On the top level of the Promenade, with his rain-furred paws on the smooth, matted-grey railing, and his quiet, blue-grey gaze scanning all about, the mouse overlooked the empty shops that dotted the bottom level. Eyes soon skipping to the closed, windowed doors of the infirmary, noticing the lights were on in there. He smiled, looking, then, to the ‘open-aired' repli-mat, with its tables and chairs. The backlit information kiosks in the middle of the walking areas. The benches against the bulkheads, situated here and there. The very curve of the entire space, which went in a circle. The architecture a ‘retro' Federation style, perhaps. A little crude, a little basic. Full of rustic angles amidst those aforementioned curves. Full of jutting pylons on the exterior hull, complementing the rings (habitat and docking) like rusty-red wings, things of flight. Hence the mouse's inspiration for the station's name.

Though stationary, one could almost imagine that this structure could fly. That it had more capacity than it revealed. Oh, that it could move. That it was going places. And maybe that whole notion, that whole dream? Was more than just the imagination. For Peregrine felt they were going places. We are. Present tense, he corrected, nodding. You didn't have to travel great distances to ‘go places.' To see things. To live. So, though not as sleek and bright, maybe, as a current station would be, it didn't really matter.

He eventually closed his eyes, leaning forward a little. Still sanding against the railing, saying a silent, little prayer, now. He took, as he did this, slow, slow inhales through his pink, sniffy nose. And releasing slower exhales through the muzzle. The air was clean, well-circulated. Comfortable. Things were mostly quiet, save for the faint hum of the power core, and save for some random computer noises. Beep-a-beep, this. Beep-a-beep, that. It was almost a background melody. One that blurred into everything else, but would break through now and then. It was later in the day. Late-afternoon, really. The station's chronometer was set to ‘planet-time.' A specific spot on the planet. Peregrine wasn't sure which one. He supposed it wasn't that important. The hours and days kept coming, regardless. There was never a need to count such blessings.

His big, dishy ears gave a few swivels, eyes easily reopening. It may have still been largely empty, but this place was no longer a mere shell. It was ready. It was waiting to be filled. By voices, laugher, scurrying. Children, even. Someday, he would have a baby with Petra. Someday, this would be home to a bigger crew. Civilians. Traders. Families. Someday, it would be the hub, the anchor of civilization in this sector of space. Here out on the frontier of society. Here in the wild, wild depths of the void, where pirates prowled and mysteries stewed. Where there was truly a sense of freedom and independence, even if it came with a certain ‘default' level of danger.

For now, though, it was more than enough to know that they were all alive, and this place was theirs. His. Petra's. The whole crew's. Their private, little station, where they could live simply and honestly. Just the twelve of them (and the increasingly-frequent stopovers of daily guests). It didn't really seem all that lonely. The mouse couldn't remember, in fact, the last time he'd felt alone. And that was such a drastic change from how things used to be. In the past, he'd felt lonely all the time. Daily, devastatingly so. He'd wake up to it. He'd be tangled in fearful nightmares of it. The sheer loneliness. Like a black hole, like a vacuum threatening to extinguish him. But it had been warded off with faith, and kept away with love. He was safe, now. Emotionally, anyway. Physically, he knew that the station could be attacked, or something could go wrong. But his heart was safeguarded.

And that was enough to give him peace. Even if that peace was occasionally shattered by his mousey anxieties. It was still there. He always came back to it.

There was a sense of familiarity, though, of intimacy. Here on the station. They'd all grown comfortable with each other. The whole crew. And, in some ways, having the station's population eventually grow? Would almost take the special ‘knowing' away. Would almost make this place seem less like a secret, private gem. Their own little island in the stars. So many memories were being made, every day. So many smiles given and returned. So many meals eaten. So much ‘love' made. All while the outside universe marched on and on, not thinking a single thing about them. As if they were forgotten to all but themselves. There was something very appealing about that notion. Like an old romantic ideal.

This was a diamond in the rough. An oasis in the desert. It was many things metaphorical. And, though it was called Redwing Station, and most resembled that bird, in abstract form, it had the silent song, today, of many feathered things. The clear, bell-like whistles of the cardinal, yes. The lilting promise of the meadowlark. Full of spring and harbingers of things. Giving this place a ‘youth' that shouldn't realistically be there. The station was decades old, probably. He didn't know how old this place was, exactly. Only that it was built quite a while before he born. Upgraded about five years ago. And, then, somewhere between then and now, had been abandoned as ‘infeasible.' The place had gone from a productive posting to one that no one wanted. And to where the Federation, knowing that, had sent its more ‘unwanted' officers to serve. The officers who were misfits.

Governments were fickle things, though. Peregrine wondered what they would think now. Would they want them back? The crew, which had bonded together, mating each other, finding confidence, faith? The station, which was becoming more and more a strategic outpost, a key spot along the trade-routes on the perimeter of known space, orbiting a world that held ancient and potentially-deadly secrets, a world that species such as the wasps would covet if they ever found out about it? Would the Federation Council try to curry his favor, realizing that this place did hold value, after all? If they sent representatives here to barter, to talk, and offered to promote him to Captain in the process, and reinstate everyone, give them their own, new ship, and give the station full Federation protection and resources, would he agree to that? Would he give final jurisdiction back to them?

No, he thought. Quietly, in his mind. No, I can't be bought. They had their chance. They abandoned us. The mouse's whiskers fiercely twitched.

This is my station. Our station.

They're not getting it back.

And what if they try to take it by force? What if they claim political superiority?

Let's hope that never happens, was the mouse's only thought.

Because I don't care if they swallow their pride long enough to ask. The Federation, the pirates. I can forgive them. I have. But, still, no one's taking this away from us. We've worked too hard. We've come too far. It's become our birthright. And we're making into something greater, something our children can inherit, even. When we have children. When ...

" ... Perry?" came a soft whisper, from a few feet behind him.

The mouse, whiskers twitching, turned his head halfway. His internal revelry dissolving like a fog as he blinked. Getting the scent of the rat before he saw her. And then finally seeing his wife out of the corner of his eyes. "I didn't hear you approaching," he whispered back, pink nose sniff-sniffing. She had that slightly-earthy scent that he had, but it was different. A little bit different. Less of the fields and pastures, more of a mixture of other things.

"With those ears? Didn't hear me comin'?" A soft smile, still speaking at a hush. For no real reason. No one was up here to overhear them. But, sometimes, you just felt like you had to whisper. Sometimes, you felt like you had to speak reverently, so as not to break or crack the moment. Because intimacy demanded it.

"Just lost in thought."

"Scurryin' in that mousey head o' yours, huh? Like usual?"

A deep breath, and a nod, fully turning, now, to face her. And leaning his rump and backside against the railing. "It's just quiet today. I mean, no guests, no ... no threats or anything. No nothing." A slight, squeaky breath. "Just quiet."

"I thought mouses liked quiet," she offered, sidling up to him, leaning with him back against the railing. So that they were both facing the Promenade's outer, rounded wall, with its oval-shaped windows that looked to the starry heavens. The planet below was out of view. The station turned in a slow, rotating circle, which helped the artificial gravity net, as well as kept its orbit stable. The planet, though, would come back into view in a few minutes. " ... it's nice, though, isn't it?" Petra continued. The rustic ‘twang' in her voice seemed, in the shared solitude of the moment, like butter, or something warm and inviting. "I mean, y'can't be wantin' to be busy all the time, y'know?"

"I know," Peregrine whispered, sighing. A little, squeaky nod, leaning his head on her shoulder, as he was often prone to do. She was so good to lean on. She was such a sturdy soul. She supported him in so many ways.

"Were you startin' to do your ‘roundabout,' though? Then got sidetracked by scurry?"

"Well ... sort of, I guess," was the response, smiling. A little bit. He couldn't help but smile at that. He had, indeed, come down here to start his ‘roundabout,' which was where he walked all around the station, almost from top to bottom and then back again. Touring it, making sure everything was okay. Just a visual check. Because he was the commander. And because he wanted to. "I wouldn't say I'm scurrying right now. I mean, I'm standing in one spot."

"Your mind isn't, though."

"Well ... my body is. I feel like I could sink into couch-cushions and not move for hours Whole hours."

"What ‘bout a mattress?" was the soft suggestion, not said with any sort of cheek. But said with romantic honesty.

"Or a mattress," was his earnest, serious whisper, was his echoing nod. Pausing before continuing, "But, yeah, my mind, though ... it's not so much scurrying cause of too much to think. Just being reflective. Just musing, is all."

"Musing," the rat repeated. " ... it's a good word." A slight nod, her head-fur rustling through his own. Her whiskers grazing his cheeks.

A slight, airy sigh. "I suppose it is." A deep breath through the nose, getting his wife's scent yet again. Which was far better, he'd determined, than the station's normal air. He wanted to breathe of her constantly. "You know, uh ... speaking of musing: being up here, in space, it's like we're a part of the sky. I mean, poetically, right?"

"Y'could say that," the rat agreed, nodding.

The mouse fought a comfortable, hazy yawn, adding, "Mm ... I, uh ... " A soft sigh, not really knowing what he'd wanted to say. Did anything more have to be said? Some days, couldn't it all be left to simple feeling? Simple intuition? Shedding away, like a second skin, all the science and waking history of modern reality, leaving yourself unencumbered, unhindered. Leaving yourself only to the stream of time, and the very omniscience of God. Leaving yourself only to the possibilities of the impossible. Floating in faith, with a life-jacket of love. Such were the thoughts that swam, dreamily, through the mouse's head. He may have been a wispy creature, a creature of delicateness, of finesse. Of hopeless romance. Of strong faith. Maybe that made him naive, or a little bit out of touch with things. But, if so, he didn't care. He only knew what he felt. And he didn't want to stop feeling it.

"Just relax, darlin'," the rat breathed, so closely to one of his dishy ears. Her more-maneuverable rat-tail, thicker, less silky, wrapping like a rope around his own long, fleshy tail. "Nothin' to worry ‘bout. We might be in the sky, but we're not gonna fall. If we do, I'll catch ya."

"But if I fall, that means ... you'd be falling, too," he whispered, with the slightest of smiles, feeling so, so at ease. The anxiety that always plagued him? The twitches? They didn't seem so bad right now. They were there. They were always there. But they weren't controlling him right now. And it was such a relief. He turned his body a bit. His lips on her shoulder, opening, closing, mouthing, mouthing at her. So softly, breathing so softly. Eyes half-open. "Sometimes ... " He was whispering it, and he swallowed, sniffing at her neck. He put his nose in her neck-fur, as he'd done so many times before. As he'd do so many times again. " ... oh, I feel like we're doing that," he confessed, so, so quietly, with the slightest of squeaks in his tone. He could very well melt on the spot. Into a puddle of ‘mouse.'

"Fallin', y'mean?"

His whiskers touching hers, muzzle lifting. Lips. Oh, her sweet lips. Oh, the taste of her. It wasn't something he could ever forget. It stayed with him during every conscious moment. And it followed him into his sleep, keeping the nightmares (as much as possible) at bay. " ... in a ... in a floating sort of way. Like in a dream." A barely-made nod, lips finally brushing hers, and moving, then, by mere fractions of inches, to tilt. To suckle softly, and to easily, easily press, in a suckle-kiss. There should be a flower called that, the mouse thought, as his eyes shut and his breath whooshed out through his rodent nose. There should be a flower called a ‘suckle-kiss.'

Petra's paws clutched at her husband's back, at the back of his own uniform, her muzzle tilting the opposite direction of his. Her eagerness just as visible. Her ‘melty-ness' just as apparent. The suckling returned. And her lips doing it stronger, stronger than his, almost forcing him into a gentle, understood submission. He was the wispy male, the mouse. She was the tough-minded, scrappy femme, the rat, and she was going to control this kiss. He'd given it to her. And she was going to give it back.

And he let her, almost swooning, the ‘smack-smacks' of their kissing lips so evident in his ears, waylaying all concerns, all fears. There was nothing else that mattered, right now, except the touch and feel of her, the love of her. The need for her. Oh, he ...

... kissed. Becoming a bit sloppy, now, saliva stringing, lips glistening. Until she stopped, with a heavy, little sigh, leaning her forehead to his. Her pulse had picked up. Her tail was still coiled round his. And her own fleshy ears were arched, arched. Her whiskers twitching against his chin, as she breathed, " ... oh, Perry." Another sigh. A swallow. " ... mm." That was all she could manage right now. At least for a few seconds. Until she was able to continue, wrapped up with him, arms all around, " ... y-you're worried about us fallin'? Who's gonna catch who?"

The mouse, a quiet nod, put his nose to her neck-fur again, kissing her there. Little, pecking kisses to her brown and grey fur, slightly unkempt. How many times had his lips been on her body? His tongue between her legs? His paws on her rump? Other, more intimate parts of him, fused with such intimate parts of her? Oh, yes, he'd touched every part of her, no mistake. Tasted almost every part of her. She felt more real than he could pinpoint. And, yet, at the same time, felt so much like a dream. And he wasn't going to try to make sense of that. There was no need to. He accepted it on faith. He accepted it because he felt it.

" ... well, then, how ‘bout just knowin' that ... our love is our parachute." She kissed his head-fur. " ... yeah?"

A warm, sighing smile. A tiny squeak. "Mm. Yeah, but, uh ... darling, you don't need parachutes in space. There's no air. They wouldn't work. It wouldn't stop us from tumbling end over end over ... end ... "

A bigger smile from her, not to be befuddled by any sort of logic. "Love can't be categorized by science or sharp thinkin'. It's the parachute that, uh ... ‘chutes' everywhere. Space, sky, water. Doesn't matter ... it'll work. It does. We're safe," she breathed, kissing him beneath the chin, now.

His whiskers seemed to touch hers, brush hers. Again and again, more and more. In that extra-delicate, ginger way. And he couldn't help but commence with the nibbling. Using his rodent buck-teeth to nibble so precisely, so ...

" ... oh, you're gonna make me melt. For real. I mean ... I think I already did," she told him. "But I'm gonna again ... " Her arms slipping around him, now, as they inched away from the railing, swaying just a little, just a little, almost in a slow-dancing circle.

" ... melting, uh ... which reminds me: it's been a while since we did that original station clean-up. We might have to schedule another ‘tidy day'. Since we're, uh ... getting more ‘fur-traffic' all the time."

"Some of ‘em on the crew think mouses are too tidy," Petra said, with a small grin, her nose bumping to his.

"I know. But a mouse is their commanding officer, so ... tidy is as tidy does."

"You're not always tidy, though. Sometimes, you get a little messy ... " The passionate ‘melty-ness' the rat had been feeling was spawning a certain ‘cheekiness,' now.

" ... that's not messy," he said, of lovemaking, ears rosy, rosy pink. Bashfully so. Knowing that's what she meant.

"It's not?" Bright, nosy nuzzles. "It's not, mm ... well, you get all your ... "

" ... well, that's ... " A giggle-squeak, helplessly wriggling in her grasp. " ... that's not the same. That's ‘good' messy."

"Ah. Didn't know there were levels of it ... "

"Yeah, there are. There certainly are ... " Another light, little kiss to her lips, not announcing it. Not really planning it. But it was more direct this time. More ‘full-on.' His lips simply found themselves on hers. And the kiss was sweet, simple. A smack-smack sound only heard by the two of them, with their dishy ears. " ... oh," was the mouse's sigh, licking his own lips as he pulled back a few inches. "I could do that all day."

"Kissin'?"

" ... yeah, and ... all of it. I just ... " The words faded. He leaned his head against her breasts. "I love you so much." His eyes shut, watering as he said this.

Her paws stroking his back, she swallowed and nodded, putting her chin on his head, right between his two dishy ears. "I love ya, too. Very much, okay?"

A weak nod from him.

"Alright?" she soothed, whispering between those ears. Right atop his head.

The mouse's watery eyes opened, and he nodded again, so brightly. So innocently. Mouses had a certain naivete about them. No matter what they'd been through, no matter how many times they'd been hunted, they still maintained that sense of sheer innocence. And it shone through, especially, during intimate moments like this. Making Petra want to cuddle him, hold him. He was so, so cute. There was no way to describe ‘mousey cuteness.' It was just there. It just irresistibly was.

The mouse sighed, hugging his wife dearly, so tenderly. Full of mousey motions, full of warmth.

Petra sighed, and breathed, " ... Perry ... you, uh, wanna sit down?" A swallow.

"Up here?" A little blink.

" ... and have a picnic?" she added. " ... like, an early supper? We'll, uh, we'll eat somethin', an' have some wine."

"Heh, like on a blanket?" the mouse asked, looking around. "A real picnic?"

"Why not?" Petra asked.

And, the mouse, whiskers brightly a-twitch, eyes mousey-wide, full of squeaky adorable-ness, nodded. And looked his wife in the eyes, from inches okay. "Okay," he said, smiling. The dimples showing on his grey-furred cheeks. His tail perky and snaking all about, having slipped away from hers (unable to stay still).

"Great," the rat went, taking a deep breath. "Mm ... heh. Y'know, though, that when the others see it? They're gonna wanna join ... couple by couple. We'll end up havin' a whole camp-out on the Promenade here, I bet. Well, at least while we're eatin'. I mean, after, we'd have to take our ‘dessert' elsewhere ... "

A slight blush at this. "Still, uh, might be a change of pace ... " He looked around. "How long do you think, then, it'll take before they get too nosy to resist?"

"I give it fifteen minutes ‘fore they're all eatin' with us. Prancer can see from up here, y'know, from the infirmary," Petra said. "She'll tell Nin, or maybe he'll tell her, an' ... I don't know who Nin'll tell, but they'll all find out." A slight nod to the lower level. "Repli-mat's down there," she said, of the area that had the Promenade's food processors. "I'll get some stuff an' bring it back up here?"

"Mm-hmm." A sweet, squeaky nod. "I'll fetch the blanket from our quarters." Turning, ready to scurry, he paused, leaning back into his wife. Stealing another kiss. Eyes glinting as he stepped backward, backward, tail wavering and ears swiveling. And he scurried off with some chitter-squeaks.

And she giggle-chittered herself as she padded down, in bare, blunt-clawed foot-paws, one of the spiral staircases to get the food.



"Peregrine and Petra are picnicking on the Promenade," Nin said, a few minutes later, squinting, looking through the windows in the infirmary doors. His quills in their locked ‘safety' position beneath his pelt. He was in the infirmary due to antsy-ness. With a rare night of no docked ships or visitors, he had no cooking or preparing to do this evening. So, he was spending the afternoon assisting Prancer with her various projects and tests.

The squirrel, tapping at some controls, looking at some lab cultures she'd done, asked, without looking up, "That supposed to be a tongue-twister?" Her angular ears cocked atop her head, bushy tail flicker-flagging behind her. Such a tail!

"No." The porcupine made a face, half-turning his head to glance at her. And then glance back through the windows. "No, I mean, they're ... actually picnicking up there." He squinted, just to make sure. And then nodded again. "They're having wine!"

The squirrel looked up. "Really?"

A nod, waving with a paw. "Come see."

The squirrel padded over to her husband, looking. "Hmm. Yeah ... " A pause, taking a breath and looking to Nin, and then looking back at the Promenade's upper level. "Well, uh, we're not up to anything important. I mean ... maybe we should join them?"

"We allowed?"

"I don't see why not." A burgeoning smile. "Just let me wrap up these scans and put these tests away."

" ... okay." The porcupine smiled, taking a deep breath. A picnic! On the Promenade! "After so many meals in the ward room in recent weeks, I think it'd be nice to eat on the floor somewhere. To be honest."

A giggle-squeak as Prancer put some things on a cabinet. "You don't like the ward room?"

"Ward room's fine. I just, uh ... like the idea of ‘sprawling' and eating at the same time."

" ... we do that in bed, darling," the squirrel reminded, with a tender, grinning quiet-ness.

The porcupine gave her a giggle-chittering look. "I meant ... like, a group. With our friends. The crew? I meant, everyone ... just, uh ... you're confusing me," was the insistence. And, taking a breath, he suddenly said, "I should tell the others about this. I'll let Desmond know ... " He raised a paw to tap his comm-badge.

" ... you know, I'm sure they're up there," Prancer told him, before he could do it, "just taking bets on how long it's gonna take for one of us to spill the beans."

"I'm not ‘spilling beans'. I mean, I'm just ... you know, Promenade picnic. How am I supposed to keep that a secret?"

"Petra and Peregrine's Promenade picnic," Prancer corrected. "That is definitely," she said, nodding, carrying some computer pads to her office desk. " ... definitely a tongue-twister."

"Well, it's about to get more tongues. I'm telling the others." A smiling tap to his comm-badge, which chirruped. "Nin to Desmond ... "



" ... look here," Amelie said, quietly, primly, pointing a snow-white paw at the monitor. "When they dropped their shields to ‘grapple' us, the runabout's sensors picked up fractures on their drive section, near the pylons of the warp nacelles? Indicating they'd been altering their systems ... "

"Well, those are old ships," Milka said, nodding quietly, arms crossed. Squinting at the read-outs. " ... I mean, they've been through a lot. Constant attacks. I mean, that's what the pirates do: pillage. And it almost always involves a degree of combat." The otter paused, sighing, arms uncrossing. A shake of the head. "I don't think it tells us anything, actually, about changes to ship's systems. Just that the ships are old and ... you know, falling apart from wear and tear."

The snow rabbit nodded quietly, fingers tapping a few controls, bringing up another series of scans. They were both in Ops, toward the back, at the ‘tactical' station. Amelie was working with the otter to analyze the runabout's telemetry from their underwater ‘battle' with the salamanders. To see if they could find out anything new about the pirates' current technological state. "Then how do you explain this?"

" ... uh, what is it?" The otter's black, diamond-shaped nose sniffed as she peered.

"Their weapons array. They had recently installed a new torpedo tube. A launcher, if you will, on the aft of their hull. It gives them more firepower. However, I believe it also served, unintentionally, to weaken the structural integrity ... "

" ... of the warp nacelles." A slight smile, leaning back and giving the snow rabbit a look. "A very ... " She searched for the word, and then decided on the obvious: " ... a very logical," she said, "deduction." Her rudder-tail lifted and fell as she said this, her webbed paws stretching.

Amelie tilted her head, gracefully, ice-blue eyes glinting in that ‘smiling' way. "Thank you," she said, simply.

Milka, letting out a breath, looked to the readouts again, and then back to the snow rabbit. "So, how do we use this to our advantage?"

"Next time they attack us? We target their aft shields. The aft of their ships will be more vulnerable than the front."

"That's assuming," Milka said, quietly, "that they made this modification to all their ships, though? Right?"

Amelie, anticipating this, used her right paw-fingers to tap-a-tap at the computer console. " ... scans of other pirate ships, from the mouse/otter shuttle they attacked a week or so ago?"

"I thought that shuttle was fried. Mortimer said it was beyond repair."

"True. But he was able to access the ship's computer. Via the ‘black box,' if you will. The data was badly garbled, but enough was legible to make out: the pirate ship that attacked the shuttle? Had an aft torpedo launcher."

" ... well, they didn't have those when I was there. They had aft phase canons, but, uh ... " A sigh, rubbing her forehead a bit. The otter was starting to wane. There was only so much ‘techno-babble' she could take. And she confessed this to the snow rabbit.

"‘Techno-babble'?" Amelie's bobtail flicker-flicked like a holy-white flame. She raised a brow.

"Well, it's just ... I use stuff. Technology. But I don't know how all of it works. I have a general idea," Milka said, "but I can't give specifics. Like, I know we're in space, in a cold vacuum, floating above a planet? But if I knew all the technological variables that kept this station's orbit from decaying, or kept the air from venting, or kept the hull from ... you know?" A pause. "It's sort of like ... same with the body, you know? The body works. You know it works, you know how to use it. But do I wanna know how the details of the blood and guts and all that can go wrong?"

"I think I understand what you mean ... "

"It's not like I'm prone to worry, necessarily. I'm not a rodent. That's not the problem. It's more like it's ... " She sighed, rubbing her own neck, eyes closing for a moment. " ... it's just ... "

" ... the more you know, the more you begin to question things," Amelie supplied, very quietly. "And the more you question things ... perhaps, something like: the more you question things, the less you know. An irony, but maybe the truth. At least in terms of what you know ... as compared to what you think is knowable. Because there becomes more," the snow rabbit stressed, "to know. You open up countless doors. Which invariably requires more responsibility. And greater pressure."

" ... uh ... wait, what?" The otter bit her lip, scrunching her muzzle. Not understanding any of that.

The snow rabbit, giving a patient nod, tried to be clearer. "It is like the universe is spilling its secrets into your ear." As if on cue, her tall waggle-ears waggled. "You can only take so much before you snap under the weight of it all." A pause. "It goes back to ‘knowledge for knowledge's sake'," Amelie said, breathing in deeply through her charcoal-black nose. She leaned her rump and bobtail against the computer console. "Like with me and the alien ruins." Another pause, eyes darting about the carpeted floor. And then halfway glancing to the otter. "There are certain things that I do not want to know. Certain things that, by simply being aware of them ... " She trailed, finishing, " ... things that become burdens."

"Well, that's different. I mean, you and me, it's ... it could just be that I'm ... I mean, how ships work? The body? Those are simpler things to handle than powerful alien ruins. I mean, I'm ... " Milka paused and sighed, her rudder-tail steering about. "I've just been through so much," the otter confessed. "So much," she whispered, shaking her head. She hunched forward, eyes shutting, and then leaned back up. And, when her eyes reopened, they looked a little tired. "Or maybe it's because I'm getting older. But, nowadays, I just want less, not more. I want life stripped to the basics, to the core of things."

"Hope, love, and faith," Amelie supplied.

" ... yes. Yeah. I mean, that's where I want my sustenance to come from. God's very breath, His very ... I mean, Father, Son, Holy Spirit? To live on the bread of faith, on the honey of romantic love. With, uh, Benji. And on the water of hope, and ... " A momentary silence, before resuming, " ... I mean, maybe that's way too poetic for an otter to be saying. I know mouses are the poetic ones."

" ... I do know what you mean, though," Amelie whispered, sincerely. "Like I said, I fought in wars: versus the Arctic foxes, the wasps ... I did not fight versus the Furry Federation in the border skirmish. But, still, I've seen enough. I've known enough. My species has always needed reasons for things. Explanations. We needed," she stressed, "to know. We still do, to a large degree. We're still extremely logical. But, for centuries, we relied only on logic to supply that ‘knowing'. Nothing else." A quiet, reflective pause.

Milka kept listening.

"After the wars? After the blood and death and senseless destruction? Logic no longer was enough. Logic alone could not save us from that. Logic could not explain it. But faith? Faith gave the hope, and the hope ... opened the door," she breathed, "for our hearts to love. And love was what ultimately healed our wounds, circling back and making our faith stronger. Not knowledge. Not logic." A swallow. "Even if scars were left, the healing still took place. My species is still largely lacking," the snow rabbit said, diplomatically, "in faith. The majority of them still open-breed. But that is slowly changing. And I believe it must change if we are to adapt and survive." A pause, looking around, swallowing. "And, so, I know what you desire ... "

The otter was quiet, round-ish ears perked atop her rich-brown head-fur. She locked eyes with the snow rabbit.

As Amelie breathed, " ... you desire sheer simplicity. But more than that: purity."

The otter, after a moment, nodded. "Is that even possible anymore?" she asked. "In today's universe?"

"We live on a frontier. Out here," Amelie said, "and with God's blessing ... anything is possible." A friendly, warm eye-smile.

The otter nodded, breathing deep, and smiled back. " ... thanks. Uh, you know, you were right. The other day? In the runabout, you said I should change my ‘social strategy' or whatever." A pause. "I'm just not used to being able to trust other furs. When you're a pirate, everyone stabs you in the back, eventually. So, it's ... if I'm guarded, it's by nature. Not because you or anyone else here has given me reason to be. I mean, it's ... I do trust you. And like you. I like everyone here. And I love Benji so much. I mean, I didn't plan it that way. I wasn't trying to fall in love with him ... " She trailed, and gave a sheepish smile. " ... things happen."

A distinct eye-smile. "Indeed. Such as my recent ‘body-switching' experience with Wheldon?"

"Heh. Eh, yeah ... what was it like, anyway?" the otter blurted. And then blushed, looking away. And then looked back to Amelie. "I'm sorry, I just gotta know. Benji's a poet, and he writes me these love poems, but when I ask him what it feels like for him, or ... when I try to understand how his mind works? He gets all shy. Like how rodents do. I mean, he's fine writing poems about me and how lovely he thinks I am. But he rarely writes about himself."

"Wheldon is, assuredly, a lot different from Benji. Telling you how it felt to be Wheldon wouldn't necessarily be reflective of how your own husband ‘feels' about things."

"I know that. But, uh, still ... they're both males." A giggle-chirp, voice to a whisper, "What happened, exactly?"

Amelie took a deep breath, looking to the left. To the right. And then opening her muzzle to say ...

" ... there's a picnic on the Promenade!" came Desmond's excited interruption, as the lift whirred to a stop.

The snow rabbit blinked. As did Milka. Both of them looking to the toffee-furred rabbit, who'd just arrived in Ops. And it was Amelie who asked, intrigued, "A picnic?"

"Yeah!" he went, almost bobbing up and down on his strong rabbit legs. Those loping foot-paws. He looked around, smiling. " ... uh, where's Hyacinth?" A blink, biting his lip. Desmond was a little more naive and shy than most male rabbits. He had a personality more like a rodent, sometimes. But, oh, he had the virility and hop of a rabbit. There was no mistaking that.

"She was at the comm earlier," Amelie said, looking to the vacant comm station. "She mentioned something about an ‘interesting message' and then went to adjust the subspace relays. They were slightly out of alignment. It was causing some signal degradation in the ... " The snow rabbit trailed, seeing Milka looking at her.

The otter mouthing, with a grin, ‘Techno-babble.'

Amelie eye-smiled and swallowed, smoothing at her uniform and re-telling Desmond, more simply, "She went to fix the communications equipment."

"Oh," the cottontail went. "Okay. I'll get her! Are you coming, you two?"

"With your excitement being as contagious as it is," Amelie said, with a polite, eye-smiling nod, "how could we not?"



It was ten minutes later. And, sure enough, all twelve crew-furs were on the upper level of the Promande, eating, nibbling, chattering. Sitting on blankets on the carpeted floor. Having a casual, sprawled-out time.

" ... mm. You know ... " A chew-chew, and a nod, the skunk's eyes glinting. " ... you know ... " A swallow, clearing her throat. " ... I saw that."

"Saw what?" Prancer asked, on her rump, knees bent and pulled closer to her breasts than not. Her back to the bulkhead right by one of the oval windows. A wine glass was to the cinnamon-furred squirrel's lips. A dainty, dainty sip, sloshing it around in her maw. "Mm?" she went, before she swallowed. She was, perhaps, feigning some degree of innocence. It was just that the skunk was being ‘showy' again, and Prancer couldn't help but ...

" ... roll your eyes at me. Yeah, they, like, rolled out of your head." Seldovia turned her gaze, pointing a paw. "Look," she teased. " ... they're rolling toward the stairs. They're going down it ... into the lift!"

Prancer giggle-squeaked at the ridiculousness of that. "I totally didn't even do that, anyway! You're just ... "

" ... everyone here knows," Seldovia went, nodding, raising a paw, "that I've the best tail on the station? Am I right?" She looked around to the assembled, lounging group. "Am I right? Look up skunk-tails in a dictionary, and you'll see: luxurious, sumptuous, opulent."

"You just said three words," Amelie injected, logically, "that mean the same thing."

"Look, just cause you have a couch-pillow for a tail ... "

" ... excuse me?" the snow rabbit went, raising a brow, her waggle-ears waggling.

"Yeah, ‘excuse us'," Wheldon said, nodding. "Bobtails are drooled over just as much. I mean, Amelie can ‘sway her tail' with the best of them. I should know. When I was in her body, I turned on the ‘sway,' and ... uh ... " He stopped himself just in time, biting his lip.

" ... and?" Mortimer asked, wide-eyed.

" ... and ... and her tail's a good tail. Us rabbits have hot tails," was all he said, very diplomatically, leaving out all the juicy details the raccoon surely wanted.

" ... just saying," Seldovia interjected, rejoining the fray that she'd started. "You can't say what I can say about my tails, if ... if you can't say," the skunk managed, "that you have as good a tail." A few blinks, not knowing if that sounded right.

"You are tipsy," Amelie said, observantly. And correctly. An eye-smile.

" ... I think I would know if my tail was a gypsy."

"Need I say more? Anyone?" Amelie stated, to the others, reaching for some carrot sticks.

"I hope we aren't seriously arguing here," Ninilchik said, meaning to curb it (if, indeed, it was happening). He was sitting right beside Prancer, crunching on a celery stick with peanut butter on it.

"You don't know what an argument is," Mortimer injected, in that harmless (though stubborn) raccoon way.

"What?" was all Nin said, blinking. "What does that even mean?"

"What do you mean," Mortimer emphasized, "by ‘what does that even mean'?"

Nin, blinking again, made a face. "What?" was the repeat.

Prancer then told Nin, " ... raccoons like silly arguments."

"Well, I know that. But this isn't silly. It's just stupid."

"Nuh-uh!" Mortimer insisted, sitting up on his shins and knees, now, as if getting into better ‘arguing' posture.

" ... I'm staying out of this," Benji injected, giggle-chittering from close to the railing. Glancing down at the empty lower level, and then looking over to Nin and Prancer by the windows. "I have to put up with this every day. You know how trying that is?" The nutria smiled in spite of everything. It really was kind of funny.

Peregrine, being the Commander, decided to use that authority and said, "Argument's over. Alright?"

Seldovia opened her muzzle, but ...

... the mouse kept going, with, " ... don't care whose tail is ‘more luxurious.' Seldovia has a good tail. Prancer has a good tail. Very fluffy, very ... rich. All that. But, you know, I think Petra's tail is better. So, the whole thing's completely subjective."

"Petra's?" went Seldovia and Prancer, in unison. As if not being able to buy this. Rat-tails had no volume, no fur! How could a truly great tail have no fur?

" ... heh," the rat went, at the sudden attention. A slightly-goofy rat-grin, tilting her wine glass from side-to-side. "My tail can wriggle into ear-holes an' wrap round ... "

" ... well, they ... they get the point," Peregrine stammered, shyly. Flushing, now. His ears going rosy pink. He let out a breath. " ... the point is, it's a matter of opinion. So, no one's going to win the argument."

"It's not about winning arguments," Mortimer said. After all, he should know!

"What's it about, then?" Wheldon wanted to know. The tea-furred rabbit sitting next to Amelie.

"Uh ... having them?" he offered, and then nodded more certainly. "Yeah."

Milka just shook her head, siding with Benji. She did find it kind of amusing, but she was going to stay out of it.

" ... well, let's not?" was all Peregrine said. "I know we're all a little bit tipsy on wine, but, uh, let's try and act a little tame. At least ‘til ... "

" ... ‘til dessert!" Wheldon finished.

Giggle-mews and squeaks. Everyone knew what was going to be ‘had' for ‘dessert.'

"But we have to finish the argument," Mortimer insisted, honestly. "You can't start a silly argument and not finish it."

"Heh. That raccoon rules or somethin'?" Petra asked.

" ... it's just the way it is," Mortimer said, almost pouting. Maybe it was the alcohol. Or maybe it really was ‘raccoon rules.'

Peregrine blew out a breath, nodding, and raised both paws. "Alright. Tell you what: you win. You win the argument. The rest of us concede."

" ... uh ... well ... " Mortimer scrunched his masked face, not having expected the ‘argument' (if there had even been one) to be conceded to him. And not sure how to respond to that. "Hmm."

"I think the Commander actually won that one, even if he wasn't trying to," Hyacinth remarked, giggle-mooing, her ropy tail swatting at the carpet. She chew-chewed on her cud, and then swallowed, picking up her salad-bowl. " ... oh, uh," she went, stopping before eating again. "Sir, before I forget, I got a message from a ship just on the range of our comm equipment."

"Yeah?" the mouse went, a bit squeakily, sitting up straighter. Still feeling a bit light-headed. The taste of white wine still on his tongue.

"Well, it's nothing bad," the brown Swiss explained, ears flapping on the sides of her head. "Actually, it's pretty good: a cedar waxwing couple ... well, the femme's laying eggs soon. But since they're not gonna make it to their home planet in time, they wondered if she could lay and hatch them here."

" ... aw!" Petra went, just because.

"Really?" Peregrine went. "Like, how long would they be staying for?"

The cow, tilting her head and remembering the message, said, "Few weeks. Between laying, hatching, and then being able to travel with the babies. I mean, uh ... well, maybe it's just baby, singular. I don't know how many eggs waxwings lay at a time. I assume this is the first time the femme waxwing's pregnant, cause ... they didn't talk about anyone arriving other than her and her mate. No bird-lings other than what's in her belly." A pause. "Is ‘bird-ling' a word?"

"I don't think so," Seldovia said, pouring herself some more wine.

"When'll they get here?" Prancer asked, curious. Being the station's doctor, she'd be able to help with any delivery. She was trained to deliver avians, as well as mammals.

"Four or five days." The cow nodded, looking around. "Uh ... can I eat my salad, now?"

"Yeah," the mouse said, gently, nodding, and then looking to Petra. "Sounds like our reputation's beginning to precede us. A week away, and they heard we'd be a good place to stay?" A smile, whiskers twitching.

" ... heh. Calls for a toast," Petra decided. She cleared her throat and lifted her wine glass. " ... toast. I call for a toast."

"Who's toasting?" Benji asked. He supposed he could do it, being that he was a writer. But he really didn't want to. He wasn't good at ‘impromptu' things.

" ... the Commander should. He's the reason why visitors wanna come here," Desmond said, kindly.

"Mouse-toast," Seldovia went, more obviously tipsy than before. " ... heh, that like cinnamon toast? Only with squeak instead of sugar?"

Prancer rolled her eyes again at the skunk's lame joke. And she didn't care if Seldovia saw it or not. Anyway, there were no hard feelings between the two. Prancer liked Seldovia. They just had a friendly ‘competition' going.

"I'd eat mouse-toast," was Petra's cheeky under-the-breath remark.

" ... yeah, Peregrine should do it," Mortimer chimed in, in response to the original topic. His ringed tail swishing behind him. Paws trying to corral his wife to his chest, to keep her seated.

The mouse, at everyone's words (including his wife's ‘erotic' allusion), blushed severely. His big, dishy ears getting rosy, rosy pink. "That's, uh ... that's not true. About me being the reason. I mean, it's everyone. I don't think any one of us did any more than ... whatever success we're blessed to have, it's the result of a group effort. A group faith." He swallowed, lifting his wine glass. Feeling a little giggle-squeaky. But he kept his shy, little demeanor as he continued, " ... all I know is that a mouse couldn't have asked for a finer crew. I'll toast to that."

The sound of some glasses clinking. And several sips, several swallows. Several loose, lazy smiles that followed, the chatter resuming. They'd all part to breed soon. But not quite yet. No, right now, they sat, joked, talked, whispered, drank, and soaked in the little joys of life. And, surely, there was nothing simpler than that.