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.

To be continued...