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"I never disappoint," Seward insisted, a heaviness in his tone, "the others ... " An exhale, sharp and uneasy, as he stretched a bit. A tiny, relieved moan. The sound of fur rustling against sheets. As well as fur on fur. His bare foot-paws bumped against her own. Toes touching toes. "Only you." A pause. And a breath. "There's ... you're ... "

Her eyes so close to his, only inches apart, she waited. Lids hooded. Ears flushed with blood, waggling on her pillow, she waited.

"You're just ... "

" ... what?" she asked, shifting a bit. A slight squirm. Her paws were on his bare back. Which was so warm. She could feel his pulse. Fingers meshed in his soft, white fur. "What ... "

His body, horizontal, atop of hers, didn't budge. His muzzle was on her cheek. He closed his eyes. "You're ... impossible," he whispered, "to please." A pause. "You make me so nervous."

"I do no such thing," Aisling assured. "I behave no differently around you," she insisted, "than I do around ... "

" ... the others?"

"Yes." A breath through her nose. He smelled of computer consoles and recycled air. But there was also his natural musk there, too. Natural scent. Heady and masucline. And she sucked on his cheek, lightly. A mouthing motion, wetting his fur a bit. Just a bit. A slight pant. "You ... you think too much." Another pant. "Or, rather," she sighed, "FEEL ... feel too much."

"What are you accusing me," he asked, naked hips lightly grinding to her own. No penetration yet. Just grinding. They had only woken up fifteen minutes ago. " ... of ... what are you ... "

" ... attachment."

"I am not," he assured, "attached to you."

"Then why the anxiety?"

"I am not ... "

" ... anxious? I know performance ... anxiety," she panted, her pliable breasts pressed beneath his warm, solid chest. " ... I know it," she finally managed, "when I see it." She thought back to his 'performance' last night. He hadn't lasted all too long. Not as long as he should've. His technique, as well, had been clumsy.

Seward sighed. Heavily. And, after a moment of silence, whispered back, "You are demanding."

"Demanding?" Aisling asked, squinting her eyes. And then closing them. As the male rabbit nibbled on her neck. With those big, front teeth, rabbit buckteeth. Nibbling on her pelt. "I ... I am ... "

" ... demanding," he repeated, with a pant. Her white, fresh bobtail flicker-flicked in the bedroom air. Her bedroom. Her quarters.

She turned her head a bit, squirming. Squirming.

Until he stopped what he was doing, propping his bare body up. By the elbows. Lifting his chest a few inches. And looking at her. Their gazes meeting. He panted lightly.

Aisling let out a weary, impatient breath.

It was morning. They'd slept together. Spent the night in the same bed. And their respective shifts began in an hour. But they were rabbits. Their enhanced virility (a bothersome curse or a blissful gift, or both) keeping them in bed, keeping them physically pressed. Both snow rabbits in the same breeding party, with eight snow rabbits in the party. Four males, four femmes. A new partner every day (if you strictly adhered to a 'rotation,' which Aisling, as leader of the party, insisted they do), so that every four days, Seward wound up with Aisling.

Today was that fourth day.

"What do you want," Aisling demanded, very quietly, her whiskers giving a singular twitch, "from me?"

"I want ... " Seward trailed, somewhat unsure. His eyes darted a bit. He swallowed. And then, eyes going back to hers, he finished, "I want ease."

"Ease?"

"You make this harder than it needs to be."

"It is breeding. There is no easy or hard," she assured, "about it. It just ... is." A sigh. "The mechanics of it are really quite simple."

"There is more to it than that. Than ... " A pause. He licked his own lips, and then softly licked at her own. Savoring the wetness. " ... more to it than mechanics."

"As long as we give each other pleasure. As long as we're both sated ... " She trailed, panting, liking the lip-licking. There was something very sensual and spine-tingling about that. "Are you," she whispered, "saying I don't sate you?" Her tone was accusing. "You do not feel pleasure from this?

Seward hesitated. Before admitting, "I do not know ... "

Aisling said nothing to this. Confused. She remained still, and then tried to sit up. But, under his body weight, she was unable. So, she sighed instead, swallowing. Her tone brisk, she asked, "Is there something wrong with my body?"

"No." A pause. "You are beautiful, of course ... " He trailed. "Very ... "

"Then ... what?" Slightly exasperated, she struggled again. And then finally gave up. She was pinned beneath him, like it or not.

"I already told you," he repeated. A bashful hesitation. "You make me nervous."

"Why would I make you nervous?"

Seward had to think that one over. And had to admit, "You just do ... "

"Get off of me," was her simple, direct response.

"We need to breed."

"Get off."

"No ... you do not want me to ... "

"If I am a bad breeder, then ... "

" ... you are not," he insisted, "a bad breeder. I am just admitting, in truthfulness, that I prefer the other femmes in our group ... over you." A pause. "Is it not logical to admit the truth? Would you rather I kept secrets from you? What does it matter where you rank among the other femmes," he posed, "in our party? Is that not what breeding parties are? Open, casual breeding? No attachment ... no concern ... uncaged pleasure?"

She didn't respond to this. Not at first. Only said, "Secrets are not kept within the confines," she reminded him, "of breeding parties. Open relationships. Open," she whispered, "minds."

"Open minds. And what of," Seward pressed, "open hearts?"

"The heart is of no concern."

"If that is the case ... then why do we have them? Why did God give us hearts?"

"Evolution gave us hearts."

"Evolution is a process. Processes do not create themselves. They have to be set," the rabbit panted, "into motion. Tell me ... if life only comes from other life, cells only from other cells, and so ... then does it not stand to reason that Life created life? Is that not logical? Are we not about," he breathed, "logic? There is no logic in not wanting an afterlife ... there is no logic in believing in randomness. In nothing. There is no logic," Seward posed to her, "in believing in a purposeless universe. Is there?" he pressed. "Is not a lack of faith the paramount of illogic?"

"And does ... does Deity create itself, then?" was her evasive response.

"Deity is everything. Deity ... is," he breathed, sucking on her cheek, "life. God is all around us. Reflected ... "

" ... in your head. They've planted ideas in your head. That is dangerous," Aisling assured, sighing, whiskers giving a singular twitch. "As I said," Aisling repeated, trying to quell the topic, "you think too much." A huff. "You have been talking to that marmot ... "

" ... think too much," was all he replied, not answering her question. "And feel too much, yes." Seward had, indeed, been picking up ideas from the warm-blood furs. And not just them. But from his captain. And from Ada. After all, he was stationed to the bridge (when Antioch wasn't, anyway), and was around them a lot. Maybe he had been picking up things. Inside, he was surprised. Like maybe a switch had gone off in his head. Or his heart. Or even his soul, perhaps. A switch. Had he been thinking this way last night? What was coming over him?

Another huff from her. "I do not want to hear ... of such things," she breathed, "anymore."

"Aisling ... "

" ... no more talking." Her arms more fully around his back, in a tight hug, she pulled him down. Belly-to-belly, hips-to-hips. Her lips meeting, brushing his. Warm and moist and wanting, sucking, pink and punctuated with little, glistening patches of each other's saliva. "You ... " A hot, needy pant. "You do not disappoint me," she assured, going back to his original concern. "Have I ever said ... that you disappoint me?" Her words coming erratically. Between succulent, simmering kisses. Between. Oh, between. There was nothing between them, now. Not physically. But, mentally and emotionally, they couldn't have been further apart.

"You do not need," Seward responded, his rabbit-hood peek-poking out of his fuzzy, white sheath. Bulging. "You ... you do not need," he whispered, licking at her neck, "to say it. I can tell. I can ... "

" ... feel it? Stop FEELING," she demanded, with a restrained frustration. Snow rabbits could not yell. Could not get 'angry.' Could not express their emotions like other furs could. The emotions were trapped below the surface, under a layer of psychological ice. But, all the same, they were not entirely unreadable. Not without a certain ability to emote.

"Just because," was his panting, sincere response, "we cannot fully express our emotions, or fully feel them ... does not mean we do not have them."

"I do not need ... "

" ... what? What don't you ... "

" ... need you to stop talking. I need to breed. Just ... just breed me," she insisted. It was almost coming out as a plea.

"I ... I can't. We must talk of this."

Her lips pressed to his, her muzzle tilted. Her nose flaring, whiskers giving a singular twitch. Tongue-tips touching. Oh, wet, warm. Spiking their temperatures, beating hearts beating faster, even faster. To where all talking, all rational thought ceased ...

... until, half an hour later, they had fully finished.

Until they were on their backs, tangled in the cool, navy-blue sheets. His chest rising, falling. Her breasts still heaving.

"I ... I enjoyed," she panted, "that."

A slight, wordless nod from Seward.

Aisling turned her head a bit. "I am telling the truth ... you were very good. I received a great deal of ... pleasure." An uncomfortable, little pause. "Seward?"

"Yes?" he whispered, swallowing, closing his eyes.

"Are you not going to thank me? I have complimented you."

A sigh. And, nodding his head, he replied, "I enjoyed it, as well." Truthfully, he really had. Oh, indeed. Of all the times he'd bred with her, none of them had felt like this. Like a firework. A hot, tension-filled frenzy. Polar opposites pushing, pulling. A grinding, pulsating pleasure. And Seward wasn't sure what to make of that. He was somewhat stunned.

Aisling narrowed her eyes. "That is not what I want to hear."

"What do you," Seward pressed, eyes open now. He shifted his position on the mattress. "What do you want to hear?" he finished.

"That I gave you pleasure. That I was good. That you appreciated it. I want to hear," she demanded, "sincerity."

"I have told you ... I enjoyed it," he repeated. A pause. "And if we had done something sincere," was his quiet counter, "I would give you MORE sincerity than that. We bred, yes. I felt tremendous pleasure, yes. More than I've ever felt with you. But ... it was obligatory pleasure. Acquired because it was needed. You needed that," he told her, "more than you wanted it." A whisker-twitch. "I ... strangely, I felt that I wanted it more than I needed it."

She wasn't sure how to respond to that. Her ears waggled, and she took a breath. "What are you ... what does that ... "

" ... I do not know what I mean."

"I think you do," she insisted. Her tone slightly combative. "I think I am going to have to breed with you at least two more times today. I think I deserve to have a partner who is not going to compromise me with ... with feelings ... what has gotten into you?" She squinted. "You are behaving strangely."

"Aisling ... "

"You confuse me," she stated, shaking her head, narrowing her eyes. "I do not understand your ... "

"Aisling ... "

" ... what?" she finally asked, taking a breath. Releasing it as a sigh.

He shifted his position, arm going around her bare back. Pulling her closer to him, so that they were belly-to-belly, nose-to-nose. Both of them on their sides. "Do not make this into a problem," he whispered, "to be fought over ... do not be so difficult," he pleaded.

"I am not difficult," was the barely-audible response. Her eyes closed. Her black nose touching his. Slightly cool to the touch, her nose. It gave a sniff. "I ... I am not," she assured, "difficult."

"You are strict," he responded. "You breed like ... like it is a duty."

"It is." A breath. "You know we have no choice. It IS a duty."

A slight sigh. "Yes, but ... it is MORE."

"When you start turning sex into more," was her response, "you become leashed. Then caged. And, soon, you are trapped in a mire of 'emotions' and situations that ... threaten," she whispered, "your sense of self." A pause. "More," she told him, "is a risk."

"And less leaves you unfulfilled."

Aisling swallowed, eyes closed. She mouthed on his cheek, saying, "This is ... very dangerous talk. Do you converse like this," she wanted to know, "with the other femmes in our party?"

"No," he admitted. "I've never felt ... compelled to."

"But you feel compelled with me?"

"Does it seem that way?"

"You answer questions with questions?"

"I am simply asking you to take a good, hard look at yourself ... you are too beautiful," Seward confessed, "to be so rigid."

"Do not think," Aisling responded, "that just because you are in my bed ... and can get into my body ... " A breath. " ... do not think that, because of those things, you have liberty to speak to me as you wish. I am your superior officer. You will do as I say. I am also the leader of this breeding party. Do not treat me," she whispered, "as you would treat a peer."

"I would not dare do so," was the bristling response. Resenting having to be told, while bare, while in bed with her, that she was 'your superior officer.' The bed-sheets were NO place for such remarks.

"Good."

Swallowing, Seward sighed, shaking his head, and he pulled away from her. Rolling away. "We must shower," he stated, as he sat up. Letting the blood come back to his head and ears. He closed his eyes, breathing for a few seconds. And, opening his eyes, he turned his head, raising a brow. "Aisling?"

"I will shower when you are done."

His ears drooped, taking that as an insult. Furs tended to shower together after breeding. It was rare to shower alone. "If you do that, you will be late for duty. We must shower together." A head-tilt, ears waggling a bit. "We are partners, are we not?"

She only responded with, "When we do this at lunch, I will be on top."

A slight sigh, his eyes looking to the bed-sheets. "Yes."

"I like you better when you're under me," she continued, at a whisper. As she sat up, smoothing her fur. Her bobtail gave a few flickers. And, with a sigh, she swung her bare legs over the side of the bed. Testing out her foot-paws. Finally standing, and then padding around the bed and to the bathroom. Stopping in the open doorframe. Her back to him, her tail giving yet another flicker, she said, "Are we still taking that shower?"

Seward nodded weakly, and got to his own foot-paws. And followed her in.

"We should expect them to get here in ... " A tiny shake of the head. " ... two to three weeks," Antioch decided, sitting on the couch by the big, star-filled windows. The stars showing as golden, shimmering streaks.

Graham, sitting on the edge of his 'ready room' desk, flickered his eyes to Talkeetna, who was sitting beside Antioch on the couch.

The red squirrel nodded. "Sounds probable. If they're really committed to this, they're not gonna waste time doing it." A breath. "If they put it off ... furs might question it. Might resist. They gotta launch it lightning-quick, before anyone can stop them."

Graham nodded quietly, his slender antenna-ears waggling. He lightly swung his bare foot-paws a bit, as they didn't quite reach the carpet. And then he stopped swinging them. And, paws gripping the desk-edge, he sighed. "How many ships," he asked, "do you think they'll send?"

"It's hard to say."

"Because?"

Talkeetna looked sheepish. "I don't know how many ships they have. I mean ... when we left, the prey had some. Predators had more. I stole Reverie out of space-dock ... they tried to take her from me ... " Her voice trailed, and she exchanged a glance with Antioch before looking back to Graham. "But I think you can safely say that, uh ... forty? Fifty ships? They'll send enough ... "

"The reason I ask," Graham continued, sitting up straighter on the desk, "is because ... after losing ships to the Arctic foxes, and then losing ships to the wasps ... " He trailed, picking up with, "Our fleet is still rebuilding." A sigh. "We are not at full-strength," he confessed. "Also, our population is far less than ... the combined population of the Federation worlds."

"The Furry Federation doesn't have a full-force fleet, either. They're still recovering from losing that secret build-up ... that fleet, you know, to Captain Wren. And, then, what with fighting each other ... " A trail, and a pause. And the squirrel, holding her tail in her paws, whispered, "They've not any sense of ... control. Not like you snow rabbits. They run on pure emotion. They're feeling desperate, and ... that makes them very dangerous. But, all the same, their technology isn't more advanced. They've not got a technological edge. And, truthfully, your species is better at fighting than they are ... "

"So, we are both fighting, in essence, with our scraps? The result will come down to experience?"

"I'd hardly call Yellowknife a 'scrap' ... or that Arctic ship, or ... "

" ... perhaps not. But Yellowknife is a new vessel. As is Arctic. The Crystalline-Class ships are new." A pause. "Most of our other ships are older ... or still damaged."

"I can't see them beating us," Talkeetna confessed, trying to sound as positive as she could. "With your experience, yes. Your species knows how to fight."

"We did not used to have that reputation," Graham remarked, very sadly. He looked to the floor. "We did not used to be known for our wartime tenacity. We used to be known for our logic, and our aesthetic sensibilities." He closed his eyes, swallowing. And then re-opened his eyes.

Talkeetna, still gripping her own tail, didn't know what to say to that. Her whiskers twitched. And her angular ears cocked atop her head.

"And, at this point, we would not have to lose a war ... to be beat," the captain confessed. A concerned look. And his gaze went to the stars outside the window. "I do not know," he whispered, "what shall result from this. I trust that there is a reason for everything. That God is in control."

"He is," Talkeetna assured, sincerely.

Graham nodded weakly. "A fur with lesser faith would blame God for allowing ... this hurt," he whispered, "to continue. But I know that God is not forcing the Furry Federation to be divided by hate. I know He is not forcing them to launch a war against us ... to end their own civil war. I know this wide, weary mess ... is our own doing. We all play a part." A pause. "May the Lord, therefore, protect us from ourselves."

Talkeetna, fidgeting, her whiskers twitching, whispered, "It'll be okay."

"Yes," was all Graham whispered. He let out a heavy sigh.

Antioch, at this point, injected with, "I, uh ... there's something that I don't wanna bring up. I really don't. But ... "

Graham looked to the marmot. And arched a brow.

"The Furry Federation claims that the leaders of the snow rabbit High Command have ... that the High Command has been infiltrated by humans. The leaders replaced," he whispered, "by humans."

"Yes ... that is their claim." An arched brow. "And?"

"It happened in the Furry Federation," Antioch said, trailing. "Just to pose a theory: what makes us so sure it can't happen in the High Command?"

"The High Command is human-free," Graham assured defensively, without hesitation.

"That's what we thought about our government ... but the humans," Antioch whispered, "are devious. They don't care about obstacles. If they want something badly enough, they'll do anything to justify taking it."

"That sounds a lot like furs," Graham said, wisely but mutely.

The marmot's whiskers twitched. A slight breath. "I'm just saying that it's a possibility. If they want to harvest furs for their own uses, why stop at infiltrating ONLY the Federation? Why not plant themselves in other governments as well? That would heighten their eventual chances for success ... "

"The Furry Federation is launching this war based on bogus information," Graham assured. "Surely, you are not arguing otherwise? I am aware that you are from the Federation, but ... you cannot possibly defend them on this."

"I'm not defending them. I'm saying ... we shouldn't assume that it could never be true."

"I will not live my life in a state of paranoia. Thinking that every-fur I meet ... might be a human-turned-fur? Is that not what destroyed the Federation?"

"It is. And I don't want the High Command to go that route."

"Even if humans have infiltrated snow rabbit society," Talkeetna piped in, "we wouldn't know about it unless we did widespread blood tests. And, if we did THAT ... then the humans would be tipped off. There's just no way of truly knowing ... "

"I suggest we change the subject," Graham suggested, not wanting to discuss this. He shook his head. "I am not interested in hearing speculations. Can speculation be true? Yes. But, for the sake of the current matter, we are believing that is not," he stressed, "true. We are agreed that the Federation's claims are unfounded? That this is an unjust war?"

"Agreed," Talkeetna whispered. "But, unjust or not, the Federation's committed to coming. To fighting. We have to be ready for them."

"We will be," Graham whispered. "I have already spoken to Admiral Flint. He is sending a task force to meet us ... and Yellowknife will be the head. There will be four task forces. Three positioned on the border. One lingering back near Home-world."

"And if they break through our defenses?"

"Then we will chase them," Graham assured, and he slid off the edge of his desk, sighing and standing, now. And he padded a few steps this way, and a few steps that way. His bare foot-paws making soft sounds on the carpet. "But, hopefully, it will not come to that. Hopefully, we will be chasing them AWAY from our space. Not further into it."

"Should I run readiness drills?" Antioch asked.

"Yes. Run ... one drill a day. For now." A pause. "You can go." The snow rabbit nodded to the marmot.

And Antioch nodded back, sighing, standing. And, lingering, he looked to Talkeetna, before padding toward the door, which swished open. And then swished shut, leaving only the red squirrel and the snow rabbit left in the ready room.

Talkeetna, quietly grooming her tail, licking her paws and soothing her fur with her paw-pads, looked up. Stopped what she was doing. To say, "I know what you're feeling."

"Do you?" Graham met her gaze.

"You're asking yourself 'why did I want this?' When you could be ... on a planet somewhere, with your wife. Safe. You're asking yourself 'why did I need to be a captain? Why am I so driven'?"

A slow, relenting eye-smile. "Indeed, I have wondered ... "

"Well, I'll tell you what I tell myself," she whispered.

"Yes?" He tilted his head, curiously.

"It takes a good bit of insanity ... to wish to lead." A smile, her whiskers twitching.

His eyes sparkled. "A sound assessment." And he padded to the couch, sitting beside his first officer. "And what is the cure for this insanity?"

"There is no cure," she said, softly, looking to him. "We just gotta live with it. We gotta lead."

"And our reward?"

"Too early to say," was her response. As she leaned back into the couch-cushions. And her eyes closed. A small shake of the head. "Too early to say."

" ... sure you don't want a sprinkle of scurry ... "

" ... I have enough ... "

" ... to go with that? You look like ... "

" ... scurry, thank you."

" ... you could use some," Cordova finished, giggling. Mewing with mirth.

Azalea shook her head, leaning over to Emerson, saying (in a not-so-subtle-whisper), "Is it just me, or are rabbits cheekier in the morning?"

"I thought we were cheeky all the time," was Kempton's smiling reply. He grabbed for a plate of little carrot cakes. The four friends were having breakfast together, in the mess hall.

"Well, uh ... you might be cheeky all the time," Emerson said, whiskers twitching as he poked his fork at some fruit slices (apple, pear, and peach slices, from the food processor). "But the snow rabbits aren't."

"No, definitely not a lot of cheek there," Cordova agreed, looking around. As if afraid of being eavesdropped on. "I mean, I love 'em. They're ... you know, they're a branch of my own species, so ... I know where they're coming from." An uncertain pause. "Kind of."

"I think they're striking," Azalea admitted. "They're all very striking." A slight nod. "Mm." She scooped a spoonful of granola cereal into her muzzle.

Emerson, brow raised, gave his wife a look.

She, chew-chewing, swallowing, said (with a half-full muzzle), "Not THAT ... " Chew. " ... kind of striking." Chew-chew. Swallow. "I meant, like ... "

Cordova on the other side of the little table, mewed again. Amused.

" ... they leave an impression."

"I know what you mean," Emerson said, fully understanding. But he stuck his tongue out all the same. "But aren't I MORE striking than a male snow rabbit?"

"More striking? Mm ... " The western jumping mouse gave him a lookover.

"You're more striking than a femme snow rabbit," he assured, before she could fully answer.

"Am I ... " She smiled. She didn't look like your typical mouse. No, her fur was yellowish on the sides, with a dark band down the middle of her back. Her belly-fur was white, tinged a bit yellow in spots, and her long tail was darker above, whitish below. Not to mention her big foot-paws, of course.

Emerson sighed. She was delicious, wasn't she?

" ... well, darling," Azalea finally said. "It's not so much that you're more striking than a male snow rabbit ... rather, it's like ... you're a hundred times," she breathed, "cuter."

"Is cuter better than striking?" he asked, innocently. His big, dishy ears went swivel-swivel. The pink, fleshy lobes catching all the sounds in the room.

Cordova chimed in with, " ... definitely. Definitely better."

"Wait a minute ... so, what am I?" Kempton asked. "Am I striking, or am I cute?"

"Neither. You're just a big goof," Cordova teased, giving him a playful nudge.

"A goof? Hmm ... " The cinnamon-furred rabbit squinted harmlessly. "Aren't I, like ... tasty, or ... ravishing?"

"Ravishing ... " Cordova considered. "I don't know that males can be ravishing." She looked to Azalea. "Can they?"

"Well, I think that maybe they can be," the western jumping mouse postured. "Maybe ... "

Emerson, being the writer of the bunch, piped in with, "Ravishing means 'stunningly beautiful' ... "

" ... oh," went Cordova. A shake of the head. "No, darling," she told Kempton. "You're not ravishing."

"Stunning, though. Stunningly ... "

" ... handsome? Oh, sure. But that's not ravishing. Not technically."

"Well, what is it?"

Cordova gave her husband a hungry undressing with her eyes. "I don't know," she whispered, somewhat dreamily. Her pupils dilating. "But I'll think of, uh ... think o' something ... "

" ... I'm sure you will," Azalea observed, giggle-squeaking. And finishing her bowl of cereal. She shook her head, asking, "But, seriously, are you two getting along with the snow rabbits? I mean, do they ... accept you? Since you're rabbits to?"

"They get along with us," was Cordova's simple response. A nod. And she reached for a cold English muffin, which was already buttered. She nibbled on the edges. Chew-chew. Swallow. "Actually, I got to talking to one of them ... and she was saying how, a few thousand years ago, you know? They used to be like us. But this was, like ... five thousand years? I don't know ... they didn't used to be entirely ... of the snow. It's ... they weren't all frozen. Not initially. But, somewhere along the line, it happened ... "

"I think they're interesting," Emerson said, quietly. He un-peeled a banana, and then stopped, blinking. Asking, "Why does the food processor ... replicate bananas WITH the peels on?"

"I'm not an engineer. Don't ask me," Kempton replied.

"Why'd you ask, though, Azalea ... you not getting along with them?" Cordova said, looking to the western jumping mouse.

She gave a bit of a whisker-twitch. "Not that I'm not. I am ... I mean, we both are, right?" she asked, looking to Emerson.

The field mouse nodded genuinely, his whiskers twitching. His tail snaking behind his chair as he un-peeled the banana.

Azalea continued, "It's just that ... I don't know, like ... " Her whiskers twitch. "Me and Emerson, we scare easily, you know? I mean, we get ... "

" ... twitchy?"

A nod. "We do. And the snow rabbits are so poised, so graceful. And, so, we start twitching all over, with this nervous energy, and they just arch their brows and watch us ... like we're the squirming, crying children in the movie theater, you know?"

A mew. A smile. "Huh ... are you?"

"Of course not. Don't even start," Azalea said, pointing a paw at the piebald-furred rabbit. "No, but ... they don't understand mousey-ness."

"Their loss," was Cordova's still-smiling response. She gave a tilt of the head, her waggle-ears waggling. Waggle-waggle.

"I really like Graham," Emerson said, swallowing some banana. He licked his lips. "He's really nice."

Kempton nodded. "Him and Ada ... the others? Like, uh ..."

" ... Aisling. She's a hard-core old-liner," Cordova finished. "She's a strict one."

"I think she just had a bad time," Emerson theorized, "in the wars ... I think something bad happened to her."

"Well, she doesn't exactly endear anyone's sympathy. Even if that IS the case," Cordova insisted. "She's pushy. She's just ... I don't know. I just don't know ... " She trailed. "You hear she's getting into scuffles with Konka?"

"Is she?" Azalea's ears swiveled.

"Oh, yeah ... down in engineering. I swear, it's gonna come to blows. REAL soon. Just wait ... Wasilla told me."

" ... knowing snow rabbits, she'd probably win. I mean, if she can beat up an Arctic fox, then she can handle a dim 'yote, can't she?" Kempton posed.

"Probably ... "

"Well, I think it's a nice ship. I'm glad to be here," Emerson said.

"Emerson," Cordova stated, with somewhat of a smirk. "Ever the voice of peace and happiness. And reason," she added.

"I'm just saying ... " His whiskers twitched.

"And I'm just teasing ... we could all do with an attitude like yours." A pause. And a breath. "Unfortunately, I've got too much cheek. Or so I'm told, anyway. And cheeky furs," Cordova said, "can't leave well enough alone. They can't be content. Can they, darling?" she asked, looking to Kempton.

The cinnamon-furred rabbit, his muzzle full of doughnut, simply made a sound of muffled agreement, shaking his head.

Upon which the two mouses giggle-squeaked.

The sounds of friendly, familiar conversation filtering out from their table. Making the snow rabbit ears in the room to waggle with curiosity and surprise. On a snow rabbit ship, laughter was a non-factor. Snow rabbits did not laugh. But the 'warm-bloods' did. And their laughter could be heard daily!

Maybe not music to the ears. But certainly a different tune. And not altogether an unpleasant one, either.