It's dark when I wake up.

I roll over in bed, staring at the blurry light trails of cars passing in the night. By diurnal standards, I'm up way, way too early. By nocturnal standards, I slept in.

So much for just taking a nap. I guess my internal clock's still a little fucked up.

Well, it matches the rest of me.

I slip out of bed as gently as I can, but shifting my weight onto my hooves causes me to groan out in pain. I'm sore and achy all over -- my head, my back, my face. And then there's that nasty coppery taste in the back of my throat. I reach up to rub my itchy muzzle, only to flinch the moment my hoof touches the parting gift Don left me. I still basically feel like shit, just well-rested shit. I stumble over to the bathroom to clean up and change my bandages, and as I stare into the scratched, smudge-covered mirror, I lock eyes with the ram in the reflection.

My wool's a sorry sight, all filthy and tangled and matted from me getting tossed around the alley like a beach ball. A visible chunk of it's missing from my pompadour -- guess it must've snagged on something when I banged my head. Heavy, dark circles hang under my eyes. I've got scrapes and bruises all over my forearms and hooves. The bandage taped awkwardly to my face is stained a nasty mix of red and brown. Even my fuckin' teeth hurt.

And yet, despite everything, a shaky smile crawls across my face.

I was probably seconds away from biting a curb when I blew that whistle. Anneke didn't have to come. But she did. When I needed her the most, she came running. With hellfire in her eyes and a stun gun in her paw, an aardwolf came to my rescue, shrieking like a banshee all the way. Even if Don's pack took off before she got there, it's not like she showed up too late to help.

No, they only bolted because they knew someone was coming.

And then there was Al. Man, I thought he was mad that night he shredded my old gym bag in the lobby -- now I know how much he was holding back. That look on his face when he saw me stumble in... Al's the most terrifying mammal I know when he wants to be. And I gotta admit, it's nice to see it leveled in my defense for once. Hell, it's almost enough to get me to feel sorry for Don and his guys, because there ain't no telling what he's gonna do to them. Or maybe already did.

I lean against the counter, tugging my sweat-soaked shirt off with one hoof. And then I see it. The shiny little pitch-whistle -- half-embedded in my messy wool -- that saved my life. And, in a way, my relationship with Anneke.

I take hold of it in my shaky hooftips and turn it over, watching it glint in the dim city light drifting in through my window.

 

You fuckin' shower with that thing on if you gotta, as long as it keeps you from forgetting it.

 

Betty's warning echoes loud and clear in my head. After what happened yesterday, I'm never taking this thing off.

The sudden sound of floorboards creaking behind me causes my heart to skip a beat. Startled, I turn around abruptly before catching glimpse of a dark, fluffy, zig-zagged mane leaning in from around the corner.

"I didn't realize you were still here."

"Well I didn't bolt," she answers. "You feelin' any better today?"

Anneke's voice is soft and scratchy all at once, breaking a little as she speaks. All the animosity she's been holding onto for me seems to have run dry. The furious argument of the other day is a distant memory.

I nod, casually leaning against the bathroom counter before ripping the bandage off my nose -- and there goes half the fuzz on my muzzle. Ow ow OW. I immediately regret using one with such powerful adhesive. What was this thing coated with, fucking super glue?

"I'm fine," I manage, using my sleeve to wipe tears from my eyes. "All systems go."

"Verdomme. I'll have to take your word for it," Anneke grimaces sympathetically.

She steps around the corner into the bathroom with me, and I lean back from the sink to glance her over. She catches me staring and smirks, raising one eyebrow.

"Your eyes are bigger than your stomach," she chuckles.

"No, I was just..." I squint, pointing a hooftip at her. "Is that my shirt?"

"I like the Bad Steeds," she shrugs. "I'm sure it's okay if I borrow it."

"It's a little big for you," I muse, tilting my head to one side.

It really is, too. It'd be almost funny, if it wasn't so fucking hot. Her long, bushy tail sticks out from underneath the hem, and I'm craning back to get a better look when she steps up next to me and brings me back to focus.

"Here, lemme help you."

I swallow the sudden lump in my throat and nod dumbly as she bends me over the sink to wash the dried blood off my face. Her small paws gently rub the refreshing cold water into my skin, and I notice she's taking special care to avoid touching me with her claws. Once she's satisfied, she shuts the water off, dabs my face with a dry washcloth, and gently eases some ointment along the scratches.

"Thanks, Anna," I mumble embarrassedly as she finishes applying a waterproof bandage over the wound. "For... everything."

She nods and starts to say something in reply before stopping abruptly. She stares up at me with an unreadable expression, one eyebrow cocked.

"What? What's wrong?" I'm suddenly feeling nervous -- usually, a stare like that isn't a good sign.

"...nah, nothing," she replies after a long moment, a faint smile at her lips as she turns and heads for the kitchen. "Hey, you gettin' hungry yet?"

I perk up, trotting out after her in a hurry. "What, are you making me breakfast? I mean I could eat, but I'm not like--"

Before she can answer me, my stomach growls right on cue, like some cheesy sitcom gag.

"Niiice. That's way better than Wolt's 'pull my finger' trick."

Laughing awkwardly, I wade out into the living room, almost tripping over a pile of clothes. Glancing down with a blush, I kick a bright orange bra loose from my foot.

"Uh... feel free to make yourself at home, by the way."

"Already done," she answers casually, already rooting around in my fridge. "You got any butter?"

"Uhh... bottom shelf, in a little carton behind the orange juice, I think?"

"OJ too? Sweet, a twofer."

She bends waaaay over, leaning across the bottom shelf to reach inside for it, her tail wagging excitedly.

"Awooo."

Anneke stops dead still, then slowly cranes to look back at me, past a bottle of sparkling water.

I can barely describe the confusion on her face. "What was that just now?"

"Just howling at the moon," I grin stupidly.

"Shut UP," she laughs, whirling out of the fridge and shooting me an incredulous look as she passes by. "You know you're like the only guy in this whole building who'd stare like that. I mean-- maybe Marty."

Sadly, the view's passed, and so I take my seat at the table, wincing as I lower myself onto the uncomfortable wooden chair. Anneke hums softly to herself as she pours glasses of juice and operates the toaster. Before long she's sliding a plate of toast in front of me, slathered in butter... and apparently, uh, chocolate cupcake sprinkles...?

"I... didn't have any sprinkles."

"I know," she nods, sitting across from me. "I brought some."

"Do you just... walk around with a tube of sprinkles in your pocket?"

"Some days, yeah."

I hold the slice up in interest, glancing questioningly at her.

"What's that look? You never had hagelslag before?" she asks with mild surprise, popping a slice of the candy-bread in her mouth and devouring it in three short snaps. "Ohmmgoff. Haff you been fggin' miffing ouf."

With a shrug, I take a bite.

Wow. She's not wrong. I have indeed been 'miffing ouf'. I mean, okay, it's a little weird, and buttered toast is already a breakfast staple for a reason, sure, but with the addition of the sweet chocolate on top -- which has already started to melt just slightly -- it really gives it that little something special. Hell, I might have this on my own sometime.

"Well?" she asks, licking some butter off her pawtips.

"It's like... birthday cake for breakfast," I reply, finishing off my slice and contemplating a second piece. "Six-year-old me would've wanted this every day."

"Hah! No wonder you grew up to be such a muttonhead. Six-year-old me did have this every day for breakfast, and as you can see, I turned out just fine."

I roll my eyes at her as she brushes crumbs off her stolen shirt. "Ah. Is that the secret to your success."

"'Course, I'm pretty sure Wolt ate it a lot too," she admits thoughtfully, "so maybe it can't fix everyone."

The two of us eat together for a while, mostly in silence, watching the early morning traffic pass by through my living room window. Red lights zip back and forth along the road like little fireflies, while the occasional mammal treks by on the street below. In spite of the pain I'm in, I can't help smiling at the sight of a real-life mailwolf with a bag slung over his shoulder, carrying out his sacred duty in the pre-dawn calm.

And as we sit here, quietly observing the not-so-still life of Pack Street, I'm hit by the incredibly sobering realization of just how truly lucky I am.

What if Anneke hadn't shown up when I blew the whistle? Or what if I'd done like I'd been doing for weeks and just left the whistle forgotten in the drawer?

Hell, what if I'd never joined the Pack itself?

Even though she used half the bag of bread, the Hoggen-Doez or whatever doesn't last long at all. Before I know it, I'm mopping up a few stray sprinkles on my plate with my last little bit of bread while Anneke stretches and begins to gather up her clothes and personal effects from the floor.

"As much as I'd love to lounge around all day, it's my turn to take care of the shopping," she says as she begins tugging her skinny jeans on. "You got any plans today yourself, Omega?"

"Oh, yeah. I mean, I dunno. I hadn't really thought about it," I murmur as I gather the dishes from the table and carry them to the sink.

"Maybe go down to the lobby and watch yesterday's replay with Al? Wolt said it was a hell of a game," she suggests.

"Sounds like a good time."

"Or hell, maybe you and Ozzy could go hit up Packer's and blow off some steam. Have you had a chance to swing by there since they finished the renovations?"

I lean against the kitchen counter and take a deep breath. I can tell where she's going with this. Might as well nip it in the bud now before she gets the wrong idea.

"...I'm sure I'll figure something out," I reply with a confident smile.

"Just, y'know. You seem like you're in a pretty good mood, even after everything, so--"

I hold up one hoof. "Like I said, I'll be okay. Don't worry about me."

"...Arright then," she nods, picking up her wallet and keys from the counter and heading for the front door. I hold it open for her, and she gives me a lopsided smile on the way out.

"Thanks again, Anna. For... well, for everything, really," I mumble.

"Yeah, yeah," she chuckles softly. "Um... look. Forget what I said before. About, y'know... not wanting to see you again."

I wave her off with a hoof. "Yeah, I kinda assumed."

"I mean it. Don't be a stranger, Remmy."

"Oh yeah, totally. You don't have to worry about me holing up or anything."

 

Tap tap tap.

I slowly drift awake at the sound, looking around my room in confusion. What the fuck is that?

Tap tap tap tap tap.

It's like the sound a long tree branch makes against your window on a windy night. Except, you know, it's coming from somewhere indoors. I squint aimlessly into the darkness of the room, trying to figure out what that could be, and whether or not it needs dealing with. After a few seconds of strained listening, I decide it's probably just my imagination before closing my eyes and trying to go back to sleep.

Tap tap tap tap TAP TAP.

Or not? It's getting angrier. Grunting, I roll off the couch and nearly trip over the stack of pizza boxes, microwave noodle cups, and empty soda cans as I reluctantly trudge to the front door to see what the fuck that noise is.

TAPPATATATAPTAPTAP

All right already! I'm fuckin' coming! Geez!

"Well, that explains the smell," Marty grimaces as I throw the door open.

And that explains the angry little noise.

The tiny stoat lowers his wolf-sized pencil to his side and leans against it like it's a walking stick. Judging by the permanent half-cringe, half-scowl on his face, he's clearly about as thrilled to see me as I am to see him.

"You look like shit, Cormo."

"Good morning to you too, Marty," I return.

"'Morning'. Right." His little muzzle crumples, and he waves a paw in front of his face, clearly trying not to gag. "When was the last time you showered?"

I scratch at my greasy wool with a greasier hoof, and shrug apathetically.

"Fuckin' hell..." Leaning around me, he peers into my apartment without a hint of subtlety. His whole demeanor shifts as his beady eyes scan the room. "Well, I'm sorry to interrupt, uh... whatever... all this is? This little isolated hibernation thing you've been on for what, seven days now? Eight? But we gotta get going."

Blink.

"'We'."

"Yeah, did I stutter?" He glares up at me, shaking his head. "We got something we gotta deal with. I can't do this on my own, and I'm not letting you handle it yourself."

For some reason, I'm not quite believing what I'm hearing. Call me nuts, but the fact he looked like he was in physical pain while asking feels like a bit of a tell.

I fold my arms. "Are you asking me for help? I had to practically beg to be included at the library."

Gritting his teeth visibly, Marty glares up at me in exasperation.

"And believe me, if I didn't have to, I wouldn't," he snaps. Well, that much I believe, anyway. Hefting his pencil, he points it at me eraser-first like the world's dorkiest fencer. "So how quick can you get ready to go?"

"Go? Go where?"

"That's what we're gonna find out." He waves a crumpled-up piece of note paper at me, both sides covered in scrawling. "This was taped on the front of your mailbox. You got any idea of what it could be about?"

My wool tingles and I feel my heart rise in my throat.

"It's for me?" I ask, leaning out my doorway to peer down the hall, both ways.

He shakes his head again. "I don't know. I think so."

"Well who put it there? Did you see someone--"

"Look! I don't know, okay?" Marty rolls his eyes, giving me an obnoxious sigh louder than someone his size oughta be capable of. "It's got a drawing of a sheep and it says--"

I snatch the note from his paws, scanning it as beads of cold sweat run down my forehead.

 

WE HAVE WHAT YOU NEED

 

And beneath it, a little crude drawing of a sheep makes it clear who this was for.

I try to swallow but my whole mouth is dry. "You don't think...?"

He gestures, waiting for me to finish. "...What?"

"...Don could'a left this?"

"No," he answers instantly.

My palms are clammy and my heart's getting too fast. "But you just said you don't know who--"

"Look. Cormo," the little stoat puts his foot down quite literally, and dismisses me with a wave of his paw. "If that piece of shit were within five blocks of this place, we'da known it."

"But it could be one of his pack."

"Remmy-"

"They said this wasn't over, they said--"

"Cormo! Nobody in the city is a big enough idiot to try it. The Pack has got your back, okay? Al himself took care of it. If you don't trust me, you can definitely trust him."

I stand there for a minute, turning the cryptic note over in my hooves, staring at the weird drawings on the back. A purple balloon, a bunch of stacked circles, a house on top of a stick... symbols and numbers. Real crypto stuff. I just look at it, trying to calm down, when something about the little handwritten flourish on the 'N' in 'NEED' catches my eye. Something that stands way out.

Kinda maybe looks an awful lot like the fancy N in NEW SUMMER READING! on that poster I saw at the library last time I was there.

I slowly lower the note, narrowing my eyes at Marty as he paces little circles in front of my door, rubbing his chin in a pantomime of deep thought.

"What do the numbers on the front mean? Combo to a safe? GPS coords? Or maybe it's just someone fucking around with us? Kids playing a prank?" He mutters as if to himself, but clearly loud and enunciated enough that I hear every word. "I'm sure they must mean something."

That scared feeling drops away as I realize it wasn't someone from Don's pack that wrote this.

"I'm pretty sure it's just an address number," I mutter, handing him back the 'anonymous' note. "It's literally just--"

"Wait a minute -- it can't really be that simple...? Why didn't I think of that?" he interrupts not-at-all-convincingly, turning the paper over in his paws like he's seeing it through fresh eyes. "Of course! I was overthinking it! The answer was right in front of me!"

And the Mauscar goes to...

Look, I might not have any idea what half those scribbles are, but it doesn't take a genius to figure out what this is. Marty's made it clear he doesn't think I'm all that smart -- maybe that's why he didn't make it some full-on spy-cipher or whatever. If it was an actual code he needed help decoding, he'd turn to Charlie, not me. Unlike the rest of my neighbors, who've been making a habit of interacting with me since the day I moved in, Marty goes out of his way to avoid me. He seems perpetually pissed off at me. I can't possibly imagine him willingly coming over to ask for my help with anything (let alone butting into my business with some note meant for me) unless it was incredibly urgent. And I'm not getting that vibe here at all. No, I think it's pretty clear that someone -- almost definitely Betty -- sent him over to try to cheer me up. Maybe get me out of the house for a bit.

...then again, if lifting my spirits was their goal, I've got a hard time believing either of them are so tone-deaf they'd pick Marty out of everyone in the Pack. So... I mean, I dunno. Maybe I'm overthinking this too. Maybe this is the real deal. Either way, only one thing's for sure: I'm not getting out of it.

He nods excitedly, heading for the stairs. "I'll meet you outside. There's a game ahoof, Cormo, don't make me fuckin' wait!"

I watch incredulously as he hustles down the steps as fast as his short little legs can carry him. Did he seriously just reference Sherlock Hound...? What a nerd. Besides, that's not even the way the line goes.

"Gimme twenty minutes," I reluctantly call to him.

"You've got ten," he fires back.

 

Twenty minutes later, I'm standing in front of the Crowns with Marty, leaned over his shoulder while he holds my phone in both of his paws.

"So I started checking the address line against any nearby streets," he explains, bracing the bottom of the phone against his leg so that he can work the touchscreen.

I glance down the street, craning past him. "Marty, even I know that's the--"

"Sure enough, boom."

Triumphantly, he turns the phone's display to where I can see it. Shown on the screen is the Zoogle Maps listing for the local library, complete with the address along with a warning that it's currently closed. No surprise there, as I'm standing next to the librarian himself.

"...Yeah. The place you work at," I emphasize slowly. "Wow. Mystery solved."

"Don't be a fuckin' smartass. If they'd just written 'Pack Street Public Library' on a card and stuffed it in a mailbox I wouldn'ta thought shit of it. It's obviously a message," he grunts back irritably, handing my phone over. "The real question is, what's the message mean?"

"Wait, wait wait," I stop him, waving both my hooves. "If this note was stuck to my mailbox, what makes it any of your business? I mean, why'd you even touch it in the first place?"

He gives me this 'that was a stupid question' look, with his face all scrunched up and a dry laugh. "Really? You're gonna lecture me about touching other people's mail?"

I jab a hooftip in his direction. I'm not taking that from him. "Hey, foul. I only did it because I thought Charlie might be in trouble! And I helped in the end!"

"And what do you think I'm doing?" He throws back at me.

His eyes widen and his face turns just a little red, like he just realized what he blurted out.

Yeah, I bet, Marty. The only trouble that note's gonna get me in is having to spend my morning with you.

He turns in a hurry and hustles down the street. "C'mon. Let's just go."

Sigh. "Lead the way, Sherlock."

My first blush about this being some time waster of a scavenger hunt is looking more likely by the second. Hell, if it wasn't for the fact that today's not my birthday, I'd assume he'd been saddled with getting me out of the apartment while everyone else planned a surprise party or something, and this was all he could come up with spur-of-the-moment.

"Look, maybe we should leave well enough alone," I say, trying my best to not sound like I've already got this shit figured out.

He shakes his head, not even turning around. "No way, we're in this together."

Cool. Great.

So now it's dark out and we're just openly strolling down the street. In the middle of the night. If Marty wanted to put me at ease, he's doing a shit job of it. Even though I know that sound is just my own hooves on the pavement, I keep glancing over my shoulder. Al did promise he'd take care of things, but I really don't want to tempt fate right now. 'Fate', in this case, being a rival pack that seems to want me dead. Still, it's been over a week, there are plenty of mammals out and about tonight, and I am with somebody, so I guess we should be fine as long as we keep to the beaten path.

Yeah. Because Marty is gonna be able to bail my ass out in a fight.

We pass an empty lot where a couple preds are huddled against the fence, chatting low and smoking, and even though I try not to stare, I'm running my brain in overdrive trying to remember if any of them were there that day. If any of them were in Don's pack.

They disappear behind us and I tuck in the excess wool spilling out underneath my shirt. If I'd had more time, I could've at least sheared. As it is, I did well enough to lather. All I'm saying is if I die tonight I'd rather not leave a corpse with unkempt wool. But I guess that's assuming I'm in good enough shape for an open casket.

 

It's not long before I find myself lagging behind Marty, who's surprisingly nimble given his tiny frame. He's able to duck and weave around larger mammals in ways I couldn't possibly, and I'm doing my damnedest to give the ones we pass a lot of space. We're barely a block away from home when my legs start to cramp just trying to keep pace. I guess laying low in my apartment for a week didn't do my already scrawny body any favors. What do they call it? Atrophying? Something like that. My calves feel like someone's jabbing them with needles.

That said, the pain's a pretty good motivator. Gritting my teeth, I force myself to keep up out of sheer spite. I'm not gonna give Marty a shot to bust my chops, no way. I may not be the most athletic guy, but I shouldn't be this tired already. After all, I don't own a car, so I have to walk all over town all the time. Hell, I even visit the gym a couple times a week.

Or I used to, anyway, before I got backed into an alley and had the shit slapped out of me. I haven't been visiting much of anywhere lately, unless you count the fridge.

The Library's all the way at the end of the street, just before Pack turns off onto Trip. This is the older part of town, and by 'older' I mean 'historic'. I'm pretty sure this is where some of the oldest buildings in Zootopia are. Hell, the Library itself is actually a landmark -- says so on the preservation plaque and everything. Anyway, by the time we arrive, I'm considerably winded and end up leaning against one of the chipped stone pillars outside for support. Thankfully, Marty doesn't seem to notice (or care) as he stops to admire the building.

"You think whatever we're looking for's gonna be inside?" I pant.

"Not unless they've got the key," Marty answers. Yeah, I'm pretty sure you do have the key.

While Marty scopes the front entrance, I press my face against one of the windows, cupping my hooves around my head to see inside. My night vision's not great, so I can't see far, but I can make out a couple posters (which only confirm my earlier suspicions -- the handwriting's hard to mistake) and a big easel right past the front door, featuring a display made out of thick foamboard, like something you'd see at a science fair. It's covered in glitter and construction paper cutouts I can't quite make out. There's a black and white photocopied print of a children's book in the middle I also can't identify. But the big lettering on the sign, that much I can read: 'Back By Popular Demand' it says, and below the picture of the book in big foil letters is the name 'Kat Looptail'.

I pause for just a moment, tapping my hooftip on the window and allowing myself a dopey smile. I guess that reading night really was a big hit.

I step back from the sight only to immediately jump at a clattering sound. My heart races and I scan the area, only to realize the source was me. A few scattered stones lie at my feet.

"What was that?" Marty asks, rounding the pillar.

I breathe. "Nothing. Nothing, that was me."

He stares at the little stones, tilting his head. "Well what was it?"

"I just tripped over some rocks."

"You don't think that's... weird?"

I glance down at him as he gestures encouragingly. "What? That there are rocks on the ground? No, not really?"

"Yeah but, don't they seem... out of place?"

"No??"

"Okay, but... think about it," he insists, an odd strain in his voice. "Y'know... what were they doing before you knocked them over?"

"They weren't 'doing' anything, Marty. They're rocks."

He groans aloud and drags his paws down his face, then draws out the note and shows it to me. "Okay, but look! See this stack of circles they drew? They could be rocks! I think that was our hint! At least, before you just bumbled into it."

Man, he's really into this whole shtick, isn't he? I haven't seen him this excited since the whole 'secret sheep society' prank I pulled on him. Well, all right, fine. We'll do it your way, Marty. I guess I can think of worse ways to spend my time right now. It's not like this is hurting anything, and it's not gonna kill me to play along, especially seeing as how he's gone to so much trouble on my behalf.

I kneel down and, scanning the area, prepare to root through the dirt where the pile was. But something catches my eye first.

"Hey, look," I call to Marty, picking up one of the stones. "There's a number on the bottom."

He scampers over, trying very obviously not to seem too excited, and tilts his head to one side. "Five?"

I gather up the others, reading them off one rock at a time. "One... another five... 'pack', a nine..."

Marty shrugs. "A clue?"

I flip the big one over. On it, in marker, someone scrawled the words WE HAVE WHAT YOU NEED.

"Looks like it," I respond.

I sit down on one of the library's front steps, stacking up the rocks roughly, by size. Seems the most likely order. The smallest ones are numbers, probably in order, ending with 'Pack', so...

Confidently, I toss the stones back into the dirt, rising to stand. "I know this address."

"...You didn't even check your phone."

"It's Bug Burga," I nod. "Yeah, I know it by heart. It was the first place I looked up when I moved here."

He gives me a strange face -- a smirk, but lacking in his usual mean-spiritedness. "Of course it was."

Dusting myself off, I shrug. "What can I say? I was hooked after the first bite, back in junior high."

"So like, what, four months ago?"

I roll my eyes at him, fighting off an annoyed laugh. "Oh fuck off, grandpa. I'm not that young."

"Yes, you are." Snickering, he hops off the steps and onto the sidewalk. "So you've been eating meat since junior high?"

"Yeah?"

"I mean... look, I don't know much about Flock, but isn't a prey kid 'going carnivore' usually gonna get some shit?"

Glancing down at the wool sticking out from under my shirt, I fumble with it a moment, trying to tuck it back in. Looks like it got all bunched up around my waist after that jog over here, making my midsection look like a woolly burga patty sticking out between a flannel-and-denim bun.

"You have no idea," I mutter back.

He sticks his paws in the pockets of his slacks, grinning toothily. "But you said 'fuck it' and did it anyway, just to spite 'em?"

I chew my lip for a second, thinking.

"Well, I wouldn't say it was outta spite, but I mean... I can be pretty stubborn when I want to be."

Marty stares at me for a few seconds, head tilted at a funny angle like he's trying to figure something out. And then, with a grunt and a shrug, he turns and gestures down the street.

"Then we'll have this all solved by sunup."

 

There's a rare lull at Bug Burga tonight -- maybe we're between the 'lunch' and 'dinner' rush for nocturnal predators. I can't remember the last time I saw the dining hall this empty except during daylight hours. It might be an odd thing to say about a fast-food restaurant, but after a diet of microwave garbage and crappy pizza, I'm ready for some comfort food.

"That'll be nine bucks even," the wiry, greasy little badger known as 'T-Rex' says with a low-key smile, popping the drawer on the till open. "You payin' cash or card today, Remmy?"

While Marty takes off with our waxy paper cups to get us drinks, I reach into my pocket and hoof over a twenty, but decline the change when Rex tries to hand it back.

"Nah, man," the badger laughs. "Not that I don't appreciate the generosity, but that's an eleven dollar tip."

"I mean it. Call it a 'jerkass tax'. I was a real prick to you the last time I was in here," I explain. "I wasn't having a good day, but that's no excuse for it. I'm sorry I treated you like that."

Bills still in one paw, he reaches up to scratch the side of his head with the handle of a spatula.

"...y'know, I've been working this job a long time, and I've never had a customer apologize to me before. Not like this. I'm usually the one doin' the apologizing." He smiles awkwardly and goes to shove it into his pocket, but then second-guesses and drops the change into the otherwise barren little tip jar on the counter. "You didn't have to do that, really, but if that's how you really feel I'm not too proud to turn it down. Thanks."

"So we're, uh... we're cool then?" I ask cautiously.

He shakes his head, sniffing. "You and me were always cool, man. Nothin' woulda changed that."

"I'm glad to hear it," I chuckle. "I mean, who else am I gonna go to for my sage advice fix around here?"

There's a cough from the drink fountain over to my left, and Marty's giving me an insistent glare. Oh, right. The reason we're actually here.

"Hey, speaking of advice, I don't suppose you've seen anything... 'interesting' around here lately?" I ask Rex, waving Marty off as he goes back to mashing the purplest button on the soda dispenser.

Rex glances off into the distance like he's spacing out, but then a slow smile creeps up his muzzle.

"Y'know, it's funny y'say that... matter of fact there was somethin'," he says cryptically, turning and heading toward the back of the kitchen. "Have a seat and I'll bring you your order."

"Sounds promising. Thanks, Rex."

As I make my way back to the tables, something soft and furry bumps against my side, jostling me a little. I step back, glancing up to see a tall leopardess bent over the trash can, scraping her plastic tray into it, her wide hips jutting out into the aisle.

"Oh, sorry!" she exclaims. "Didn't see you there."

I pause for a moment, suddenly overcome with a strange, wistful sensation as a long-buried memory resurfaces in my head. Of the very first time I visited this location, shortly after moving in -- and also when I accidentally bumped into a tall, well-built tigress that I'd end up crossing paths with again and ultimately befriending. Pandora just could not believe I was in here buying something for myself. I must've looked so bizarre to her at the time. Who would've thought we'd end up talking fish over drinks not long after that?

God, I can't wait to see her again. Everyone's gonna be so excited. The twins, Charlie -- especially Charlie. Hell, Avo should end up getting her old job back, too, once the place re-opens. I wonder if I can even get away with sneaking down to Pandora's Box and buying that toy before she gets hired back.

"Nah, please, it's my bad. I wasn't watching where I was going," I finally reply to the staring leopardess, before politely excusing myself to join Marty at the table.

I sit down in the seat across from the stoat and take a sip of my cola -- which I immediately recognize as having a surplus, distinctly grape-esque color and flavor. Marty cocks a brow at me like he's daring me to say something about it, but the joke's on him because it still tastes like cold, sweet sugarwater, and that's about all I could want out of a soft drink.

Marty and I don't talk much, but I'm more or less lost in thought at this point. A few minutes pass, and I look up to see Rex arrive at our table, carrying a tray with two paper bags full of food. He plops it on the table with a wordless smile before shuffling back to the kitchen.

"Did you remember to ask if he had any leads for us?" Marty impatiently asks from his booster seat as he begins unpacking his meal.

"Yeah, and he said he'd seen... uh, something, I guess."

"'Something'? That's it?"

"He said he'd scrounge up whatever it was," I mutter in confusion, watching Rex trundle off. With a shrug, I empty my bag out onto the paper sheet on top of the tray. Something tumbles out onto the table with a clunk next to my burga and fries.

I pick it up, examining it -- looks like a little plastic sailing ship. It's not really well-made, except maybe for a fast food toy. A step above what you might get in a cereal box, at least.

"I ordered a small combo, not a fuckin' kids' meal," the stoat grumbles as he starts to unwrap his (definitely child-sized) sandwich. "You'd better not have gotten me that stupid Buglet Mealie, too."

"Well, I sure as hell didn't order a kids'..." I trail off and a lightbulb goes off in my head. "This is a clue."

"What, the toy?" he asks, setting his sandwich aside and standing at attention. "Does it got anything written on it?"

I flip it around. On the bottom, predictably, are the words WE HAVE WHAT YOU NEED.

"Same message as before," I confirm. How'd they write so well on something this small?

"A toy sailboat," Marty murmurs to himself, sinking back in his seat with his burga. "Doesn't really give us a lot to go on. There's not a dock or marina around here anywhere."

A slow smile spreads across my face. Everything goes real quiet, and my wool tingles like it's electric. "It's not a sailboat."

Marty glances up. "Mm?"

"It's not a sailboat," I repeat, louder and more firmly this time. "It's a clipper ship."

Marty glances around with a mouth full of food. "...A clipper?"

"Yeah. See all the sails? Three masts, square rig. Merchant vessels, mostly. Couldn't carry much cargo, but they were faster than anything else at the time. Pirates and drug traffickers loved 'em."

He frowns. "It just looks like a boat to me."

"It's a ship, and this is our clue, man, I'm sure of it." I hold the piece up against the light, then shove it into my pocket. "And I know what this means."

"Okay, great," he mutters back, not looking convinced. "Can it wait till we're done-- HEY!"

I scoop up his unfinished meal and toss it into the paper sack with mine. "C'mon! You can finish it on the way. I know exactly where to go next."

 

Clippership Styles and Grooming, reads the giant neon sign hanging over what has to be the single gaudiest building on all of Pack Street. With its loud style and blinking lights, you'd think it was a bounce house, not a fur salon. Despite the late hour, they're not only open but busy, with a customer in every seat and several more waiting.

And boy, they're all in on this whole boat gimmick. The nautical theme swallows the whole building: the windows are round like portholes, the walls are painted sea blue, and sure enough, there's an oversized bowl on the counter full of cheap little plastic boats just like the one that led us here, next to a handwritten sign that says 'FREE for good little sailors'.

"Looks like the right call," Marty reluctantly admits.

"It better be, considering how long the walk is," I reply, feeling oddly proud of myself anyway. In hindsight, it was obvious, but still -- there's a weird dopamine rush from solving a puzzle. And with how much Marty resisted me on this clue, I'm starting to wonder if he really did set this up, after all. Then again, if he didn't... I mean, someone in the Pack had to, right? And whatever's at the end of the line is sounding more tantalizing by the minute.

I walk up to the counter, where I'm greeted by a bubbly otter in a sailor's uniform. She looks up from her sign-in sheet, and before I can get a word out she's already shoving the clipboard my way.

"It's a great day for a sail at Clippership's," she sing-songs, all smiles as she presses a pen into my hoof. "Full body shearing today? Just a trim?"

I feel a weird burning sensation in my cheeks. I didn't even know you could get a full-body shearing at a place like this. Not that I'd at all feel comfortable doing so. Getting buzzed down by Betty was more than enough for a lifetime, thanks.

"N-neither actually," I reply, gently pushing the paper and pen back to the otter.

"Oh, okay! Would you like to take a look at our products then? Pomade, conditioner, hoof polish?"

I'm suddenly wondering if this was a good idea. How do I politely ask if they have anyone more serious? A strange thought hits me, remembering the trinket box I found in my apartment that belonged to the tenant before me. I'm having a hard time imagining a guy like Kenny working here, based off of everything I saw and heard about him. He seemed too... I dunno, aloof for such a goofy place.

"Actually, we just wanted to take a look around first," Marty interjects, jerking his head toward the back of the the salon. "Where's your restroom?"

"Oh! Uh... okay," the otter replies, face scrunched up behind her oversized glasses. "Right back there on the left."

"Perfect, thanks," he says, tugging at my sleeve. "C'mon, Cormo."

I self-consciously retreat into my wool padding as Marty drags me through the busy salon, hoping that nobody I know sees us in here. I'm having flashbacks to that time Avo caught us in the aftermath of my cotton ball prank on Marty. Last thing I need is for Betty to see us heading off together to the boys' room -- she'd never ever ever let us live it down. As it is I'm just thankful the girl up front didn't get too suspicious.

As we pass a warthog in horn-rimmed glasses getting her hair teased, Marty glances up at me.

"Hey, Cormo."

I glance down, then around the main barber line. "What? Spotted it?"

"No, no. I just--" He takes a breath, holding his little paws up in front of himself. "I just wanted to say, I heard about you stickin' your neck out for Oz. That was... real decent of you."

"Yeah, don't mention it."

"No, I mean it. You took a big risk to look out for him last week."

"You'da done the same, I'm sure," I answer, quickly checking on the otter behind us.

"You think so?"

We round the back corner, stopping by the restrooms. "You remember back when I played that prank on you, and I told you you'd get one favor?"

He squints, pauses, then finally responds. "...Yeah?"

"You wanted to use your one favor to keep Ozzy safe. Even over yourself. I never forgot that." I look over my shoulder into the main room, nodding. "So yeah, I think you'd have done the same."

Rather than stopping at the restroom, however, Marty continues on, further down the hallway towards the employees-only room in the back.

"Well, I'm glad you were with him."

"Uhh -- hey, you sure whatever we're looking for is supposed to be back here?" I ask under my breath, glancing back once more at the cheerful otter obliviously ringing up a customer.

"Just play it cool and keep a lookout," he hisses back, peering around the corner before ducking inside.

The second I turn around, there's the girl from the front.

"Hi! Everything okay?" she asks.

I suddenly wipe my hooves on my pants like I've just come from the bathroom and smile at her, all while stepping in front of the break room door to cover for an oblivious Marty. C'mon, hurry up!

"Heyyyy," I smile lamely. "Thanks again for all your help."

She giggles, adjusts her glasses, and nods back at me politely.

"No problem at all. I know how important this is to Marty."

Wait. What? She's in on this?

"You, uh... you know him?"

"Sure, he's a regular. There was a stylist that used to work here that was a friend of his, I think -- though I haven't seen him in a while. Marty would bring him lunch sometimes, so that he wouldn't have to leave work."

"Kenny?"

"Yeah, that was it," she says with a smile. "How is Kenny, anyway?"

"I couldn't tell you -- I never got a chance to meet him," I reply, and I'm kinda glad I didn't, if what I've heard about him's true.

"Oh! Okay." She seems a little confused but shrugs it off, fiddling with the long ribbon on her uniform's top. "Well, anyway, yeah, Marty's such a good friend. He stopped in this morning and asked us if we could help out with planning a surprise to help cheer up someone he knows -- I guess this guy's really in a bad way right now."

All of a sudden there's a weird feeling in the back of my throat. Like a weird lump I can't quite swallow down.

"Oh," I respond.

"Are you here to help too?" she asks.

I chuckle uncomfortably, wiping the scarred tip of my muzzle on the back of my sleeve. "Uh. Yeah, I guess I am," I answer honestly.

"Awesome," she grins, turning back to her post at the register and bobbing her head in time to the cheesy music piping in through the speakers. "Well, I really hope your friend enjoys whatever the surprise is!"

Marty emerges a moment later, holding an envelope over his head, grinning cockily at me with a 'See, I told you so' sort of expression.

"Yeah, I think he will," I mumble.

 

Half an hour later we're back outside the apartments, sitting on a bench outside. The night's coming to an end; sunrise isn't far off now. In my hooves is the faded manila envelope he recovered, along with the wax seal we broke -- like something a king would've sent in medieval times. And the design of the seal itself? Three crowns. Seems like a poetic end to a journey full of surprises, right back where we started.

Marty and I exchange thoughtful stares as I repeatedly turn the contained note over in my hooves, reading the words again and again.

 

"WE HAVE WHAT YOU NEED."

 

"Can't tell if that's ominous or promising," Marty murmurs.

"Well I hope it's something good," I suggest, acting like I don't know. "I could think of several things that'd mean depending on who it's from."

Frowning, the stoat crosses his arms as he slinks down against the backrest of the bench, a troubled look on his face. His pencil's draped across his lap, and he's idly fiddling with the eraser tip. "I feel like we're almost there, but it's just out of reach."

"We got this far," I counter, turning the page over in my hooves and squinting at it in the light of the streetlamp. "I'm not about to give up after we spent the last couple hours..."

Marty perks up as I trail off. "What? Did you figure something out?"

Tracing my hooftip across the paper, I furrow my brow. "Lemme see your pencil a sec?"

He gives me a weird look, but hands it over to me with a nod. I begin to gently rub the side of the lead against a spot at the bottom of the page.

"I saw this done in a movie once," I explain, a smile creeping across my muzzle as clear letters begin to appear on the paper. The low-tech version of invisible ink -- the lead can't fill the indentations in the paper. "You can just make out the faint lettering..."

"Nice job," Marty says, looking genuinely impressed. "I can't believe you figured it out so quickly."

"Ahh, well," I chuckle self-consciously.

A little more pencil work reveals a second message beneath the first. Something new this time:

Keep your chin up.

Marty puzzles over it, but I think I've got the hint already. Leaning back, I scan the edge of the roof.

And there it is.

"It was here all along."

Between the sparse, wiry radio antennas and satellite dishes, the final clue: A single purple balloon, tied to something and drifting just barely enough to be seen from the street.

I tap Marty on the shoulder and point up to it. "The, uh, the Crowns doesn't have an elevator I don't know about, does it?"

"Are you kidding? We're lucky to have running water," Marty scoffs. "We're gonna have to leg it all the way up to the top."

I scratch my fuzzy chin, considering. "I could lob you up there."

"I could punch you in the eyeball," Marty says without missing a beat.

"That's fair," I nod, drawing a breath. "Well, we came this far. Might as well go a little further for the payoff."

We make our way up several flights of stairs at a good pace, and even as tired and sore as I am, I don't slow down. At this point, I'm actually a little giddy with anticipation. A number of possibilities run through my mind.

Something I 'need'. Maybe Avo let slip that my apartment was underfurnished, and they got me some stuff. A new TV or something. A new phone even, I've definitely complained about mine enough. Hell, I'll take cookware. Maybe after the scuff-up last week the whole Pack is gonna be here for a surprise -- oh shit, what if I'm being promoted out of Omega? So then who's taking over -- not Marty? That might explain his hot-cold mood all night. As long as I'm dreaming, how about tickets to a day at the spa with Betty, Charlie, Anneke, and Avo?

Whatever it is, it's something I need. So it's gotta be something good -- a gift from the whole Pack? Or... just Marty? No way he did this on his own. Al's got a fund for Pack stuff, I know that much. Anyway, you don't need something bad. That just stands to reason.

I've just hoofed it up several flights of steps and yet I'm practically skipping as I push the door open, grinning like an idiot. Right as I come face-to-face with a blow-up sex doll seated in a folding chair.

What

Slowly I walk forward across the roof, staring at the doll -- a cheap, vinyl inflatable of a ewe, wearing a wig, lipstick, and too-loose teddie with the tag still attached. 'Her' eyes are closed and her lips are puckered like she's ready for a kiss, and I notice that she's been 'seat-belted' into the chair with a piece of decorative red ribbon, tied with a bow, to keep from blowing away in a breeze.

I turn slowly in place to see Marty leaned against the roof access doorframe, arms folded and wearing a grin to rival any I've ever seen Avo sport.

Oh, you little shit.

"What I 'need', huh?"

"Told you I'd get you back," he says in a tone that's as sharp as it is smug.

"I should'a fuckin' known," I curse, kicking the gravel rooftop under my hoof and laughing at the absurdity of it. "The whole fuckin' night you had me runnin' all over Pack, just for this! Ohhhhh, ho! Ohhhh ho ho ho Marty. It is ON."

With a wincing grin, already plotting my revenge, I stroll over to the doll and give her rubbery cheek a brush with the back of my hoof, shaking my head. Un-fucking-believable. He fucking got me!

"...Do I at least get to keep her?" I ask.

"You fuckin' wish!" He scrambles forward, catching up to me and tapping the 'what I need' with one paw. "This is a display model! I gotta return her to Charlie so she can take her back down to the Box later."

"Well that's a damn shame." I pull my phone out of my pocket and hand it off to him, red-faced and grinning. "Well at least get a picture for me to remember her by before we have to say goodbye."

"Oh, yeah, definitely. Kismet's serious shit," he laughs as I throw my arm around the shoulders of my 'date' with a cheesy grin. "Perfect. Hold that pose."

 

Opening the door to my apartment, I let out a satisfied sigh and collapse on my couch. Look, the joke may be on me, but at least I got outta my rut for a night. And me and Marty might've even bonded a little. In spite of everything, I have to admit, I actually had fun. I do have to wonder why Betty didn't end up just taking me herself instead of sending Marty, if she was that worried about me. Not that she probably would've, if she'd had any clue what his idea of getting me out of the house was gonna be.

No sooner do I close my eyes than there's an aggressive pounding at my door, followed by a familiar, guttural bark.

"It's me, yarn ball. We need to talk. Open up."

Speak of the devil. Immediately I get back up and hurry to the door -- better not keep the Beta waiting or she'll gimme no end of hell.

"Arright, fluff," Betty growls in my doorway, burly arms on her hips as she leans down menacingly.

"Oh, hi, Betty," I smile, focusing very hard to look in her eyes and not down the collar of her shirt.

"Yeah, don't you 'Hi Betty' me. It's time for some tough love. Your ass has been holed up in here moping all fuckin' week. What's it gonna take to get you functional?"

Wait. Does-- did she--? Did she not send--?

Oh my god.

She doesn't know.

"Oh, thank god you're here." Fumbling with my hooftips, I look up at her as pitifully as I can manage, all while fighting back a grin. "As a matter of fact, I've just realized there's something I'm in need of. Maybe you could help me get it?"

"Good. Taking initiative," she sniffs authoritatively, boldly walking in as I 'timidly' step aside. "What've you got in mind?"