Mobians are, in general, a fairly human kind of species, or alien, or however it is you can put it. But in the same way nature still keeps her claws dug into people, pushing in a secret, deep desire to be the alpha of the tribe. Intelligence has to have a purpose, and the purpose of everything in nature is to make the being the best.

Of course, society trumps species, and in the same way that we did, most Mobians weren't very animal-like. Nature was discouraged in that respect. But there are exceptions, and I suppose my home- my tribe, we called it- was one of them.

I don't know how I developed the morals I have, but I did. I suppose it had something to do with being the jailer's son- you'd think that would make me more biased, but the Arctic Fox tribe captured and held a lot of people. A lot of innocents.

During my time of boyhood, doing chores or cleaning o coming with my father to work- the prisoners sometimes talked to me. That's probably where it started. In a world of hateful mobs, they found comfort in the little boy who cleaned the floors once a week. In talking to him or just watching him. Either way, I learned a little about species and how the world worked out there. And I learned their ways of right and wrong. To myself, being young and alone, I would dream about being a hero. I wanted to be famous, and upstage a rebellion against the authorities that held us here, and go into the world where everyone was equal and people were perfect. I wanted my name to be one that brought an image of a great warrior, a fighter for justice and peace. It was my biggest desire that Miles would be the person who led the Arctic Foxes out of their terrible world.

The Tribe wasn't a bad place, not the place the prisoners saw and my childhood self saw. We had love and morals and happiness, we had justice and courts, we had technology. But there was always the bitter taste of prejudice. Many had not seen any other type of Mobian. To them, any non-fox was a strange, different animals. No more than the flickies that resided in the forest that bordered the tribe's grounds. In the end, I shut my mouth, kept my head down and ended up with a cushy job of patrolling the jail, thanks to my father.

I didn't talk to the prisoners. I was blank and silent, emotionless. In the end, I downgraded them to my prisoners and not people. I felt guilty. Horribly guilty. But the years had taught me that a painful end awaited me if I spoke too loudly about my opinion. I had witnessed that many times, but I think that Prower left the biggest impression of that.

One day my father had brought in someone. I didn't know what he had been persecuted for. I never asked. I found out later, but that day all I noticed was that it was a fox.

Oh, nothing like the foxes I'd grown around. As a contrast to the white, lightly tinted colours of my tribe, he was red. A deep burnt-orange red that sharply went to white. He looked...not sly, but cunning. Intelligent. The sharp angles of his face and muzzle gave that impression, but it was his eyes that confirmed it. Framed by red everywhere but where a strip of white came up from his muzzle and ended in a small cow's lick that he constantly fixed into place, even in prison; his eyes glinted with bravado and ego.

The prisoners usually had reactions from jeering to sobbing to blank silence. He would usually stare out of the barred window, and he looked...almost content. It was disturbingly strange. It wasn't till later, when I learned that he had come with a companion, that I actually brought myself to think about him.

I was told that he had been arrested with a lizard who had sneaked in with him, although I didn't initially know why. The fox had remained still, but the lizard had drawn a weapon and injured one of the guards on patrol. I spoke to Prower for the first time after his friend had been executed.

"Did they kill him?"

I jumped. The fox had almost always remained in complete silence, and he was watching not the window but me. He looked urgent, almost scared, staring at me with angry eyes. "My friend. Did they kill him? Is he here?"

In a moment of weakness, I suppose I must have looked sad, because his face softened slightly. "Please. Did they..."

"I'm sorry..." my voice caught a little, and I quickly composed myself, but he'd seen it. My pity. "Yes, the prisoner was...executed earlier."

He nodded. He didn't looked shocked, just a little sad. I did my rounds again, and after a while of the customary night patrol silence, his voice broke it as he continued to speak.

"Your name is Miles. The old man, the head guy, called you that. Miles."

I was silent.

"If you don't correct me," he continued, sounding almost amused, "I'll just keep calling you that. Miles."

"Yes." I brushed a lock of fur, white with an icy tint like the rest of me, out of my eye.

"Hah."

I was about to continue walking, perturbed by his casual mood.

"You're not going to ask me my name? How rude." he voice, his way of movement, everything dripped with bravado. "C'mon, Miles."

I looked at him.

"I take that as a questioning glance. I'm Prower. Soro Prower."

" Zorro?" I indulged myself in a skeptical jeer.

"Soro." he said impatiently, probably having been teased for that before. "Ah, just call me Prower, would you, Jailkeep'?"

"It's Miles."

I blinked, realized who and where I was, and walked away. I tried not to think about Prower, and I almost succeeded. My patrol was daily, at night. I think I actually believed that I had shaken him from my mind when, on realizing I had dropped a coin and walking back, when I saw him holding hands with the girl from the tribe. Karia.