Alex groaned, his head pounding like a drum against the wooden plank beneath him. The sour taste of cheap whiskey clung to his tongue, and the stench of sweat and brine filled his nostrils. He tried to move, but his limbs felt heavy, clumsy. Around him, the rhythmic creak of timbers and the slap of waves against the hull confirmed it—they were at sea. Dim lantern light swung overhead, casting long shadows across crates stacked high. Others lay slumped nearby, some whimpering, others unnervingly still. Panic clawed at Alex’s throat.

They were supposed to stay forever. Why were they moving?

He blinked, trying to clear the fog. The island had been paradise—cigars thicker than his thumb, barrels of rum tapped freely, fistfights cheered like gladiator bouts. He’d smashed a shop window with a brick just to hear the glass shatter. Laughed until his sides hurt. Now, the memory curdled. His skin had itched fiercely beneath his shirt he could remember that, a crawling sensation that made him squirm. He scratched his forearm and froze. Coarse, wiry hair brushed his fingertips where smooth skin should be. No. He yanked his sleeve up.

A patch of dull brown fur, coarse as burlap, spread from wrist to elbow.

The rocking intensified. Someone nearby whimpered—a wet, guttural sound. Alex turned his head slowly, neck stiff. In the swinging lantern light, he saw Billy hunched against a crate. Billy’s ears… they weren’t right. Too long. Too pointed. Leathery and twitching. Billy met Alex’s stare, eyes wide with animal terror, and tried to speak. Only a choked hee-haw rasped out. Alex recoiled, banging his head against the crate behind him. Pain exploded behind his eyes. That’s when he remembered: the last thing he’d seen before blacking out. Billy, mid-transformation, face elongating, jaw jutting grotesquely as fabric ripped over swelling joints.

Alex had screamed—then nothing.

Darkness pressed in thicker than tar.

Alex squeezed his eyes shut, then opened them wide. It made no difference. He was blindfolded by the suffocating black of the ship’s hold. Only the rhythmic groan of the hull and the heavy, damp smell of livestock confirmed he wasn’t alone. He tried to shift his weight, but his body felt alien, cumbersome. His legs wouldn’t bend right. His hands… he tried to flex his fingers. They felt thick, stiff, useless stumps inside the rough burlap sack covering him. Panic flared again, sharp and cold. He tried to call out. A strangled bray tore from his throat. No! He clamped his mouth shut, tasting coarse sack fibers. The sound echoed in the cramped space, answered immediately by a chorus of terrified, identical brays from all sides. Donkeys. He was trapped in a crate, surrounded by crates full of donkeys. Boys who’d screamed and laughed beside him days ago, now reduced to braying beasts packed like cargo.

A wave slammed the hull. The entire ship lurched violently. Alex felt his body thrown sideways. Instinctively, he scrambled. His hooves—*hooves!*—found purchase on the slick wooden decking beneath him. He didn’t think. He just pushed. And suddenly, he was standing. Standing on all fours. The movement felt strangely natural, horrifyingly balanced. The rocking of the ship became manageable from this low, wide stance. He shook his head, trying to dislodge the sack that had been placed over it when he was sleeping, no doubt to keep him calm as they transported him. It slipped down around his neck, bunching there like a crude collar. Dim, swinging lantern light filtered through gaps in the crates stacked high around him. He could see them now. Dozens of crates, stacked floor to ceiling. Inside each one, small, brown shapes shifted nervously. Donkeys. Little brown donkeys, packed tight, their eyes wide and white-rimmed with terror in the gloom. Their flanks heaved, their nostrils flared, steam puffing in the cold, damp air. He looked down at himself. A shaggy brown coat covered his body. His legs ended in dark, hard hooves.

The coarse sackcloth around his neck was the only remnant of human clothes.

His long, brown ears twitched at every sound. The groan of the ship’s timbers. The slap of waves against the hull. The frantic shuffling and muffled brays from the crates. The heavy tread of boots on the deck above. Each noise registered sharply, making his ears swivel independently, straining to pinpoint the source. Behind him, his tail flicked back and forth like it had a mind of its own, lashing against his flanks with short, irritated snaps. It was an alien sensation, this constant, involuntary motion. He tried to still it, to control it, but the muscles seemed disconnected from his will. It flicked again, swatting at a fly that wasn’t there, a useless, nervous energy radiating through his body. He felt exposed, vulnerable, standing there naked but for the sackcloth.

The coarse fur offered little comfort against the chill sea air seeping into the hold.

Frustration bubbled up. He twisted his neck sharply, craning his new, longer muzzle around, trying to see the offending appendage. He managed to catch a glimpse of it – a thin, rope-like thing ending in a tuft of wiry hair, swaying just above his hindquarters. It flicked again, taunting him. He snapped at it, teeth clicking on empty air. He tried again, twisting further, muscles straining in his unfamiliar donkey frame. His teeth grazed the coarse hair of his own flank, but the tail danced just out of reach. He overbalanced, staggering sideways a step, hooves scraping loudly on the damp wood. A soft, involuntary hee-haw escaped him, sounding utterly ridiculous even to his own ears.

He looked like a silly little ass, chasing his own tail.

The deep thrum of the ship’s engines shifted. The powerful vibrations Alex felt through the decking beneath his hooves began to lessen, fading from a steady drone to a labored chugging. The relentless rocking motion, which had become almost a background hum to his terror, subtly changed. It became less of a deep-sea roll and more of a sluggish sway, punctuated by the heavier slap of water against the hull. They were slowing down. His long, mobile ears pricked forward instinctively, swiveling like the silly ears they are. Through the groaning timbers and the muffled brays of terrified donkeys in nearby crates, new sounds filtered in. Distant, rhythmic clanging – metal hitting metal, like chains or cargo hooks. Shouts, human shouts, coarse and indistinct, carrying over water. The high, piercing cry of a gull. And beneath it all, a low, pervasive rumble – the sound of machinery, dockside activity.

Land. They were approaching land. Port.

Panic, sharp and cold, sliced through Alex’s daze. This wasn't a return to Pleasure Island's false paradise. This was the mainland. The place the Coachman sold his cursed cargo. The crates around him seemed to shrink, pressing in. The air grew thick with the smell of brine, fish, and something acrid – smoke and hot metal. The ship shuddered violently as it scraped against something solid – a dock. Engines died. An eerie silence descended, broken only by the frantic shuffling and terrified brays from the crates and the distant rumble of the port. Then came the heavy, echoing thud of boots descending metal stairs into the hold. Lantern light, brighter and harsher than before, swung erratically across the stacked crates. Shadows leaped and danced. The clanging grew louder, closer. Iron hooks scraped against wood. Chains rattled. Human voices, rough and unconcerned, barked orders Alex couldn't quite understand.

"This lot! Get 'em shifted!" "Mind the ears, you lout!" "Branding crew ready?"

Alex pressed himself flat against the rough wood of his crate, heart hammering against his ribs like a trapped bird. The sounds intensified – heavy thuds against crate lids, the splintering crack of wood being pried open. Then came the screams. Not human screams. Not anymore. High-pitched, terrified hee-haws, sharp and agonized, ripped through the hold. Each scream was accompanied by a sickening scrape of wood, the clatter of hooves on decking, and rough shouts. "Out you get, ya ugly brute!" "Hold 'im!" "Damn thing kicked me!" Alex squeezed his eyes shut, trembling uncontrollably. He could hear the donkeys being grabbed – not gently, but roughly, by those long, sensitive ears. He heard the sharp slap of a hand, the grunt of exertion, the frantic scrabbling of hooves losing purchase on the slick wood as they were dragged bodily out of their shattered prisons.

The air filled with dust, the stink of fear-sweat and the overwhelming metallic tang of the port.

Light, blindingly bright after the hold's gloom, flooded Alex’s vision as the lid of his own crate was wrenched off with a splintering groan. Rough hands, smelling of tar and salt, grabbed his ears. Pain, sharp and shocking, lanced through his skull as he was hauled upwards. He kicked instinctively, hooves scraping uselessly against the crate's sides. "Feisty one! Hold 'im tighter!" A coarse rope was looped around his neck, choking him. He was dragged stumbling out onto the deck, blinking against the harsh sunlight. The scene before him stole what little breath he had left. Hundreds. Hundreds of little brown donkeys. Packed into makeshift pens constructed right on the bustling dockside. Dust hung thick in the air. Men in stained leather aprons moved among them, grabbing ears, dragging individuals out towards roaring furnaces where cruel-looking irons glowed cherry-red. The air crackled with heat and terror. Donkeys screamed, a chorus of pure animal panic, as the hot iron brands were pressed, sizzling, onto their flanks. The smell of burning hair and flesh hit Alex like a physical blow. He saw the brands lift, revealing angry, smoking marks – crude symbols, letters, numbers. Ownership. Slavery. The Coachman’s profit, branded onto living flesh. Alex, ears pinned flat against his skull, rope biting into his neck, felt the rough hands shove him towards the branding pens. He was last. He saw it all.

He fought with every ounce of his dwindling humanity. He reared, twisting his neck, trying to bite the hands holding him. "Stubborn little jackass!" A fist slammed into the side of his head, stars exploding behind his eyes. Dazed, he felt the coarse rope tighten, dragging him forward towards the glowing irons. The heat radiating from the furnace was unbearable, searing his skin even from feet away. A man with a scarred face and eyes like flint lifted a brand from the coals. The metal glowed with a malevolent light, its tip shaped like a crude "S". Salt Mines. Alex knew it instinctively. He tried to scream NO! but his throat seized. Only a desperate, terrified Hee-HAW! ripped out, loud and ragged. The scarred man didn't flinch.

"Hold him still!" Hands clamped down on his neck, forcing his head low. Another grabbed his hind leg, lifting it off the ground. He was utterly helpless.

The brand descended. Alex squeezed his eyes shut, bracing. The impact wasn't immediate pain. It was a split second of immense, crushing pressure, pinning him. Then came the agony. White-hot, searing, consuming. It burned through fur, skin, muscle, screaming its ownership onto his very bone. The smell hit him instantly – acrid, nauseating, the stench of his own burning flesh mingling with singed hair. A strangled, guttural Heeee-HAAAAWWWW! tore from his lungs, a sound of pure animal torment that echoed the terrified brays around him. He bucked violently, instinctively, but the hands held firm, grinding the brand deeper. Time stretched, warped by agony. Seconds felt like hours filled with nothing but fire and the sound of his own suffering. Hee-Haw! Hee-Haw! Hee-HAW!