pulled from his shock by a muffled wail. He looks to Koba across the room, where he's crouched over a metal table with another human pinned under him, crying out as Koba forces a mask down over his face. Caesar hears the hiss of the medicine traveling through the tubes, and remembers when the humans made him breathe it, though it was wasted on him.

It gives apes intelligence, but what would it do to a human, one who isn't sick like Charles was? The vicious way Koba is pushing down on the mask, leaning most of his weight on Jacobs' face while Jacobs gasps and thrashes under him, his struggles weakening, tells Caesar they'll never know; Jacobs will suffocate first.

Koba's eyes are dark and wild, lips curled back over his teeth, blood dripping from his face and caked into his fur. He doesn't notice Caesar's entrance, attention fixed with single-minded ferocity on his task. Caesar's first instinct is to step forward, stop him, but he hangs back instead, dropping his eyes. He can't watch, but he won't interfere. He senses this has been building in Koba for a long time, cruelty he caught like a disease from the humans, and hopes that after this he can finally be free of his rage.

Caesar feels no protectiveness of Jacobs, and certainly no grief for Stanton. If Koba needs to do this, so be it.

When Caesar first hears Will's voice echoing down the hall, he thinks he's imagining it. The second time is clearer, closer, screaming, “Caesar!” and Caesar snaps his head up to find Will wide-eyed in the doorway, panting and clutching a sleep-gun. He looks only at Caesar for a moment, slumping against the doorframe with a sound of raw relief.

“Caesar,” he begins, breathless. “I came as soon as —” His voice cuts out, and Caesar watches warily as horror appears on his face, eyes flitting from the blood to Stanton to Jacobs to Koba, who turns with a snarl. “Get off of him!” Will raises the gun, the mouth of it pointed at Koba's chest.

Time seems to thin and slow, with Will tensing to shoot Koba and Koba poised to lunge at Will, Jacobs now limp beneath him. Caesar sees this for what it is: a choice.

It requires no rumination; he's already made it.

He steps between them, protecting Koba the way he wasn't able to when he was trapped in that cage, and faces Will’s fear and confusion with a look of resolve.

“Caesar, get behind me!” Will says, a command. The hard urgency in his voice makes a part of Caesar want to obey, the part that still recognizes Will as “father” and “alpha,” but Caesar has outgrown needing either of those things. He doesn't move, so Will tries to step around him, to point the gun at Koba again.

“No,” Caesar says, and he pries the gun from Will's hands when they stiffen with shock. The word is born deep in his chest, quiet but with whispery strength, surprising even him. He throws the gun aside, sending it skidding across the floor.

Will's jaw hangs open, and after a hissed breath he splutters, “You — Caesar, you spoke. You spoke, you… How can that…”

Caesar turns to Koba, who has dropped down from the table and is staring at him in an almost perfect mirror of Will's shock, both of them gawking in much the same way. “Have to leave now,” Caesar signs. “Done here.”

He expects an argument, but surprise proves an effective placater. Koba leaves the room quickly, too shaken to be aggressive even when he passes Will. Caesar would have stopped him if he tried to do to Will what he did to Stanton — Will doesn't deserve that, for all his faults — and he's glad it didn't come to that. Koba is waiting for him in the hall, and the others have probably reached the zoo by now, but Caesar lingers. The moment feels immemorial, something he'll look back on for the rest of his life: the last time he saw his father.

“Okay, it — it doesn't matter. None of it matters,” Will says. “Nothing’s changed. You can still come home, and everything can be the way it was.” His smile is strained, desperate. “You want that, right?”

Caesar shakes his head. He was never a pet or a human, and he's not a child anymore. He's none of the things that would make him content to go home, to be lonely and unfulfilled forever with only Will and Caroline for company, playing with toys and peering out closed windows. He lived for their trips to the Redwoods, but even there he was unhappy, because he was still alone.

He was always alone, pining for something his human family weren't capable of giving him, a different kind of kinship. For all that his childhood was safe and comfortable, it was also disorienting. It left him painfully unprepared for the world outside the house, the way humans treat apes. The way Will treated apes that weren't Caesar.

If he thought Caesar was different, more deserving of happiness somehow, he was wrong. Caesar is grateful to Will for raising him, for loving him — this he doesn't doubt — but he's an adult now with a family of his own to protect.

Caesar embraces Will only briefly, and doesn't let Will cling to him, though he tries, sniffling into Caesar's shoulder, clutching at his arms. It's time to move on.

He detaches himself from Will's desperate hands and leaves the room, ignoring Will's pleas for him to come back, to please come back. He shuts the door and pulls down a shelf to barricade it with. He knows Will would chase him to the end of the world if he let him.

“Okay? Are you hurt?” Caesar signs to Koba, who only stares at him, open-mouthed with his hands at his sides. Caesar checks him over himself, turning Koba's head this way and that, feeling down his arms and along his ribs, only stopping when he's made certain none of the blood on Koba's fur is his own.

Koba is tense under Caesar's scrutiny, but he allows this, and finally lifts his hands to slowly sign, “You spoke, like humans.”

Alarms are sounding, and they only have so much time left to linger here, but Caesar needs to assuage Koba's unease, because to Koba, “human” is an affront.

“Not like humans,” Caesar signs. “Family was human, and I still have love for them, but not for other humans. Not after what I saw here, what they did to —” He almost signs “my mate,” but catches himself. “To you. Know you're displeased with me, but I'm going to be stronger now. Going to take care of apes. Going to protect us from the humans, make sure this never happens again. Will Koba follow Caesar?”

“Yes,” Koba signs, though he's still watching Caesar warily, as if he half expects him to burst into flames.

“Yes” is more than enough for Caesar. He hugs Koba fiercely for as long as he dares, overjoyed when Koba finally returns his embrace, then ushers him back down the hall.

When they pass the cages, empty but pervaded with left-behind misery, Caesar thinks, resolute: Never again.

Chapter Text

The sun rises, as it always has, only now it throws its light not over the strange machinations of humanity but the earnest efforts of Caesar's troop. Their village isn't quite the vast city he used to daydream about, but it's beautiful all the same, sprawling down the gentle slope of a mountainside, neatly divided by the cascade of fresh water that runs from the top to the bottom. Their home is surrounded by dense forest, fortified by well-guarded walls, made up of houses of all shapes and sizes. Caesar's troop is thousands strong, and there's a place for every ape here.

Caesar's chest feels overfull with pride when he looks out at what they've made, how far they've come since crossing the bridge and leaving the humans behind. He built their house so high up for just this reason, so he could stand at the entrance and watch over the village as if it were a living thing.

He turns back toward the nest at Koba's call, and feels another warm burst of pride, a song that plays constantly in his heart. Koba sits in their nest with little Blue-Eyes squirming in his lap, fighting with all his six-month-old might against morning grooming. Koba lets him go for a moment to sign to Caesar, “See? He's nervous.”

Caesar breathes a fond sigh and comes over to help. “Not nervous,” he signs. “Excited.”

Koba huffs at him, doubtful.

This morning is a momentous one, because it marks the start of the first day Blue-Eyes will spend apart from them. He's getting too big to be clutched and coddled by his parents all the time, starting to want to venture down from their backs and explore. It's time that he learns to navigate the world outside their nest and interact with apes other than Caesar and Koba, though if Koba had it his way Blue-Eyes would remain an infant forever and never stop clinging.

Up until now Caesar and Koba have taken Blue-Eyes in turns, one of them staying behind with him while the other hunts. They've never both been away from him before, and Caesar can see Koba's anxiety in the overly careful way he sorts through Blue-Eyes' fur, as if to commit every little tuft to memory. Koba is a fiercely protective father, known to snap at any ape who wanders too close while he's holding Blue-Eyes.

“Going to be alright,” Caesar signs, and nuzzles Koba, knowing how difficult this separation will be for him. “Hungry?”

“Hungry?” Koba signs slowly to Blue-Eyes, who squeaks and waves unintelligibly up at him. “Hungry,” Koba confirms, as if Blue-Eyes signed this.

Caesar climbs down from their house and makes his way to the bottom of the mountainside, where the cascade collects into a stream beside which fruit is grown in rows of lush vegetation. He pauses for the apes who greet him, conversing briefly about plans for the day. He waves to Maurice where he's busy corralling a group of children whose parents have already dropped them off.

Every ape has a place here, and Maurice's has always been with the children, a teacher and caregiver, patient even in the face of the loudest tantrum. Caesar has complete trust in his abilities, but Koba isn't as easily convinced; he doesn't have complete trust in anything.

Caesar thinks it's important for Koba to start loosening his grip, allowing Blue-Eyes to develop and eventually find his own place in the troop. Someday he'll be an adult, whether his parents like it or not. Caesar's selfish reason for insisting on this is that he misses having Koba's full attention. They haven't been alone together since last winter, when Blue-Eyes' mother died in the birth; it was Caesar who suggested they adopt the baby, and he was surprised by the ferocity with which Koba took to fatherhood.

Stone is also at the stream, bent down to rinse muck from his spear. He looks up and rushes to Caesar's side. “Caesar!” he signs, thrusting out his hand.

Caesar strokes Stone's palm, amused by the question he knows is coming. “Yes, Stone?”

“Is Koba okay?” His brow is pinched with worry.

Stone has become a strong warrior, now a far cry from the frightened animal who used to cower in a cage. Caesar is proud of his growth and grateful for his loyalty, though he defers more to Koba than to Caesar. Stone is one of the few apes Koba confides in, and has probably heard all about Koba's worries surrounding today. It's a good thing that Stone already has a mate, Cornelia, or else Caesar might be wary of the way he adores Koba.

“He’ll be fine. We both will be,” Caesar signs. “Glad I ran into you. Wanted to ask: can you lead today's hunt?”

He intends to make the most of their rare day together, having Koba all to himself, and refuses to share him with Stone or any of the others.

Stone agrees, and Caesar gathers as much fruit into his arms as he can carry before heading back. He finds Koba still curled over Blue-Eyes, picking bits of dirt from his fur while he squirms and whines in protest. It's a lost cause when Blue-Eyes sees the fruit; whooping, he leaps out of Koba's lap and into Caesar’s arms, sending their breakfast rolling across the floor. Koba helps Caesar collect it, and they settle down to eat.

“Apple,” Koba signs to Blue-Eyes. He bites off a piece and hands it to him. “Apple. Apple. Now you.”

Blue-Eyes stuffs the piece into his mouth and flaps his hands at Koba in an attempt to mimic him. Koba sighs and shakes his head.

“Not ready,” he signs to Caesar. “What if the other children know more than him, and he feels bad?”

“He’ll learn,” Caesar signs. “But can't learn without a teacher.”

Koba's expression tightens, and his eyes are desperate when he looks at Blue-Eyes, as if this is the last time he's ever going to see him. “Baby,” he signs, making an empty cradle of his arms. Blue-Eyes lifts his head to glance curiously at him, apple dribbling down his chin.

Caesar wipes Blue-Eyes’ face with his thumb, and signs, “Baby will be here when we get back.”

“Get back from where?” Koba brings a strawberry to his mouth.

“I want to run away together. Finally have my mate to myself again,” Caesar signs. He does his best to appear innocent when Koba drops the fruit to level him with a humorless stare.

“Can’t leave,” Koba signs. “We have to stay here and watch. Make sure nothing goes wrong.”

Caesar shakes his head. As amusing as he finds the thought of Koba sitting in on the lesson, glowering at Maurice while he's trying to teach, it would defeat the purpose. “Nothing will go wrong,” he signs. “Besides, Maurice would make you leave.”

“Let him try.” Koba snorts.

“Nothing will go wrong,” Caesar repeats, moving his hands slowly for emphasis. “Won’t even be for the whole day, only until evening. Maurice would never let anything bad happen to Blue-Eyes.”

Koba scoffs at this, but Caesar sees that he's reassured, albeit reluctantly. Koba isn't as close to Maurice as Caesar is, hasn't known him as long, but every ape here trusts Maurice. His presence inspires trust; it's impossible not to.

“Don’t have to worry.” Caesar strokes Koba's back. “Please, will you come with me?”

Koba hesitates, but signs, “Stay close to home? Come back fast?”

Caesar whoops, pleased to have gotten his way. “Anything for Caesar's mate.”

Koba startles slightly, as he usually does at reminders of their time in captivity, but this is a good reminder, and he leans close to nuzzle Caesar's cheek, tension gone.

The tension returns swiftly when it comes time for them to deliver Blue-Eyes to Maurice after breakfast, to say goodbye. Koba is slow to do so and clutches Blue-Eyes protectively to his chest even as he squirms excitedly, wanting to get down and play with the other children. Caesar keeps an eye on them while Maurice sets Koba's mind at ease, or tries to.

“What if he gets hungry?” Koba signs, Blue-Eyes tucked securely under his arm.

“I will feed him,” Maurice signs.

“But what if he won't eat?” Koba seems deeply concerned about this, as if Blue-Eyes' hunger is an inevitable disaster that won't be easily handled by anyone else.

Maurice glances at Caesar before signing, “If he won't eat… He wasn't hungry?”

Caesar winces, anticipating Koba's reaction.

He snarls. “No!” he signs. “Blue-Eyes is a picky eater. Won't eat certain things. What will you do if he's hungry but won't eat?”

“He will eat for me.” Maurice's patience is unwavering, his gaze gentle. “We’re not leaving the village. Will stay here where there's plenty of food, where it's safe.”

Koba deflates a little, and Caesar sees his opportunity. He moves in and delicately extracts Blue-Eyes from Koba's slackened grip, something that would lose any other ape their head, but Koba just watches with sad eyes. Caesar gives Blue-Eyes a quick goodbye cuddle before passing him to Maurice. Koba does have complete trust in Caesar, if nothing else.

Getting Koba out of the village poses another challenge, but Caesar manages. They take one horse, and Caesar has Koba ride in back; he's not fit to handle reins with all the signing he's doing about increasingly outlandish ways Blue-Eyes could possibly be hurt while sitting in the village, surrounded on all sides by walls and apes who would die to defend him. Caesar tries to assuage these fears, but suspects distance and time are the only things that can cure them.

Koba is sullen on the horse, slumped against Caesar's back as they ride along trails aglow with dawn sunlight, thrown down in patches by gaps in the canopy. Caesar remembers when they first came here, newly free, the reverence in Koba's eyes and the way he pressed his palms to the grass. His expression was all rivaling wonder and disbelief.

Caesar is glad he's since gotten used to it, that he knows it won't be taken away again.

They come to a familiar clearing, golden with morning, where Caesar halts the horse. He gets down to secure the reins to a low branch, and beckons to Koba when he hesitates to follow.

“We’re going to hunt,” Caesar signs. He moves aside, motioning for Koba to enter the clearing first.

“Hunt what?” Koba signs, and passes Caesar, turning his back to him.

Caesar takes a moment just to appreciate the way sunlight changes the color of Koba's fur, cutting through the black and illuminating every scar, making them even more beautiful. When Caesar pounces, he's careful not to strike Koba, aiming only to knock him down and pin him to the soft grass. There's no fear in Koba's eyes, only trust and mild annoyance, his snarl more playful than anything when he flips them over.

They roll back and forth for a while, testing each other's strength, and Caesar's heart soars with play even as the rest of him aches to mate. Koba is quicker, but Caesar has the advantage when they wrestle, larger and more muscular. He lets Koba win half the time, but today he's greedy, and it's been so long since he last had this. He pins Koba with finality this time, holding him down when he tries to surge up again. They pant together, sharing breaths.

“Okay?” he asks hoarsely, speaking. If Koba doesn't want it this way, Caesar will get off and lie down for him instead, knowing there's no shame in submitting to his mate.

Koba frees his hands to sign, “Okay,” and Caesar drops down to smother him with grateful nuzzles.

Caesar takes Koba gently, always, and comes down to wrap around him when they're both sated, holding him as tightly as he did the first time. He mouths the long scar that cuts across the back of Koba's skull, and Koba lies boneless in his arms for a blissful while. They listen to the sounds of the forest shifting around them, and watch the tiny insects dance through the air above.

“C A E S A R,” Koba signs slowly.

Caesar lifts his head from where he was pressing the human thing between Koba's scalp and skull with his tongue, the slight jut of it. It's blunt, and hard like metal. Caesar wishes they could remove it, but he's not confident enough in the abilities of the troop's healers to have them attempt such a delicate procedure. He's watched them bind broken bones and suture gashed limbs, but nothing like this.

“K O B A,” Caesar signs, setting aside his sadness.

“We should go home now.” Koba's eyes flood with renewed worry, and he sits up, tense again.

Caesar sits, too, sighing. “What are you really afraid of?” he signs. “Blue-Eyes isn't missing us. He's playing, having fun.”

“I know that.” Koba huffs. “But he's so small. Innocent. He doesn't know what came before, has no memories of humans. Never even seen one — if he saw one, he would try to play with it!” Koba whimpers, distressed by this, and Caesar strokes his back to soothe him. “He’s weak, so weak, and we need to keep him safe,” Koba signs. “Always, not just from humans. From everything.”

Caesar follows Koba's hands, nodding attentively. He understands, and he knows some of this is born of Koba wishing someone had been there to keep him safe when he was small and innocent, but Blue-Eyes isn't Koba, and this is a different world from the one that hurt him; a better, safer world with room to grow. That's what Blue-Eyes needs.

“I know,” Caesar signs. “But he won't be small forever, and he needs to learn. He needs to grow, so he can be strong.” He thinks of his father, the ways in which Will’s parenting failed him. “If we shield him from everything, we'll hurt him, make him weaker. Someday he'll be without us. Know it's hard to think about, but when he's an adult, I want to be sure he can protect himself. It's good that he has no memories of humans. He will grow stronger without fear.”

Koba stays tense, and watches Caesar with uncertainty.

“You’re a good father. Proud of you,” Caesar signs, not wanting to be misunderstood. “And Blue-Eyes is still a baby, will be for a long time. Even when he's grown, there will be other babies for us to keep safe.”

He would never hope for another tragedy like the one that befell Blue-Eyes' mother, but he's not so naive as to think it will never happen again. Nature's beauty is matched only by its cruelty; it is sure to lay another orphan in their arms someday.

“I'm weak, too,” Koba signs, shoulders slumping as his breath leaves him. “Afraid of everything all the time. Wish I could be strong like Caesar.”

“Koba is strong,” Caesar signs, and he wraps his arms around Koba, drawing him to his chest. He knows Koba's scars run deeper than his own, closer to his heart, and there's only so much Caesar can do to soothe his pain. Caesar was caged for months, tortured and treated like an object for human use, and it destroyed parts of him — but Koba was caged for years, all his life, with no happy memories to revisit and comfort himself with. Caesar couldn't have survived that.

He wishes Koba knew how strong he is for still being here.

[*]

They return to the village when the sun begins to sink behind the trees, bruising the sky. Blue-Eyes, as Caesar expected, is reluctant to part with his new friends, but Koba catches him up and cradles him as if they're reuniting after years apart. Caesar is only allowed to greet Blue-Eyes, hold and nuzzle him, after Koba is finished checking him over, satisfied that not a single hair is out of place.

The hunting party has returned by now, and three dozen elk are being roasted over a mountainous fire, bright enough to make a suitable replacement for the waning sun. Most of the village is gathered around it, their joyful vocalizations rising above the crackling roar of the flames. Caesar and Koba find Stone and sit beside him, offering congratulations for such a successful hunt while Blue-Eyes squirms in Koba's arms, screaming up at the fire as if to challenge it to a fight for dominance. Maurice and Rocket join their group, and then Cornelia, who sits at Stone's side.

“Forgive me for doubting you,” Koba signs to Maurice, who huffs and reaches over Caesar to wave Koba's hands down.

“Don’t apologize. I understand,” he signs. “Blue-Eyes was very good. Ate good. Well-behaved.”

“Well-behaved? Our son?” Caesar signs with exaggerated incredulity. He laughs softly when Koba shoves him. “I'm only teasing!”

“Of course he's well-behaved. He's perfect,” Koba signs. He gives Blue-Eyes a nuzzle, and narrowly avoids being slapped in the face by Blue-Eyes’ flailing little hands. He's fighting valiantly to get to Rocket's son Ash, who is also struggling, Rocket holding him back.

“They must have met today,” Rocket signs. “Can they play?”

He's asking Caesar, but Caesar turns to Koba, deferring to him.

Koba hesitates. “Ours is smaller.”

“Ash is gentle,” Rocket signs to him. “Look, they want each other. Think they're friends.”

“They're friends,” Maurice confirms, interlocking his fingers. “Played together all day.”

Caesar nudges Koba's shoulder, and Koba gives in, letting Blue-Eyes down. Rocket does the same, and the two babies launch at each other, wrestling just gently enough that Koba doesn't break them up, though he observes them so intently that Stone has to push him to get his attention. Caesar watches, amused.

“Where did you two go?” Stone signs. “Missed you. Would have killed a hundred more elk if we had mighty Caesar and Koba with us.”

“Went exploring,” Caesar signs while Koba just bristles, embarrassed.

“Wish you'd take me exploring more often,” Cornelia signs to Stone, who is clearly perplexed, a knowing look in her eyes. Caesar snorts.

They sit and talk well into the night, and eat meat even though they didn't help to kill it. Everything is shared here, given freely; they're all family, providing for each other. Caesar basks in the glow and warmth of all that his troop has become, how proud he is of all of them, especially Koba. Caesar's luck baffles him sometimes, how he could possibly deserve such a perfect life. Is this what his suffering was for, to teach him the strength and wisdom he would need to lead his family? If so, every second of captivity was worth it.

He'll never want for more.

[*]

Caesar stirs at an emptiness in their nest, and is distraught but not surprised to find Koba gone. He slips out of the nest, careful not to rouse Blue-Eyes, who will be awake all night if he's disturbed, and climbs up to check the roof, Koba's usual refuge from nightmares.

He's here, perched at the edge with his eyes fixed on something far in the distance, beyond the stars and into the horrible past. The tension in his posture speaks of impatience, as if he's waiting, and Caesar suspects that's exactly what he's doing: waiting for those horrors to finally catch up with him, to track him down and drag him into another cage.

Caesar goes to sit behind Koba, approaching slowly so he won't be startled, and sets to grooming the raised fur on his back, both of them silent. Whether it was a nightmare or a thrashing fit that drove him out of the nest tonight, Caesar knows to wait for Koba to initiate.

“In all my dreams, they come back,” Koba signs after a while, when Caesar has worked his way up to Koba's shoulders. “Happens in different ways, but always the same in the end. They destroy everything, kill everyone. Blue-Eyes…”

“They destroyed each other,” Caesar signs. “No lights in so long, no sign of them.”

These are threadbare reassurances, ones he's given Koba many times before, and he knows they don't work as well anymore. Koba only looks more unsure for Caesar's certainties, and Caesar knows it's time to try something new. He imagines what it might look like if humans weren't all gone, entertaining the idea.

“If they came back,” Caesar signs, and Koba's eyes widen. “Hypothetical. If they came here tomorrow, a whole pack of them.”

Koba doesn't stop him, instead watching raptly. “What would you do?” he signs.

“Wouldn’t kill them right away,” he admits. “Would attempt to be civil, find a bloodless way. That's my nature. Maybe they're just lost. Maybe they're harmless.”

“If they're not harmless?” Koba signs. Caesar nods, considering.

If they were the humans of Koba's nightmares, if they came to the Redwoods for any other purpose than to noiselessly pass through, if they harmed a single ape…

“No mercy,” Caesar signs. “You told me I'm strong. Am I strong enough to protect us?”

Koba doesn't hesitate. “Yes.”

“Good.” Caesar rests their foreheads together, and only moves away to lead Koba back to their nest.