Delicately Around the Room
She was like juniper when he breathed her. Or a windy sigh of a day in May.
The mouse thought of such things ... as they did (slowly) sway. Lately, it had taken merciful nights to keep the world at bay. To keep this conspiracy away. To keep it from overwhelming them. From being the end of all things.
Oh, what merciful nights.
It had been almost twenty-four hours ... since the snow. It had been almost twenty-four hours since releasing the venom. And the trolleys were in a somewhat-crippled state. Of course, they had KNOWN about the fuel contamination ... thanks to that sole trolley that had caught them leaving the scene. That had chased Ma to who-knew-where.
So, "The Board" had, effectively immediately, placed all trolleys on emergency fuel rations. They all had fuel left ... enough in their tanks, maybe, to last at least ONE more day. Assuming they went on cruise control and didn't strain themselves. Which was difficult for the trolleys to do. Considering how vicious they were. And how they loved to showboat.
And word had it that emergency fuel shipments would arrive from Sheridan, Kentucky, and Sheridan, Michigan ... by week's end. But that would mean, at the very least ... two or three trolley-free days. And during such a time?
The rebellion's time to shine.
Without the trolleys, what was keeping them? Without their shock troops, how would "The Board" stop them from taking back this town?
But, now, in this room, Adelaide was currently adoring the after-eleven light, and was watching Field from up-close. So into watching him. Adelaide kept her paws and arms (and wings) around Field's lower back, and she kept her head against the side of his own. As they moved in slow, slow circles. Around the living room.
The radio was on ... singing of Bastille Day out on the lawn. In a slow, fading sun. It sang of waiting so long. It sang.
And they swayed.
And the mouse, muzzle and twitching nose ... buried in the fur on the side of her pink-furred neck, whispered, "You know what I would like? Right now, what I ... where I would like to be?"
"Where?" was her returned whisper. Sweet, and ... oh, so fair.
"In a pasture somewhere. On a summer evening. We would find a golden fence to lean on, and ... just breathe of things. Out there, I would keep you safe."
"You already," she confided, "keep me safe."
He shook his head weakly, guiding her away from the coffee table. To the center of the room. Past the fireplace and the dusty broom. "No, you're ... stronger than me. It's from you that I get my safety. You're better," he told her.
"That's not true ... "
"I just wish I could protect you ... like how you protect me. I wish I had the fangs for it. I wish ... "
"Field," she whispered.
The lighting in here was dim. Lighting him ... in golden, honey-hinted hues. And his pink, long tail trailed behind him, hanging above the carpet.
"Field, don't doubt ... don't think you're any more awkward than the rest of us. Or any more ... that you're worse for wear."
The mouse breathed in and out ... slowly. Against her neck. Hugging her a bit closer.
"Whatever you think you've done wrong," she whispered into his swiveling hear. "I forgive you. Whatever you think your detriments are ... I'll cancel them out. As you've cancelled mine. We don't have to ... mire ourselves in our ... just, Field," she said, voice trailing in and out. "Please ... "
He nodded. Letting it go. And ... nodding. Knowing that love was a summer house. With the warning, "Dangerous terrain." A long and silver path through the dust and ... all that remains. It was an adventure. A journey. It got them out of a world that was mad. And though neither of them professed to understand, their love did, indeed, allow them to walk on solid land.
Their love was like air. It did permeate ... everywhere.
"Tell me," he asked her, "what it's like ... to fly."
"Mm?"
"When you fly," he whispered. "What is it like? Is there air," he asked, "in your bones? Where the marrow should be?"
She smiled against his neck. Nose on his neck. His nose now on her cheek.
She was so beautiful. She was made for flight. The mouse was made for scurrying, burrowing ... was made for the ground. But she ... oh, she was made for the air! And he could only wonder what it must be like up there. The mouse had no head for heights.
"Well, it's hard to say ... I mean, if you have no reference, but ... " She hugged to him. Pressed to his chest. Wings round his back. So warm. So close. She could feel the heat of him. And as they moved delicately around the room, she felt they were being slow-roasted. By some kind of fire. Invisible or not. In the passion in which they were caught.
The mouse chitter-squeaked very airily ... turning her in a slow circle.
"But it's," she said, swallowing, clearing her throat. "It's ... well, I guess it can be best described as ... dizziness. You're falling, but you're falling upward. You bump and grind with gravity. You push yourself to the edge. The world is pulling you down, and you're trying to break free. It's hard to fly. Especially at first. But once you learn, it's ... " Her eyes closed as she imagined it. As she remembered it. It had been some time since she'd flown. "It's like a dream."
"Mm ... maybe," whispered Field, right into her ear. Into her smaller, more angular ears. Whispered, "Maybe one day, then ... maybe we can live on the moon. We can swim through the air. Swim through the sky."
She giggled. "Yeah?"
"Yeah," he whispered.
"Such a dizzy-eyed dreamer," she told him. "I don't know. I don't think gravity would appreciate that."
"Does it appreciate much?"
"Well, it's jealous, Field. It doesn't want to let us go. Our love, it's ... it's addicted to us. To our love. It won't let us go. It's keeping us here. Anyway, the sky is too open. Too wide. We'd get lost up there."
"You're probably right," he whispered, and they had swayed their way back to the coffee table. Field still thinking of the moon. The phases of it. The faces of it. The colors and the shapes of it. It had been a few weeks since he'd seen the moon. Last time he'd seen it, it lay low over Westfield Steel. As a crescent. It was always most beautiful when it was a crescent. Such an exotic, alien shape ... the crescent. One part silence. One part sense. The moon should take that shape all the time. But, then, if it did ... the world would be robbed of such variation.
Field leaned down for a glass that was on the table. Still dreaming of the moon. And milk (seemingly) in his eyes. As it was, too, in the glass. Which he brought up and to Adelaide's lips. And she sipped of it. Of the strawberry creme tequila. Mixed with milk. With ice cubes. She sipped, and she breathed in through the nose. And swallowed. And took the glass from him and ... gave him a sip. Upon, which, she set the cup down ... and kissed his cheek.
Light-headed and giving a little giggle, the mouse swept her upward.
She squealed and giggle-gasped, "Field ... what ... "
"I'm going to fly you around the room."
"Field ... " She giggled and clung to him, as she was picked up ... off her foot-paws, and the mouse gripped his paws beneath her thighs. She latched her legs around his hips, and he stepped her away from the table, and started turning in a circle. Before, a few seconds later, he had to put her down ... for she was a bit shorter and stockier than him. And he, thin, hadn't the strength to carry her for long, but ...
... it was such a romantic notion, and such a silly, spontaneous thing, that neither of them cared.
Adelaide just tugged on his paw and backed into the wall. Eyeing him with one part glory, two parts glow. And she said, belly-to-belly, taking a breath, and then another (and tilting her head) ... said, "I feel, suddenly, that things are better than they were before. I feel such hope, and I ... I feel like we're two stars. We're two stars among a universe of stars. And we may not stand apart ... in the grander scheme, but ... with the heavens above, and trouble nearly behind ... I feel we'll shine on. We'll be free to go."
"Go where?" he whispered, breathing of her warm, dizzy air. "Where?" he asked, exhaling onto her muzzle.
"Doesn't matter. But ... we'll see things. We'll ... we'll BE things," she stressed. And her eyes watered and she tilted her head, kissing his lips. Soft, sweet. Succulent. Contact and connection ...
... bucking the trend.
Logic dictated that, when all love was gone, one would be calm. One would be calm. Logic said ... when the feelings came, you would fight them off. Would fight them off. With bells and bombs. And it would be over when the fireworks said so.
Love was supposed to give you the shove. Love was supposed to, down the line, dim. And fail. And die on you.
But that wasn't going to happen here. She would bet her life on it. And being that their lives were so dependent on each other (already), they would both sooner die than face that pain. Oh, not again. Not again. They had both felt it before. The feeling of loss. Of knowing you'd spent months with someone who had never loved you. Who was not willing to fight for you. Knowing you'd given yourself ... in exchange for silence. That you'd spilled those words ... to someone with a tennis racket. Who would volley them back to you. Would use them against you. Would ...
... oh, would not happen here. That would not happen here.
This love would stay.
They had long since fallen for each other. And neither had the notion to fight it off. Neither wanted it to be over.
And they were young. And they had time.
Delicate. Remembering what their struggles had taught, the two of them could do this. Could make it work. They had each other's number.
He kissed her back. Soft, soft ... the wetness of the lips. The strawberry scented breaths. The feel of velvety fur. The brittleness of her. And the tenderness of him. The mouse twitched and radiated of energy. Even at repose, his nose ... did that twitch-and-sniff.
And she giggled as his whiskers brushed her cheeks ... and as she wrapped her wings round him (tightly), and as she pulled him away from the wall, and spun him around. And as he squeaked. And as her eyes peaked with the living room light.
Right now, they felt ... rather brave about everything.
How had there ever been doubt?
How ...
... suddenly jarred they were from their romantic revelry. By the knock at the door, the knock, knock, knocking at the door.
Field shook his head, trying to shake it clear (to no avail). Adelaide, feeling much of the same, cleared her throat and ... had to pry herself off of the mouse. Almost stumbling as she went to the door (head swimming). And put her paw on the knob, suddenly fearing who it could be. Who was on the other side? When the door knocked at night in Sheridan town, it was never a good sign. Because of curfew, precious few would venture out at night.
So, who could it be?
The possibilities gave her (and Field) a fright.
She took a deep, shaky breath, and opened it, and ...
... there, in the cold, was Ma Sparta. The cat. Black-furred and glaring. Shivering and staring, and not waiting for an invitation to come into the warmth.
Adelaide blinked as she barged into the living room, and ... the bat closed the door. Locked it. And asked, "What ... "
" ... am I doing here? What, no, 'Gee, Ma, I'm glad you're alive. I'm sorry I left you for trolley fodder.'"
Adelaide frowned.
Ma shook her head, letting out a breath. And turned to look at Field, and then at the rest of the room. The candles. The alcohol. The dim lighting. And the cat chuckled a bit. "Prelude to yiff, huh? How close were you ... ?" She grinned. Showing her teeth.
"What do you want, Ma?" Adelaide demanded briskly. Stand-offish and defensive. Resenting Ma's coarseness.
Ma, still grinning, shrugged, walking around a bit, looking things over. "Your mouse has a knack for interior decorating," she said, guessing (correctly) that Field had been the one to rearrange the furniture in here. To decorate the tables and walls.
Adelaide, taking a step forward, showed her fangs. "What," she asked again, "do you want, Ma?"
"Oh, I just stopped by ... to say hello. What do you think I want?" she shot back. "I'm a fugitive. I had nowhere to go. So, I tracked you down. I need a place to stay."
"What?"
"Are you seriously going to turn me away? Put me on the street?"
"You've always had a penchant for being able to take care of yourself," Adelaide reasoned. "Why shouldn't I?"
"Cause I've got news."
The bat squinted.
"Big," Ma whispered, "news."
Field, taking a seat on the couch, sighed ... still feeling light-headed. He wanted to lie down, but ... he sat up. Asking Ma, "What ... exactly?"
"After the emergency fuel supplies come into town, and when 'The Board' gets their new fuel flow up and running ... they're going to wake General Sheridan."
Adelaide took another step forward, squinting. "What?"
Ma nodded gravely. "They would've done it sooner, but ... they didn't want to wake the General and inform him that his trolleys had been bested. The General was famous for his notorious ... temper," Ma explained. "He's very demanding. Very controlling. And very intimidating."
"You seem to know a lot about it," Field said.
"I was on the inside, remember?" Ma replied. With a bit of annoyance. "Hey, I helped you two ... derail the trolleys. You should be grateful."
Adelaide drew in a breath. And sighed it out. And offered a, "thank you."
"Mm," was all Ma did. Crossing her arms and going to the couch. Flopping to a sit next to Field. And grabbing the glass of milked tequila, taking a few sips. "You don't mind, do you?"
Adelaide rolled her eyes.
"That's a bad habit, eye-rolling," Ma said, taking a deeper sip. "You'll make your eyes fall out."
The bat padded softly to the couch (in her bare foot-paws, as Field was), and sat on the other side of Field (who was suddenly feeling claustrophobic ... between the two).
There was a momentary quiet.
Ma sipping.
Field twitching.
Adelaide staring blankly at nothing in particular, feeling ... zoned out. Wanting their privacy back. And needing some water to offset the alcohol in her system.
"So, what ... what happened with the trolley?" Field eventually asked. "How did you escape?"
"I'm a cat. I have nine lives," Ma joked.
They stared blankly back at her.
"You two, I swear ... " Ma sighed. "No, I know all the nooks and crannies of Sheridan High. I got away ... into the building, and then found an exit, and ... well, the trolley found me again. I was chased to the outskirts of town, but as you know ... once you leave the town limits, the trolleys don't follow. So, I had to stay in a field for a few hours. Until the trolley lost its patience and went away. And then I came back into town, and ... spent the morning at one of my hide-outs."
"You have hide-outs?"
"Many of them."
"Where?" Adelaide asked.
Ma didn't reply to that. Only said, "The trolleys are operating on cruise control. On emergency fuel. Level one. They're on their patrols, but they're not giving chase ... and they're not performing their usual acts of harassment. They won't even make their ding-a-ling sounds ... I've seen a few furs, here and there, start to venture out of their houses. I've ... I've noticed a slight change. But the fear is still there. Everyone knows that, at week's end, the trolleys will have their fuel back, and ... they'll be furious. I think everyone in town is fearing retribution."
"Do you fear it?" Adelaide asked.
"No," Ma answered, though it was hard to know if she was telling the truth. "Doubtless, if they got their paws on me, I would be ... taken below. With Ma 1.0 and 2.0 ... with my predecessors. But the Ma Sparta line," she said, "will prevail." It was hard to tell if she was speaking with arrogance or confidence. Or both.
There was a moment of silence.
"If we don't stop him," Ma said pointedly, "General Sheridan will soon be walking the ground he once shook. The Sheridan Network ... with today's technology, it's more complete than it ever was. The towns of Sheridan, upon the General's returning ... "
Field shook a ladybug off his paw ... watching it fly crazily upward.
" ... will only make them stronger," continued Ma. "We cannot," she stressed, "allow him to wake."
"So, what are you saying? That we ... "
" ... deal with him," was all Ma said. And her eyes glinted cold. Her eyes, narrow and gold, glinted hard. "We do what must be done." She drew a breath, saying, "Our minds are behind this wheel. Everyone else in this town ... they fiddle. But they can't make music. We can. The three of us. We can get this done." She stood from the couch, beginning to pace back and forth on the carpet. From the coffee table to the fireplace. And back again. "We also have another problem."
The mouse and bat looked to her.
She looked back. "The water towers."
"What of them?" asked the bat.
"The towers act as antennas. They maintain the Sheridan Network. But the technology is growing, and becoming more ... invasive."
"Meaning?"
"Meaning, the towers, in conjunction with the guard trolleys, will soon be able to eavesdrop within houses. And even outside of the town's borders. Their reach and scope ... will grow."
"When?"
"I don't know. It's an expanding process. But it won't be long ... suffice it to say, with General Sheridan's return, and with a more powerful Sheridan Network, and with the trolleys refueled and looking for fur and blood ... this thing will intensify," Ma promised. "The bottom line, furs," she told them, "is that ... NOW is the time to defeat the conspiracy. If we can't do it now, if we don't succeed now ... in this hour of vulnerability ... then I don't believe we'll ever succeed. The conspiracy is belly-up. Weak spot exposed. But the moment it rights itself, and regains momentum ... it'll be like trying to stop a brakeless freight train. We'll get crushed. Now," she whispered, "or never. That is the burden," she said, "to which we are straddled."
Field let out a breath. Biting his lip. Whiskers twitching.
Adelaide stared at the coffee table, blinking a few times, before looking up to Ma and saying, "You say we need to rid the world of General Sheridan? But who are we to do such a thing? Who are we to pass judgment? Is that not God's right?"
"I don't know. I don't care. This isn't about semantics."
"No, but if we lose perspective, and we ... lose our spiritual ethics ... are we any better than the conspirators?"
"Bat," Ma spat. "Did you not hear a word I said? They're aiming to make us dead! This town ... is on the verge. Is on an ABYSS. The entire Sheridan Conspiracy is on a hinge. We must BREAK it. Swing it to a close. For if it swings open ... " She trailed. Unable to imagine the consequences. "This thing will spill out of the town's borders. It will ... dammit, bat. You're tough, aren't you? You're steely. Don't lose your nerve on me. I came to you ... cause I thought you could help me do this. Don't be like the others."
"You're asking us to murder General Sheridan!"
"He's in stasis!" Ma growled back. "All we have to do is pull the plug. He should be long-dead, anyway. He's a Civil War relic. Only alive through unnatural means. Nature," she stressed, "must take its course. And we are to ensure that such a course is taken. We find a way to pull the plug."
"Won't he just ... wake up, then?" Field posed, "if we pull the plug?"
"Cryogenic stasis is a tricky thing," Ma replied. "You can't just pull the plug and wake someone up. It takes careful, controlled thawing ... to get them out of it. A sudden transition can kill the fur in stasis."
"We'll help you," Adelaide whispered. "But you'll be the one to finish him ... I don't have the nerve."
"Oh, I bet you do," Ma whispered, meeting the bat's eyes. "You'd be surprised what some furs are capable of. And you strike me as ... more capable," Ma said, "than most." And she tilted her feline head. Nodded sagely. "But alright. I'll pull the plug. But you'll help with the infiltration. And you'll help scramble the signals for the Sheridan Network. They have satellites in orbit. We need to cut off the signals."
Adelaide just nodded.
Ma sighed and resumed her pacing. "I just keep looking for a place to fit in. For a place to speak my mind. For furs that ... I wouldn't leave behind. They say I have brains, but they ain't doing me no good." She drew a breath. "I am a refugee. And, sometimes ... I admit it. I feel very sad, sometimes. But ... it is my MISSION to destroy this conspiracy. I was built to be a part of it. I am a machine," said the feline. "I am not real. But you are ... and the other furs in this town are. God made you, and you made me ... we all come from one another. That said ... " Ma trailed. "That said, I consider the two of you, for all the teasing I've given you, and for the very brief time that I've known you ... I consider you to be friends. I trust you. And I assure you ... that we will get this done. We will prevail. That all of us will breathe again."
The mouse and bat sat transfixed, listening to Ma (perhaps for the first time in her life) spill her heart.
"My heart," confessed Ma, "is as dark as the soil sodden with winter rains. And my soul? Heavy as the peat ... freshly dug from the bough. And my thoughts, they are all willow branches caught in autumn winds. I do not trust easily. I have been betrayed by everyone I know. I have been gunned at ... tracked, treated as a traitor. But I look at you, and your love, and I see ... the love you have. Not only for each other. But for your home. For ... the art of living. For ... I see how you're so real. You have flaws, and you ... acknowledge them, and try to learn from them. You don't wallow. You don't ... " Ma trailed. "You have problems. You have sinned, and yet ... you live again. As someone who's lost all faith in everything and everyone, seeing your own ... makes me wonder," whispered Ma. "Makes me start to ... " She trailed again. And, this time, stopped.
"You don't have to justify yourself to us, Ma," Adelaide whispered, breaking the silence. "You don't have to rationalize yourself."
"But I do. We all do."
"Leaves no time for anything else ... leaves us trapped in thought. Turns us into apologists."
"It's the only way to defuse tension," Ma reasoned. "The tension that comes ... the only way to defuse it is to offer a justification for its departure."
"But tension's just a passing note. Tension," breathed Adelaide, "is necessary for growth. To push us. To ... we need not justify ... because we have been redeemed. Forgiven. And because," she whispered, "we strive to live a life that needs no explaining. That speaks for itself."
"I'm not very good at living," Ma confessed quietly. "I'm only good at staying alive. And there's a stark difference." She sounded so tired when she said that. She sounded so weary.
There was a pause. There was quiet.
And, Adelaide, swallowing, asked, "Is General Sheridan really in the basement of the Quaker church?"
Ma nodded lightly. "Yes."
"Is it guarded?"
Another nod. Another, "Yes." And a pause. "But ... I can get us into the basement without going through the main entrance of the church. Without having to go down the stairs. I can get us directly," Ma promised, "into there, without detection."
"How?" Field questioned.
"Devil's Hollow."
The mouse and bat blinked. Wary.
"It's an underground elevator/transport system ... run by Super C." Super C was the high school's Spanish teacher. Once a major player in the conspiracy, she had been humiliated by "The Board," and reduced to a background player ... after they successfully launched a plot to steal her clout. "Super C despises 'The Board' and General Sheridan ... almost as much as I do. She knows that, within the confines of the conspiracy, her life is stalled. The only way for her to regain any semblance of what she had ... is to escape the talons of the conspiracy. She wants to see it ended as much as I do. She's trapped. She wants out. She will," Ma promised, "help us."
Adelaide just nodded.
"We will go to her, use the Devil's Hollow transport system, get into the basement of the church ... and when there, I'll pull the plug on General Sheridan ... while you disrupt all the satellite signals in the Sheridan Network. That clear enough?"
"Yes ... "
"We'll do it tomorrow," said Ma. And looking from one to the other, suggested, "You better get your rest."
Adelaide nodded quietly, standing, saying, "You can stay ... the night. You can have the couch. I don't have a spare room. I just have one bedroom, and ... "
"Thank you." A nod. And Ma, suddenly feeling a bit awkward (which was not something Ma often felt ... or was this not awkwardness; was it ... feeling humbled, instead, by kindness ... no one was ever kind to Ma) ... "thank you," she said ... again.
Field just nodded shyly.
Adelaide whispered back, "You're welcome."
And, later, Ma was lying (but not sleeping ... simply staring into the dark, haunted by her past pains) ... on the couch. Beneath a blanket.
And Field and Adelaide in her bedroom, beneath the cool sheets. Eyes closed. Her back to his belly, and his arm wrapped round her front, holding her protectively.
"Darling," he whispered.
She, breathing softly, went, "Mm?" Keeping her eyes closed. Sounding groggy. As did he. The mouse's voice ... a sleepy voice.
"I just ... I love you," he said simply. Shyly. Sweetly. Softly. Sleepily. He said.
She drew in a quiet breath through her nose, and ... said it back. And yawned, swallowing. "Oh," she breathed. "Field ... why do I have the feeling that we're gonna be tired when we wake?"
"Cause we dream too much," was his response.
And her smile, and her own reply (to that), was, "No. I don't think that's the reason." For one couldn't dream too much, could they? Dreaming was so vital. It was not a thing to be a worn out. Not a thing that could be overdone.
The mouse gave a light kiss to the back of her neck.
The bat, wings lax, body warm ... ignoring any alcohol-induced headache, ignoring all the problems that could arise tomorrow ... simply sighed at that. At that kiss. And said, "Goodnight, baby-doll."
Field giggled quietly at being called "baby-doll," but did not object.
And they met their rest. Knowing they would need it.