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Ticktock grunted softly in frustration as she worked on the watch in front of her. She had recovered somewhat from her punishment at the jaws of Gnarltooth's hound. The nuns at the pesthouse had done the best they could at fixing her hands, however, they were scarred heavily and she had lost feeling in several fingers and had constant aches in others, and her hands were stiff and they moved clumsily now. They had given her exercises to do to try and help, but they were also clear that she likely wouldn't ever fully recover. She was able to grip her tools still, and that made her determined to continue pursuing her hobby, but that didn't stop it from bothering her.

Finally, she put the tools down and sighed, rubbing and massaging her hands in a futile bid to banish the aches and the pins and needles feeling in them. She glanced behind her, where Pox was behind her, laying on her side and facing the wall. She held the ruined coin purse that she had stolen from Paul in her hand, running her thumb over the embroidered Hawthorne family crest.

“Still miss your human, huh?" Ticktock asked, moving to sit closer to her sister, reaching out to rest a hand on her shoulder, “You know you should just forget about him, you deserve better!" she said, getting a snort from the older rat. Ticktock continued, “I mean it! Forget about that stupid-"

Pox cut her off, “Paul isn't stupid! His father is the stupid one," she said, “He just…humans do things in dumb ways, that's all…" she huffed and sat up, running her fingers through her long curly hair.

Ticktock crossed her arms, "If he isn't stupid, we wouldn't be talking right now, you'd be busy having sex with him, or stalking him through the city!" She sighed and shook her head, going over and sitting next to Pox, putting her arms around the larger rat, nuzzling into her fur.

Pox grumbled but then pulled Ticktock into her lap and then laid down on the bed again, hugging the smaller rat to her, “I know…" she sighed and closed her eyes, “I wish it didn't hurt so much…"

“I know. I don't like seeing you like this," she said and snuggled closer, “I know you really fell for him, it made you happy when he stopped being scared of you. You even stopped calling him your human and started using his name, and you stopped talking about trying to use him." She looked down at her hands and started wringing them again, rubbing at the numb digits, “And being with him…it gave you that great idea to trade our medicine to the humans who wear the rat masks for food. So many of our brothers and sisters got to eat their fill for the first time."

Pox huffed heavily at that, “And Milkeyes and Gnarltooth and Stumptail, ate most of it."

Ticktock sighed, “Well…giving the herbs to the humans also got them to heal us! I could have never worked on watches again…could have lost my hands completely, but they helped me," she said and smiled a bit, “They helped you too, with your leg and that nasty cut."

Pox squeezed gently, “I know, but you wouldn't have needed your hands fixed if I hadn't tried trading the herbs. I wouldn't have needed my leg fixed if Paul hadn't attacked me and then shoved me off a balcony," she grumbled some, reaching back and rubbing over the long scar going down her side and sighing.

Ticktock shifted some in her position and scratched behind one of her ears, “Maybe…but we'd be hungry still…and you know, Milkeyes has spoken with Gnarltooth. He will give you more herbs to trade for more food when it comes time to harvest them, they want you to keep dealing with the humans."

Pox gave a grumble at that, “Hmph…the elders should do it themselves. Gnarltooth just wants me to get caught by the city guards. He was pissed when we showed back up to the warrens, you could see it on his face," she spat, “He was hoping we were dead."

Ticktock grinned, “Yes! They all thought that we were!" she said and nodded, “We were gone for weeks. But when you explained how the humans helped us, and showed how your side was stitched up, they had to admit that you had a point in trading. At least, Milkeyes did." Ticktock smiled and turned around to face Pox, “That old bastard Gnarltooth was so mad too, and Milkeyes said he can't retaliate and has to give you herbs to trade with. They already replaced me too, so I don't need to pick his herbs anymore."

Pox was indeed happy about that, she didn't like Ticktock working for Gnarltooth. Ticktock was a genius compared to Pox, and it was often the smaller rat's keen mind that enabled them to steal food from the human's grow houses. She was brilliant when it came to keeping track of time and memorizing the movements of the guards and city watch to keep her and others from getting caught. Her talents were wasted scrambling around in the mud pulling leaves off of the thorny bushes Gnarltooth kept alive with his blood magic. She also had a wisdom about her that was uncanny sometimes.

Pox sighed and looked to the smaller rat, “What do you think I should do about Paul?" she asked her, stroking over Ticktock's head and down her back as she squeezed the smaller rat closer to her.

Ticktock let out a huff and a sigh, it wasn't the first time the other rat had asked, “Really what I think?"

Pox nodded her head, “Really, yes."

Ticktock closed her eyes, “Find him and smack him around till he comes to his senses…if you think he really cared…maybe go to him him not at home and talk where his father can't hear…and find out if he really wants you gone or not."

Pox squeezed Ticktock against her and sighed, “Maybe…I just…"

Ticktock gave a loud huff and then reached her hands up, grabbing at Pox's muzzle, and holding it closed, “No, no doubt!" Ticktock said, before letting go and closing her eyes, letting out a sigh, “It's better you find out for sure than to keep doubting and moping around."

Pox nodded slowly, “Okay…you are right…" she said and squeezed at Ticktock, “You are too smart for your own good, you know."

Ticktock nodded her head and nuzzled into Pox's chest, sighing softly, “Mmhmm…now I'm tired so I'm going to sleep now…and you are going to stay here and keep me company," she said pretty demandingly.

Pox rolled her eyes a bit and huffed over her sister's ears, “Mm…okay Ticktock…" she said and sighed and squeezed close and relaxed, tugging her cloak around to use as a blanket for the both of them.

† † †

Paul blinked a few times and wiped the sweat from his eyes. He was stripped to the waist, standing in a pit lined with sawdust and sand. In front of him was a large barrel chested man with a thick beard and a hardened brow, with both hands raised up in fists. All around the pit there were men looking down at them, cheering and jeering at them both. Both men were panting hard, though Paul was worse off than his opponent. His chest and sides were already bruised up, and his knuckles were raw and bloody.

The man let out a feral growl and took another swing that Paul managed to dodge, and he retaliated with a punch to the man's chest and then his side as he used his smaller stature to as much of an advantage as possible, spinning around the larger man and moving behind him. The two continued to trade blows for several moments, dodging and blocking each other's strikes until, finally, Paul had hit his limit. A large fist crashed into his face, and stars exploded in his vision. Everything spun, and then Paul hit the ground hard.

He lay there panting and dazed, and past the ringing in his ears, he vaguely could hear his opponent being declared the winner. Paul didn't struggle as hands lifted him up and he was carried to a back area of the bar and carelessly dropped onto the floor. It wasn't unexpected, losers were often tossed to some out of the way corner. Kindness was usually saved for those who won their matches in this place.

Paul had discovered the tavern a few years back, when he and some school friends had just started at the university. It was a rough working class bar, and no place for someone of his upbringing and stature, but they had gotten a thrill from that very taboo nature of the place and he and his friends had spent many an evening there placing bets on the fights or playing cards.

He had stopped going when his school career demanded more of his time, but after his fight with Pox, he had found himself back there. That time, like this one, he decided to enter the ring, and it became a regular activity of his. He was a terrible boxer, and he lost many more fights than he won, but he found a catharsis in the simplicity of trading blows that allowed him to cope with the turn his life had taken. It also gave him a twisted sense of pride that in here he gained notoriety through his own actions, and not those of others.

In the days and weeks that followed him getting rid of Pox, Paul's father had gotten to work almost immediately doing damage control on Paul's and his own images by twisting the story of what had happened. He started to play up Paul in his recounting of the story as a brave and strong man who killed a giant rat assassin with nothing more than a pen knife. The man even had the bloody blade mounted in a glass box to show off on his desk like some sick trophy.

Paul suddenly found himself back in the limelight, with more people than ever wanting to shake his hand or clap him on the shoulder. They goaded him into recounting his own side of the story, which was a total fabrication of course, and then each and every one of them had a favor to ask. The latter wasn't helped by him being appointed as his father's full time assistant on the council, something he did to keep Paul busy. He had to deal with a seemingly endless stream of paperwork and requests and most infuriatingly he now had to deal with lobbyists.

On paper, the position of arbiter was just to help swing a divided council, by being the odd vote. But a part of city council legislation meant that any councilman who had to recuse himself due to a conflict of interest would give their vote to the arbiter to place in their stead. That meant the arbiter often had two or three votes at his disposal, and Paul's father had taken advantage of that fact to turn it into a very lucrative position. He would often accept 'favors' from said council members to exercise those extra votes in their desired ways. This gave the council an illusion of objectivity while they continued to serve themselves and their own corrupt interests.

Paul was disgusted by the entire affair, but his father forced him to suck it up and accept when he was given similar treatment, offered favors in exchange for them. He was regularly treated to fancy dinners at the houses of the wealthy and powerful in the city, and small gifts showed up almost daily in the office he was appointed, to the point Paul had an entire drawer full of fine quills and inks. He also found had no lack of female company, with upper class men trying to set him up with their daughters in a bid to get him closer to themselves so they could claim to have the next arbiter in their back pocket when dealing with their rivals.

He had just finished one such dinner engagement that evening prior to coming to fight. His patron had droned on for hours over dinner about the intricacies and difficulties of trading beyond the city walls, while his wife and daughter had sat quietly with equally dull expressions on their faces. When Paul had made the polite attempt to engage the young girl in conversation, she merely gave him the look of a startled doe, and then politely deferred to her father. That, of course, got the man talking again, going on for another hour before finally getting to his point that he wanted the council to vote on lowering the tariffs on imported raw materials at the next budget hearing. In comparison, the boxing pit was a welcome relief.

Paul lay on the floor of the tavern for many long minutes as he waited for the room to stop spinning. Finally, he was able to slowly sit up, and then after many more moments, he found he could muster up the strength to get to his feet. He wandered over to the bar with swaying steps. The tavern keeper glared at him sternly, and then tossed him a bundle of his clothes, and a small pouch of coins. Paul blinked at that and lifted them up, “What? But…I lost?"

The tavern keeper snorted, “You put on a good show of it, though, Pretty Boy. Most of the guys had bet you wouldn't make it past the first round, but you did three," he shrugged, “So you get a cut of the losing bets. Now take it and get out of here before I change my mind."

Paul nodded and then after putting his shirt and coat on, he fished out half the coins and put them back on the counter, “Thanks…hold on to that for me…payment for some drinks in advance."

The tavern keeper chuckled, “Sure, kid, all put it on your tab." he said and put the coins in a tray under the counter and he took out a small booklet and wrote something down in it.

Paul nodded and then turned to leave, exiting the brightly lit interior of the tavern and out into the inky black night. The moon was out, a pale red crescent in the night sky, outshined by even the stars around it. Paul sighed and looked up and down the street. He was near the rail yard, and most of the buildings around him were warehouses. It was also late so there was hardly anyone left out on the street.

He reached into his pocket, feeling over the knife he kept, and he started to walk in the vague direction of his home. The knife was something he had recently gotten, a folding dagger in a style similar to what rail yard workers used for cutting bindings holding boxes down on the big flatbed cars. It had a bone handle, and a blade about four inches long, sharp on two sides, with one side clad in silver, making the weapon equally effective against man and creatures such as werewolves or vampires.

The knife was a small comfort now that he didn't have a guardian lurking in the shadows, but it also served to remind him of what Paul had given up. He let out a sigh as he walked along, once more playing out the events of that night in his mind. He could see it all crystal clear in his mind's eye. The remorse Pox showed when she realized how she had hurt him, the look on her face when he cut her. The words he shouted as she hobbled into the dark, bleeding and with a broken leg. It made him feel empty and hollow inside, like he had cast off an important part of himself that night. He gripped it firmly in his hand and sighed heavily as he made his way home.

Once there he found his father had already retired for the night, and he took advantage and locked himself in the bathroom to take a long bath to soak his bruised body. He let out a groan as he settled into the hot water, and he instinctively reached for one of the bars of soap in a tray near the tub. He paused for a moment, and then thought better of it and just scrubbed his body with a cloth and the hot water, before soaking for a while before finally getting out and letting the tub drain. He then headed to his room and got into bed, wanting to sleep off the fight, hoping the swelling in his face would go down before morning came.