You thought I'd forgotten this, didn't you? Nope, still working on it. Just caught up by college (it's a little hard to write in school ;-) ). Now for the review replies!

Mily: You know who it is, eh? Okay. Not like I'm not the Obvious Fairy or anything about it... XP
LooneyLombax: Yes, it seems the "air conditioning" (heh-heh) is a lot hot under the collar around him.
Black Rosettes: What happens next? Read on to find out...
Midnight Critic: Yes, I do love torturing you. It makes you review! P And you know how authoresses live off reviews...
blaze cutter: I think they've got it, too. should change her name from "Fuzztaku Captain" to "Captain Obvious"
lombaxworship: Heh, I can never tell when I'll get the writting bug. It bites randomly. I may do another story soon, or I may hold off on the fics.
Missy Mouse: I updated (finally).
Pfeh: College and the writer's block have moved, so here you go.

"Would you like to know?" He nodded. "Alright then. Perhaps it will make you more agreeable..." She reached up and removed her mask, pushing her hood back.

Ratchet's eyes widened in shock...

Sasha shook herself and milked water from her hair and tail. Her clothes, soggy and limp, clung to her slight frame. While she had managed to make it ashore all right - the tales of sharks infesting the waters seemed a bit exadgerated - she didn't particularly enjoy the stares of the locals. None of them called out to her; did they recognize her? Surely not. She took care to keep her status as First Daughter relatively quiet; she didn't appreciate the stigma of being in her position. And without her captain's suit to identify her, to them she was just a soggy brown girl trudging through the streets and mumbling to herself. They studiously kept to the other side of the road.

The bright, cheerful day didn't seem to fit with her currently-ruined mood. She wished it would cloud over and pour; at least then she wouldn't stand out so bad. She'd look no more rediculous than the next poor sap who'd forgotten their umbrella. Well, except for the waterweeds that had knotted behind her ear. She was waiting for them to dry and become brittle; they would crumble away easily then. As it was, the only thing she liked about the weather was that it dried her more quickly.

She shook her head quietly and continued to walk, her hands alternately clenched at her sides and wrapped around her middle. She wished the hovercar hadn't sank. At least then she could have gotten herself cleaned up faster. The dampness of her clothes seemed to dampen her mood as well. Her eyes were stinging; she told herself it was something in the water.

No, that wasn't it. She blinked and tried to refocus her mind on her surroundings. If she could think about her current physical state, it would distract her mind from her emotional one. She often attempted to distract herself by focussing solely on the mission at hand; being a millitary officer often necessitated this. But she had no clear mission now - reclaim the Phoenix, yes. But how? There had been no plan of action formulated. In addition, thoughts of her job brought up thoughts of Ratchet, and he was the last thing she wanted to think of.

'How could you?' she berated herself. ' Swim away...like nothing. And she...she had him!' She shook her head again, not minding the wet strands of hair sticking to her cheeks. No, fighting with herself would get her nowhere. Keeping walking, reaching the compound, forming a plan...that would accomplish things. Distracting her mind momentarily would allow her to walk.

"Sasha?" The President looked up as his daughter entered compound, the sound of the doors alerting him. He rushed over when he noticed her sorry state of attire, her clothes still slightly damp and the moist weeds still tangled in her hair. "What happened?"

"Ratchet..." she mumbled, her eyes glassy. He cupped her chin in his large hand, looking at her with concern. "The woman who took over the Phoenix has taken him captive." Her expression hardened into determination.

"Clean yourself up. I've already got a meeting scheduled for this concern," he said, patting her shoulder reassuringly. He leaned over as she turned toward the hallway and whispered, "Don't worry; I know what this means to you."

She nodded slightly, almost imperceptibly, and walked to one of the many bathrooms with a blank expression on her face. When she cared to, she could put her emotions quite out of the picture untill her work was done. As grateful as she was for his comfort, what she truely wanted was Ratchet. He wasn't one for gentle comfort, save a cocky, self-assured grin, but his presence was comforting enough.

Digging her fingers into her hair, she attempted to separate it from the weeds. They were damp and green and quite sturdy; it took a good deal of pulling to break them, and when she did, she often pulled small portions of her own hair as well. "Ow...ow, ow, ow, ow..." Discarding the offensive weeds, she dropped her soggy clothes on the floor and proceeded to take her second shower of the day; the water was quite foul-smelling in her fur.

She redressed in her newly laundered ordinary uniform, attempting to make her appearance at least somewhat official. The small creases in her metal headband still held some dirty water; she washed them out and repositioned it on her head. She rubbed her eyes gently. Her head hurt. She wondered what the female had wanted with Ratchet, what she might do to him... 'No, don't think that.' Perhaps she didn't feel like the great Captain of the Phoenix just then, but that was what everyone else saw her as, and that was what duty demanded she be.

The clock on the wall read that it was only a little before one; she had time to find the kitchen and get herself a meal, though that was easier said than done. Being the end of the lunch break, however, the halls were rather empty; the staff she did encounter were rather grouchy, even under their pretense of deference, having to go back to work and not being happy about it. Sasha, not in the mood to argue, walked somberly past them, her eyes studiously focussed on whatever happened to be at the other end of the hall.

Once she got fairly close, the kitchen was easy enough to find, what with all its different smells. Baking pastry products, sharp vinegar, frying eggs and meat...Sasha suddenly realized just how hungry she really was. She had only intended to eat because logic dictated that she would function better on a full stomach, but now she wanted to eat simply because the smell of the food was so good. Perhaps her concern for Ratchet had curbed her appitite before, but it seemed to be back now.

Grabbing a slice of still-warm-from-the-oven bread, she smeared it with butter and garlic, intending to make toast. Unfortunately, Sasha's cooking skills were slightly rusty - and rather nonexistant, due to her lack of a need for them - and she ended up burning two slices before she managed to salvage a third (though still slightly burned) piece. She absentmindedly wiped a knifefull of jelly on the garlic-less side and folded the bread over, creating a small, if slightly unusual, sandwich. Pilfering a few pieces of fruit when the cooks weren't looking, she strolled nonchallantly towards the conference room.

It was now almost one-thirty, but she still had time to eat in peace. The sandwhich was strange; she didn't realize burnt garlic toast and jelly were quite so...different...when mixed. The fruit was good, however - but then, it wasn't a strange concoction thrown together when her mind was somewhere else. She finished her lunch, her mind already drifting to Ratchet. She rested her chin in her hands and stared out the large picture window in the wall, overlooking the city.

'She probably took him back to the Pheonix; she's basically claimed it as hers now. I'll take it back. I'll take him back.' Her eyes widened slightly. ' But what if...no, he wouldn't just dump me for her, would he? She drugged him with ether...wasn't that deemed unsafe a couple thousand years ago? Surely he wouldn't...not after that, no...but still, what if he did? We are different species, after all, though our differences aren't major. And our personalities fit well; that's what matters, isn't it?'

And yet, at the same time, she couldn't help but get the nagging feeling that there was something unusual about this woman. She was so confident in herself; most girls didn't even look at Ratchet twice if she was with him. Sasha's personality was just forcefull enough that it created a sort of "hands off" sign, and yet this woman seemed to not care - or just not notice. And she seemed so certain that she was somehow better than herself. "What an ego..."

"Excuse me?" one of the President's aids poked his head in.

"Oh, I'm sorry. I was talking to myself; I didn't hear you come in." Sasha stood up and nodded courteously. "You are...?"

"Here to record the meeting. It is due to start soon, yes?"

"Yes, in two minutes, in fact. I wonder where everyone is?"

"Getting coffee, most likely. These bigshots love their capuchino, if you'll excuse my saying so," he added nervously, noting the insignia on her uniform. He pushed his glasses up his blue nose; the anxious sweating he was doing had caused them to slip. She nodded and sat back down, continuing to stare out the window silently. The aid did not enjoy her silence; he was so accustomed to the incessant chatter of executives that her quiet contemplation unsettled him.

Fortunately for him, several of those involved in the meeting arrived shortly thereafter and took their seats, glancing from one to the other among themselves and talking in hushed, excited whispers. With the president's arrival, the meeting commenced.

Early on, it was not clear what course of action was to be taken. First, the enemy's strength was calculated, given the number of Rangers on the Phoenix and the amount of time it took them to breach their ranks. The logical response, then, was to determine what amount of firepower would be sufficient to overwhelm them; a force somewhere between double and tripple the normal Ranger count of just over one hundred seemed sufficient.

Furthermore, the intentions and identity of the female remained in question. "She seemed to be only interested in Ratchet," Sasha said at length. "It wasn't so much the control of the Phoenix as access to him..."

"Was there anything unusual or striking about her?" one of the advisors asked.

"No, not especially...her body was completely covered. I couldn't see anything to identify her."

"Nothing?" he pressed, knowing he risked sparking her temper if he pressed too hard; he had once made the mistake of angering her when she had previously visited the compound and did not wish to repeat the experience.

Sasha's eyes darkened momentarily at his tone, but then her face took on a thoughtful look. "Hmm..." she murmered, considering her thoughts for a moment. "She did have five fingers, I think."

"Then that narrows our species search considerably," one of the other advisors said, looking up from her notes, then added under her breath, "though it isn't very helpful..."

"Well, then, since we can't figgure out who she is, why don't we come up with something to do? Some retaliation, some retribution, some...what's another good word that starts with 'R'?" the President asked, leaning over towards Sasha. She rolled her eyes, and quietly muttered what sounded a little like, "Ratchet," though he wasn't quite sure.

There was general silence in the room as everyone considered what could be done. An outright war was not a good idea; Solana was still recovering from the fight with Dr. Nefarrious, and there was no telling how many of the creatures were available to the rogue. "A rescue mission," Sasha said finally, looking at the others present in the room. "Not a full attack, but with power as backup and a threat. The Phoenix is worth too many bolts to destroy in an attack -" The financial advisor opened his mouth to object, but quickly cut himself off when she shot him a sidelong glare. "- so the Rangers and their ships will be for show and protection only."

"Sasha, that's a wonderful idea! And it starts with 'R', too!" the President said, very pleased. A few of the advisors rolled their eyes; though he was a good leader, the President could be a little silly at times. "Then it's settled. A task force will surround the Phoenix, and, um...er..."

"Demand the release of Ratchet," Sasha said, supplying his words. "If she will not comply, part of the troops will land within the hanger of the Phoenix as a threat. The demand will be issued again."

"And if it is refused the second time?" the female advidor said.

"Then we will have to exert some measure of force," Sasha replied curtly.

"I thought another war was 'too costly'?" she countered, narrowing her eyes. She didn't completely like the young captain. "You're letting your emotions cloud your judgement."

"My feelings have nothing to do with this," the Cazar replied, her voice forcibly level. "In case you have forgotten, Ratchet was instrumental in the defeat of Dr. Nefarious."

The advisor slumped back in her chair, unable to think of a reply without leaping over the table and strangling the girl. The man next to her, sensing the tension in the air, tried to divert their attention, "All right then, it's settled. I will ready a fleet of three hundred Galactic Rangers and brief one of our generals..."

"No," said Sasha, looking pointedly from him to the woman beside him. "I'll lead. The Phoenix is my ship; this is my problem. I will lead." She stood up, and so did the President.

"All right then, I declare this meeting adjurned," he said, motioning to the door. As the advisors left, he caught his daughter's shoulder, noting the tension in her muscles. "Sasha, how about getting a coffee with your old man?"

She smiled vaguely. While she had just eaten lunch not so very long ago, she did like coffee, and she had been missing the time she spent talking to her father. It would be good to have an hour or two to catch up on her family life. "Alright," she nodded.

Sasha spent the rest of the afternoon in a considerably lighter mood. She had a plan of action; she was satisfied. Tommorrow, she would lead the force against the mysterious woman and reclaim what was hers. Today, however, it was good to relax. She retold a few of her funnier stories to her father, of the silly things Ratchet had done, of the Q-Force's idiosyncracies, even of the Rangers who'd worked on her ship...though there was touch of sadness to her voice as she spoke of them. While she wasn't the most sentimental woman alive, she did care for those she worked with.

By evening, however, she was feeling considerably more meloncholic, despite a warm supper. Helga, upon spying her slightly downcast gaze and slouched posture as she meandered the corridoors of the building, proclaimed her to be a "lovesick puppy-cat", slapped her roughly on the back (Sasha supposed it was a friendly gesture of goodwill, but had some difficulty reading the robot's intentions), and told her to give the dirty female now sitting in the Phoenix a piece of her mind when next she saw her. Giving the larger woman a weak smile - her back was rather sore after being hit so hard - she excused herself and continued wandering the halls. It was calming to her, to be able to walk with nothing to do; for being such a big, busy place, the wing she'd chosen to explore was quite empty and still.

Suddenly, however, she realized why. One door stood open as opposed to the rest; this hall was nothing but rows of bedrooms. Yes, it made sense now, all the quiet. The night team was sleeping here, preparing to begin their shift within a few hours. More of the doors were open as she walked farther along the hallway. Some of the beds seemed to have never been touched, their pristine blankets smooth and unruffled, their pillows fluffed up. Others, however, were varying degrees of messy, depending upon their occupant's fastidiousness.

She continued her explorations. The compound itself was absolutely huge; would she ever truely see all of it? It was interesting to see the different items people kept by their bedsides as she walked past the rooms that had been left open. Family portraits seemed to be a favorite. So, oddly enough, were small stuffed toys - were these government beaurocrats or spoiled children? 'Is there a difference?' she laughed to herself. 'Hmm...? What's this?'

A new room stood open, but it seemed different. A thick smell, like moist earth, seemed to seep from somewhere within it, masking the sickly-sweet air freshener. Curious, the scent invitingly familiar, she ventured to step in, something she hadn't done with the other rooms. The bed was messy, the sheets twisted, the pillow mashed in the center. A few short, blond hairs littered the pillow, standing out faintly against its stark white.

No, not hair...fur! For there, piled on the other side of the bed in a dirty, stinking lump, was Ratchet's armor. She recognized the room now as the one she'd drug him from before sunrise. Such a small room held the thick smell of his armor, a very distinctive "been on a Lombax too long" smell, tightly, even with the door open. She smiled; the smell, while not familial or homey, was certainly comforting. A clock blinked a red twenty-one thirty-four at her, the blinking millitary time a mockery of the marching beat.

It wasn't late, truely, but it had been a trying day. Being thrown from a hovercar, swimming to shore, trudging through a city, and then attempting to hold her temper in the face of her father's very annoying advisors was not the sort of day she dreamed of. Besides, the smell of Ratchet's armor reminded her of earlier in the day when, still a bit sleepy despite a shower and coffee, she'd rested herself on his shoulder while watching the sunrise. Such a warm smell, like baking sand.

She closed the door and began to look through the tiny closet, trying to find something to use as a nightgown, but settled for an oversized T-shirt. It was probably only a regular, perhaps even slightly small shirt to an ordinary person, but for someone of her size, it was quite loose and baggy, reaching all the way to her knees. She flopped back on the bed and rubbed her eyes, happy to be able to relax and not put up an official, formal exterior. The bed itself, too, smelled of Ratchet, though it was a far fresher smell than that of his armor. She turned over on her side and burried her face in the pillow.

Okay, so the bed was rather flat, to say the least. It wasn't especially soft, either - though it wasn't uncomfortable - and it certainly wasn't fuzzy - unless you counted the small balls of lint. But it smelled of her Lombax, and that was what mattered. She wondered, in a sleepy way, if other species were as affected as her own by their sense of smell. Some lacked muzzles or even visible noses - did they still have a sense of smell? Or were they not priviledged to the small form of comfort brought on by a familiar scent? She didn't know...did it matter? No, it didn't...she was here, she was comfortable, she was sleepy. That was what mattered. She smiled and drifted off, slowly.

A while later, the President went looking for his daughter, wishing to tell her goodnight before turning in himself. When he opened the door, the smell nearly knocked him over. It was so strong! How could she...? Then it hit him: the smell was that of Ratchet, one she must certainly like - or at least tollerate, though the smell of his armor after rotting on the floor for a day wasn't what he'd call pleasant. But then, he had a much larger nose than she, and therefore a much more accute sense of smell. What was strong to him could have been only mildly thick to her. She looked happy and contented, burrowed into the covers as she was. He smiled and whispered, "Goodnight, Sasha," as he closed the door