FSE

Furry search engine

formerly SoFurry search engine

The Lady Was Red

By Gideon Kalve Jarvis

Author's Note: This is an original story. Originally it was intended for publication by FurPlanet, but was rejected. So I'm sharing it here instead. I hope you enjoy it. If you like the piece, you can see a lot more of my stuff by searching for “Gideon Kalve Jarvis" on SoFurry.com or FurAffinity.com

Even the rain was greasy.

Breathing in the smooth smoke of his chocolate cigarette, letting its cool blue feeling caress his lungs, Cheddar watched the fat, gooey blobs of water splatter against the pane of the seedy apartment's single extra-wide window. Being a cat, of course, Carmilla kept the place almost immaculate, but it was an old place, and despite all the feline dame's efforts, the ragged bits showed through the seams.

'Raining cats and dogs.' That's what Cheddar wanted to say. He didn't, though. Not when he looked over his shoulder at Carmilla, her black-furred back turned to him as she lay on the bed, the dimples to either side of her tail highlighting her perfect, naked buttocks, toned and supple. A little higher up, though, and the image of feline femininity broke down as the stark, bright chrome of Carmilla's reflex wire showed through her fur. The wire ran along the curve of her spine, vanishing just above her tail and just below the base of her neck, the flesh to either side raw and ragged with fur that would never quite grow back. A reflex wire was one of the more invasive bits of cyberjunk you could have shoved into your body, but it was worth it, as Cheddar well knew. After all, he had one of his own, though he'd been able to afford a higher-grade model, one that didn't show nearly so much. Better shielded, so it couldn't be targeted very well in a fight.

Of course the sex hadn't been out of love. It'd been satisfying for them both, that was true, but Carmilla knew she was hot, and Cheddar knew he was connected. No, no love there. Passion and chemistry, but love wasn't a luxury either of them could afford. Instead, Carmilla and Cheddar had an unspoken arrangement, an exchange of favors: she would rock his world, and he would make sure Cutty's bar and grill was always well-stocked.

Cutty's place was where they both were, in one of the little cubbyhole apartments above the joint. A morph joint, the sort of place where people like Cheddar and Carmilla could hang out without drawing any strange looks. Morphs were the latest and greatest war toy during the big breakdowns of the last few decades, and as the human population was ravaged by war and starvation and disease, it had only made sense to deploy a sort of soldier that was made to be better. Soldiers with a melding of a human's intelligence and ability to use tools, and an animal's numerous natural advantages. Beasts of war whose only purpose was to win them.

'At least until everybody made peace,' Cheddar mused to himself, grinding out the half-molten butt in one of the scent-eliminating ashtrays Carmilla kept scattered around her apartment. 'It's like the fifties all over again, everybody wanting to go home and forget it ever happened.'

From below in the bar, the sound of a banjo plunking away drifted up to Cheddar's wide ratty ears, and he couldn't repress a pleased smirk, music buff that he was, though his tastes tended into the eclectic. It was “Journey of the Sorcerer," an instrumental piece by the old-time human band the Eagles, a bit of music he actually liked. The piece was deceptively complicated, with a simple enough banjo base, joined in by other instruments as it reached its crescendos.

Cutty's bar didn't have any professional musicians, but the customers were allowed to play if they had a mind, and when they did, they played very well indeed. Morphs were made to be superhuman in so many ways. They'd been subliminally trained while being force-grown in their artificial wombs, all the better to crank them out en masse and get them straight onto the battlefield. Among the many skills that were crammed into their heads, alongside all the essential information needed to wage a modern war, was the knowledge of how to play a musical instrument. Which sort was randomized, but it was a common feature all morphs shared, a way their makers could determine if the subliminal training “took."

'Better than human,' Cheddar thought with a soft, cynical snort, looking out over the grungy skyline of his part of the city. 'And now we're discarded like so many broken toys. Tossed into New Rat City and forgotten.'

New Rat City. That was the name of the place, the part of the far bigger city where the morphs lived now. They weren't welcome anywhere else, anywhere with decent people, at least. Crammed in, confined, compressed, the place had an air of desperation about it. A sort of oily feeling that clung to the skin of the soul the same way the rain clung to the skin of the body. Of people building up pressure with no way to let off steam. Morphs might break out of their allotted portion for a while in order to work at the dirty, messy, nasty jobs humans didn't want, the ones that kept the rest of the city running, such as it was. Once they were done for the day, though, back they went, packed in tighter than commuters on a Tokyo subway. That was how it felt, anyway. Like there was no elbow room, no room to breathe, to think, to be.

Unless you happened to be somebody like Cheddar, that is. Cheddar knew that he was free. After all, he was one of the uncrowned kings of New Rat City.

That he happened to be a rat himself was an irony he did not fail to appreciate.

Feeling the slight buzz from the chocolate in his cigarette starting to kick in, helping him through the post coitus down, Cheddar walked to the apartment door and stepped out, leaving Carmilla just starting to stir. He'd been quiet, but she was a morph, after all, and had all the keen senses expected of a cat. She'd come down a little later, of that he was certain, after she'd pulled on some clothes, and maybe do her official job as a waitress. If she didn't find some other lonely guy, or possibly girl (a rarity, but only because more male morphs had been made than female), who needed the attentions of her unofficial job, that is.

The main room of Cutty's was huge, but a casual observer would never know it. There was a central area that was kept open, save for a few scattered tables laid out for the occasional clueless tourist or other loser that somehow wandered out of Humanside and into New Rat City, but most of the regulars preferred the various booths and shadowed corners. Places where they could keep their backs to the walls and their eyes on the doors, without necessarily being seen themselves.

The only waitress on duty, Kali, the smoking hot cheetahbabe, wasn't doing her job-as-written right then. Instead, she was dancing on one of the tables, working a fiddle and her tight little booty in time with Sam Dray's banjo, while Chud, seated on a stool nearby, let his fingers play up and down the house's acoustic guitar. The little spotlights set by the stage, where Sam and Chud were playing, cast their fur in soft light, making the stallion glow like burnished bronze, his mane and tail a river of white gold, while the mohawked hyena's spotty hide turned to a dark and mysterious chiaroscuro, his deep-set eyes pools of midnight Africa.

They didn't look up when Cheddar stepped down from the stairs. What was the need when there was the music to consume them? Cheddar paid them the same courtesy, not interrupting, instead heading toward the bar, where Cutty himself was working, gathering up the plates from the kitchen to be borne to the tables of his customers. If anybody knew the full story, they'd find it kind of funny, or maybe kind of sad, to know about that food and its server. In the kitchen, Stone was the cook. Stone was a bear, huge and hulking. He'd been stationed in France as part of the Mediterranean Defense Initiative, and while there, he'd studied the practices of the great chefs of that great culture, and like just about all morphs could when they applied themselves to a subject, he'd become an undeclared master of the culinary arts. As for Cutty, the well-muscled gatormorph in the white shirt and suspenders held multiple PhD's from various online universities, where they couldn't find out his species, but only his credentials. If the pair had been human, they'd have been rich and famous, or at least satisfied with their places in the world. But they weren't. Instead, they were here, in New Rat City, slinging hash and tending bar.

At least they were among friends.

Cheddar knew these stories, and those of every other mutt and moggie in the joint. It was his business to know, and he was good at his job. The ratmorph was a fixer, the best in New Rat City. That meant that he knew everybody worth knowing, and plenty that weren't, and how to make profitable connections between them all. Everybody had something they needed to sell, whether it was their skills or their goods or their souls, and everybody who knew anything knew Cheddar was the guy who got you to the people who'd pay the most for what you had on offer.

Right now, Cheddar had just brokered a little deal for an exchange of favors. The golden stallion, blue-eyed and beautiful up on the little stage, plunking the last strains of a song on his banjo, was one-third of the deal. Cutty was another third. And Carmilla…well, she'd been the finder's fee end of the triad. Not many folks, morph or not, were willing to bang a ratmorph, after all, and Cheddar had to admit, it had been worth it, settling for favors this time instead of cold cash. Cheddar's love of cash was the reason for his name, of course: he was well known for being willing to do just about anything for his “cheddar." His love of valuta was why nobody trusted him, though; anyone who knew him also knew it was only a matter of time before he'd find a way to use them to make a sawbuck. Made it tough to make friends, of course, but, well, the results spoke for themselves: Cheddar was untouchable because of what, and who, he knew, and when knowledge and favors owed didn't quite cut it, money did.

Fortunately for Cheddar, Sam didn't know him very well. Cutty did, but then, it was Carmilla that made the down payment, not Cutty. Carmilla wasn't afraid to get herself dirty.

As Cheddar watched the ongoing action, he saw that Cutty was coming back to the bar then, arms empty of their load, and Sam was tucking his banjo back into its case. Next to Sam, Chud, a slightly forlorn expression on his face at the end of the music, laid the house guitar on its stool, while Kali handed off her fiddle to the big gator as he passed before she went back to waiting tables like she was supposed to. Not that it was a real hassle for Cutty, of course: the night was slow, and there were only a handful of morphs in the joint that night. A perfect night for making deals on the quiet.

The gator's turquoise glare was pretty intimidating, of course, but Cheddar was ready for it. As for Sam…just looking at him was enough to melt anybody, just a little. The horseguy was tall, broad-shouldered, and beautiful, the way angels are beautiful, but still distinctly masculine. His long mane flowed in wavy locks around his face, and even in blue jeans and plaid shirt, he was poetry in motion. Cheddar was more-or-less het (albeit with a negotiable clause, if enough profit was involved), but he had to admit, the big horsey was hot in ways that defied gender lines. All the same, Cheddar was here for business, not pleasure, so he hopped up onto one of the bar stools and pulled the papers from the inner pocket of his long coat.

“You got real meat to sell, don'tcha Mister Dray?" Cheddar began, getting right to business, and doing his best to ignore the lump that formed when the exquisite equine settled onto the stool next to him, his smile honest and unashamed.

“Sure do," affirmed the beautiful stallion, sharing the light of his smile equally between bartender and fixer, both of them softening their expressions despite their natural inclinations. “Raised, fed, slaughtered, and butchered the cows myself, me and my friends down on the farm. It's prime stuff, the kind of meat you find on human plates on the high end of town, not like the cloned cuts you usually get." He shrugged, and both Cheddar and Cutty could feel all the worry that was weighing on the out-of-town farmer roll off with that gesture. “I was gonna lose everything on this shipment after my deal with my humanside supplier fell through. But then I ran across Mister Cheddar here, and, well…I ain't proud about profit."

His smile at Cutty was easy and forthright, and as much as the big gator didn't like the wiry rat, he could tell right away that Sam was of a very different quality than the usual sort who made deals with Cheddar.

The poor dumb farmboy was in over his head, and had no idea how to swim.

Cheddar'd already worked out the deal, including his cut of the take, and slid the papers over to Cutty for perusal. Actually, though he hadn't engineered it, Sam's misfortune had been something Cheddar was expecting; he always kept tabs on things that could mean money, and food supplies were a big deal in the city, on Humanside and morphside alike. After the neo-blights, a lot of farmland had closed down, their lands ruined, and when the morphs were discharged from their respective militaries, a lot of them had gone out to the empty countryside and taken over the land, squatter style, with nobody to care. Now, though, with peace breaking out with more violence than all prior wars, humans were starting to take back what they'd tossed away. Up until that point, ranchers like Sam commanded top prices for top cuts, real meat being almost unheard-of outside of the kitchens of the fabulously wealthy among the human elite. But when push and shove clashed, humans sided with humans every time, even if it did mean a slightly more expensive steak dinner.

Enter Cheddar, in the right place at the right time as always, an acquaintance Sam knew from the wars (and whose life the big stallion had even saved in the middle of all that unpleasantness), ready to divert a shipment of meat that would otherwise go to waste to New Rat City, where there were plenty of morphs with money. Not the same kind of money that would come from human kitchens, of course, but, well, Sam was humble enough to accept a net profit instead of a net loss, even if it was a lot less than what he'd expected.

Could Cheddar have cheated the big stallion? A guy who'd actually saved his life? Well…yeah, if he'd just bought the stuff wholesale and sold it himself. Of course he thought about that kinda thing. But there was something about those blue eyes and that honest face that just got to Cheddar. That and, seriously, him selling meat? Not likely! Master of jeitinho and other shifty deals he might be, but Cheddar got to where he was by keeping his long-fingered ratty hands as clean as his soul was filthy, thank you very much.

Rat's luck. That's what he'd call it later, because Cutty and Sam were still reading over the papers he'd brought when she walked through the door.

The Lady was red.

And she glowed.

Some people glow. They're the special ones, the ones that stand out in a crowd. Sometimes they become actors, or supermodels, or rock stars. Most of the time they languish in forgotten rooms in forgotten little burbs, guarded jealously by the ones who happen to possess them, or just unnoticed by a population grown jaded. Sam had that kind of a glow to him, but he was happy, relaxed, at peace. The Lady, she was in distress, that much was obvious from word go, from the second she stepped into Cutty's.

Sam noticed her first. Cheddar second. Cutty actually signed his name on the dotted line before he came in a distant third. The clothes were ragged, the shoes…well, there weren't any. But she was still beautiful, and clothes would just be gilding lilies.

Of course there were people after her.

Humans. Cheddar curled his lip at the sight of them. He knew the gang, of course: the “Hentai Hammers," one of the new wave of freaks that roamed the ever more empty streets. Going cyber, actually, was a valid strategy to avoid catching one of the neo-plagues, and if you were a nobody with a penchant for violence and a need for backup, being a Hammer wasn't the worst choice of occupation. A Hammer was required to cyber himself so he looked the same as the rest of his gang, face porcelain perfect, skin milk smooth and flawless, save for the lines that marked the access ports. Touching someone cybered that heavily was worse than touching a cold, dead fish, but then, if you were close enough to touch a Hammer, you were probably a little more concerned about other matters.

What bothered Cheddar wasn't the human thugs advancing on the Lady, even as she somehow fell so artfully into Sam's arms, the beautiful farmboy already up and reaching her with the blurred all-natural speed of a morph on an adrenaline high as Cheddar analyzed the situation. No, the part that got to Cheddar was the burly boarmorph in the back of the group, the one who was obviously in charge. A morph, giving orders to humans? Yeah, there was something up here. Something bad.

Being the dumb screwheads they were, of course, the Hammers didn't stop to consider the context of their latest attempt at ill-doing. Not once, it seemed, did it occur to them to try and be polite when they were the outsiders in a morph joint. They didn't even bother talking, that's how dumb they were, just advanced on Sam, tall and beautiful in the dim light of the bar, holding the Lady protectively in those strong arms. Even an all-human crowd would've known immediately who were the good guys and who were the bad as weapons were pulled, knives brandished, even a gun by one lucky sod who could afford the bullets. Humans would've hesitated, even knowing they were in the right. Morphs, though…morphs were made for this sort of thing.

Chud was the first one into the fray, as anybody who knew the big hyena thug also knew he had a heart that was way too soft for his own good, and seemed to have developed a liking for the horse who'd shared some time with him on the stage. Cheddar, to his limitless surprise, was second, his reflex wire kicking in, making him blur from an outsider's perspective, while from his own, the world slowed to a tortoise's crawl. The broad-shouldered, mohawked hyena's fist shattered the flawless anime-style face of the Hammer in the lead, sending shards of supposedly bulletproof ceramic scattering all over Cutty's nice clean floor, while Cheddar took the gun away from the idiot swinging it around, using it like a lever to snap the ceramoplastic wrist of its former owner. About half a second later, Kali was there from across the room, the speed and fury of her attacks making it pretty clear where she'd got her nickname: as a cheetahmorph, she blurred when she got going, even without a wire like Cheddar's, making it look like she had the multiple limbs of some Indian goddess. Then whoever else was in the bar joined, Carmilla yowling like a fiend out of Hell as she leapt over the tables, and before a full minute had passed, it was all over, except for the question of who was going to clean up the mess.

No weapons were drawn by the morphs in the bar. No weapons were needed.

The Hentai Hammers didn't have a chance.

Only the pig in the back was left still in Cutty's by the end, though a look at his face made it pretty clear he'd rather be just about anywhere else right then, Cutty's grip firm on his wrists, pinning them behind his back with one of those judo holds known to bartenders and bouncers all over. And while the piggy was white-eyeing the place, realizing just how bad he'd screwed up, leading the Hentai Hammers on a hunt after a beautiful Lady right into a den of lions, Cutty's eyes went to Cheddar. The big gator knew when it was time to let a professional do his job.

“Back room," said the rat, rolling his shoulders as he pulled out another chocolate cigarette and casually lit it while the gator moved to comply. At the same time, Sam carefully used his body to shield the Lady in his arms from the sight of what was left of the Hammers, guiding her to one of the booths, while Kali and Carmilla got to work on cleanup. The rest of the patrons, meanwhile, quietly exited, knowing their part was over for the night.

Sometime later, Cheddar left the back room, the band SIAMÉS' “The Wolf" wailing on the radio he'd set up for a soundtrack, and suddenly cutting off when he shut the door behind him. It was a cold song, just the sort of backdrop to a cold thing like what he'd done to the shaggy-furred boar. But at least he'd made the pig squeal. That was the whole point, after all.

And there was the Lady, sitting huddled in a booth with Sam, red on gold, both of them ageless and glowing like faerie creatures escaped from Neverland. She didn't say anything, but then, Cheddar somehow guessed that she wouldn't, or maybe couldn't. Her eyes were expressive enough to take the place of words, though, a startling blue color against the backdrop of her red fur. That Sam was taken with her, heart and soul, and very possibly she with him, didn't need any explaining, not with the way he kept his arms around her, and not with the way she pressed back into his broad, strong chest.

“Carmine Bloodwell," Cheddar said, settling with a tired sign onto one of the bar stools. A different one this time. For variety.

“We're in over our heads, then," said Cutty, shaking his head as he finished polishing a shotglass and set it aside. He'd sent Kali and Carmilla upstairs, and the rest of the place was shut down for the night, no signs of its prior activities showing anywhere. “Should've guessed that from the start, though. If a unicorn walks into your bar, you know there's gonna be trouble."

That was the sticker, of course: the Lady was a unicorn. Obviously a high-end model of morph, something made for purposes far different than dealing death on a battlefield. A pleasure model, unless Cheddar's understanding of human nature had failed him suddenly. Anybody that could afford something like the Lady was going to shell out a lot to get her back. And if whoever it was wanted to reach her in New Rat City, the person would have to go through Carmine Bloodwell.

“Carmine's the boss of New Rat City," Cheddar answered the questions in Sam's eyes before the big blonde stallion could form the words, then pulled deep on his chocolate before he spilled out the rest of the situation. “Undisputed. Runs pretty close to everything, and what he don't run directly, pays him tribute. Even Cutty here tosses his thugs shekels over the bartop for protection every year."

“Still better than paying taxes," the gator snorted with feigned good humor from the other side of the bar. “But if it's Carmine Bloodwell who wants her," he didn't meet Sam's blue-eyed gaze, “I don't know what we can do for you, Sam."

“There's got to be something we can do!" exclaimed the horse, the desperation in his honeyed Irish tenor striking a chord somewhere deep inside the rat. A part of him he'd never known existed, or perhaps had simply worked hard to forget about. Now, though, looking over at the beautiful young man cradling the even more beautiful young woman in his arms, both of them huddled in one of the booths, out of sight of the front window, their eyes on him, as though he could solve all the problems in the whole messed up world…

“Lucky for me the pig's still alive," Cheddar grunted as he got to his feet and started walking to the door, the remote unit built into the base of his spine already warming up his car in the parking lot. “Otherwise this meeting'd be a lot more awkward."

“Cheddar," Sam called out before the rat stepped out the door, pulling Cheddar's eyes back toward the booth, and the four blue eyes looking into his wine dark ones. “Thanks."

“Sure," answered the rat, dropping his gaze and walking out the door. “Anything for a friend."

Honestly, Sam was kind of a friend. Most of the morphs in New Rat City knew each other in some form or fashion, by reputation at least, but Sam and Cheddar, they'd actually known each other in that period of their lives nobody talked about. Trying his best to focus on the peppy music rather than the lyrics of Little Boots' “Remedy" as he made his way through the night's downpour, Cheddar grit his teeth as he recalled incidents on bloodstained battlefields, and considered whether or not he still had debts to pay. Did you ever really pay off a guy who saved your life? But the less you thought about the shadows of war, the better; that was another life, another world, and like everybody else, Cheddar wanted more than anything just to forget.

He'd gotten pretty close to doing just that by the time he walked into Carmine Bloodwell's sanctum, set up in one of the old office buildings that used to be filled with the workings of human finance, but which had been left to decay after humanity's population tanked. A pretty standard kind of place for New Rat City, in other words. This part just happened to be closer to Humanside than most, its neighborhood correspondingly more upper-crust, approaching human levels of living quality. The well-armed wolves at the door didn't do a thing to keep him out, nor to slow his ascent up the many stories to the corner office, taking the express elevator. Obviously he was expected.

Somewhere deep inside everyone there's a reflex action, a pit of dark horror leftover from the days before flint and fire made the nights bearable. Humans like to hide their primal selves, but morphs know that place better than most, the beasts on their outsides a mirror of the beasts within. When Cheddar stepped into the office of Carmine Bloodwell, and saw the hippo sitting there, looking at him from across the massive walnut desk with eyes that had calmly overseen the deaths of what had to be thousands by now, and the deaths of tens of thousands more by the damning devils of paperwork, the rat could feel something rising up from that dark pit.

If Carmine decided to kill him, Cheddar knew he was gonna scream.

“I assume you are here about the Lady."

It was Carmine that started the conversation, of course, his voice like the roar of a lion, if you took away the roar. It was a deep, British-accented rumbling basso that trembled through your body, shaking you to the core with its power and barely-restrained force. Not trusting his own voice right then, Cheddar just nodded.

“Do you know anything about her?"

Cheddar shook his head.

“As it should be," said the hippo, rising from his seat, his white suit stained with the blood that was his sweat despite all the protective undergarmentry he wore, his skin glistening like the floor of an abattoir. “Care for a pinch of catmint, Mister Cheddar? To steady your nerves. I want to make a deal with you, and I want you rational while we make it."

“Sure, thanks," answered the rat, taking a sprig of the gengineered weed, a blend specially designed to react to a morph's systems, from a pot on the hippo's desk and popping it in his mouth. Combined with the chocolate he'd smoked on the way over, the 'nip did indeed work wonders to bring Cheddar down without dulling his senses too much. “Guess there's some big money involved here if you're not gonna just slash-and-burn your way to what you want."

“Contrary to popular beliefs," Carmine drawled as he went to a nearby wet bar and mixed himself a drink, something with a strong herbal scent (morphs stayed away from alcohol for fear of going atavistic; Cutty's usually only served booze to human visitors), “I prefer to settle my affairs amicably whenever possible. After all," he turned to face Cheddar, and the rat couldn't avoid the sense of mass the hulking man carried with him, “there are plenty of profit to go around, are there not?"

“Sure, Mister Bloodwell," Cheddar agreed immediately, even as the Lady's face flashed in his memory, her inhumanly blue eyes boring into his depths. “Sure, we can cut a deal. Just…I wanna know what's going on here."

A hand as big as Cheddar's whole head settled casually on the desk as Carmine sipped his drink with the other, collecting his thoughts. How anyone could convey such a perfect sense of barbarism and civility at the same time boggled Cheddar's mind, and almost made him miss what the hippo said next.

“She's a real unicorn."

Blinking several times, the rat looked at the hippo, waiting for the other shoe to drop. It didn't.

“Like I'm sure you did, I thought she was a designer toy when she came to me some days back, escaped from her well-heeled captors. No ability to speak, but those eyes…." He paused a moment, then drained his glass. “A distasteful matter, to be sure, but all the same, I began making inquiries. As lovely as she is, I don't run a charity, and I'm not the sort to take favors in lieu of money." The pointed look he shot Cheddar told the rat just what the big guy thought of the smaller male. “Instead, the ones looking for her found me. They have vastly greater resources than I do, I assure you, Mister Cheddar. And if they are more powerful than me, you can easily imagine where you fall in the spectrum."

“Bug on a windshield," Cheddar supplied promptly.

“Dust in the wind," Carmine affirmed. “They wanted her, quite eager for the Lady after she had escaped them before, and offered an exorbitant sum. Naturally I refused…until they began to offer me more than money. And an explanation." He took one of the sprigs of 'nip and held it up between finger and thumb. “That plant was dead, you know. I haven't got a green thumb, though I still try from time to time. She healed it. Touched it once, and it just…" he trailed off, then slipped the sprig under his tongue to let it slowly dissolve, leaking its juices into his system. “What do you know about Christian mythology?"

The question came out of nowhere, as far as Cheddar was concerned. All the same, he shrugged, not seeing any reason to fumble around with a lie.

“Bit here, bit there," he answered. “More'n the average churchgoer, I'd guess, but not as much as a divinities major."

“You know about the seals Saint John talked about in his Revelation, then?"

“You gonna tell me she's a horse of the Apocalypse?" Cheddar asked with a laugh…or, at least, it started as a laugh. The expression on Carmine's face made him dry up pretty fast.

“Common Protestant misconceptions," the hippo declared with a dismissive handwave. “Like the idea that Revelation is the chronologically last book of the Bible…or that the Bible is actually just one book. Or what the four horsemen of the Apocalypse actually are." He walked to his bulletproof-glassed window, locking his hands behind his back, obviously unconcerned with what Cheddar might try, or knowing the rat wasn't dumb or desperate enough for any suicide attacks. “But there are older texts with a great deal more information on the subject. I know: I confirmed them when my…patrons told me about them while they were increasing the value of their offer. They confirm the popular theory: there are, in fact, four 'seals' that stave off the end of the world. Living seals.

“War. Pestilence. Famine. Death." Each word was a nail hammered home in a coffin, and Cheddar took another sprig of 'nip just to keep his hands from shaking at the raw conviction in Carmine's voice…and the strange certainty of their truth that echoed in his own heart. “They are actual beings. War is a red horse with a red horn. Pestilence is black, Famine is white. And Death," he took a long breath, then let it out slowly. “Death is pale."

“The Lady's the embodiment of war?" Cheddar half-scoffed, though the belief was already worming its way into his heart, a slow poison that would soon take effect.

“Not the embodiment," Carmine corrected. “Its seal. As long as she lives, war remains bound. Not on a small scale," he added, glancing toward Cheddar to silence his counter. “Global war. War of extermination. War that heralds the beginning of the end.

“But she is valuable for other reasons as well, if you are willing to take the risk of mutually-assured destruction," the hippo continued, walking to his desk and pulling out the chair, enlarged and reinforced for his terrifying size. “The reasons my present patrons want her. Why I want her. She is," he paused, halfway seated, frowning as he searched for the words, “valuable meat." His eyes met Cheddar's then, and Cheddar almost swore he could see regret on the other man's face at the horror he saw written on the rat's. “Immortality is not something for scoffing, Mister Cheddar. All it takes is a slice of a unicorn's meat, and you can live…well, perhaps not forever, but a very long time." He spread his skullcrushing hands in a gesture of helplessness. “Two of her sisters are already lost. Famine died in Cape Town. Pestilence died in Beijing. Nobody knows where Death might be, but she is off-limits anyway, since she is the final seal keeping the world from ending. Now matters have gotten desperate. My patrons have offered me a seat at the feasting table. They have also offered me space on their orbital pleasure dome, where we can sit, and dine, and watch the world burn."

“I can see how that kinda deal would be hard to turn down," admitted Cheddar. “And speaking of deals…"

“Yes, your 'cut,'" Carmine almost sneered the word, but stopped himself, reaching beneath the desk and pulling out a briefcase. “I was informed of your movements once you left Cutty's, and decided to put together what I thought would be…ample compensation for your assistance in retrieving the 'item' in question."

“Yeah," Cheddar responded, blinking twice as he snapped open the case, and then snapped it shut again and tucked it tightly under one arm. “That's one word for it. Um…can I go make some arrangements? Make sure all the pieces are in the right place? It's not like a good double-cross happens on its own, ya know."

“Of course," Carmine declared magnanimously. “I think dawn should be more than enough time for even the most elaborate of betrayals. Say…six o'clock?" He noted Cheddar's nod with a grim smile across his wide, glistening mouth. “Oh, and one more thing: what did you do with Sounder?"

“You mean the pig with those human goons?" scoffed Cheddar. “He'll need a good dentist, but I guess you should be able to get him back to work in about a month." The rat shrugged, an apologetic look on his face. “Nobody expects you to go after the teeth. Since I needed him to start talking fast, those tusks were too much for me to resist."

“I will bear that in mind," Carmine said ominously. “All the same, I am glad he's still alive: Sounder is a good worker, for all his flaws. Now, I expect you can see yourself out, Mister Cheddar."

Cheddar could, and did.

The moment he was out of sight of Carmine Bloodwell's office building, Cheddar activated the hands-free cell in his car. Even if the car itself was an old junker, albeit one big enough for all but the very largest of morphs to sit comfortably, it had plenty of features that would surprise a casual viewer, or someone who didn't know Cheddar that well.

“Cutty?" he queried when he heard the click of a receiver picking up. “You there? It's Cheddar."

“You're playing Leonard Cohen's 'Everybody Knows,' Cheddar," Cutty noted as he heard the soundtrack Cheddar had chosen for his drive back to the bar, his voice suspicious. “What're you…?"

“You still got the Lady where you are?"

“Sam too," Cutty affirmed, and Cheddar could easily imagine the curl of the big gator's lips (for unlike a real alligator, Cutty did indeed have lips) to reveal the bed of spikes that lined his mouth.

“Don't talk, Cutty," growled Cheddar, his voice urgent as he turned down his sound system. “Listen. The song's my mood; if I was about to betray you, or Sam, or the Lady, I'd be playing nothing at all. I've got Carmine's money in my back seat, and that should buy us some time. He's…no," though Cutty couldn't see it, Cheddar shook his head anyway, “no time to explain anything right now. Just time for prep. Get Cassius on the horn. He's living with Chud, and if Chud left when you closed up, then they're all still awake over at their place. Tell him it's time he paid off that favor he owes me. The big one. Tell him to bring it to the ruined parking garage over by your place. You get over there too, you and Sam and the Lady. I saw Sam in the service, saw what he can do, and he'll know how to handle matters once he sees what Cassius brings. Once Sam and the Lady are inside it, get lost and stay lost until further notice: New Rat City's about to become a warzone.

“As for what Sam should do next," Cheddar continued, “tell him to get out of town, anyway he can. Tell him not to come back, either. Just go out to the country and disappear. Not like anybody'd know where to find him outside New Rat City anyway. I was making calls all up and down while I was driving to Carmine Bloodwell's place, tapping my contacts, and I found out that the big guy's got all sorts of forces deplayed. The rest of the Hentai Hammers, the Scream, the West End Shorties, and more, they're all out, and they're packing. We've got maybe minutes before the net closes all the way, and even then, there's gonna be fighting. Tell Sam to just get going the moment he can. Me, I'm coming as fast as traffic allows. If I can make it in time, I'll back him up. If not," the rat bared his teeth to the night air, “I'll make sure nobody gets their grubby mitts on the Lady. Nobody. And that's a promise."

There was a long pause as Cutty processed what Cheddar had just told him.

“You don't make promises, Cheddar," the gator finally said, his voice subdued. “You never do." Then he shifted to his more normal tones. “Sam heard it all on the speakerphone. I'll call Cassius as soon as we end this call."

“Thanks, Cutty," Cheddar said quietly, eyes trained on the road, on the flashes of light that marked the passing of Carmine's soldiers on other roads parallel to his own. “If we're still alive by the end of the night, I'll owe you a favor…a small one."

Cutting the connection, Cheddar fumbled inside his glove compartment with one hand, finding the little remote control switch he expected. A casual observer might have thought it was a garage door opener, but anything beyond that casual glance would make it plain that it was something much more. The thumbprint scanner on the back, for starters, and the twist lever on the side. Dropping the item into his coat pocket, Cheddar began flipping switches, activating the car's various systems; old junker on the outside, packed to the gills with heat on the inside. With Carmine putting the word out, there weren't going to be any civilians on the streets tonight.

“Open season," Cheddar whispered, grinning widely as he turned onto another street, coming up behind one of the heavily-armed buggies the Scream favored. Anybody who didn't belong, and had any degree of sense, always went heavily armed when entering New Rat City. So did plenty of its denizens, as Cheddar soon demonstrated, the front-mounted guns popping free of their concealed housing and opening up with the chatter of disintegrating links.

Cheddar only hoped he didn't get so distracted that he missed the main event.

*

“A Light Mobile Tank," Sam exclaimed, gape-mouthed, as he looked up at the sleek steel beast, then reached out to worshipfully stroke its lower rear leg, starting up as high as he could reach.

Glowering nearby was a heavily-scarred, heavily-muscled panther, his eyes searing gold in the darkness of the ruined parking garage, his black sweatpants the only nod he made toward civility. Sneering at Cutty, he turned on his heel and stalked from the rubble-strewn building.

“Tell Cheddar we're even," he snarled in his deep baritone, not looking back. Obviously he didn't expect to see his prized possession again, and wasn't taking the loss well.

The Light Mobile Tank, as Sam had called it, was a thing of sleek, mirrored black steel, like a nightsworn predator of the primordial jungle, almost a full story tall at rest. Rather than tires or treads, it had long, powerful legs, further enhancing the image of a hunting beast, presently folded up beneath it, to better allow a pilot to climb inside. Perhaps more than anything else, the invention of the Light Mobile Tank had made the presence of morphs mandatory on the modern battlefield, for the strange, near-organic vehicles of battle were faster, more agile, and yet as heavily-armed as any main battle tank. What they lost in a slight reduction of armor plating, they more than made up for in sensor-proofing and ability to outmaneuver any company of more traditional tanks. But to use such potential to its fullest required a pilot that was similarly enhanced, able to take full advantage of such speed and grace. Mere human reflexes alone simply would not suffice in such matters; only morphs could make full, proper use of a Light Mobile Tank.

Morphs like Sam.

“Don't be afraid," the golden stallion said softly, soothingly, as he gently guided the Lady up the stepladder Cutty had carried out, and then lightly lifted her up into the open cockpit just behind the “head" of the great steel beast. “Just slip into that alcove behind the pilot's seat…that's it. Now strap yourself in tight…here, let me help…good, just like that." He cupped her chin, half-stepping into the cockpit himself, smiling down into the woman's beautiful face, trying to project reassurance and masculine protectiveness onto her, as though will and love alone could dispel all the foes arraigned against her. “I'll get us out of here," he said, leaning in close. “Nobody will take you anywhere without your permission. I promise."

Cutty turned away as Sam and the Lady kissed, a slightly darker green tinge coloring the scales of his cheeks.

“You better hurry," he said in a slightly husky voice, his sharp turquoise eyes darting to the movement of shadows thrown on walls many blocks away, accompanied by the sounds of roaring engines and gleefully-whooping human voices. “Cheddar's just bought you a little time, so you'd better use it well."

“Cutty," Sam said, turning back to the big gator, beaming his heart-melting smile on the other man. “Thanks."

So saying, Sam slid into the pilot's chair, a forward-swept couch on which the driver lay face-down, molding his body into a rough replica of the Light Mobile Tank itself. While a traditional pilot would wear a form-hugging uniform (and some purists were even known to go naked) when entering a LMT, Sam's cotton clothes were hardly a serious detriment to his abilities, and soon the gel padding of the pilot's capsule closed around him, snugging tight against his sleek, powerful form, merging him fully with the even more sleek and powerful LMT.

*

The first shots were easily audible to Cheddar as he tore around a corner, the sound sensors in his junker carrying everything directly to his ears, while dampening the rest so as not to damage those large, sensitive ratty appendages. While an LMT might be incredibly quiet for a vehicle of its size, the weapons it carried were anything but. Turning up the interior speakers as he took in the scene playing out, Cheddar let the thrill of the band Slightly Left of Center's “Love The Way You Move" on infinite loop rattle his bones as he opened up with his main guns on the nearest Scream warbuggy, then let the junker screech into a turn, leaving long trails of black on the cement as he rushed up behind the Light Mobile Tank, letting its scorpion-like tail lash right above him, trusting in Sam's skill to let the stallion recognize him as friend, not foe.

That trust was well-placed as Cheddar hung to the middle of the road, while the LMT ducked one way, then the other. Sam even used the buildings themselves as parkour springboards to get serious airtime, tail-mounted missiles and mouth-mounted electromagnetic cannon tearing through the buggies on all sides, staying just one step ahead of their roof-mounted chainguns and flamethrowers.

Seriously, Cheddar thought to himself: who brings flamethrowers to a running gun battle?

Then they entered the gauntlet. Cheddar bared his sharp ratty teeth as he felt the shift, saw the change in the terrain. This was one of the unpopulated segments of New Rat City, a no-man's land zone, left fallow simply because there weren't enough people to fill up the buildings. Well, now there were enough, and to spare, as humans sporting gang colors, Shorties mostly, suddenly sprang up on rooftops, rocket launchers resting on their shoulders, machine guns tight in their hands. Top-quality stuff, Cheddar couldn't help but notice, obviously the finest equipment Carmine Bloodwell could pull together on such short notice. Other such foes leapt out of alleys, screaming their fury as they shot and died, blowing their loads of lead before disintegrating into red mist under the onslaught of an LMT, Cheddar's side guns playing backup for the few that Sam missed.

However, it wasn't all giving; there was some taking as well. A rocket here, a salvo of bullets there. The LMT was fast and it was agile and it was shielded against most targeting systems, and of course it had a fantastic pilot, but…

Then they were through the gauntlet, the LMT limping now, not as fast, not as agile, but still moving, still burning up the miles, still tearing its way toward the edge of New Rat City. Away from the humans that had dared to profane her streets with their presence. Away from avarice, away from ambition, and back to the pastoral lands that filled up so much of the world, now that humanity had done such a fine job at self-annihilation.

Maybe they were going to make it.

They were going to make it!

Of course, Cheddar thought with a sigh as he rounded the next turn, seconds behind the now almost weaponless tail-end of the LMT, and saw the fastcrete barrier erected at the far end of the street: they'd never had a chance at making it.

The street punks manning the impromptu fortifications might not have been anything more than cannon fodder, but here and there Cheddar could see morphs, people he knew, some of whom he'd even helped to get their present jobs as mercenaries and security forces. A broad-shouldered wolf, a keen-eyed tiger, a steady-faced polar bear, and still others, these were combat veterans, people who knew what they were doing. They were obviously only serving as advisors in the present situation, because they were the clear minority, but their discipline and skill with the tools of their trade was still obvious, for the rapidly deployed fortress in the middle of the street was bristling with weapons, each one manned by a human high on the lust for blood.

Under the first salvo, the LMT faltered, stumbling, before it returned fire, sending the gang-bangers manning one section of the wall flying with a well-placed heat seeker. Cheddar slowed, firing off the last of his mini-missiles before he deactivated the junker's weapons and sound systems and came to a complete stop. He was close enough for his part to play in the closing scene of this drama, and that was all that was needed; no sense committing suicide in the process. Once he'd drawn up to a dead stop, he opened the door of his car and stepped out, leaning on the hood of the junker as he watched the tragedy to come act out before him. In one hand, casually held, was the remote device he'd brought out earlier.

One leg of the LMT suddenly gave out, disabled though not destroyed, as a splat-launcher hit home with its charge of molten copper, striking right in the tarsals. At the speeds Sam had been riding the machine, there was no way for him to stay upright, and the Light Mobile Tank faceplanted, its shoulder-mounted guns still firing even as the slam to the pavement snapped its jaws shut, preventing the use of the electromagnetic cannon. All the same, even as wolf and tiger and bear clambered up the side of the LMT, heading straight for the door to the cockpit, Cheddar could see the glow from that terrible toothed maw, and knew that Sam must be trying to override the safety circuits. Perhaps he could still pull something from the jaws of defeat, something pyrrhic if nothing else, if only he would be spared a few more seconds.

Those seconds weren't spared, as the three professionals blew the door with shaped charges, then roughly hauled the struggling stallion out, dragging him away from the LMT with all their combined might. Even at that distance, Cheddar's old training let him see that the three mercs were actively trying to avoid seriously hurting Sam, hence why it took all three of them to take him down: killing blows, after all, were easy, but to not kill a foe…now that was hard, whatever your level of skill.

As soon as the four morphs were clear, human troops, black-clad corporate security goons by the look of them, were rushing forward. No common street thugs here, cannon fodder to be thrown away at will. No, these were real soldiers, the loyal troops of the dark masters at whom Carmine Bloodwell had only hinted.

And there was the Lady, beautiful in the moonlight, long hair flowing in the breeze put up by the fires Sam's efforts had started. Since the city didn't provide power to the unused portions of New Rat City, even stars could be seen above, and the moon was especially silver and bright, acting as a natural spotlight on the glorious goddess standing below it. In that moment, Cheddar almost believed what Carmine had said, that the Lady was a real unicorn, a two-legged wonder of legend made flesh.

The next moment, just as the cruel hands of the wicked humans were almost upon her, he saw her eyes on him, that blue gaze piercing his soul. Ever so slightly, Cheddar saw the Lady nod. If Cheddar didn't act, all that lay ahead of her was terror and pain. Only Cheddar could save her from that awful fate, an anticipation that would be far worse than the inevitable death that waited at its end.

His expression going cold and hard and dead, Cheddar activated the self-destruct mechanism in his hand.

All Light Mobile Tanks were equipped with a remote destruct device. At first, this had been because the technology was so new and innovative, and the pilots, being morphs, so expendable. The practice was continued even after other nations gained access to the technology, however, because most human commanders never did learn to fully trust the bestial soldiers so willing to fight and die at their least whims. As a show of ultimate trust, Cassius had given Cheddar his own self-destruct remote after Cheddar had helped him smuggle the LMT back home, listing it officially as destroyed in action. Now the time for using that trust, expending it like so many other resources, had come.

The Lady was ash and dust in less than a second. She probably hadn't felt a thing.

Still meditating on this cold comfort as he watched the soldiers picking up what remained of their comrades who'd been too close to the blast site, everybody too busy to notice one stray street rat, Cheddar turned first his ears and then his head as an especially tall and well-armored stretch limo pulled up behind him, blocking off the street. The dapper Doberman morph who played the role of chauffeur got out, and opened the door for his passenger: Carmine Bloodwell.

“You're fast on the scene, Mister Bloodwell," Cheddar quipped dryly.

“I was expecting results, one way or the other," the hippopotamus replied, his stately voice deadly calm as he approached the rat, cold murder in his eyes.

“Money's in the back seat," Cheddar returned with a shrug. “You're gonna need it, I'd guess, considering the lesson you had to learn today."

“Not to trust you?" said Carmine, now within easy reach of the rat with those mighty crushing arms and rending hands. “Not to have dealings with…"

“Don't you wanna know my motives before you do something even you can't undo?" the rat asked, too exhausted from the letdown of his adrenaline crash to be really frightened, even when he was staring death in the face. “For all you know, this might just be an opportunity in disguise. After all, it's not like you lost any of your people here. And when were humans ever gonna share high tea and unicorn cupcakes with a filthy morph? Besides all that, you've learned something important here, if you'll just take the time to consider what it is."

“I am listening," Carmine said, lowered his clenched fists back to his sides.

“The way I saw it," Cheddar continued, emboldened by the fact that his head wasn't yet a bloody smear between the hippo's palms, “there was no way I was gonna win going directly up against you, not even with all my favors called in all at once. But there were a couple really big reasons for me to do just that, not least of which was, sheesh, eating people is just plain disgusting!

“But that aside, you forgot to show me respect, Mister Bloodwell: like it or not, I'm still one of the uncrowned kings of New Rat City. Sure, you're the boss, and I respect you, but in return I expect a little back. Dosh is important, but it's easy to get. Respect and reputation, though, now those are expensive, and treating me like you did, trying to buy me off like I was some gutter trash, that would've cost me a lot more in the long run if I'd just let it slide.

“Hence the light show," Cheddar continued, turning his back on Carmine to gesture toward the wreck and ruin down the street, knowing perfectly well that death could come at any time no matter which way he was facing. “Hence all the wasted brass and blown ordinance and called in favors. I needed to make a point, Mister Bloodwell, not just for me, but for all the morphs of New Rat City." He turned, his eyes meeting Carmine's, who hadn't moved from his spot halfway between his car and Cheddar's. “No matter how high you climb, you don't forget that you stay up there only as long as you have our respect."

“I suppose," Carmine mused, taking in a long breath, then letting it out slowly, the force of that action alone enough to make Cheddar shudder where he was standing, “that you may have just saved my position, then. As for my reputation with my would-be patrons, you do make a good point: I could sense the contempt in their voices even as they bargained with me. They would surely have betrayed me at my weakest moment, ending my life for the crime of daring to presume myself their equal. Since their own soldiers were involved in this operation, it will be a simple enough matter to wipe away the stain as a jointly-shared fault. I will lose face, but at least we will part ways without bloodshed." He turned, starting back toward his car door, opened for him on the instant by the Doberman, waving carelessly with one hand toward Cheddar's junker. “You can keep the briefcase, Cheddar. Consider it a fee for a lesson well-learned."

Maybe enough to fix up the LMT, Cheddar thought to himself, already calculating earning back his favor with Cassius and those who were friends with the big panther. Those calculations were brought to an abrupt halt, however, as Carmine paused, just before slipping back into the interior of his limo.

“Cheddar," said the hippo, looking at the rat with something akin to worry in his eyes. “What if it's true? What if we just killed an angel meant to protect us all, and broke the seal binding back War from raining down on our world?"

“Then business," said Cheddar, pulling a chocolate cigarette from his pocket and lighting it, “is about to pick up for all of us."

Turning as the limo rolled off, back to a better class of neighborhood, Cheddar nodded in thanks to the three morphs who carried the emotionally exhausted Sam to the junker, opening the door as they helped him slide into the shotgun side. Once they were clear, he slid into the driver's seat and started it up.

“I'll never deal in meat again," Sam said, just shy of delirious from the pain of loss and the now-stabilized injuries he'd sustained from the very few bullets that had passed through the numerous protections of his cockpit; those three professionals had at least had the decency to use some spray-on bandages on the poor Stallion, his golden coat now stained with red, turning it a very dark bronze. “I'm going back to the country, where I'll raise horses and fields full of tall, healthy crops."

“Best idea I've heard all day," said Cheddar, tapping the sound system. As he began the long drive back to Cutty's, the mournful cries of R.E.M.'s “Losing My Religion" rose up, giving words and sensation to what they were both feeling.

“No offense, Cheddar," Sam continued, turning his beautiful, sorrow-torn blue eyes on the rat, “but I don't ever want to see your face again."

“No offense taken, Sam," Cheddar replied. “This is New Rat City, after all. There's no room for happy endings here."