Unbidden, he awakens. Even through the thick layer of ground and rock, hanging heavy above his head, the Alpha's call is loud, commanding and unmistakable. It stirs a primal urge in the depths of his still-waking mind, one he has not felt in millennia but responds to with a familiarity born of instinct: obey the Alpha.

Zilla is letting out a warbling cry of attention even before his eyes fully open, in a voice that is thick with post-hibernation sleepiness. Taking stock of his body takes him a moment; his limbs move sluggishly, their movements having been slowed by the long sleep, and reacquainting himself with them takes him longer than it should. He only realizes his call went unanswered after he's blinked away the last of the bleariness distorting his vision.

Darkness surrounds him from all sides, forcing him to wait until his eyes grow accustomed to it. Another call dies in the back of his throat when the eerie sight greets him: the tunnel is empty. Suddenly acutely aware of how cold he is, Zilla turns his head to where his Packmate's body should be pressed against his side and finds the spot empty. Pack is gone.

A distressed trill escapes him, before he can stop it. Where have his brothers gone, why have they left him?

The Alpha's beckoning call arrives once again, in tandem with Zilla's own cry of alarm-location?, though the saurian's growing worry pushes it out of the forefront. Silence and the returning echo of his own voice are his only answers. For as long as he can remember, he has never been alone, until now; the thought makes him shudder, talons curling and puncturing the bedrock. Without the warmth of his Packmates' bodies to warm him, he feels like he is freezing.

There are no scents for him to pick up when he tries to sniff out the familiar smell of Pack, all long gone without even the tiniest of traces, as though they have never existed in the first place. All he can sense is his own growing fear, pungent and fresh. Unwilling to succumb to panic just yet, instead he wills his body to move, biting back another keening whine.

The underground system of tunnels Pack had chosen as their resting place, is an intricate maze Zilla soon finds himself lost in. He doesn't recognize some of the passages he pushes through, and the ones he dimly remembers being open before, he now finds to be blocked off by rubble. With each passing minute, the ball of dread in his stomach grows, as he finds no evidence of Pack living in the area. No scents, no shed scales, no tracks, nothing.

Desperate, he calls out again, his voice high-pitched and panicked, distress-distress-need-comfort-answer. His cries are met with unrelenting silence once more, as the stony walls bearing down on him seem to be growing nearer and nearer, deaf to his pleas. Breathing grows heavy and ragged, his heart beats harder and faster, filling his ears with its incessant thud-thud-thudding. He feels like he's been running aimlessly in circles for hours, long enough for his cries to devolve into nonsensical whimpers and wails. A strange pressure builds behind his eyes, clogging up his sinuses and he snorts a few times, trying to clear his nose of the sudden obstruction. It persists, despite his best attempts.

Eventually, Zilla pauses, half-hunched over with his dorsal plates scraping the tunnel's vault, in a round cave, indiscernible from others. It fills quickly with the sound of his heavy, yet hollow, pants, their volume amplified by the empty space surrounding him, as they ricochet off the walls to create a deafening cacophony that threatens to burst his eardrums. Starting to feel light-headed, he drops to his knees and curls up into a ball, pressing the top of his head against the cool, uneven surface of the cave's flooring, and tries to imagine Pack around him, comforting him with low, concerned warbles and careful nuzzles. He screws his eyes shut tightly, seeing their features behind closed eyelids, and for a brief moment, just a second, he feels as though they are truly there with him, he feels warm and safe.

But then his eyes open again and he is met with an empty, hollow, dead space, devoid of the familiar presence, cold and unwelcoming, taunting him.

With a screeching roar he lashes out at the low-hanging canopy of rock, splitting it easily with his sickle-like claws.

Out-out-out-out-escape he chants in between angry – broken – snarls, uncaring of the dust and pebbles that rain down into his open maw, coating his hide with a thick layer of dirt, too focused on the pressing need of space and no more tunnels. Rock and stone alike, relent and crumble under his furious swipes, cascading in twin streams down his sides and into the cavern below and threatening to drag him down with them. But their cold, steady defiance is nothing to his fiery rage.

Sunlight greets him before long, and Zilla screeches in protest as its blinding rays burn his sensitive eyes. The ground, suddenly turning soft and sandy with no prior warning, gives in under his forearms and, out of balance, he tumbles tail-over-head down the hillside with an undignified roar. He comes to a stop at the land formation's base, sprawled uncomfortably on his back with his dorsal plates sunken deeply in the yellow-brown sand.

The nearby sound of the surf and the overbearing smell of salty water carried upon a light breeze eventually coax him into opening his eyes again. The Sun warms his scales pleasantly and small waves lap at his toes, buried in the wet sand, as he glances around through half-open eyes. Three fourths of his view is made up of water, its blue expanse reaching as far as his eyes could see, stretching for immeasurable miles until it melded with the sky on the horizon. The rest of it is the small island he's found himself on; the wind carries with it sounds both familiar and not: the rustling of trees, the shifting foliage, the strange, distant song tweeted out by a creature Zilla's not heard before.

It is serene, peaceful in an almost unnatural way, and Zilla would, perhaps, be even able to enjoy the view on a different occasion. Now, his mind is much too preoccupied to allow itself a moment to admire the insular paradise, as he is already belting out another call of distress-assistance-location?, all the while trying to drag himself from the dirt's mucky embrace. Without the thick walls of the underground tunnels to stifle them, his roars are clear and audible, carried far by the wind. As soon as the last note of his call has rung out, Zilla is greeted with complete silence; the song he's been hearing cuts off mid-tune and isn't picked up. Even the trees seem to have fallen silent. A strange feeling washes over the Titan, and he can hardly stop himself from shivering again at the revelation it brings.

He doesn't belong here.

Zilla turns, putting his back to the ocean and facing the small cluster of trees that clings to the hill's side. He peers between the trees, searching for any sign of life, a disturbed bush, a nudged leaf, anything. Nothing moves, nothing even makes a sound.

Taking half a step back and feeling the cool waters splashing at his feet, Zilla lets out a small whimper. He is a trespasser, disturbing the order of a place he has no right to be in. If he were with Pack, he would snarl at the island's silent contempt, challenge it with a roar and torch the offending copse along with all its potential inhabitants.

But Pack isn't here, and he is alone. Without Pack, he is nothing. Weak, helpless, isolated…

His head shifts and his eyes turn to the horizon, as another deep, humming call draws his attention away from the island: another of the Alpha's summons. Almost as if moving of their own accord, his feet turn him around and carry into the watery depths, obeying the order without a second thought. Though even as the ocean's cold waters close around him like an icy cocoon, a small spark of hope flares up among the shadows of his mind: if he's heard the Alpha's call and been so drawn to its source, then perhaps Pack has as well. Maybe they are already by the Alpha's side, waiting for him to arrive.

He clings to that thought desperately. The mental image of Pack chastising him for his straggling and nipping his neck as playful punishment, drives newfound strength into the lashes of his tail and, determined, he heads northeast, to where the Alpha awaits.