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Chapter Four

My Life Is...

1

All time in between was long forgotten. The faint hue of tiny, blue desert dunes rippled off the great overpass like a cataract frozen in time. A thin, cyan light zebra-striped the room to the dresser, the mirror over it reflecting an image of Miles on top, embraced in Rodney's arms on the bed. His tie drooped around his collar as a furred hand pawed at his shirt, reaching for the buttons. One claw unsheathed as his finger slipped atop the raccoon's shirt, tearing the thread beneath the top button, but he hardly even noticed as the warmth between their lips brought sensitivity no amount of goosebumps could ever sum up.

And then, it hit him.

His eyes burst open.

"I'm not well."

His tone was cold. Like the fingers curling through Rodney's head were shooting icicles beneath the skin, sinking down to his spine.

"What?" Rodney mustered, equal volume.

"Why's it so cold?"

"I don't think that's a conversation for-"

"Holy fuck."

Miles rose from the bed, grabbing his temples, fading in and out of the subtle light as he paced the room. Rodney was stunned, wanting more than anything to get up and help, but finding himself locked to the mattress as the words the cat mumbled over and over again snaked through his ears:

"This isn't happening. This isn't happening. This isn't happening."

Those icicles in Rodney's spine burst and expanded to a blizzard. His mind raced as he thought to retrace his every step, every word, reaching back a little further than he needed to each time. When he ran out of memories, he thought of the collection of plug-in chips to his Pod that'd give him dating advice, love advice, dumb little romance stories. None of them had anything like this. Like a movie, he was forced to watch.

"This isn't happening. This isn't happening. This isn't happening."

Now Rodney was saying it, too. One of them had to break the silence.

"What's going on?" Rodney blurted.

Miles came to a halt with a hand on the desk and a blink with a nod, back to the world in front of him.

"I, uh," he said. "Must've been a glitch in my head or something."

"Rodney," Miles asked, "have you ever tried to convince yourself you're someone you're not? You see the table out before you, and all the cards are in the right place, and all that has to change is you. Would you do it?"

"That's pretty vague," he replied. "What are the cards? What's the catch? And more importantly, what does this have to do with what we just shared?"

"It has everything to do with it," Miles grunted. "I could point to a thousand different moments off the top of my head, but not once, have I felt it in a place like this. This is..." He snapped his eyes shut. "This is ridiculous."

Rodney blinked. "I don't think it's like that."

"I need names," Miles said. "I'm gonna look up who's associated with that store and check for anomalies in the..." He sighed through his grit teeth and muttered, "Fuck, wait, I can't-"

"You're not making sense."

"I need to run an investigation."

"Why?"

"Because I'm gonna ask them what the hell you did to my meal!"

Rodney sprang from the bed, marching over to him. "Miles, are you serious?!"

"Yes!"

"Do you take me for some kind of psychopath that drugs people off the side of the street? I'll tell you something, big man, if I'da done that, you wouldn't even be asking that question."

Miles sulked, wiping his eyes. "Fuck...."

"No, it's fine," Rodney said. "This is special. All you need to do is come back to the bed."

"No," Miles sighed. "Fuck, fuck, this is too real."

"Well, here, let's go to the kitchen instead."

"The kitchen? What the fuck's in the kitchen?"

"A place for you to sit."

2

Rodney flicked on the light switch as they entered, harsh light orbs on the clean tables from the L-counter to the kitchen table in the center, a black curtain coating all rooms beyond it. In between it sat the long, wooden table, four chairs on each side; the raccoon motioned him to the furthest one before heading towards the cabinet for a glass. He kept it barely under the faucet as he poured the water since it was still full of dishes.

After he filled up another for himself, he passed over one of the glasses and then took the opposite seat. Pain was in his eyes. He grasped his head as though he could feel it. Just watching him, Rodney could hardly tell. Miles interlaced his fingers, his leg stomping the ground as he at least heard his partner take a deep breath.

"I'm just...." he pursed his lips briefly. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean for this to happen. I meant to just walk home myself after we were done eating, but something changed. Now all of a sudden we're...." His other arm joined his grasping hand. "Fuck me...."

"Please keep the language down," Rodney pleaded quietly.

"Sorry," Miles resigned, and the uncertainty of the night took over. The cars whizzing by sounded like screams. Tick-tocks filled the room, but it wasn't from a clock; the house settling was agonizing, a trail of footsteps above them briefly breaking their attention. He bit his lip as if he was about to curse again, but felt the steam rise. Instead, he took a small sip and gazed into the table.

"Listen," Rodney spoke carefully, "you're a great guy. You're...smart, talented...sharply dressed. I really enjoy having you here. Whatever happened today's what you wanted to do. Whatever happens tomorrow is totally up to you. But the last thing I'd ever do is hold this against you."

"I'm sorry."

"There's nothing to apologize for."

"It's not about that. It's about the pulse I've felt for the past six hours. I don't...maybe it was something I ate, or...no, wait, we went over that." Another sip from the cup. "I don't know who I am anymore."

"Don't overthink it," Rodney said. "We can just sit here. We can put on a movie. And," he swallowed dryly, "if you ever change your mind, I'm open to-"

Miles shot a look. "Don't."

One word. "Don't". Suckerpunch. And the bricks started tumbling. The minute he'd remembered how fickle his emotions were coincided with his realization of how long they'd been ignored. How thick were the cobwebs? He remembered what his Dad had told him: "dating is a numbers game, be prepared for heartbreak". Practice makes perfect, was that what he'd say next? The day after? He really asked himself that. Though his RDA of panic was cut short by a small, unexpected pang. There, in a distant, open closet glowed a marble-sized circle that had just flicked from red to green, much like Rodney's composure as he pointed to it.

"That's the dryer," he said. "The blanket in there's nice and warm. All yours for the night."

Rodney thumbed his glass as the lynx scratched his neck, cleared his throat, fixed his suit. Next, he spread a gentle smile.

"How about we start over?"

Not waiting for an answer, Miles straightened himself again.

"My name is Miles Turner," he said, "and I haven't slept in three years. Please don't take this as an insult, you're a nice guy, but the heights that I've seen, the bounds I've driven, well, if I even told you, you'd hardly believe it. It's only natural for someone in your position, and I accept that. But you see we have this...dissonance, right. That's the issue. The dissonance."

Rodney scorned. "You're treating me like a failure."

"Failure?" Miles smiled. "Rodney, if I thought you were a failure, it'd be a compliment. There'd be nowhere to go but up. And there is nowhere to go but up, but you've set your mind on different things, which is perfectly okay, just..." His voice trailed off, leaving the room feeling cold and dark. "Failure," he whispered. "'Embrace it', they say. 'It'll happen no matter what.' Reminds me of the border store between Districts Seven and Eight, they make their living off of sixteen trees they bought the ownership for. Every time I pass by, I think, 'that's the kind of guy I'll never know.' The kind that's fine with Tier Three struggles and will never, ever leave. Meanwhile, I keep forgetting my lunch breaks exist. Must be nice to fail and not wonder if the economy comes crashing down, huh? Right?"

He paused as the man across the table began to nod, visually becoming more convinced.

"Then you know why I can't walk away," Miles said.

That look in his eye when he found his second wind was full of the same poise and self-assurance he'd carry with him to every interview. Something Rodney wasn't aware of. He watched him sip from his glass like a fresh glass of cognac before bedtime, or maybe after a nice meal, and wondered if this counted as the crossroads of both. Either way, something didn't add up. There was a detail lost in the dust, maybe in the napkins they left at the diner. Or maybe it was right in front of him.

"When did this all start?" he asked.

"Straight out of Tier Four," Miles said, popping his eyebrows. "Walked out with all the right connections."

"That'd be killer."

Miles nodded with him. "Quite."

An awkward silence broke out between them.

"I, uh..." Rodney said. "I hope you get that."

"I will," Miles said, with the strangest blend of casual and valiant. "Whatever it takes."

"I just don't see how this gets in the way of that," Rodney said.

Miles raised an eyebrow. "Why would it not?"

Rodney's mouth hung open, fighting for words.

"Right," the lynx continued, starting to rise, "well, I think I need to be shown to the door."

"Please don't go."

"I have to," he replied, "I have a reputation to hold up."

"Legit, and look, I know what it's like to have a reputation, man, it's-"

"No, you don't know," Miles grumbled, sitting back down, "in fact, I don't think you even know what a reputation is; a reputation is a fortress._Every brick counts. Because eventually, you'll have an empire. And if I invite you, you'll walk through everything in a matter of minutes. You think I can afford this? Rodney..." He pointed to himself intensely. "I don't just make inventions, _I make things happen. You think I'd throw that all away on some fringe invitation to a cafe whose brand is already on the brink of extinction?Is that what you think?"

The feeble raccoon's fingers shook on the desk. His mouth was gone. His legs were gone. And the creeping feeling that he had something else to do shot to the forefront, imbuing within the black fur around his eyes like a second mask while the rest ran down his throat and held the death grip. Memories sank to nothing. And when the realization came in, all that came was one voice: say something. Say something.

So he did.

"No."

"Then let me make one thing clear," Miles growled, "we part ways and we never speak of this again."

Rodney sank as the room began to shrink. Now the memories didn't matter. He looked deeply into the translucent shadow cast from his empty glass and wondered what would've caused him to do this. Part of him thought it had nothing to do with any of this. But he would never say that out loud. Not now. As he fidgeted with the loose button on his shirt, he stayed silent, accidentally tugging it further out.

"I'm sorry," he said.

"There's nothing to apologize for," Miles replied, scowling, "as long as you keep quiet."

Rodney huffed deeply, face contorting before he grasped his temples.

"Stop," he pleaded. "Stop. Stop. Please, I can't take this anymore. You don't know what you're saying."

"What?"

"If you felt what I'm feeling, you'd take it all back. And I know that some part of you, deep down, is feeling it."

"You're manipulating me."

"I know because you trusted me to hear that," he shot back instantly. "You'd be walking right out the door before I even had the chance to react."

"I needed to know you wouldn't say anything."

"Because you're scared," Rodney stressed. "And I don't blame you for it. You know you need a break, and that's exactly why you're here, I just..." He swallowed his sorrows. "I wish you could see that. I really do."

Miles seemed to sink into his chair, casually looking into the glass before putting it down again. Palm out for a suggestion, blinking thrice, the words failed him. That hand went back to his forehead instead.

"Hey, take it easy," Rodney consoled. "I'm sorry."

"No," Miles shook his head. "I don't even know how much of that you were supposed to hear."

Rodney nodded. "Then I must be pretty comforting."

He then waded over to the kitchen counter, opening a drawer to take out a small glass cup and put it under the faucet of the sink. Really, it was to look at something different, but it didn't help one bit. And just as the seated cat was about to add something else, the sound of electronic buzzing against a pole from the other room had startled him. He sprang from his seat and power walked through the door, retrieving his Pod from inside, glowing in the orange "call signal" ring.

"I need to take this outside," he said with the haste and stress of one of those sacrificed lunch breaks.

Rodney blinked. "Outside? Wait, hold on, will I ever see you again?"

Miles was already moving for the door. "I don't know. Depends on what this is about."

He was barely caught by the shoulder.

"Wait," Rodney said again. "Can I get a 'yes' or a 'no?'"

"Just get a job!"

He held one hand on the doorknob as he stared gravely back at the backed up raccoon.

"Get a job," Miles said flatly.

Rodney gulped, now beginning to tremble from his fingertips to his heart. "Okay," he blurted. "Now, let me ask again. Can I get a 'yes' or a 'no?'"

Miles stopped. The hand on his Pod shivered, but the walls were closing in, and he could feel it. He balled the fist around the doorknob until it turned his fingers blue.

"No."

Then he threw the door shut behind him.

Rodney stood there, glass in hand, listening to the muffled voices beyond the door like a child dragging a stuffed animal outside his parents' home. But nobody would come to the door. So he waited some more. And he waited and waited, until the act of standing up was too painful on his feet, so he brought a chair. And he waited. And he waited.

Tears came.

Nothing was left to do. He heated up the lasagna dinner in the fridge and turned on Kung Fu Kitties 3: Revenge of the Saucer Clan.That always used to cheer him up. His softest blanket over the back of the couch wrapped him like a cocoon as he watched it, dead-eyed and soulless, thinking nothing. The next minute, he found himself down on his bed. His stomach rumbled, but instead of going to the kitchen, he got the extra pillow out of the closet, hugging it tight to his chest while he laid in the fetal position.

Before he knew it, it was eleven P.M. That crank rang in his head again. The one called, "routine."

He pressed the top of his Pod and swiped over to the list of Pod IDs. Inner tensions rising, he swiped down to the third empty slot, tapped it four times and opened up the secret channel. On it displayed a single, specific name: "HOTline"

Holding it up to his ear, he was transferred instantly, smooth jazz playing as a raspy, lithe voice began whispering in his ear.

"Hey there, cutie. You've reached the Fortress of Love, where we take your most intimate fantasies and make them reality. May we see a transaction of fifty credits?"

"Access granted."

A light giggle. "Thanks, honey bunny! Tell me, what's your sexual preference?

"Homosexual."

"Got you, baby! Now take a good, long look through the selections on your Pod and find your setting."

Rodney inched back in the pillow, keeping his eyes closed. "Dream Castle."

"Good choice, honey! Please select your character: Prince, Dragon, Knight, King, or Kinky Sex Slave!"

"Prince."

"Excellent choice! Now, close your eyes, and get ready for a journey into a whole new world!"

Rodney let the darkness take him, one hand already sliding down into his boxers. Exhale, breath like air freshener. Body, relaxed like leaves. The ground descended. Head trip. Numb.

"Our story begins in the comfort of your bed. The sun is shining through the triangle window above your bedpost. What do you do?"

"I wake up."

"Groggy, but poised, you ascend from your mattress and put on your finest silk robe. Through the walls, you can already hear the castle folk bustling about. You must have slept in! You feel a bit drowsy, but a good chariot ride should suit you up. Or, perhaps you should get something to eat! What do you do?"

"I walk to the pub."

"You come to the drawbridge, which has already been winded down. Behind you comes a voice. You turn around. It's King Grant! He outstretches an arm and calls out to you, 'Prince! Come hither! If you leave now, you will be late for the royal breakfast!'"

Rodney's lip quivered.

"I walk to the pub."

3

It takes a special type of humid to mat Rodney's fur bad enough to undo the morning shower. Especially since he always saved them for the evening. His hands stayed stuck in his pocket as he shuffled around the mid day coffee breaks and handshakes. He crossed a pair of foxes that were somehow laughing within the same talk of some paperwork. And it made him fight the pulse to go back to work. The impossible thought that Mr. Swanson deserved an apology genuinely, sincerely came to mind. But the walls were too thick for that, and the past was far too brutal. There had to be a better way. Then again, everything was moving so fast. One minute he was counting trees like he always did.

And in the next, he was inside, staring down the wares of The Warp.

"Dude, you wiggin' out?" Harvey asked. "You've been lookin' at the t-shirts for like, a bajillion ecosystems."

"That's not how you measure time, Harv," Rodney sighed.

"Nah, 'cause it's like, when it changes from one group of critters to the next, you know what I'm sayin'?"

"Yeah. I guess."

"Like, uh...like that part in Kung Fu Kitties 2 where they gotta createget the sacred orbs and create the fifth season of Autumnospring to stop the-"

"-the winter god from destroying the Capitol, I get it, man."

"Okay, now I double-triple-super-duper gotta know what's up with you."

"I don't know," Rodney said. "What's that feeling you get when everything's fine, but nothing's in the right place?"

"Monday?"

Rodney inhaled sharply.

"I wanna ask you," he said, "how do I become successful without all the responsibility?"

"What?"

"Like I'm chillin' in a totally tubular crib with some popcorn like nobody can stop me..."

"...but without all the popular mumbo jumbo that comes along with it?"

Rodney paused, shook his head. "Yeah, something like that. Does that even exist?"

"Well, sure, man, there's like, a bajillion jobs out there!" Harvey exclaimed. "What's your speed?"

"I don't know."

"Then walk around and talk around, that's my motto!"

Rodney blinked, winced, particularly from his eye. The shirts before him fluttered slightly as the door behind him opened up, and in walked an absolute, complete stranger. To Rodney, it was an absolutely dreaded experience.

"You mean," he said slowly, "I have to talk to people?"

"Chyeah."

"For a job?"

"No fake!"

"But..." the shivering raccoon stammered, "what would I even say to them?"

"Well, a little of both, that's what connections are!" Harvey said. "All friendships gotta be transactional, you know."

"But I don't have a job, and I'm trying to save money. Does that mean I'm screwed?"

"Kind of!" Harvey beamed. "But the more you do it, the better you get at it. Trust me, man, s'long as you stay confident and play your cards right, the world's your oyster!"

____________________________________________________________________________

"Uh...hi. Wanna play cards?"

It occurred to Rodney in that moment that smiling meekly with a deck of cards in his hand to a complete stranger was probably not the best first impression. The grey coyote stayed blank as he tugged his fully black suit, a strange imprint of goggles on his head which was now peeking out his pocket protector. A good tonesetter; District Thirteen's train station was no joke. The centerpiece of trade, all railroads to the underground led to every corner of the country and back. You couldn't even get to this point without walking past a hallway of meeting areas and food courts that somehow always stayed completely full. Somehow, Rodney had never been here. And like everything else, it overwhelmed him.

Here, the ceiling was high enough to be a sky of its own, a comically opulent chandelier hanging above. As the raccoon on the other side of the bench shook the deck, the other suited people around them gathered at the terminal.

"What?" the coyote said.

Rodney stammered, then cleared his throat. "It's, uh, a fun game. Lots of people used to gamble with it."

"Got no money."

"Oh, uh, you don't have to risk anything."

He cleared his throat.

"Well, hey, how about I just choose a card in the deck and we can start talking over that?" he beamed, then shuffled through and laughed awkwardly when he picked out a jack of hearts."

The coyote wasn't listening, distracted by the poking a claw inside his undershirt.

"Ugh," he said, "this suit itches."

"Mine doesn't," Rodney replied, but his words were drowned out by the screeching of the train, and as his benchmate rose, still blank as a shadow, he poked his goggles the rest of the way down his pocket.

"That's all, folks," he said to himself.

As the rails squeaked, stopped, he ascended from his seat to join the crowd on the train's border, and like them, quickly dissipated. He watched them and sulked, folding his arms as he thought of the pain that awaited in days to come. The sudden quietness seemed to agree. At least, quieter than it was.

There came something he hadn't experienced before: the passing moments of a train right before the next crowd. The chasm of quiet descended, conjuring an orb of distress inside him like that train was his to take, but the ticket data was nowhere on his Pod. Matter of fact, he didn't even know what District it went to. He fidgeted in the pockets of his pants. Noticing the wrinkles in his shirt, he smoothed his hands down his chest, to his-oh. The string squeaked, carrying the brown button between his ring and pinkie with him, almost long enough to reach the next one, exposing some of the chest fur beneath it. Another piece, broken.

Huh. Something about the one slip dropped a hidden piece into place. That creeping feeling in his stomach now had a name: unwellness. If everybody was busy but him, surely something was wrong. It was exactly as Miles had said, but now, it seemed to be spoken from a different face. The world froze around him as he dwelled on it, losing himself in the new shade of distress that coated him, asking for change. Laying beneath it, it felt the least bit okay. Perhaps that would be enough.

"You're looking for love, aren't you?" said a high pitched voice with the tension of a tightroper on the tip of a toothpick.

Rodney blinked, then shook it off. Though that man in the light of the golden chandelier was far too unruly to be an apparition. That presence which waded through like an eye floater fixed his green eyes upon him. With an ardent lean on the left leg, the grey suited rabbit stood resolute, pink furred, thin as a stick, tall as a tree.

"Must I repeat myself?" he asked.

"What?" Rodney stammered. "I mean, yeah, everybody is."

"Don't pretend you and I aren't on the same page!" the chipper bunny said, slinking to the empty bench space. "You're here for a reason, aren't you? Certainly not to work, like everybody else does. Every person you encounter, every living, breathing soul within this ecosystem, they all have a purpose. And with that purpose, they achieve a goal. And for that-they go to work."

"Your moral fell a little flat there, dude."

"But why do we go to work?" he crooned with a slant in his eyes and a tilt of the head. "Why do we spend hours upon hours sitting at a desk in the dark when we can just, oh, I don't know...rob someone?"

"Because, uh," he slowly responded, "that's not cool, bro."

The rabbit's eyes were already feasting upon him.

"There I was," he said, "walking home from the scrap store betwixt Districts Seven and Twelve, their finest textbook in my arm-'armed with knowledge,' if you will. I say this with utmost severity. I was approached by a man wearing a striped suit and a broken stopwatch in his pocket protector who asked me to a parley of trivia and the stating of my name. So I said, 'Why, I accept this, for my name isn't Grant Peterson!'"

"Nice to meet y-"

"And then," Grant leaned in, "he said, 'Grant, you beautiful son of a bitch, speak into this Pod, what are your thoughts about the hoo hoos and haah haahs?' Truth be told, none of it was important. What was important was his promise to broadcast my words throughout all of District Twelve, giving my voice and my name a great pedestal to stretch beyond all comprehension. Ideas! Opinions! Voice to the unspoken!"

"Sounds, uh...compelling."

"And when he broke," Grant said, his voice severing, "he broke in a hurry. I checked my arm, and found no textbook in sight. Nobody was near. I had been flanked from behind, and the crook was a mile away before I even had a chance to wipe my ass of the consequences."

"Oh," Rodney said. "I'm sorry to hear that. I know how valuable those things are."

"It was the last textbook they'd ever have," he replied. "One last paper before they transitioned to simple Pod upgrades." He cleared his throat. "So, what does all this mean, exactly? He could have taken anything. Anything, you see; my Pod was wide open. It wasn't money he wanted. It was knowledge. My support. And he could've only taken one. My love for him was in the spontaneity of the moment, and all he asked of me was the thrill of the chase. But the beast is not in my nature, so thus, my nature failed me. I'll never see him again."

"Oh, I...." Rodney paused, contemplating it. "I feel that, actually."

"Yeah?"

"Gnarly guy. Killer night, wow. And then he just...left."

"Gone for good?"

"Just like that."

"I knew I felt an energy," Grant smirked. "Surely you felt it, too? Think of how many other places you could've gone. You could've boarded that train. You could've done anything else, yet you ended up here, on this one, single, solitary bench. There's only one conceivable answer: it's the work of the Master Brain."

Rodney's eyebrow raised, any emotion on his face fading into a murky swamp. "The Master Brain?"

"Yes, the Master Brain," his voice intensified, "think about it! Why would they come for our knowledge? Do you even remember when this ancient temple was built?"

"First of all, this is a train station, secondly, I wouldn't know that off the top of my head, but I think I could find a plaque or something-"

"-and they wouldn't just, oh, I don't know, lie on the plaques?"

"How lazy of them."

"Work with me, boy! Your eyes are hardly open past the crack of a windowsill down the street belonging to an insanely fucking handsome wolfbod in apartment B12 when he starts taking a shower at exactly eleven-oh-six P.M."

"That sounds a lot like a projection."

"As I was saying, the Master Brain is an ancient relic hidden deep underground within the chambers of the Tier Ones. Three circles, you see, three circles that shackle our freedom to a database of thoughts and ideas that slowly cook your brain into a neurological milkshake just thin enough to pour out your ears, but just thick enough to keep that-"he balled up a fist and wheezed, " GOD -ly consistency! It's so obvious! Why else do the Tier Ones live in the sky with all the skyscrapers? There's no possible way that the influence could reach that far up! Oh, oh, also, why else would the imports come at night unless it was to prevent you from feeling the buzz that recombines every thought into a bunch of useless cookie crumbs and stick figures?!" His eyes widened. "You're understanding this, right?"

His words spilled like a cup over the side of a three-legged table on a cliffside. Involuntarily, Rodney had inched away from him, fixated at the floor tiles as if they'd contain an answer.

"Uh," he coughed. "Sort of."

"Then you really do feel it," Grant smiled. "You hear them calling."

"Bro, I'm trying hard enough to hear my own thoughts," Rodney answered.

"Ah, how quaint," Grant quipped, craning his upper body towards him, "the man in shackles is expressing his freedom by trying to revoke my own. I've seen the power of the Master Brain. There's a shock. And every time, I always meet someone like you. That passion to be swallowed in love will leave you in the belly of the beast; matter of fact, I can hear it digesting you now!"

"O-oh, no, sir, that's just my stomach."

"Good! I'll give you a sandwich. I'll give you a restaurant. I'll give you anything you desire, and all you have to do is submit. It doesn't matter. Once you've studied the unspeakable commandments of the Master Brain, you have access to the seven sacred folds of reality, and change your fate on the dime of a nickel. Rodney," He leaned forward, finally quieting down as more people stepped in for the next train,

"I can give you the love who slipped away."

As Grant leaned even further, Rodney slid to the edge of the bench, shivering down his spine as he felt the bunny's breath on his neck. He stuck his paws out to keep him away without looking, not realizing that was as far as he'd gone, but uncomfortable enough for that to not matter.

"Not cool, not cool, not cool!" he said.

"Who is it, Rodney?" Grant asked. "Give me his name and his District and I'll have you licking his armpit in no time."

"Okay, put a sock in it, dude!" Rodney shouted, pushing him. "I'm freaked out, your breath smells like tofu, and I'd rather never love again than give into this Master-bogus nonsense!"

It hurt to say. Grant grew solemn as the quietness of the room came back to be, but the spectre this time took the form of a knowing smirk. As he rose like a statue slowly realizing its joints have flesh, he looked out to a faraway corner of the gilded walls, sighing, feeling the weight of its reverb.

"Disaster is coming," he breathed. "You'll see the light eventually."

"How do you think anybody will trust you?" Rodney asked. "How do you actually think this is compelling?"

Grant smiled. "You don't even know what trust is."

Raising his arm from his pocket, he flashed the Pod that his thumb was down on the whole time, as the Pod's swirling ring turned from red to green, then back to blue. Rodney's eyes widened. He'd been recording him.

"By the way," the fickle bunny smiled. "My real name's Asher."

And then he darted up the stairs.

____________________________________________________________________________

In loving memory of Chaos Coyote

19XX-2021