Saving Agent Cottontail

[Violet CLM]

Warning: The following story contains mild violence, alcoholism, non-graphic nudity, adult employment, attempted rape, death, that sort of thing. Read at your own risk.

Today, I wake up early. There was a Cheetah Rights protest going on outside my window until about three in the morning, and all sleep after that was bleary and halting. I stumble out of bed and start the coffee maker, blinking the half-sleep out of my eyes. My apartment looks the same as it always does - low security door in the far corner, right next to the bathroom, which strangely has no door or curtains of any kind. A few feet into the room lies my table, disassembled fragments of weapons strewn randomly across it, with an instruction manual flipped annoyingly to page thirteen. There is a vase, but the flowers all died after I dropped an LFG's power source into the water a few days ago, and I haven't seen any that strike my fancy since then. The kitchen slash bedroom is similarly unfurnished, with little more than a fridge; a microwave; the coffee maker; and my bed, which doubles as a large hot water bottle. Nothing about the apartment has changed since last night, or indeed for the far too many months I've lived here.
A beep informs me that the coffee is ready, and I gladly pick up the steaming mug and prepare to bring it to my lips. Before I can finish, my alarm, which I forgot to turn off, begins ringing. Startled, I jump, and the coffee goes flying all over me. It hurts. A lot. I am awake now, but my body, which I have not yet clothed, feels as if it is on fire. Thanking my decision to invest in a walk in fridge, I run inside and huddle for a while as my skin alternately freezes and burns. Finally, I feel well enough to come out and inspect myself in the bathroom mirror. My fur is burned off in several spaces, leaving ugly red gashes across my body. I groan. It is not the best way to begin a monday.
I return to the bed, narrowly avoiding slipping on the coffee spilled onto the floor, and dress myself. Underwear goes on that way, no, that's backwards, white starship buttons fasten like that, belt just that tight, got to make the waist look small, pants all the way down, and I'm done. I spend the next five minutes staring out the hole in the wall they call a "window" and brushing my hair out of the series of knots it has become while I slept. Soon, I feel presentable, except for my coffee burns, but that can't be helped.
I've put it off long enough now. Keys in hand, I exit the apartment, carefully locking the door behind me. I do not have much to steal, but the neighborhood has low standards, and I can ill afford to have any of my belongings stolen. I walk towards the elevator, shivering from the cold - a long sleeved shirt, one that reaches past my navel, is something I really need to find - and press the down button. Slowly, the little numbers above the door blink different colors until they reach my floor. The door opens, and I gratefully step inside.
It is not until I reach for the ground floor button that I notice the elevator is not empty, as I had assumed. Mr. Muttley is there before me, lounging against the wall in an ugly green suit which proudly advertises "Paul's Pigeons" on both sleeves. Mr. Muttley lives in the apartment directly above mine, and I think his only hobby is drilling holes in the floor and watching me when I wake up or go to bed. I slap him as a greeting, and he pretends not to notice.
"You know, it's not my fault you don't seem to own a nightgown," he says, carelessly dusting the spot where I struck him. "Paul's Pigeons has a new line of nightgowns that would suit you perfectly."
Staring at the ugly image of green he lingers in, I try to imagine what Paul's idea of a nightgown would be. A green bikini - two shades of green, perhaps, with pigeon markings - and a mask. I would not wear the hypothetical outfit without the mask, but I would rather not wear it at all, and I tell this to Muttley. He laughs, and calls me a flirt. The next floor is actually the third, but I get off anyway, and take the stairs down the rest of the way. I miss my bus.

I am supposed to show up before nine, but it is a quarter after when I reach the weapon shop where I work. Walking in-between shelves and shelves of dart-guns and music videos - the truly dangerous stuff not being kept in the entranceway - I pass my boss, who is sitting at a desk, looking through a catalog. "You're late," he says, in place of greeting. I nod.
"Bad way to start the week, Zee," he says. Zee is his nickname for me. I hate it. Once again, I nod, preparing for the worst. There is a pause.
"Christmas is coming up, you know. Might want to start shaping up if you want your holiday bonus. That means showing up on time, Zee, with a cheerful smile."
I smile. He grunts, and returns to the catalog. I walk inside, where my coworkers are already, with no customers to attend to, assembled around the cash register, which has been set up to play three way "Pong".
Alice spots me first. "Hi, Zoe," she says, probably losing the game in her eagerness to greet me. Alice is a dirty brown rabbit, born with a stump on her head that the doctors said would someday grow into a third ear. It still hasn't, but Alice is proud of it. Alice is small, cheerful, and almost certainly homosexual. Our boss promises to fire anyone who admits to such a "failing", so she keeps quiet about it. Forcing the smile to remain on my face, I manage to avoid her gaze without seeming impolite.
"Hey, pink woman. Long time no see," proclaims Rane, and laughs at his own joke. Rane, a pig, is by his own estimation the "cool" one of our little group. His clothes are never wrinkled, and he treats us all with a feeling of haughty superiority. Our boss wonders why we can't all be more like Rane.
"Hello," says Edward, evidently relieved by my arrival. Edward is a very shy zebra-striped lizard, whose tails Rane regularly pulls off and adds to his collection. Edward had been turned out of his family's house when I found him on the street a few months ago. Turns out, he has a very organized mind, and was able to get a job here as shelf stocker. Whenever we or our customers want something, Edward knows where in the store it's hidden. He will not tell us where he lives. I like him more than the others, even if our conversations are always pretty one-sided.
And me? I'm Zoe Cottontail. I'm a pink furred rabbit with long orange hair. I'm twenty-two years old, and sell dangerous weapons for a living. And all that information is available on my civic identification card, along with such details as my current residence, my tax bracket, my mother's maiden name, and my number of pets. I have never had a pet, but am unable to convince anyone of this, so the card continues to state that I am the proud owner of a snow monkey. I am rather fond of this snow monkey, and have named him Gibbles. If Gibbles existed, he would probably enjoy playing with my hair and stealing the brush. I like Gibbles.
I improvise a quick greeting and slump into my seat behind the counter. Edward and Rane continue the game, but Alice hurries over towards me, obviously alarmed. I try to remain oblivious while she examines my body.
"Look at you!" Alice finally cries, torn between pity and confusion. "What happened? Your fur is burned right off, here, and here, and your skin looks really painful!"
"Coffee accident," I tell her, not eager for the morbid report to continue. "Startled by the alarm going off. Does it look that bad?"
Instantly I curse myself for adding the last question, but Alice is nodding vigorously. "That's got to hurt," she says, moving over to her chair and rummaging through a drawer. "Here, I've got some burn ointment I can put on you if you want." I reject the offer. Alice, hurt by rejection, replaces the ointment and moves off towards a corner to sulk. I stop watching and move my gaze to the door, which remains closed. Still tired from the Cheetah protest, I am actually nodding off when I hear the jangling sound caused by an arrival. Sitting up straight, I do my best to look professional as the newcomer finds his or her way in.
It is Mr. Muttley. I flinch, hoping he will realize that Rane's booth is much closer to the door than mine is. My hopes fall through - he strides over to me jovially, green suit flapping around him. "Good morning, Zoe," he says, mock-bowing. "I need a new drill gun. Last one got gummed up by a spot of marmalade." I smirk. It was pure luck that I had been eating marmalade that day, but somehow it had felt even better on my ceiling than in my mouth at that moment.
I call over Edward, who heads off towards what I can only assume must be the drill gun section. Muttley wants to know if we have any drill guns with built in binoculars, but I tell him no before Edward can accidentally seal my doom further. Muttley pays for his gun and leaves, and I thank any deity I can think of that the encounter was not any worse. Alice, who has finished sulking, now wears a puzzled expression.
"You know that guy?" she asks, and I nod. "That's Mr. Muttley. He lives in the apartment above me. Real slimy guy."
Alice has a funny look in her eye. "You should come to the bar with me tonight," she stays, staring in the direction Muttley exited. "You might find it interesting." I look at her closely. She seems sincere. I nervously agree.
There are few other customers. I spend much of my time in my chair, pretending to watch the door, but actually making up stories about Gibbles. I imagine that Gibbles wasn't allowed to stay on the planet he came from, and was forced to come live with me instead. Someday, if I am ever in trouble, Gibbles will come to my rescue. That is the sort of person Gibbles is.

[Violet CLM]

The clock strikes five, and it is closing time. Alice latches onto me, almost avoiding a particularly bare scorch-mark, and we leave the building. Edward looks surprised, and I can't take the time to explain. I get into the passenger seat of Alice's 2706 "Speedster", and it darts off into the sky, autopilot on. I look out the window and see my apartment complex. It looks small, dirty, and safe.
Three minutes later, the Speedster lands, in front of a large building proudly proclaiming itself to be "The Bar and Bathrooms" in big neon letters. Alice strides in, evidently recognized by the doorman. I walk up and show my civic identification card. The doorman, a large rhino, professes to own a snow monkey of his own, and is curious what I feed mine. I retrieve my card and stalk past, leaving him confused. What did I do that for?
Once inside the bar, I look around. The bar itself is well stocked with liquids of all colors (though mostly brown). A row of barstools wait forlornly for occupation, their only guest being Alice, who is talking animatedly with the bartender. The other inhabitants are standing in groups of two, or three, or more, in the dark areas between the ceiling lights, talking in low voices and sipping from their drinks. Deep, soulful music pours forth from the door to the bathrooms, accentuated by the slowly writhing bodies of three dancers on the wooden boards which serve as a stage. A handful of onlookers lean against the wood, staring transfixed at the dancers' costumes and performance. Back at the bar, Alice waves me over, and I make my way across the room to the inviting stools.
As I sit down, the bartender deposits a drink in front of Alice and moves over to me. His eyes travel up and down my face, and I suddenly remember the burn marks again, and I blush.
"Let's see..." he says, completing the examination, "low twenties, low income, low spirits, right?" I nod. "Don't really know why you're here." Nod. "Could use some friends." Nod. Hesitant. "Not quite comfortable in your sexuality." I almost nod, but catch myself.
"Wait..." I begin, but I'm too late, as he has strolled off towards the cabinets behind him and is pouring things into a glass. I avoid Alice's eye until he gets back, setting the glass carefully down in front of me without so much as a slosh. "There," he says, rubbing his hands together, "that should be just the thing. Enjoy your life."
Slowly, staring after his retreating form, I take a sip from the concoction. And another. It is a very good tasting drink, all things considered.
Nothing much happens for a while, until Alice indicates for me to look over at the stage. The dancers, and the watchers as a natural reaction, are leaving, but I do not see anything else. Quizzically, I look at Alice. "Keep watching," she says, and I dutifully obey. In a minute, the lights brighten a little, and change color from red to green. The bartender grumpily stalks over to the stage, where he takes a microphone and prepares to speak.
"Ladies, gentlemen, and the people that are actually here," he begins, eliciting few laughs, "may I present, the, ugh, incomparable talents of... the 'MuttMeister!'"
My jaw drops open in a mix between horror, amazement and sadistic laughter. Onto the stage prances Mr. Muttley, still in his awful green suit, which matches perfectly with the lighting. So this is where he works. My next-floor neighbor proceeds to dance, if you call it that, to the scattered applause of the onlookers. I am not truly scared until he begins to remove the outermost layer of clothing. Alice is grinning at me, and I shrink away, unwilling to be seen as having any connection to this monstrosity.
Suddenly, one of my starship buttons begins to vibrate.
Muttering a silent prayer of thankfulness, I explain to Alice that I have to go. She doubts it, but I tell her it's important, and get out of the building as fast as my legs can carry me, eyes still filled with the unforgettable vision of Mr. Muttley attempting to dance. Once safely outside, I pry at the starship until it opens with a pop, revealing a small screen within. A large orange rabbit's face stares up at me.
"That you, Cottontail?" it asks.
"Hello, Margsly."

Perhaps I should explain. I live a double life. Like Billy Blaze as the famous Commander Keen, low income Zoe Cottontail of weapon shop renown is merely my public identity. I'm also a secret agent of R.A.B.T., a galactic organization of peace and justice for all. From time to time, I get a message from Margsly, my commander, who gives me a new assignment allowing me briefly to depart my regular life in search of strange new planets and species, or simply settling disputes in far off corners of the galaxy. When I weigh my two lives, I wish I could be going on missions for R.A.B.T. all the time, but Margsly forbids it. When I last asked, he said I needed to get my life in order before I quit it. I stalked out of his office. Now, his transmission has saved me from an extremely embarrassing situation, and I feel quite grateful enough to forgive any past annoyances.
Margsly gives me the basics of the situation. A turtle calling himself Devan Shell has been dumped in our laps by a galactic hero called Jazz Jackrabbit. Due to a mixture of proximity and availability, I have been selected as part of the squad which must take him to jail and oversee the trial. Shell is currently unconscious, in a warehouse about three blocks from the Bar and Bathrooms. I salute my commander and close the button, ending communication.
A few minutes quick walk gets me to the warehouse, and I walk inside, noting the lack of guards. A turtle with broken glasses is lying on the ground, eyes closed and motionless. My partner for the assignment waves, and I look in his direction. The rabbit returns my gaze, smiling. He is blue furred, wearing a baggy brown outfit and green goggles. He extends a paw, and I shake it.
"Razz."
"Zoe."
"Zoe Cottontail? The woman who crushed the Deserto revolution?"
I blush, and nod. He whistles. "Wow. This must be a pretty high profile case. I'm new to the field, myself. It was either this, or prison for misuse of hazardous chemicals." He glances at the turtle. "Looks like he's beginning to stir. Got a uniform?"
I shake my head. Sad as it may seem, I have never been able to afford a R.A.B.T. standard issue uniform from wardrobe and outfitting. Fortunately, Razz's suitcase has a spare which is about my size, and we get into costume, changing clothes while politely not watching the other. I tap the other starship button three times, and my hair changes color to a luxuriant black. Repigmenting is an expensive gadget, but Margsly insists it's a necessity with hair as obvious as mine, as I refuse to simply cut it. There is a mirror in the warehouse, and I check my appearance. Perfect. My secret identity is safe for now.
Turning around, I notice Razz has redesigned himself as well. Gone is his baggy outfitting, and with it, his casual demeanor. Razz, now brown furred and uniformed, projects an aura of confidence and authority, the sort of person you could safely entrust a dangerous individual to. I self consciously smooth down a wrinkle on my uniform, then notice his change of color.
"You said you were new. How'd you afford a repigmentor?"
"Zoe," he grins, shaking the turtle awake, "I invented them three years ago. They're a little smaller now than my first prototypes, which could only change the four primary colors, but it would hardly be fair for me to not have a few floating around."
We escort Devan out of the warehouse, and while Razz simultaneously makes jokes and explains how he was almost arrested for blowing up half the street he lived on, I get the feeling I've made a new friend.
The jail is only a half hour's walk, and we get inside without any trouble. The police captain looks up from behind his desk at our R.A.B.T. insignias and gets out a sheet of paper. "Name?" he asks, staring at the turtle.
"Devan Shell."
"Offense?"
"Murder."
"Length of stay?"
"Until his trial tomorrow."
"Any special cell requirements?"
I look at the prisoner. He does not seem to be able to phase through walls, melt objects in front of him, or possess any of the other powers which might make containment difficult. "None."
"Very good. Just give me your R.A.B.T. numbers for future reference, and that'll be all." I give my number, 26. Razz is 130. I've evidently been in this job longer than I thought. The police captain takes Shell away towards the cells, and Razz and I leave the building, parting ways soon afterwards - I walk off towards the nearest bus stop, and Razz opens a folding hover-board and flies away.

I am halfway to the bus stop before I realize that I am still wearing Razz's spare uniform, and my normal clothes - including transmitter, repigmentor and apartment keys - are still in his suitcase. Figures. Life is good, but only as long as I'm on assignment, and the rest of the time it hits bottom. After weighing my options for a while, I find an alley and curl up in a ball.

[Violet CLM]

The night is long and cold, and I get little sleep over the next hours, between lack of comfort and keeping a wary eye out for roaming criminals just looking for a small unprotected female. It is not until dawn that I realize I could probably have used my authority as a R.A.B.T. agent to stay in someone's house for the night. I groan tiredly.
Not long after that, I realize I should be going to work right about now, but my hair and clothing don't work with that idea. Resolving to get some use out of the uniform, I walk to someone's front door and knock briskly. A few seconds later, an elderly walrus answers the door. I smell breakfast, and my stomach rumbles.
"R.A.B.T., ma'am," I announce, trying not to think of the food. "I need to use your phone."
The walrus is quite cooperative, and guides me to her phone before returning to the kitchen. I call up the weapons shop, and get my boss on the phone. "Hello?" he asks.
"Hi, Boss. This is Zoe Cottontail."
"You're late," he informs me. Evidently I misjudged the time a little.
"Ummm.. yeah. I called to say I won't be coming in today."
"Why not?"
I cast around desperately for a believable answer, knowing I can't tell him the real reason. "My snow monkey is sick."
"I didn't know you had a snow monkey."
Somehow, these words strike me the wrong way. It's not my fault parts of my fur are burnt off by a coffee accident. It's not my fault my neighbor is a barroom stripper. It's not my fault I'm here in Razz's uniform, talking on someone else's phone, unable to get into my apartment or even look like myself. None of this is my fault! "Of course I have a snow monkey!" I snap, abandoning the concept of politeness. "It's on my identification card, isn't it?! Right under my mother's maiden name!!" I slam the phone down, and leave the house, ignoring the persistent smell of food emanating from the kitchen.
Having probably lost my job, I plop down on the sidewalk to think about my options. I have no idea how to contact Razz - I only know him through work, as he never gave his address, and he has my transmitter, so I can't call him indirectly through R.A.B.T. I have no money, no food, no shelter and nobody to contact until the trial, which is in about ten hours. I resign myself to a long wait.

An hour later, a squirrel walks up, and seeing me, sits down on the sidewalk. "Hey, pretty lady. Something wrong?"
I look up from the street and stare at him. The face is not familiar. I shrug. "A little hard luck, that's all." My stomach rumbles, as it has been repeatedly doing for the last half hour.
"Hard luck? Sitting on the street like that, I'd say you look about homeless. Homeless, helpless, and hungry. Triple H. That's bad."
I am not exactly homeless, but the description fits well enough, and I want to know where he's going with this. I nod hesitantly as my stomach once more indicates annoyance.
"Make that very hungry. Come on, not busy, I'll buy you some lunch."
I find myself unable to say no, and he leads me down the street to a small Slugonese restaurant advertising turtle soup as today's special. We sit down, and over menus, he introduces himself as "Dennis. Dennis Rethguals."
"R.A.B.T., number 26."
He shrugs, and starts talking. Dennis, apparently, is an independent film maker, and while none of his films have really hit off, he has inherited enough from his deceased parents to let him survive in the world. We discuss his plans for a new movie - a bunch of teenage rabbits go to Medivo and are killed one by one by the ghosts - until the food arrives, at which point conversation lapses into silence. Having not eaten for about twenty hours, the taste of food is wonderful, and I eagerly consume my salad while he eats politely.
When the bill comes, he pays for it without a thought, and I must look surprised, for he smiles and says "come on, lady, you don't have a coin on you." I am forced to admit this is true, and he escorts me from the restaurant, bells tinkling merrily at our departure. Outside, we look at each other, and I feel embarrassed. I quickly thank him for the wonderful meal, and am about to hurry away when he grabs my arm, a little roughly. "Hey, pretty lady," he repeats, "where you going in such a hurry?"
I tell him I have to go now, but he laughs. "Lady, you got no home, remember? It's no trouble... you can squat at my place until you get back on your feet. 'sides, you're smart, you can help me a bit with my films."
Not meaning to seem rude, I eventually accept his offer, resolving to tell him as soon as possible that I'm not homeless, and that I'll get my life back before the day is over. Dennis, who seems quite nice aside from a small tingling sensation in the back of my brain, once more leads me through the city, this time ending up at a medium sized house, with two floors, and oddly enough, no windows. We go inside, and I catch sight of a clock on the wall. 11:15. Devan Shell's trial (and my subsequent reacquisition of identity) is not for some time, and I have time to kill.
Dennis thumps down on a couch, and in a sweeping gesture, displays the whole room. "Here we are, pretty lady. Old stomping grounds. If you need anything - drink, computer, shower - just say something."
The word 'shower' triggers something in my mind, and I stare dubiously at my fur. I have not been in one for two nights, and what with rolling around all last night in an alley, my fur is decidedly dirty. Shuddering at the thought of what my un-kept hair must look like, I ask directions to the shower mentioned. Dennis points me around a corner, and I go there. Before entering, I turn around to thank him again, and notice he is watching me with an unreadable expression. Odd. The shower beckons, so stripping off Razz's somewhat used spare uniform and my underwear, I turn on the water and jump in.
The feel of the warm water on my dirt caked skin is almost as good as that of food in my empty stomach. Enjoying the luxury of cleanliness, I tilt my head back, allowing the water to hit me on the neck, spattering in all directions before flowing down my body, gradually warming me up, and ending in a puddle on the floor. I turn around, and my hair, still repigmented black, clings to my body, form dissolved by the cascade of liquid and replaced with stringy tendrils, following the curves of my back. Until now, I had not realized how cold I was - it's winter, and the R.A.B.T. uniform offers little more warmth than my usual clothing, being designed primarily for respect and impressiveness.
Closing my eyes, I lean forwards, twisting and turning in varied directions as my head becomes as soaked as the rest of me. After turning around for a while, simply enjoying the feel of the warm water against my plastered naked fur, I reach for a washcloth and begin to scrub the dirt out. As I reach my left thigh, I hear a noise from outside the stall, and freeze. The sound comes again, and I see a silhouette through the door, another person in the bathroom.
"...Dennis?" I ask, uncertainly. There is no answer. "Dennis?!" again,
and then the shower door opens.
Automatically, my right arm is swept across my breasts, and the washcloth serves as concealment down below. Quasi-decency achieved, I look at the intruder. It is Dennis, naked and smiling.
"Hey, pretty lady. Thought I'd join you."
"Dennis... what?! No..."
Dennis walks into the shower, ignoring the water now falling down onto him. "No nothing. Look, lady, you eat food on my money, you stay in my house, you use my shower, I deserve something in return, right?" I whimper, and back away.
"Lady... there are only five ways to go in this crazy world of ours. There's North, East, West, South... and honestly, what's NEWS to me? I'm the fifth direction, lady. Come on. Let's go Dennis." I have backed up against the wall, and he reaches forwards and begins to move my arm away from my breasts. "Once you've gone Dennis, you never go back." he breathes...
And then I kick the squirrel in the nuts.
Dennis doubles over, cursing, and I attempt to rush past him. Clawing blindly, he grabs my leg, and I thrust the washcloth into his open mouth. He gags, releases me, and I dash over to the door, which is closed. I fumble with it for several seconds, open it, and am about to rush out when I hear Dennis' voice behind me.
"Don't you move a muscle, pretty lady."
Very, very slowly, I turn around, paw motionless on the doorknob. Dennis stands upright, still in the shower, legs squeezed together as if fighting off pain, and pointing a gun at me. Stepping forward, still dripping wet, he continues to speak.
"Now, pretty lady, either you give me what I want..." he cups my chin in his paw, "or you join the teenagers on Medivo. Which will it be?" The gun is now stuck against my chest, and looking down at it, the weapon suddenly seems familiar...
and I begin to laugh.
I laugh uncontrollably into Dennis' face, which becomes contorted with confused rage. "What's so funny?!" he demands, shoving the gun into me again. "I got a gun here, and you're laughing. What's so funny about it?"
"That gun," I manage, panic replaced by a ridiculous feeling of calm, "it's a Leddinger model 2.03."
"So what?"
"So," and I laugh again, "that model was recalled. Because it, because it stops working, stops working when you get it wet!"
Realization dawns on Dennis, and he pulls the trigger, which clicks uselessly. I kick him again, and before he can react, I have the gun. I hit Dennis on the head with the 2.03 Leddinger, hard. He crumples to the ground. I stand naked over his fallen body, useless gun in hand, and a feeling of exhilaration creeps over me. The panic returns soon afterwards, but it is an excited panic, a panic that leaves me worried, but still in control of the situation. I was just faced with a choice between death and rape, stood up against life, and won. I cannot believe how good I feel.

<i>To be continued...</i>

[Radium]

Wow. Another very, very, very good story. First person, present tense is an interesting choice. I especially liked the way so much focus was given to the main character's thoughts ("I am rather fond of this snow monkey, and have named him Gibbles."). And nice subtle Uberbob/Homestar reference with having Dennis as a direction. Is the 2.03 Leddinger a Noogy reference or coincidence?

[White Rabbit]

This is not child-friendly but, because sex sells, I like it. ;P

[Coppertop]

Tastefully done. Thank you for posting the warning.

[Ducky]

This is very catchy. I'm a fan. Disclaimer noted, thank you, and wow, I absolutely adore that you called the gun a Leddinger. <333

[4I Falcon]

Eventually, I will have to devote some time to reading all the new WT stuff that's come in under my nose in greater detail. From the bits and pieces I've read of this, though, I can still that you're still a much better writer than I will ever be.

[Violet CLM]

This is significantly shorter than it's supposed to be and is missing two important scenes which I plan to post at some later date. And I wrote all this a long time ago because I didn't want to post this without those scenes. Oh well.<hr>

"Name?" asks the police captain.
"Dennis Rethguals."
"Offense?"
"Attempted rape and probable murder."
"Length of stay?"
"Ask the judge."
"Any special cell requirements?"
"None."
"All right... R.A.B.T. number?"
"26."
I watch as Dennis is lead away, a mixture of sadness and triumph playing through my brain. After the fiasco in the shower, I had dressed and tied Dennis up, afterwards proceeding to make myself at home until the trial time approached. Despite his lower qualities, Dennis really did have a nice house, with no dead bodies that I could find.
I glance up at the clock. Seven. With the trial at seven-thirty, Razz should be here at any moment to pick up Devan Shell. We will go to the trial, make sure Shell doesn't escape, and afterwards I will get my life back. Somehow, the prospect is not quite as appealing as it was in the hours between midnight and dawn, curled up in the alley. While in the R.A.B.T. uniform, nobody got in my way. I could walk right into people's houses and confiscate their possessions without complaint. I could march people into the jail building and they would be locked away, after I reported this or that indictment, with no need to provide proof. This is the feeling of being in control that has so many times caused me to want to abandon my civilian life and roam the planets full time, though Margsly always disapproved.
As Zoe Cottontail, of course, I am nobody, a saleswoman at a weapons shop, giving out small items with the power to kill, often untraceably. Today, my knowledge of guns has saved my life, which in some way makes up for the unwanted derision, affection and worship I receive from my coworkers, but not all the way. I live in a small, unclean apartment, my closest neighbor drilling holes in my ceiling for his own perverted purposes. There is nobody who would not choose the R.A.B.T. life over my normal one. What I need is a change of scene.
I am violently pulled back into the real world by a tap on my shoulder. Remembering Dennis' entry into the shower, I whirl around, only to find Razz smiling at me, suitcase on the ground next to him. I take several deep breaths, reminding myself that the danger is over.
"Hi, Zo - 26," he says, "welcome back to the land of the awake." I grin weakly. "You ready?"
I nod, and we collect Devan Shell, who is sitting dejectedly in a corner of the cell. I notice his toilet has been remade into what looks like a toy version of a 2703 Stalwich Assassinator, but missing a few crucial design elements. There is an impressive burn mark on the far wall, but nothing nearly powerful enough to cause an escape. On the way to the courthouse, Razz and I take turns explaining to Shell what went wrong with his toilet gun, I being surprised by Razz's knowledge of gunnery, and Razz by my knowledge of machines. The turtle is not a bad guy for a galactic terrorist, once you get past his dramatic dialogue.
The trial itself starts off smoothly, with no arguments regarding seat arrangements, and no struggles from Devan. In the center of the circular courtroom, floating about five feet above the ground and three feet above the jury, sits the cunning-yet-honorable Judge Fury, ready to take command of the situation. All around the edges of the room sit the audience, composed of witnesses for both sides, reporters, and people who just dropped in to watch a trial before heading home. Razz and I stand on either side of Devan, making sure he doesn't escape, but allowing him room to talk to his lawyer, a respectable looking hedgehog. Across the room from us is an identical desk to the one we are at, but unguarded, occupied by a lawyer (badger) and a rabbit which I assume must be the prosecutor. As I slowly look around for hidden threats, Razz grabs my arm and whispers into my ear.
"Well...! I should pay more attention at the briefings. You see that green guy over there? The prosecutor?" I nod. "That's Jazz Jackrabbit, my cousin-in-law!"
Surprised, I examine the green rabbit more closely. About three feet tall, somewhat muscular, but with an aura of grim determination which prevents you from being anything but impressed. He wears a red headband, gold wristbands on his arms, and shares his chair with an enormous blue gun - LFG model, probably, but it's hard to tell from where I'm sitting.
"Nice catch," I whisper back, "your cousin or his?"
He grins. "Do I look married to you?"
I shake my head, and I return my attention to the proceedings, keeping a careful eye on Devan just in case. "This court is now in session," proclaims Judge Fury. "The prosecution will begin its opening statements." Jazz's lawyer gets up, clearing his throat impressively before beginning the case.
"Your honor, ladies and gentlemen of the jury... we are gathered here today to condemn Mr. Shell for what I believe will be his third imprisonment. The evidence gathered against him today is insurmountable, and I have every reason to believe this trial will be a swift one."
"Defense?"
The hedgehog stands. "While Mr. Shell's criminal record is notable, there is no evidence linking him to the murder of Queen Earlong, and I hope that as sane men and woman, you will do the right thing and announce my defendant innocent."
"Thank you. Do either parties wish to invoke the rule excluding witnesses?" The lawyers respond that no, they don't, and Fury continues. "Prosecution may call its first witness."
The badger stands again. "I call Spazactric Anthony Jackrabbit to the stand." A gangly red rabbit leaps out of the audience and jogs over to the witness podium where Jazz's lawyer is already waiting. "Do you," asks the badger, "solemnly swear that the testimony you give is the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth, under penalty of perjury?"
The rabbit looks confused. "What's pear jury?" Laughter begins to ripple across the audience, and Judge Fury bangs his gavel. "Order! Mr. Jackrabbit, perjury is the act of telling a falsehood while under oath to speak no lie."
"Oh..." the red rabbit ponders this. "So, you're saying I shouldn't lie, 'cause that's bad, right?"
"Yes. Now, Mr. Jackrabbit, the oath?"
"Okie! Um, like, I swear to tell you the truth, and then I won't lie, 'cause apparently if I lie, that would be lying, and that is being bad! So I won't lie when I tell the truth and stuff. Can I go now?"
From the corner of my eye I see Jazz holding his head in his hands, obviously in distress of some kind. Meanwhile, the badger has managed to explain to Spaz why he was called up.
"Mr. Jackrabbit, where were you at 2:14 PM on Friday, August 1st?"
Pause. "Can't tell you."
"Mr. Jackrabbit, need I remind you that you are under oath? Do you wish to plead the fifth?"
"Huh? No, the fifth is all fine, but I just dunno where I was. See," and here his voice drops to a conspiratorial tone which I can barely make out, "I can't tell time."
"Order!" cries the judge again, and the laughter dies down. Spaz continues on in this fashion, aggravating everyone present until he is eventually dismissed and the proceedings continue. Many more witnesses are called, mostly rabbits, although a few turtles show up to testify that Devan was in several different completely innocent places at the time of the murder, often on the other side of the galaxy. They are unable to explain how exactly it was that Jazz apprehended him on Carrotus, or why nobody at the locations they name showed up to verify his presence. The case is becoming decidedly one-sided in my officially impartial eye, and I expect nothing new when Devan himself is called to the stand.
"Mr. Shell," asks the badger, "are you responsible for the murder of Queen Earlong?"
"No."
"Can you inform us who did?"
"No."
"What is your comment on the security tapes and eyewitnesses which recorded you?"
"Fakes and frauds," responds the turtle sullenly, "or someone else who just looks like me. I didn't do it."
All during Devan's testimony, I had noticed Jazz becoming increasingly aggravated, hands bunched into small fists, holding tightly onto the table in front of him. At this final denial, Jazz jumps to his feet, snatching the blue gun up as he does so. Body shaking except for the hand holding the gun, Jazz aims at Devan's frightened head, ignoring the cries from the rest of the court. "That's not true!" Jazz shouts, angrily. "We all saw you kill her! How can you sit there, innocently claiming that you're not an evil monster?! You're the turtle who conquered the known universe and imprisoned the woman who was going to be my wife in countless uncomfortable dungeons! You've slaughtered more creatures than most of us will ever know in our lives, and you've tampered with history so much that I barely recognize the galaxy I live in! And now you sit here and say that you didn't kill the only mother I've ever known. Give me one good reason I shouldn't blow your head off right here and now!!" Jazz's eyes are ablaze with hatred, gun humming ominously with suppressed energy. The court is completely silent, and Razz and I are both standing tensely, ready to spring into action at a moment's notice.
"Time's up!" the green rabbit cries madly a moment later, and a burst of flame flies out of his gun, flying straight and true towards Devan's motionless form. In an instant, I have tackled Devan down to the ground and out of harm's way, and Razz leaps forward with a strange device in his outstretched hand. Looking up, I watch the flame quiver and disperse as it nears Razz's device, ending uselessly with no damage done to anything. Razz presses a button, and a beam of blue light hits Jazz, rendering him temporarily immobile long enough for the court officials to remove his gun.

[Violet CLM]

When both Devan and Jazz are safely on their feet once more, Judge Fury delivers his verdict on the incident. The case is postponed a week while Fury decides what actions, if any, should be taken against Jazz for his unsuccessful attack. Jazz, in the meantime, is advised not to leave town. The court slowly disperses as Razz and I take charge of Devan once more, bringing him silently back to the jail, carefully refraining from discussion. The police chief is not especially pleased to house the turtle for another week, but we explain the situation and mention R.A.B.T. a few times and he is somewhat satisfied.
I part company with Razz a few minutes later, this time remembering to reclaim my clothing, color scheme and identity. I am suddenly just a little disheartened towards the R.A.B.T. life, and returning to the role of Zoe Cottontail is almost a welcome change. I catch a bus, return to my apartment, and let myself in, gladly noting that everything is just as I left it. There is a new hole in my ceiling which I deliberately ignore, and I happily fall into my bed; a marked improvement over the cold streets from the night before.

The next day starts out uneventfully. I have a completely successful encounter with my coffee, and get to work on time, where my boss has evidently not yet decided to fire me.
"How's your snow monkey?" he asks humorlessly, obviously not caring in the least. Uninterested in reinforcing my actual lack of pet, I cast around for a likely story.
"He had a small tantrum which was exactly what he needed. The doctor says he should make a full recovery in a few days."
He grunts, "Get to work, Zee," and I comply. Everyone is the same as they were two days ago, completely unaware of my adventures as #26 of R.A.B.T., which is exactly how they should be. Edward is once more without a tail, indicating that Rane must have gotten bored at some point during my absence, a theory which is reinforced by the smug look the pig carries. Alice is listening carefully to Edward describe a new shipment of torpedoes which we evidently just received, but she cuts him off when I enter the work room and comes over to me.
The brown rabbit has apparently decided to forget about my abrupt departure two nights ago, instead falling under the impression that we are now the best of friends. I shrug inwardly. It was not really Alice's fault what happened, and besides, it feels nice to have another person on my side. We talk together for much of the day, with the obvious interruptions caused by customers, and I enjoy the peaceful feeling immensely, sitting happily in a little circle of peace and friendship. At some point Edward joins us, eventually even coming up with enough nerve to talk of subjects other than those strictly required for business. Rane stands huffily in a corner, probably annoyed by our friendly discussion but knowing that it does not break any rules.
When our working day is over, Alice invites me to the bar again, and I accept after she assures me that Mr. Muttley will definitely not be making another appearance tonight. The 2706 "Speedster" blasts off into the night and deposits us safely a while later in front of the Bar and Bathrooms, which we enter with minimal interest from the rhino. It turns out to be dance night.
I am thirsty, and tell Alice so. Together we weave our way through the twisting and turning bodies which spin back and forth across the floor, reaching the bar soon afterwards and somehow avoiding any and all collisions. I lever myself into a stool, and the bartender comes up, taking me in with a deep stare. I stare back, confident I do not have to worry about the coffee stains this time.
"You've changed," he says, after a pause. "Something went right, didn't it?"
"Yeah."
"Mind if I ask what?"
I frown, and my brow furrows. I was accidentally locked out of my identity, almost raped, and the prosecution in the case I was overlooking attempted to kill the defendant. Other events could be classified at best as 'not having gone wrong'. So...
"I don't really know."
"You don't know if I can ask, or you don't know what that thing that went right is?"
I tell him I haven't the foggiest idea, and I laugh as he continues to watch me intently. I think I have the upper hand. After a few seconds, he shrugs, and delivers his opinion.
"You're feeling good," he says, "because you've regained control over your life. You're not just going through the motions of survival anymore. That, girl, is a state I admire. Here's your drink."
I stare in confusion as a foaming glass is placed on the counter in front of me. I begin to protest that I hadn't even ordered anything, but he has walked off to another portion of the counter, and is leaning on it, watching the dancers with his probing eyes. It does not feel right to have this man who I barely know understand me so well. I turn around to express this concern to Alice, but she has anticipated my speech and is there with a response.
"You shouldn't mind Alister," she says, "he's like that to everyone. His philosophy is that as long as you're sitting in his bar and drinking his drinks and watching his entertainment, he has the right to say what he wants to you." She takes a swallow of her own personal intoxicator, and continues, obviously completely at ease in this strange environment. "The funny thing is, he's nearly always right. What did happen to you while you were away, Zoe?"
"It's... it's not something I'd really want to repeat."
"Aw, you can trust me!" She tilts her head and smiles, her stump of a third ear catching a blue light and glowing strangely. "I've known you for a while, haven't I?"
I hesitate, and my mind runs backwards through the months of catching the bus each morning to spend the day with Alice, Edward and Rane. I focus on Alice, watching her, seeing her, judging her, as she cheerily interacts with everyone each day, providing what they need, and as she attempts to attach herself to me between customers, always assuming just a small bit too much, but never maliciously... I do not believe that she would take what I am going to tell her and transform it into gossip, as that is not a part of her. I am her friend, even as she now seems to be mine, and I can trust her in this.
"All right," I say, and I recount the story of my encounter with Dennis, editing out a few key points so as to hide my involvement with R.A.B.T. and giving no explanation regarding why I was without identification in the first place or how I got it back later on.
"...so I took him into the police station and they'll deal with him from there," I finish some minutes later. I look up from the cooling surface of my drink into Alice's face, and see a strong feeling of concern in her eyes as she grips the edge of the counter, staring at me. After a long pause, Alice manages, "Oh my... oh, Zoe, I am so sorry."
Before I can say anything, her hands grasp mine warmly, and she leans forwards, eyes closed, taking my lips in hers.
My eyes widen, although she cannot see that from behind her eyelids. It is a second before I realize what is happening, and another before I decide to react... negatively. I withdraw my head and hand from contact with the dirty brown rabbit sitting next to me. As I do so, Alice's eyes open again, and she looks at me with a strange mixture of sadness and puzzlement.
"Zoe, I thought..."
"No, Alice." I swallow, and there is a lump in my throat, but I continue. "I do like you... but not in that way, and I'm sorry."
It is the first time either of us has actually acknowledged any feeling of romance on the part of either - everyone has always been sure that Alice has little interest in the masculine gender, but she has never admitted it in any form, and nobody has ever questioned her on it. I am not happy that I had to answer her first admittance in such a fashion. "I'm sorry," I say again, and Alice says that she understands, turning away slowly.
I taste my drink experimentally. It tastes of mangos. I place the glass back onto the counter and stare fixedly into its foamy surface, wondering how I should feel, what I should do. My experience with Dennis had been very sobering, and even the bartender - Alister, she had called him - had accused me of being uncertain of my sexuality the last time I was here. Alice could not have missed these signs, any more than I had, however unconsciously.
But kissing her had felt so wrong.
Coming in high on that euphoria whose source I could not quite trace, I had readily accepted Alice's offer of companionship. But, I am sure now, it is not with her that I must live my life. I must find another direction, one which allows me to feel alive as I did standing over Dennis' defeated body, but still provides companionship in my times of need...
R.A.B.T. would fulfill those requirements. I could travel the galaxy, doing what needs doing, and with a squad around me to talk and share my life with. But no, as Margsly said, I will be ready to join R.A.B.T. full-time when I no longer ask or need to do so. So... what?
"Penny for your thoughts," a male voice says next to me, and I jump nearly out of my skin. I spin around, my eyes narrowing, my previously unengaged hands tensing into fists as I reflexively prepare to defend myself. Then I see the origin of the voice, and I blink.

<i>To be continued again...</i>

[n00b]

Better late than never I suppose.