Walking (again) ... as they often did.

It was the next day. Rather, the morning of the next day.

And Ma Sparta was a full five paces ahead of Adelaide and Field. As they walked through Sheridan town, on their way to the high school.

As they passed Jerkwater Road. Passed the old, run-down houses. Passed the silence. And passed the time.

And, because it was day, the trolleys were sparse. Sparser, even, than normal. Nearly emptied of fuel. By dusk, they would be dormant. For at least two days, anyway. Which meant ... they had two days to get this done. Two days to get rid of General Sheridan and dismantle the Sheridan Network. In two days, when the trolleys had a new fuel supply, and when they were at full power ... the iron paw of Sheridan would smash down on them. As punishment. As retribution. And the trolleys knew of Ma's scent, and if they knew of Ma, then ... it wouldn't be long before they knew of Field and Adelaide, too.

They were running out of time. Fast, and faster. And it took great effort to keep from looking down the road much further. To dwell on what might happen. On each and every scenario.

"Does she know we're coming?" Field asked ... of Super C. They were going to see Super C.

Ma, watching the overcast clouds ... the looming greyness ... said, "She better."

"You mean you didn't tell her?" Adelaide asked worriedly, taking over for Field.

"I couldn't risk it," she shot back, stopping in her tracks. Stopping next to an abandoned building. With a sign in the window that said, "Closed. No heat." Ma continuing, "Every phone line in this town is monitored. Every letter is opened and read. It's why I didn't contact you before showing up at your door last night ... no, she doesn't know we're coming."

The other two were quiet.

"She won't be a problem," Ma whispered, and ... turning, she started walking again. Still in the lead. Saying, "However, she's become very gruff. And very bitter. My advice would be ... not to upset her. Don't touch anything in the room unless told to. Don't say anything unless indicated to. I will do the talking."

"So, you and Super C are ... close?"

"Not necessarily," was Ma's response. Continuing her walk. Her gait was a quick one. She was used to being on the run. "No, we're just ... kindred spirits. We've both been raised in a system that has abandoned us." Pause. "We've both been one-upped ... one-upped," Ma added, "one too many times."

More quiet. More walking. The house sparrows chattering and sky-larking. Pretending they were prettier than they were. Pretending all the beautiful birds hadn't been driven away.

"And don't say anything about her umbrella."

"What do you ... "

"What do I mean?" Ma asked. "Her umbrella. Her umbrella," Ma repeated. "She's very protective of it." And she said no more. Leaving it at that. "And WHATEVER you do, don't mention Miss Stone." Miss Stone was the French teacher. So named ... for being so dense. "They've been at each other's throats for years ... "

"I never figured that out," Adelaide said. "I guess we left ... before it got too heated. But I remember them getting along."

"Oh ... oh, no," Ma chided. "No, Miss Stone ... she was hired by ‘The Board' to be a thorn in Super C's side. Only, Stone wasn't told this. Stone never KNOWS ... she's being a thorn. It's just her element. She chatted C's ears off. Called her on the phone. Calling, you know, to ask for crayons ... "

"Crowns," Field whispered. On impulse.

"What?" Ma asked. Blinking.

"Nothing ... "

"Don't interrupt me," Ma ordered, "again." A pause. A clearing of her throat. "Anyway ... anyway, C eventually snapped. Told Stone to ‘back off,' only ... well, not in those words, exactly. Stone, reeling, fell into the clutches of Spitznagle. Being that the library is across the hall from the French room. Spitznagle and Evelyn D ... the music teacher, you know ... they teamed up with Stone. Became known as ‘The Trio.' All three of them ... you know, on their own, each of them is incompetent. I guess they thought that, banding together, they would have a better chance at making a mark in this conspiracy. That they could seize power as a triumvirate. Which never would've worked. Had they SUCCEEDED, they would've all turned on each other. And the group would've crumbled. Luckily, they didn't succeed. They never had a chance. They couldn't agree on what to do and when to do it, and ... eventually, Stone took a ‘field trip' to the winter festival in Quebec. Used it to stockpile an illegal assortment of weapons. But she was found out, and ... betrayed by Evelyn D."

"Why?"

"Why did Evelyn turn on Stone, you mean?"

Field nodded quietly ... Ma now walking beside them.

"Stone remarked how Debussy was better than Handel. It went downhill from there. The humanities class has always used the French room ... during the first period, when there's no French class. One day, Evelyn left her tapes and her stereo in the room. With all her Handel CD's, and ... her Gregorian chants."

Adelaide shuddered at the phrase. Gregorian chants.

"I see you're familiar with them."

"They weren't that bad," Field admitted.

Ma gave him a look. "That's the thing with you, mouse. You're too nice. You don't know when to insult something that needs to be insulted. And Gregorian chants ... need insulting. The sooner you admit that, the better you'll be."

Field made a face.

Ma continued, "Anyway, Stone paid off one of her students to ‘drop' the stereo and ‘spill' the tapes in the hallway. Ruined them all. This set off Evelyn D, who began leaving shiny pennies on Stone's desk. With microscopic music chips taped to the backs. The slightest vibration in the air would trigger them to play Handel's water music. So, Evelyn would leave a shiny penny in the French room every day, and every time Stone started to talk, started to teach her class, she was drowned out by water music."

Adelaide and Field listened intently. Having had no idea about any of this.

"Spitznagle, meanwhile, had ambitions of joining the high school football team. After her interception for a touchdown during the homecoming game, she petitioned the IHSAA to let her in. Claimed that she suffered from ... some kind of syndrome. Marfan's syndrome of something. I don't know. Said it made her look older than she was."

"They didn't let her in," Field guessed. Breath evident as he breathed. The air was still cold, though it was not snowing. But it was near-freezing. The mouse wore his coat, but not his ear-muffs or tail-sock ... feeling they would only get in the way (and, considering they were going on a stealth mission, he didn't need to be bogged down). But, as a result, he shivered. Crossing his arms as they went. Sticking close to Adelaide.

"No. Spitznagle got a letter from them ... in which they told her to, ‘lay off it, Mrs. Grundy' ... I've no idea what that reference means, but she took exception. Started obsessing with getting on the team. It consumed her. Eventually, she resorted to poisoning the football players who visited the library ... with ‘free candy'. In the hopes that, when they got sick, and when positions on the team NEEDED to be filled, they would pick her. She desired to be a wide receiver. But they shafted her still ... and she went mad. So, she went mad, and Stone and Evelyn got mired in a backyard war."

They had reached main street. Started to cross it. Not bothering to look both ways. One didn't need to.

"But, by this time, the damage had been done to Super C. Stone had given ‘The Board' an inroad into Super C's plans ... and it was through one of Stone's wire-tapped conversations with Super C ... that they learned of Devil's Hollow. They tried to take it. With the janitorial staff doing their bidding, they tried to shut it down. And they succeeded. For a while ... eventually, Super C regained her usage of it. And has been, these past few months, quietly chipping away at the interior of the conspiracy. Using Devil's Hollow and her thirst for revenge. So ... " Ma took a breath. "Super C ... she may be down, but she's not out. Watch your back. Watch," Ma repeated, "your back ... when you're in that room. And if she offers you chicle, do NOT take it. It's bait."

They nodded.

"Got it?"

"Yeah," Field whispered.

Ma exhaled and nodded, looking back at the grey-grey sky. "It's days like these," Ma lamented, "in which ... it's hard to imagine bright news truly reaching us. Hard to imagine that we could see it coming from so many miles. It's days like these," Ma said, "when the world, at the mercy of the clouds, has been shrouded. And we are punished ... for the times we have doubted."

Field listened to her poetry ... ears swiveling at her words. Captivated by everything he heard. Ma Sparta was one of the most interesting furs around. And, hearing her talk, seeing her walk, it was so easy to forget that she wasn't real. That she was a robot. That beneath the fur ... was metal. That Ma was physically stronger than anyone in this town. That she had a mental processing capacity of unheard speed.

They kept walking. Kept moving.

Past five blocks of sidewalk chalk, the crudely-drawn blue ice skaters and balloons. Which Ma steered them clear of. Past hopscotch sketches. Past clotheslines full of dresses. Ma, she led them. Ma, she knew the way. And, though they did, too, they allowed her to lead. Knowing she was too defiant not to be at the fore of things. Seeing her scorn at all the metal slides and rusty swings. Ma didn't believe in fun. Ma believed in history. Ma believed in action. The things Ma believed in ... had tangible traction. She was not a fur of the faith. And Field could see the holes in her. See all the spilled. Ma was wracked by a terrible sadness. One she would never admit to having.

Watching Ma, in a way ... it made Field sad. As someone who, himself, had started over, he saw that Ma hadn't done so. Not yet. Perhaps was too hardened. She had the opportunity, but was so mired in the traumas of her past ... that, for her, joy never did last. She was so fixated on bringing this conspiracy down. She was so tied to the fate of this town. And though Field was, too, he knew that, when this was over ... he would still have things to live for. But with Ma ...

Ma Sparta lived to fight this conspiracy. When it was over, what would she live for? What would she do? What would she be? Would she fade away?

Adelaide, sensing Field's wandering thoughts, pulled him back to reality with a slight brush. A slight brush of her wing against his arm. And a slight look. A slight, flower-hued look. Seemingly pulled from the pages of a romance book.

Ma, throughout it all, throughout Field's mental loopy-loops, and throughout the bat's attempts to keep him grounded ... Ma kept going. Ignoring them. They didn't know. They didn't truly know what all of this was about. They were innocent, in that regard. And she felt almost guilty ... for leading them into this. For drawing them deeper into this. She would end up destroying their youth. She would end up exposing them to things they shouldn't see. She was sure of it. It was just how things went.

But Ma couldn't do this alone. She couldn't take on Sheridan town ... by herself. She needed their help. And she vowed, internally, that she would protect them. Them and their wide-eyed innocence. Them and their hope. How she longed to be like them. To be real. To really see things. To really, truly feel.

The rhymes and reasons.

The rhymes and reasons of it all ... consumed the three. As they walked, and as they talked, and as they entered the shadow of Sheridan High.


"Familio americano? Que es familio americano? Familio americano es mi programa favorita." Pause. "Mm?" A frown. "What do you mean, ‘what is your complaint?' My complaint," Super C stressed, in the corner of her empty classroom. Phone to her ear. Phone to her muzzle. Super C was a rough-and-tumble bulldog. "My complaint ... is that, the other day, I called you, right? Yeah. Yes." Pause. "Yes, I did. No, you said ... hey, you said it was to repeat on Sunday night. Yeah, so that's when I set my VCR for. But, guess what ... Sunday night ... it wasn't on. It was on MONDAY morning. At 2 AM." A huff. "No, Monday morning is NOT Sunday night. No, that's not how it works. Can you tell time?" she demanded. "Can you tell time?"

This is what Super C had come to. Had resorted to ... hassling public television programmers. Used to be, she taught. She was a TEACHER. Used to be, she'd been in love with culture. With spicy Spanish culture. With ... the world. Used to, she'd had ambition. Now, she had nothing.

"Listen pal ... no, hey. FYI, buddy ... okay? Okay? I set my tape for Sunday night. Not Monday morning. I missed it. I have EVERY," she stressed, "episode of American Family on tape, and you RUINED it. Now, I have to wait for, what, six months from now ... for reruns? If you even CHOOSE to rerun it. For all I know, it might get yanked from your precious airspace. Don't think I don't know what you did to Are You Being Served ... ‘uh, yeah, it's just ... on hiatus ... it'll be back.' What the hell is that? Am I paying you membership dues to watch As Time Goes By? Am I?" she demanded. Voice raising. "Am I?"

A pause. A dead dial tone.

Super C slammed the phone down on the receiver. Having been hung up on. And ... she spun. Growled ... at the sudden presence at her door. As her door opened, and as ...

... in stepped Ma Sparta.

"Cat," Super C spat. Surprised to see her. It had been some time ...

"Dog."

"Is that an insult?" growled Super C. Taking a few paces forward. Sometimes, Super C forgot she was a canine. It was so ... un-glamorous. Super C had never been glamorous, and in her recent failings, and especially since her clout had been stolen ... she'd taken to delusion. Some might say she was crazy.

"It's nice to see you, too," was all Ma said, stepping fully into the room, and moving aside ... to reveal Adelaide and Field. Who entered. And Ma closing the door behind them. Locking it.

"Is this an attack?" Super C growled, and she lunged for her umbrella. Her gargantuan umbrella. "Don't make me open it," she said silkily. And, voice becoming frantic, shouting, "Que pasa?! Que pasa ... "

Field shirked, nose and whiskers twitching ... ears swiveling outward, inward ... and he hid behind Adelaide. Peeking over his shoulder.

"A mouse?!" Super C shrieked. "A mouse ... el raton es loco! Es malo! No bueno para mi!" And she ran at them with her umbrella, swinging it. Going for Ma (as Ma was the nearest). Swing, swing ... swing!

Ma ducked ... and rolled, and swung her legs and foot-paws out, trying to trip Super C, but Super C knew better. And jumped over the kicking legs, smacking Ma upside the head with the umbrella end. Knocking her momentarily senseless. And, having cleared Ma, went for Adelaide.

"Back off!" Adelaide growled. Spreading her arms and wings, as if flaring.

"Ooh ... ooh, look at the big puffer-bat puffer up. I'm really scared," mocked C. Taking a stab at Adelaide with her unopened umbrella. Stab ... stab ...

The air in the room was ripe with tension.

Ma, helpless on the floor, meowed weakly as she tried to regain her bearings.

C used her unopened umbrella like a fencing sword. Like a rifle with a bayonet on it.

Adelaide parried by moving this way ... that way. All the while, wings shielding Field. The mouse wracked with prey-like bewilderment. With heart-pounding anxiety. When he got in that state, he was defenseless. The bat knew as much, and she guarded him with her life.

"Get out of the way, bat. Vampire," C said, as an insult, "bat."

"Leave him alone," she whispered back. Dangerously. Still showing her fangs. And eyes squinting. "He might not be willing to shed blood, but I'll do it ... "

Ma, blinking from the floor, remembered Adelaide's insistence that Ma be the one to actually kill General Sheridan. The bat insisting she, herself, didn't have the nerve for it. And yet ... here she was, vowing to maim Super C. Simply because her love had been threatened. The bat would not kill to protect a town of strangers ... but would kill to protect her love. Ma, being a robot, didn't understand ... the distinction. And it made her wonder ...

"I don't allow mice in my classroom. They carry the Black Death."

"That's insane," Adelaide responded, barking out a harsh, brief laugh.

"Is it?"

"Yes."

"I beg to differ. Now ... move," she demanded. "Move!" Swipe!

Adelaide hissed ... giving a pseudo-lunge. Flapping forward.

C growled and back off an inch, but still wielded her umbrella. "Why are you here? Who are you?" she demanded. "Mouse," she said, glaring at Field, whose prey-like anxiety was in overdrive. "And mouse with wings," said C, turning her focus back on Adelaide. "I've never trusted bats. Rare, secretive things ... always have something to hide. Perfect drones for a conspiracy."

"I'm not part of the Sheridan Conspiracy," Adelaide insisted.

"You're accompanying Ma. Ma was a part of it."

"So were you," Adelaide reminded.

C squinted. And went lax for a moment, as if thinking twice. As if seeing reason. But ... a growl, and a bark, and a lunge! And ...

... Adelaide grabbed her pelt and spun her, slamming her into the nearby wooden cabinet. Muzzle to muzzle. "Back," she whispered dangerously, "off."

"I don't ... allow mice," Super C insisted, "in my classroom. He's a rodent. Rodents are weak. And you're no better than him, bat. You're just a mouse with wings."

Adelaide pushed harder.

C squirmed.

Adelaide passed her fangs in front of C's view. And whispered, "You forgot the fangs. A mouse with wings ... and fangs. And, trust me ... they're not weapons. But I CAN use them as such. When pushed to that. So, do NOT," she whispered, whispering it directly into C's ear, "push me."

"You mated with a mouse ... " C trailed, guessing it. Why else would Adelaide be so protective? "When they find out, they'll kill you." There was resentment in her voice. Resentment and ... jealousy?

"So I'm told," Adelaide responded, letting C go ... taking a step or two away, and wiping her clawed paw across her lips. Panting slightly. Pink eyes flaming a deep, deep shade of pink. Chest rising and falling. The bat swallowed and backed up ... to Field's position. Still in an instinctual protective mode.

C, growling slightly, lowering her umbrella ... glanced at Field. "You are WEAK," she whispered. "And the weak will perish." General Sheridan's mantra. Super C, though no longer a key element of the conspiracy, had taken that mantra to heart. "Your femme bat has to protect you?" She shook her head. "Best not leave her side. You wouldn't survive me ... one-on-one." And, as an afterthought, added, "The chupacabra didn't ... "

Field said nothing ... speaking would only stoke C's fire. He just breathed. Shaking slightly.

Adelaide still heaved ... trying to calm down.

"Weak," C reiterated, tossing her umbrella in disgust. And stalking back to the front of the room. Back to the chalkboard. And stopping, turning around to face them. Demanding, "What do you want?" She glanced at Ma Sparta, who had just now gotten up off the floor. Rubbing her head and looking extremely irate. "Have a headache, Ma?"

Ma just glared with those narrow, slitted eyes. The golden, feline eyes.

"Good," C said. Satisfied.

"We're here to use Devil's Hollow," Adelaide said. Speaking for her group.

"That is OFF-limits. Except to me."

"That's why we're asking ... "

"Asking?" C glared at Ma. Who was still glaring back. "When Ma said you were coming here to ask ... she neglected to tell you that the ‘asking' would be a formality. She knew I would say no. And, knowing that, she knew you'd have to take it by force. She's using you to get rid of me."

"I thought you despised ‘The Board' ... "

"I do."

"But?" Adelaide asked.

It was Field who, voice quiet and knowing, said, "They butter her bread."

All heads turned to the mouse.

C squinted. "Perceptive ... yes, they ‘butter my bread,' as you put it. They give me money to stay here. I have a classroom. I have a home. I'm still within the ‘fold,' as it were, but I'm no longer privy to classified information. Being that I have no clout. So, I'm paid to ... not work. To just ... be here. I'm paid to be alive. Not a bad gig."

"She's lying," Ma said, padding a few paces forward. Walking slinkily, silkily. Sensuously. As felines were liable to do. As felines did ... while circling their prey. Ma may have been a fugitive. Ma may have been a robot, as well. But she was also a predator. She was also a huntress. "Look what's become of her. The cynicism. The bitterness. She's not happy. She's just addicted to harshness. So accustomed to this life that ... she's loathe to leave it. It's all she knows. Better the pain you know than the pain you don't. Right, C?"

"You know not," C insisted, "of what you speak, Ma. One too many hits to the head. Oh, Ma's had a skirmish or two. I bet I could tell you stories ... of your feline friend here. Stories she doesn't want you to know."

"Try it, C ... just try it," was the dare.

C, still squinting, just huffed. Shook her head. Paced ... to the wall. To the phone (which she glared at, still stewing from the earlier call). She sighed, and turning back to them, said, "I heard about the trolleys. Apparently, their fuel supply was ‘contaminated.' They'll have to go dormant for two days ... until the emergency fuel line is in place." Pause. "Jay T denies it was his venom that was the contaminant. Says nothing was stolen from him. But I know better ... "

Ma grinned. "That so?"

C shook her head. And scowled. But the scowl turned into a begrudging smile. "You're a devil, Ma. You know that?"

"It's been rumored."

Adelaide and Field exchanged glances with each other. Feeling very out of the loop. Feeling like they were in over their heads (and not for the first time).

C sighed. And went to her desk. And sat down in her chair. Flopped down, was more like. Short and stout, the bulldog was more formidable in spirit than in physical stature. The other three furs in the room were taller than her.

"Can we use it?" Adelaide eventually asked. Of Devil's Hollow. "Will you help us?"

"We could always use an extra pair of paws," Ma agreed.

C stared blankly at her desk. "I'm too old to be waging wars of resistance."

"One could say we're too young," was Adelaide's counter. "Point is ... another mind is another mind. I'm sure you could help."

"They'll find out."

"It won't matter," was Adelaide's reasoning, "unless we fail."

"Well, that is ... a distinct possibility," said C. "That you will fail, I mean."

"What makes you say that?"

"Logic. Common sense."

"Which you seem to have in abundance," remarked Field. More than a bit wryly. Still smarting from C's vitriol.

"Don't try your luck, mouse. Make no mistake: were your femme friends not flanking you ... "

"Muzzle it," Adelaide said, interrupting C.

"Let's not go through this again," Ma said, interrupting Adelaide.

Field debated whether he should come up with his own interruption (and make a full circle of it), but he remained quiet. He was a listener. Best listen and learn. Observe. And though he wasn't consciously aware of the possibility, it just might be his memory and his mind ... that would save them all.

C swivelled a bit in her swivel chair.

Ma sat down on top of one of the desks.

"Will you help us? Yes or no?" Adelaide asked.

"Are you leaving me a choice?" C demanded.

"Yes."

"Then why so adamant? If I say no, will you leave? Will you just ... leave?"

Adelaide said nothing.

C nodded, sighing. "I thought as much."

"We need to get into the basement of the Quaker church. We need to get there ... and rid ourselves of General Sheridan. Before the trolleys are back at full-strength. And before the Sheridan Network gets any stronger. The safest way to get into the basement ... is to use Devil's Hollow. Ma's indicated it can transport you anywhere in town."

"Most anywhere, yes," said C. "Though some of the tunnels were blocked and caved in ... when ‘The Board' learned of them. But I think the tunnel to the church is still clear."

"We need to know where you stand, C."

C just glared at the bat. "You talk too much."

"I didn't use to."

"No?"

"No. But I find one has to talk a lot ... when one is trying to talk stubborn furs into doing things they needn't hesitate doing."

C was quiet. She thought of all her failures. Of all her ... dismal times. Thought of Stone's incompetence (and unwitting betrayal). Thought of her clout. Her clout. More than anything, she wished for it ... back. To have it back. She couldn't love herself without it. Even when she tried. Clout-less, the bulldog was just your average mutt. When she had that clout, she was something else. Something apart. Her clout had led to her getting her nickname: Super C. Her clout had made her super. And perhaps that was a skewed way of wanting. Maybe it was selfish ... or maybe ... but her confidence was tied to her clout, and she couldn't rebuilt her personality (and what a personality she had) until she got it back.

Adelaide waited for a response.

Field busied himself ... with grooming his fur and whiskers.

Ma rubbed her head. Which was beginning to ache from her umbrella-hit.

"Alright," C whispered.

The other three furs breathed a sigh of relief (seemingly).

"But we can't use Devil's Hollow right away. It takes an hour or so to charge. It uses a lot of energy. And we have to wait for one of the gaps in the underground surveillance system ... can't risk them seeing us leave. Else they might figure out where we're going."

Ma nodded. "Well, warm it up."

C sighed. And returned the nod. "Let's hope we don't get burned."


While they waited for Devil's Hollow to ready itself, they lingered in the Spanish room. Ma and C in one corner. Adelaide and Field in the other. Whispering amongst themselves.

Field swallowed.

"What's wrong?" Adelaide whispered, sitting beside him. On a desk. They had pulled two desks together, and were sitting atop them.

"You always ask me that."

"Well, I ... "

"I'm just ... I'm not weak, am I? I mean, that ... that weak, am I? I'm not pitiful?" He met her eyes for a moment. His thin tail hung behind him like a fishing line. Like a lure. One she was half attempted to take a nip at.

"No," she whispered.

"Are you just saying that?"

"No, Field," was her assured response. Hushed response. "I don't care what Super C says. She doesn't know you."

"But ... "

" ... brashness does not make strength, darling. Loudness ... attitude ... strength isn't made of those things."

"No?"

"No," was her whisper. Ears angling and flattening to her skull. "No."

"Then what's it made of?" the mouse asked. Almost making it sound like ... a plea. "I don't know ... what that is."

"But you do," she assured. Knowing him. Knowing his past. "Strength," mused Adelaide, "is endurance. Strength is being able to learn from mistakes. Rather than lament them. It's being able to forgive ... rather than resent. Strength is humility. In order to be strong," she insisted, "you have to KNOW your flaws. Acknowledge you have them, but ... working, yearning ... to overcome them. Yearning for more. Strength is more about the heart ... than the mind. It's more about the soul."

The mouse was quiet at all this ...

"You're a gentle soul. You may be shy, may be timid ... may be anxious ... "

"May?" asked Field.

"Alright ... " She smiled lightly. "Are. You ARE those things, but ... do not confuse meekness with weakness."

"Well, what's the difference?"

"Weakness is a lack of energy. A lack of spirit. A lack of drive. Weakness ... is an affliction. Is self-imposed. You are not weak, Field. And I don't care what they say. Don't listen to them."

"If I'm not weak, then ... what am I? How do furs perceive me? I'm a ... I'm a misfit, Adelaide. You know that. You know I'm different."

"We all are."

"I'm ... more so," the mouse assured. Totally serious. "There's something in my mind ... and I don't know what it is or how to control it, but ... no, I'm ... not like other furs ... " His voice trailed and his eyes glazed over. Before he blinked them back into focus. And let out a breath.

"Well, regardless," Adelaide said, "you're not weak. So, let's get that thought out of your system. You know what you are?"

"What?"

"Meek and mild. And those are as attractive and temperate ... as any character traits could be."

"I still don't understand what meek is ... "

"You should. You're a writer."

"Well, I ... I know WHAT it is. I just don't know how you ... perceive it to be. And why you think I'm that way."

"Meekness is ... gentility. Care. Thoughtfulness. I think you are those things. I think you are full of emotion and life, and ... I just don't get it, Field. I don't understand why your confidence, why your self-esteem ... you know, why does it always disappear? Why do you need me to build it up for you? Daily? Why doesn't it stick? I want that it ... would. I worry about you."

The mouse flushed. Said nothing. Only, "I'm the one who's supposed to worry."

"Well, your worry must be contagious. As you are ... contagious," Adelaide said warmly.

The mouse giggled. Looking at the chalkboard. And then at her. "As contagious as you? I don't know ... you're a pretty virulent strain of fur."

"Virulent ... mm ... "

"Virulent in a ... good way."

She grinned. Showing her fangs. And, closing them a bit, asked, "You okay, though?"

He nodded quietly. "I think so. I just ... sometimes, I feel I'm not so clearly defined as everyone around me. That I'm still a puzzle ... not yet put together. Sometimes, I feel left behind."

"Well, I think we're ... tied to each other, mousey, so ... I've got a hold of your tail. You're not getting left behind anywhere ... without me."

He beamed and giggled. At the sweetness of their exchange.

"Anyway, I don't know ... why we started discussing this," Adelaide remarked.

"Because C almost tore my throat out. She hates me because I'm weak," Field reminded. "She hates me because I'm a mouse. I fear I'm awkward. I feel I make other furs ... uncomfortable. I feel ... I'm ... "

"C is also ... insane," Adelaide stressed. "I wouldn't take anything she said as truth."

Field smiled. "Guess not ... "

"Anyway, mice are cute. And mice with wings?" she said, referring to C's description of the bat herself.

"Cuter," supplied Field.

"Glad you agree." A toothy grin. Champagne-pink fur ... soft and near. He wished to run his fingers through it. Bury his nose in that. Wished to ...

... wish upon her wings.

While the mouse and bat chatted on the desktops, Ma and C, on the other side of the room ... eyed them.

"Doesn't it activate your gag reflex?" C asked, shaking her head. Almost embarrassed for them. Did they not realize how hopeless they were? How nose-over-tail they were? Did they not realize how silly they seemed? How trivial love was? How they would probably just break their own hearts? "Just look at them. If they melt over there ... I'm not cleaning up the mess."

Ma shrugged slightly, admitting, "Kind of nice ... to see. I mean, maybe I should be jealous. Maybe I should hate them for having found what I have not. But ... they're sincere. They're genuine. They're smart. They're not ... fake in any way. I have to admire that." Ma met C's eyes. "Love is scary. True love is ... it takes passion. Purpose. Takes energy. It's scary, and they're ... baring themselves to each other. Flaws and all. Risking rejection and humiliation ... so they can find trust and shelter. So they can find connection. It's as old as time." A pause. "But I can only observe. Robots weren't designed to love." She glanced at C. "Have you ever loved, C?"

"I'm not willing to say."

"Which means ... that you have."

"Doesn't mean anything."

"Well, I admire them, all the same ... I don't know why you hate them so much."

C squinted. "I've found that admiration ... is normally misguided. Everybody lets you down. Sooner or later, everyone fails you."

"Well, that's bound to happen," Ma reasoned, "when you demand perfection from everyone around you. When you hold them to hopelessly high standards."

"My standards aren't high. They're challenging, I'll admit, but ... they wouldn't be worth reaching, otherwise."

"Look where your standards have gotten you," Ma pointed out. "Look at the crowd they've mired you in."

C crossed her arms. "You know why I hate them? They're prey. You and me, we're predators. We tear through life with our teeth ... while they dance around. With their glowing hearts, living forever through their art ... and because of their faith."

"You envy them?"

"Prey ... I don't envy prey. They are beneath us."

"But you DO envy them."

C hesitated. And shook her head. And squinted. "They live their lives with their arms stretched out ... " A pause. "I don't know how they do it. Or why they do it. We, as predators, we ... live our lives with our teeth bared. We bury what we feel. Out of ‘toughness,' which is ... actually stubbornness. I don't know. I just don't understand how they survive such dark things. Emerge with their innocence intact. My innocence was shattered. I never got it back. Why do they still have theirs? What makes prey so much more ... why are they so perfectly tuned? I don't get it. They anger me. They frustrate me. They're flowery, and ... wispy ... and yet they have such range. I'm ... why aren't they bitter? They should be bitter, like us. They should be empty."

"Like us?" Ma echoed sadly.

C nodded.

"Well ... I don't know."

"So, yes, maybe I do envy them. And I hate them ... because they make me envy them." And she trailed at that. Not wanting to speculate on the fact that maybe she just hated herself for envying them. Hated herself for ... her laments. Hated herself for her own idleness. Maybe SHE was the weak one. But how could that be?

Not for the first time, Super C wondered ... if getting her clout back would have any affect on her life. Or if the whole clout-stealing was just her excuse ... for failing to rectify her mistakes. For failing to get up off the ground.

C's clout ... was her crutch. Getting it back ... would be nothing but ceremony.

She was finding that harder and harder to deny.

There was a lull in their conversation. Until ...

... C sighed. Asking, "Do you think any of this ... will change? Do you think we'll succeed? Can we destroy this conspiracy?"

"We have to," was Ma's response. For it had come to a point: to destroy it. Or it would destroy them. And there was no longer a waiting period. No longer a margin for error.

And a slight beeping sound.

And all four of them ... Ma, C, Adelaide, and Field ... turned to look at the wall. At the thrum that could be heard within it. At the glow that seemed to burn through one of those cheesy "inspirational" school posters (which hid the entrance to the lift).

Devil's Hollow was ready for use.