American Badger — No, He Doesn’t Want to Talk About It

American Badger — No, He Doesn’t Want to Talk About It

You find the medallion wedged between two tangled roots beneath a low thicket. You hesitate—something smells like damp earth and old growls. But curiosity wins, and you reach down to touch it.

The ground shivers.

A grumble bubbles up from the dirt.

“Oh, great. Just great.”

The voice comes before the badger—wide, low to the ground, eyes squinted like he’s been dragged from the deepest nap in history. He lumbers into view, muttering under his breath and flicking dirt off his claws.

“I was asleep. You know that? Asleep. Sun’s up, heat’s awful, and then boom—some soft-soled human goes pokin’ at my rocks.”

You stammer something about not meaning to—

“I know why you’re here,” he snaps. “Looking for a story. A clue. A heartwarming little forest fable.” He spits a clod of grass. “Well, tough luck. You won’t get one from me.”

You try again—something about what the medallions might mean, what happens when they’re all found—

“Nope. Don’t care. Don’t want to care. Ever since those things showed up, it’s been nothing but paws trampling my burrows, mice going all philosophical, squirrels organizing committees. One vole brought me a business card.”

He snorts.

“They glow, they hum, they give you magic ears. So what? Hasn’t made the worms any juicier. Just made the world louder.”

He scowls at you. “And I don’t like loud.”

You shift your weight. He notices.

“Don’t even think about asking me where the next one is. Or where I think they came from. Or how it all ends. You know how it ends for me? More digging. More moles acting suspicious. And if I catch that marmot preaching about cosmic purpose again, I will bite him.”

A silence stretches. Then:

“Go on. Shoo. Tell your magic trinket it owes me three hours of sleep and half a vole.”

He snorts once more, vanishes into his hole with a final grumble—and slams a dirt clod behind him for good measure.