Outing
By Asher Tye
Disclaimer: All characters are owned by their respective owners. I make no profit off of this.
Author's Note: A rather nasty bunny that grabbed hold of my arm and wouldn't let me go for the past two days. I've been reading a lot of fanfic concerning the character Miles Prower (the Anti-Tails). And it's gotten me to thinking about exactly how this particular shadow archetype works, especially considering how much we know about the differences between Mobius and Moebius. Given they are the same basic clay, how does one become Tails, and the other become Miles? I might do something else with this later on; apparently the plot bunny has cousins.
Miles Prower trembled a little as he trudged through the snow and into the village proper. The cold temperatures had little to do with it, given the high quality winter apparel the cub sported. No, it had more to do with the companion he traveled with, and the rather smoldering temperament the Moebian possessed.
The other, larger fox, trudged a full step ahead of Miles, a distance the cub was expected to maintain without deviation if he didn't want to be punished. Not that that was any insurance the kit would not be punished, but Miles had long ago learned not to push his luck with his father.
And then it happened. Ice blue eyes trailed off of the swishing tail and swaying great coat belonging to his sire and happened to glance at one of the stores they were walking past. A toy store as it were, with a display in its window of a play city. Model skyscrapers dominated the miniature landscape as small cars wound through faux streets. And above it all planes flew, unencumbered by the problems of the world below them. Miles had an affinity for such things, and idly he could imagine himself at the controls, wind passing through his fur, sun shining on his face. A small part of him dearly wished to own such a craft, even if only as a toy. For a brief moment, a glimmer of hope arose in the six year old that this might have been the reason he had been brought to town, that his father might have consented to give him a present.
All too quickly the Universe moved to correct young Miles as a large, gloved hand cuffed him across the head. This was no light blow that might have been used to simply gain another's wayward attention, but a hard, sharp strike that might have staggered a full grown Moebian, let alone a somewhat runty cub. And stagger Miles did, grabbing hold of the store wall for balance as his head turned to the shadow looming over him.
And there was no one who could loom like Wolfgang Prower, Baron of Iron Lock. The elder fox had long since turned it into an art form, though not many who actually saw him loom could really appreciate it. Miles gulped quickly as he gazed up at his father, backing away a step even as the adult glared down at his son.
"I do not recall saying we would stop here, Miles," Baron Prower stated, his voice almost a growl as his single, dark blue eye narrowed. "I have told you before not to dally while we are about. Can I take you nowhere you won't misbehave?"
"I-I-I'm sorry, sir," the cub managed to stammer out, releasing the wall as his senses returned to full strength. His body had become too used to such blows for them to stun him for long, but such was hardly the worst the old fox could inflict if he so chose. Wolfgang's eye turned in its socket to stare at the display that had so enraptured his son earlier, a derisive snort escaping him.
"You would do well to ignore childish flights of fancy, my son. They do not serve you well." The elder fox spun on his heel, back turned to his offspring. "Let us continue onward. I will not be late for my appointment because of you." So saying the larger reynard proceeded forward. Unwilling to suffer further punishment, the smaller moved quickly to catch up. What on another world might have been a playful scamper was here a mad scramble as Miles fell back in step behind his sire.
As the miserable Miles continued to trudge through the snow, tails held low and just off the ground, his ears twisted about on his head. Though silence was the cloak under which the two vulpines traveled, the town itself was anything but. And, in the background, young Prower could make out the sound of children laughing and playing in the snow. In the shadows of the cub's heart, a lonely longing to join them bubbled forth, only to be tainted by jealousy at the impossibility of such an act. Jealousy turned to anger, and with a derisive snort, he pointedly dismissed the whole affair. What cared he for the mewlings and frivolity of other children? He was a Prower, heir to Iron Lock, Son of the Blo...
The strike was completely unexpected when it came, a thickly packed snowball that struck the back of his head. Off guard, and fearful he had once more roused the anger of his sire, Miles over-compensated his sudden shift in balance, his boots slipping on ice and snow as he twisted about before crashing to the ground in a heap of fur and clothes. Laughter resonated through his ears.
"Ha, see that? I got the little freak," a snide voice declared triumphantly, accompanied by cheers of congratulations at the accomplishment. Angrily the fox struggled to sit, rage fueling a desire for revenge against whatever urchin had so aggrieved him. Such a notion dissipated though, as Miles caught sight of the culprit. A warthog, at least a head taller than the Baronet and possibly twice his girth posed exultantly from where he'd thrown the snowball, a laughing smile on his ugly face. It did not take a genius level intellect to know what would happen should the slight fox cub try to attack that stocky frame. Quietly Miles bit his lip in impotent fury, unwilling to humiliate himself further by entering a battle he could not win.
Again the presence loomed. Once more Miles found himself caught in the baleful gaze of his sire, though this time the elder fox didn't seem quite so angry.
"Well?" Wolfgang asked, impatience in his voice. When all the cub could do was stare questioningly back, he continued. "What are you going to do about that? I haven't got all day," Baron Prower responded, pointing at the still laughing piglet. Miles gritted his teeth and flattened his ears, but did not move.
"He's bigger than me," the kit admitted in a mutter, his cheeks flushing unhappily. "And... and I'm unarmed. There's nothing I can do." A gloved hand grabbed ahold tightly of the boy's ear as his father crouched to the street before him, eyes narrowed and face grim.
"He has declared himself an enemy, Miles, and must be destroyed for it," the elder spoke through his growl. "If he be stronger, than you must be faster. If he be faster, then you must be smarter. And if he be smarter, then you must be more vicious." Wolfgang's free hand reached down to the street. "And if he would attack in a display of simple minded power," fingers curled around a flattened, jagged stone, "then you retaliate with a show of ferocity." In a blur of motion the Baron's arm snapped forward, the stone flying through the air like a shot. With a loud crack it struck the laughing warthog square in the forehead, bowling the piglet over to his back. With a squeal of anguish the Moebian boy began to cry, legs kicking as his body rocked, hands clutching his head in pain as a trickle of blood made its way down his hairy cheek to stain the snow beneath him. Task complete, Wolfgang's attention turned back to his son. "Mark this, and mark it well. There will never be an enemy you will not destroy. This is the way of the Prowers, and while you may not be much of one, it is a rule you will never deviate from."
"HEY! What do you think you're doing?!" A new voice demanded. The two foxes' combined gaze turned to see a boar hunched over the stricken pig-boy, glowering angrily at them. In moments Wolfgang once more stood, purposeful strides taking him to the two warthogs. The boar rose to meet the threat, but Baron Prower was faster. Before the boar could react, the fox had unsheathed a long dagger, a nasty weapon who's most frightening aspect was how utterly unremarkable it was. In an instant Wolfgang's arm encircled the boar's neck, blade of the dagger caressing the man's throat. Miles recognized the stance. Were the other Moebian even moderately skilled, and perhaps not caught in fear, he might have been able to escape with little more than a scratch. Of course such a display would no doubt prompt the elder fox to take more definitive actions, so Miles couldn't help but see the wisdom in the pig remaining still. With his other hand, Wolfgang reached down and took hold of one of the injured piglet's emergent tusks, roughly pulling the boy to his hooves. Tachyon swift recognition flashed across the adult warthog's eyes.
"You... you're... you're..." a gulp escaped the trapped Moebian's throat." My apologies Baron Prower, I did not mean to offend..."
"Is this yours?" Wolfgang asked, holding the yowling piglet at a most uncomfortable angle. The boar looked from the fox to his son but said nothing. The Baron's eye narrowed. "I am not disposed to repeat myself. Answer my question or forfeit your life." The boar slowly nodded, mindful of the blade. Roughly Wolfgang shoved the boy into his father's chest, smearing some of the escaping blood on the man's shirt even as the blade of his dagger moved not an inch. "I would suggest you do a better job teaching it appropriate manners, particularly when it comes to me and mine. For the next time my gaze settles upon this little swine... you shall require the services of a skilled casket maker." With a shove the two warthogs were on the ground, with Wolfgang standing over them unmoved. "Now get out of my sight before I change my mind." Father scrambled away with son as the fox turned around, surveying the area. Not unexpectedly, all who had been playing amongst the snow and laughing were now well hidden, unwilling to test the ire of the homicidal fox that stood before them. And of those who had previously been walking the street none would raise their head to meet the fox's eye, hastily going about their business as though he were not there.
Assured the crowd has been sufficiently cowed; Wolfgang stalked back to where Miles was busy pulling himself to his feet. A smile crossed the cub's face as he looked up at the reynard when Wolfgang approached, some of his previously injured pride returning to him.
"Thank-" the words died on Miles's lips as he noted Wolfgang's hard stare.
"I fervently hope, Miles, that there will come a day you will not disappoint me," Baron Prower said, walking past the kit. "Now hurry along. I have wasted enough time on your account." For a moment Miles stalled, eyes casting back to the retreating warthogs. Where perhaps a twinge of pity might have been felt for the luckless pair and their treatment, Miles could only feel contempt as he remembered his own. For a single second he glared, catching sight of the pitiable piglet who had struck him still bleeding from his wound, and Miles's heart tightened. Sucking in a breath of cold, winter air, the young Baronet straightened his back and squared his shoulders, pride bolstering his stance. He was a Prower after all, even if not much of one, and he had to look it. With a few steps he was once more in place behind his father, his gait striving to imitate that which he beheld.