Glory,
it's a
morning!
(In the mesh-metal trap I set last night.)
Eyes like orange sun-fire, and a
heart of hope. Pulsing ‘neath the acorns' oaks.

I feed it with re-heated, leftover
dreams,
but it does not bless the taste.
Only freshness, it
seems,
will nourish its half-day life.

A gaze of spruce-needled
sharpness. Of dethroned
darkness. A tail of unlit
Milky Way stars. Fur the color
of crystal-clear
existence.

I sit and watch and
talk
to it. It speaks (back to me)
in creek-gurgling, bird-chirping
breeze-sounds.
Oh, not foreign! Simply

wild.

Though mellowed when
its cage is loosened. The freedom
to unfurl!
With the knowledge that
this is a day the Lord hath made. To
rejoice and be glad.


"Field," was the lemon-drop, pink-lemonade whisper. Was the nose-nudge.

Early-morning light streaming through the window (with no blinds to keep it at bay), filtering in slanted, dusty columns. To the dresser, the foot of the bed. The sheets. And to them, and their warm and matted fur: sleepy mouse and woken bat.

"Honey ... " Again, her nose in his fur. Breathing in. And, with a soft sigh, breathing out. "Come on ... " Her voice was gentle (and urging).

A whimper-squeak from him. He wasn't really awake. His bare, thin form, half-covered by the comforter and sheets, and ... shifting onto his right side (she was already lying on her left side), and his paws fishing at her. Fishing for fur, which he weakly, loosely clutched at.

Her pink eyes, suitably bright for such a bright, October morning (at 8:19 AM, said the bedside radio-clock) ... surveyed him. She smiled. A toothy one, and ... nosed him more. Nosed his neck. His cheeks. Breathing in, and breathing out. Of the scent, and the fur ... of him. Trying to get him to stir. "We gotta wake up," she whispered. "Breakfast, remember ... and Ma's coming over, and ... " She trailed. He wasn't hearing her. He really WAS still asleep. And not faking it (like, maybe, he sometimes would ... how he would fake still being asleep just to clutch and nuzzle her on the soft give of the mattress). "Hmm ... "

His paws were, now, still clutching. To her fur, and the warmth of her. He was squirming the tiniest bit, and still making those whimper-squeak sounds.

"Oh ... " A pang of realization ... that he was having a bad dream. In his sleep, trying to get as close to her as she could. Even unconscious, knowing how she could filter into his head and blow the bad away.

"Mm ... mm," was the eyes-closed whisper. Paws with holds of fur. And he swallowed, and his nose sniffed heavily against the sheets. And against her. Burying into her fur, as if to get more out of her. She was a need.

The bat, closing her eyes a bit, and her forehead on his cheek ... loosened her telepathic boundaries. Allowed certain thoughts, impulses ... to find their way into his head. From her to him. Their link was strong. Stronger with her teeth in his neck, sure, but ... they'd built up such a closeness that, at all times, they could intuit each other. They'd become quite symbiotic.

The mouse, swallowing, his heart hammering, squirmed a bit, and ... slowly, he settled. Stopped moving, and ... his breathing became regular (for one still asleep, that is). His nose, slightly raising off the pillows, sniffed. Sniffed! Twitched ... as he weakly, all mouse-like, surveyed the morning air. And he must've found it satisfying, for his head settled back down. And, with regular breathing, he cuddled right up against his mate's bare, pink-furred body. Snuggling right into the nooks and crannies of her (if that were so possible).

Adelaide closed her eyes. She could've melted. And she did smile widely, and ... taking a deep breath, she wrapped a winged arm around his back.

They laid there for a few minutes more.

Before the bat piped up again, in urging whispers, "Field ... wake-wake. Come on." She gave him a little prod.

"Mm," was the sound he made. A squeaky, high-pitched ... sound.

Another prod.

"Mm!"

"Field, come on," she said, eyes shining. She wanted to giggle, but ... " ... I'm serious. We have to get up. Just open those blue-greys, and ... "

An exhale through the nose. A little, mousey sound. "Mm ... mm ... " Muzzle mouthing her fur, huffing out little ‘good morning' breaths, lips a bit apart, searching for ...

" ... that's not your breakfast," she chided (with good humor). Starting to giggle-chitter as she ... pried his muzzle off (from the source of his sleepy suckling). "Come on, darling ... " She poked at him, and ... then, smiling, went for his ears. That ALWAYS did the trick. Taking a deep breath, she ... blew into his ears!

"Squeak!" was his audible. His eyes opened, the rush of hot breath into his sensitive ear canal ... sparking his eyes to snap open at the feeling.

Adelaide chittered, half-draped over him. Nosing his cheek. Her eyes open, and saying warmly, "Thought that'd get ya ... "

The mouse, recovering from the initial feeling, blinked heavily. "There's ... sleep stuff," he said wispily, fighting off a yawn, "in my eyes."

"Well, blink it out," the bat whispered helpfully.

Blink-blink-blink ... " ... mm ... uh," he said, starting to yawn. Muzzle going wide, wide. Wide open. And eyes squeezed shut so they watered.

She watched him from up close. He was better than ANY show ...

Done, he swallowed, licking his dry lips, and then turned his head a bit (to look her in the eyes). "Hi," he said, in his shy, airy voice.

"Hi," she whispered back. "Good morning."

The mouse smiled brightly. The dimples showing on his furry cheeks. "Good morning," he repeated.

"You were sleeping like you'd been up all night, you know? I had a hard time rousing you ... "

"You never have a hard time ‘rousing' me ... "

A giggle-chitter! Giggles. "You KNOW what I mean. WAKING you up, I mean."

"Oh." A grin.

"You were ... " She trailed. No need to mention to him that he'd been having a bad dream. From his current state, and what she was reading from his mind, the dream hadn't stuck in his head. Had been one of those fade-upon-rising nightmares ... and why mention it? Instead, she caught herself, and said, "You were so cute." She wrapped herself around him. "You always are in the morning."

"Only," he said, yawning again, "in the morning?"

"In the day. At night." She smiled.

"Mm," he went, sighing. Closing his eyes. Head sinking into the white pillow. "I love you," he whispered. A soft-as-butter, warm-as-yellow-flowers whisper. That seemingly took all his still-waking breath to say. "I love you," he repeated, just as airily. Just as naturally.

The bat flushed beneath her own pinks. "Mm ... " She kissed his cheek. Held it. And pulled back an inch. "Love you, too," was her sincere, quiet reply. And she rested her head on his chest. For just a bit. Eyes closed, and listening to the beating of his so-near heart.

Patter-pat. Patter-pat ... thump-a-thump. Thump-a-thump! What a thing!

Field stroked her arm, and her back ...

... and they laid there for a full five minutes more. Before Adelaide, taking a deep breath, willed herself to sit up. "We really," she said, "gotta get out of bed."

Field nodded, breathing in. "Yeah," he said, exhaling.

Adelaide, swinging her legs and foot-paws over the side of the bed, planted the soles of her foot-paws on the carpet of the bedroom floor. And ... slowly stood. Testing out her knees. And her still-slightly-sleepy capacity for being upright.

Field watched her quietly, seriously ... still at a lie-down, still tangled in the sheets. Watching her like one would watch moving art: rapturously.

The bat stretched, raising her paws and winged arms upward. And stood up on the tips of her toes, and ... made a chittering sound! And settled back down with a sigh, turning round. Her bare, beautiful form ... the supple curves of her. Her hanging breasts. The filmy wings between her arms and sides, and her fangs, and how her stubby tail, and her rump-cheeks and the small of her back were getting, right now, the bulk of the light coming from the window ... what sublime femininity! And bat-ness!

Field, taking a few more horizontal breaths, left his lie-down position, and ... rolled to the edge, too, and swung his legs over, and stood with her. The honey-tan mouse almost falling into her. As his arms went around her neck. As his soft, tan-white belly pressed to her pink one. As his snaky, ropy-thin mouse tail wavered in the air behind him, moving about. His distinctly male features hanging between his legs, brushing into her fur (which spiked her pulse a bit, just from the thought of it). His ears, dishy, like satellites, picking up every sound from the both of them (and from the birds in the trees outside).

Sniff-twitching, he nosed her neck. Nose, nose ...

"You're nosin' me," she said, latching to his loving warmth. The bedroom air was a bit chilly. Lending to the fact that, outside, it was a bit chilly. So as to frost the grass a bit. To make all the orange and burnt sienna leaves ... glisten with the sharpness of the rising, autumn sun.

"I know," was his response. And he kept doing it. Nosing her. Until he kissed her collar-bone, and her shoulder, and her cheek, and ...

... she tilted her head back, waiting ...

... for the sloppy, little lip-kiss that finally came. A few seconds long. A bit off-the-mark, but to give them credit, they were still finding their balance. Swaying slightly, and both a bit light-headed.

"We need," she said, panting a bit, "breakfast."

The mouse swallowed. And just nodded.

The bat, looking past him at the bed-side clock-radio, saw they had fifteen minutes before Ma arrived. "Enough to shower, get dressed, and ... we'll make breakfast when Ma's here."

Field nodded. Sounded good.

And, taking his paw, she led him out of the bedroom. To the bathroom. To the shower. Where she, pulling the shower curtain back (on the curtain rod), reached for the water-knob. Turned it. The water pouring out of the spout in the tub.

Field watched, submissive and ... his posture a bit effeminate ...

... as she pulled up the shower hitch. And as water began streaming out of the shower-head, raining onto the floor of the tub.

The bat stepped in first, the water pelting her pelt. Dripping off, and then, slowly, soaking in. Making it a deeper shade of pink.

And Field stepped in after her, right under the steam of hot, steamy water, and he inhaled sharply! It felt good. Such heated moistness. And ...

... her wrapping her winged arms around his back. As they stood, together, under the shower-head, both being wetted. Dripping water-droplets from whisker-tips and paws gripping wet rumps. And little nips and kisses.

And all the wet, warm wishes one would want.



"You've damp fur," Ma observed, sniffing her nose a bit. "The both of you."

"Our fur hasn't dried from the shower yet," Adelaide explained, holding a black, plastic spatula. She was standing before the stove. Making scrambled eggs.

The panther sniffed the air again. The smell of eggs, bread, strawberry jam, and ...

" ... the shampoo," Field whispered. "Smells like flowers."

Ma nodded, sniffing more. And stopping. "It smells pleasant," she agreed. And she leaned back in her wooden table-chair. "Am I to assume you had a late start?"

"If you're meaning ... did the mouse not wanna un-burrow himself from the bed, then ... "

"Hey, I woke up," Field defended. Having just finished setting the table.

"Eventually," Adelaide agreed, smiling, and grabbing for the pepper shaker. Sprinkling some pepper onto the eggs. "We only got going, like, fifteen minutes before you got here, so ... "

"It's not a bother," Ma said. "I'm not criticizing you." She leaned forward, and put a paw on her glass of orange juice. But didn't pick it up. Didn't sip from it. Just stared at the liquid. "You just seem to have such a pleasant routine. Or, at least ... you seem to greet mornings in such soft ways. With me, it's ... I'm done regenerating, I shower, dress, and ... then I head out. To spy on ‘The Board,' or ... I mean, that's all I've got." A pause. "If we didn't have a Conspiracy to fight, I'd probably be at a loss, but ... " The robot looked up. "I know that you two wouldn't."

"You sound a bit gloomy," Field observed.

"I'm not. I'm just observing," Ma said, "that I only seem capable of espionage and fighting. You two," she said, "seem capable of so much more." A pause. "I just wonder if I truly AM growing beyond my original programming. Or if I've just convinced myself that I have."

"You have, Ma," Adelaide assured. "I've seen it ... "

The panther nodded. "Thank you," she said quietly.

"Well, you have," was the repeat.

The panther reached for her orange juice. And sipped it (to keep busy).

"I can take over," Field said to Adelaide (about the eggs). "You can sit down ... "

The bat, head tilted a bit, smiled. " ... ‘kay," she said, and she filtered away from the stove, letting the mouse finish the cooking.

After a minute or two more, they were all seated at the kitchen table. Scrambled eggs, toast with strawberry jam, orange juice, some bananas ... and even some cereal, if anybody wished for it. That was their meal.

After the mouse led them in saying grace ...

... they nibbled and chewed. Eating. Restoring their energy.

And chattering all the while.

"So, Ma," said Adelaide, swallowing, and reaching for her own glass of orange juice. "How do we tell who on the team ... is a robot? And who's not?"

"Well, I don't have the equipment to scan them. The most practical way," she said, chewing off a corner of her toast. Chewing. Swallowing. "Mm. Would be to have them THROW a football. If they can throw a perfect spiral, they're not a robot. If they CAN'T ... "

"But how are we gonna get them to throw for US?" Field asked. "We're not coaches, or even assistant coaches ... "

"No, but I'm betting none of their coaches ARE robots, so ... they probably have throwing drills during practice. Just in case. Like, last night, they threw one pass ... cause they had to, basically. So, they must practice SOME throwing plays."

"But only the quarterback will be throwing ... "

"Mm." Ma frowned. "That's true ... "

"Ma, tell me this: the robots can't throw, right? Can they CATCH?" Adelaide asked.

Ma looked to the bat. "No," she said. "No, they can't."

"So," the bat said quietly, eyes sparking with intelligence, "you're a former member of the cafeteria staff, right?"

A nod.

"So, you go into practice. They ask why you're there, you tell them you've been re-hired or something. You're back on the staff."

"They would never believe it."

"Then get a teacher. Super C. Get Super C to bring snacks to the team."

"Snacks?" Field asked.

"Apples," said Adelaide. "Super C, in showing her support for the team ... brings them all apples. She tosses an apple to each player. The ones who fumble the catches ... they're the robots. I mean, I assume," the bat asked Ma, "you've a keen enough eye to know that it's ROBOTS fumbling the catches and not regular furs?"

"I know the body language," Ma affirmed, nodding. And squinted. And then smiled. "You're a crackerjack, you know that, bat? You're pretty sharp."

Showing her sharp fangs, licking them with the end of her tongue, she tilted her head and grinned. "Thank you," she said, feigning coy.

Field's pupils dilated at seeing her ... and her fangs. Licking them like that.

The bat stopped. Not wanting to hype him up (being that they had company).

"Alright," Ma said. "I'll talk to Super C today. Get her to go to the afternoon practice after school, and give out apples to all the players. I'll go with her. Or I'll watch from the bleachers ... and note the throws."

Nods from the other two. Nods and chews.

"Once we peg who's a robot and who's not, I'll ... know who to disable," said Ma.

"Disable?"

"There's a buried nerve ending, behind the ear ... of all robot furs. A pressure point. You push it HARD enough, and it ... knocks the robot out. Deactivates them."

"For good?"

"No. But ... while they're knocked out, their circuits can be fiddled with. We'll figure out some way to get them off the team. Perhaps make them clumsy runners as WELL as bad passers."

"Sounds like a plan," Adelaide said, looking to her mate, and to Ma Sparta.

"It does, indeed," Ma agreed. Feeling a swell of excitement. Anticipation. Hope. Early-morning anti-conspiracy schemes over a home-cooked breakfast? Well, it just did something for her soul. She smiled. And, chatting and eating with her friends, she began to purr.



"Have some candy."

"Why?" asked the rabbit. Brown-furred with black patches, and long, slender ears sticking up (like antennae).

"A goodwill gesture," was Spitznagle's answer. "I know you and the rest of the furs," she said diplomatically, "on the team ... you resent me." A pause (for effect). "Don't you?"

The rabbit made a face.

They were in the library. In the middle of the school day. Often, students spent their study halls in the library. This rabbit was one of them.

The overhead, neon lights flickered just the tiniest bit. The rectangular tables were spaced about. The dusty, old bookshelves (with the dustier, older books) were on the far end. On the nearer end: the librarian's desk. And her private office. The computers were against the windowed wall, which looked out into the hallway. No traffic now. But during passing period, it would be bustling.

"I don't like candy," the rabbit responded. He didn't trust Spitznagle. Or any raccoon, for that matter. Call it species-ism, but ... they always had that look in their eye. That gleam. Not a good gleam, either. Like they were trying to make you ...

" ... have some candy. Of COURSE you like candy," the raccoon purred. "Every-fur does." She held out a bowl of assorted chocolates and fruit chews, and mints. "I just want to show some goodwill to a fellow teammate."

"You shouldn't be on the team!" the rabbit blurted.

Spitznagle stiffened (for dramatic effect ... for she KNEW what she was doing, and how to play this rabbit right into her paws). "Oh. I see."

"Look, I just ... I'm a library helper during study hall, and ... look, you're on the team. Some of us don't like it, and ... "

"So, I'm a pariah, now? We can't be friends anymore?"

"We weren't really, uh, friends to begin with," the rabbit said uncomfortably. "You're kind ... kind of, well ... "

"Well, what?"

"Spooky."

"Just take some candy, kid. And I'll leave you alone."

The rabbit (whose role on the team was as a wide receiver) wasn't one of the robots. Was naturally fur-and-blood. Young. Over-yiffy. Had a lot to learn. Like: don't take candy from hell-bent librarians ... even if they promise to get off your back should you do it.

Spitznagle shook the candy bowl gently. Shake-shake.

The rabbit sighed. Sniffed. Whiskers twitched. And he put a paw into the dish. Took out an orange-wrapped peanut butter chew. And slowly unwrapped it (with a crinkling sound). It looked like Halloween candy.

Spitznagle waited.

The rabbit put the candy-chew in his muzzle, where saliva washed all over it. The nutty sweetness. The caramelized sugar. And he bit in. Chewed.

"Good?"

"Mm." A sigh. A nod.

"Have some more," was the knowing whisper. She SHOVED the bowl at him, and he stuck his greedy paws in. Grabbed some. Pocketed some. "Be sure," she commanded, "to share with your teammates." She stared at him. Hard.

"I will," he mumbled, eyes hazy. His muzzle full of peanut butter chew.

"Good," was her repeated word. She squinted. Perhaps her drugged candy would win her some compatriots among the heady, immature males on the team. After all, she NEEDED their cooperation in order to GET the ball. The passes, the hand-offs. If they ostracized her ... well, she needed them on her side.



"They had, like, five different kinds. I got ‘red delicious'."

Ma squinted, looking them over. They were both sitting in the bleachers, with an opaque, white bag between them. Filled with the fruit.

"No worms, Ma, if that's what you're looking for. I got them at Stuckey's," she said, referring to the apple orchard/pumpkin field ... about six miles south of town. "I mean, apples are apples, and THEM'S apples," Super C continued, prattling. The bulldog was never in the best of moods. Not that she was in a BAD mood right now. She really wasn't. But, because of her general gruffness, it might've seemed that way. More than anything, she was impatient. To perform her role in this scheme. The sooner started, the sooner finished. She had schemes of her own. Such as remodeling Devil's Hollow. Hacking into Stone's phone line. Buying a new umbrella.

"What were the other kinds?"

"I don't know ... gala, Granny Smith, golden delicious. Braeburn. Too many. I was told Braeburn had a high-impact sweet-tart/spicy flavor. Aromatic, juicy, and crisp."

Ma frowned, looking up. "Then why'd you get red delicious?"

"It's CLASSIC. America's favorite snacking apple." Super C frowned. "Every damn fool knows that." The bulldog took an apple in her paw, turning it over. Squinting. "Heart-shaped, bright-red ... crunchy and mildly-sweet. They just don't make ‘em like this anymore ... "

"Apparently, they do. By the bags-ful," Ma said.

"Look, it was the cheapest, okay? And these things came out of MY purse, so ... I'm not buying gourmet apples for thirty teenage males. The gluttons. They can have red delicious."

"Alright, alright ... "

"Besides, how many of them are actually gonna eat their apples?"

"The prey will eat the apples. And that's most of the team, so ... it doesn't matter what they do with them. You just gotta pretend to be in a jovial mood ... "

"I never have to pretend," C replied.

Ma didn't respond to that. It was TOO easy. Instead, continued, " ... and throw them each an apple. I'll watch and see who drops theirs, or who has an awkward catching technique."

"And you'll be able to pinpoint every Mandy-bot?"

"I will."

"And how can you be SURE?" The bulldog squinted.

"Cause I AM a Mandy-bot," Ma said plainly.

A low, reluctant growl from C's throat. "Yeah ... alright," she said, making sure all the apples were in the sack. And standing up, and ... moving down the aisle. And off the bleachers. The late-day sun was warm. Pleasantly so. Enough so that, unless you were engaged in constant physical activity (as the football players were), your fur wouldn't mat in dampness. Though Ma's fur was black, being a panther, and thus ... she absorbed all the heat. Which made her pant a slight bit. She sat back and breathed slowly, staying cool. And watched Super C go onto the field, where after-school practice was being held today (rather than on the worn-out practice field behind the bleachers).

Super C acted her part. The teacher invested in her students. School spirit. Go team. Here are some apples to keep the shine on your mind.

Ma rolled her eyes. C needed to take some acting lessons. But at least they were all buying it. The coaches, too. As the head coach (a beaver who lived just outside of town, right on Eagle Creek) ... he smiled and gave the furs a break. Allowing Super C to toss them all an apple. Most of them caught it.

But the bobbles ...

... Ma, from the silvery stands, squinted. Saw the complete lack of skill. Dropping the apples like dropping baseballs. And then sheepishly picking them up, and ... acting like nothing had gone awry. But they'd been given away.

They just didn't know it.

When Super C had given apples to all, she turned to go. The short, stocky bulldog (the Spanish teacher) waving a paw, but ...

... the coach stopped her.

Ma tensed.

The beaver and bulldog exchanged some words. Ending with C giving him an apple, too, and ... then getting off the field.

Ma waited on the bleachers for her. Lounging back.

C, wearing a royal frown, sighed and sat. "Well, there you go. They got their apples. You catch the robots?" she said, making an unintentional pun about the situation.

"Yes. All six of them."

"Good." A pause. "So, you can deactivate them, right?"

"Yes."

The bulldog nodded.

A moment of quiet. Before Ma asked, "What'd he want?"

"Who?"

"The coach. You two ... exchanged some words," Ma started.

"You really don't wanna hear it."

The panther squinted.

C sighed again. "He just inquired about you, is all."

"He didn't remember me, did he? From my cafeteria days?"

"I don't think so. No, he just ... inquired." A pause. "About ... you."

Ma made a face.

"He fancies you," C finally explained. "If I can make it any clearer."

"He does NOT."

"I tell you, he wants you. What parts of you, and why, I don't know, but ... look, I've a good nose. I know the scent of arousal."

Ma flushed. "You don't know what you're talking about." The panther stood, and began making her way down the aisle, and then off the bleachers, and into the grass. Making for the parking lot. Ma, herself, had walked to the high school (from her own house). C had driven. Though they both lived in town.

The bulldog, stumbling after the panther, said, "Look, Ma, I've dealt with this before."

"With beavers?"

"With lovelorn males. My girl, I could be wined and dined EVERY night if I wanted to." A shake of the head. "If it weren't for that battle in the car when you got home. The groping, the struggling with the seatbelt, and the grasping for the door to escape ... "

"Do many of them get away?" Ma asked innocently, with a smirk on her muzzle.

"That's not funny! You know what I mean ... "

"You're a male-eater, is what you are ... I shouldn't be taking romance advice from you. You lose every mate you take."

"Whatever. There's this male at the pub on main street ... very keen on him."

"I don't care. I don't wanna know. I really don't," Ma said.

"At least I TRY, Ma, to find love ... and if someone pursued me, I'd stop running long enough to get caught. You're becoming more and more a real fur all the time? Fine. Let me give you some real-fur advice: running leads to regret."

By this time, they'd reached C's car.

"Get in. I'll take you home."

"It's only a fifteen minute walk."

"Ma, get in," the bulldog said, not in the mood to argue. And she opened the driver's side door, unlocked the other doors, and tossed her empty apple bag into the backseat. And then slipped behind the wheel, putting her seatbelt on.

While Ma slowly went round the car and got into the passenger side.

They pulled out of the parking lot. Made a left turn. Going slowly. Super C remarking, "He's not a part of the Conspiracy, Ma. He's solidly built. He's a beaver. Goodness. I mean ... think of those teeth. The nibbling ... "

Ma said nothing.

"It's you that's gonna suffer if you don't take off your ‘no trespassing' sign. He's a safe bet."

"I have no doubt," Ma said plainly, with a tinge of weariness, "that our resident football coach is a safe bet."

"So, what's the problem?"

"I'm," Ma emphasized, "an UN-safe bet."

"It's in your mind," was all C said, unsure how to press the issue.

Ma just looked out the window. At the changing leaves. Like fireworks in the trees.