I HATE STUART LITTLE V:

Paris Inferno

Written by Vladicoff

Linguini was armed to the teeth. Two sabres were strapped to his hips, bandoliers crossed his chest, and a portable Maxim-gun was cradled awkwardly in arms. He looked apprehensive. He wore no hat, neither chef's nor premier's; Remy evidently felt no need to disguise his role. Behind him was a squadron of the Garde Nationale and a Renault tank. Additional squadrons lined up around the cathedral.

Taking a miniature megaphone in his paws, Remy shouted up to the burning building.

'Surrender, Stuart Little! You are surrounded. These are not simple English mice you are dealing with anymore, but the might of France. Come down!'

There was silence, aside from the still-roaring flames. Minutes passed. Remy repeated his warning as the French troops stepped closer, tightening the blockade. Engineers set to work placing dynamite around the church's perimeter, tears gently streaming down their otherwise stoic faces as they prepared to demolish this icon of national pride. A cloud of smoke and ash burst from a stained-glass window, engulfing a line of soldiers as sudden rifle fire pierced through the air.

As the smoke cleared - rapidly drifting away in the face of a gust of cold wind from the river Seine - the cause of the tumult was revealed: Stuart Little had taken possession of a lieutenant, piloting him as Remy did Linguini and spraying the rest of the unit with bullets.

The firefight began. The French soldiers backed away, firing as they did; a stray shot set off the dynamite, sending a cascade of masonry flying across the square. Linguini fired, filling the lieutenant with lead - but Stuart Little merely darted out of harm's reach, taking over another flesh-puppet and continuing the fight.

Three, four, a dozen, a score - the soldiery fell, bullet-riddled. The fires of Notre Dame spread. Between the flames and the cyclopean blocks of stone that had cracked and tumbled under fire, dynamite, and tank-shot, the square was cut off: an arena ringed by an impenetrable, rocky inferno. The skies darkened with soot and smoke. All Ratigan could do was watch the fighting unfold.

The square was strewn with corpses as Stuart Little took possession of the last French footsoldier. Linguini aimed carefully. His machine gun was almost out of bullets. Stuart Little's mount ran towards his adversary. Linguini held his fire, finger on the trigger, awaiting the right moment. As the charging man came within ten paces of the prime minister, the latter let loose: a final burst of gunfire flew forth, tearing a gaping hole in the soldier's chest.

But Stuart Little was unharmed. He had leapt off his steed's head at the last moment, gliding with the aid of the man's beret over Remy's head and into the open cockpit of the Renault tank. As the soldier collapsed, torso torn asunder and face contorted in agony, Stuart Little rammed the tank into a building abutting the square, bulldozing a hole through it and disappearing into the smoke.

'That mouse bastard. Linguini, swords out! To arms! After him!' roared Remy, leading Linguini into a pell-mell run.

The sounds of fighting grew gradually distant as the adversaries fought their way through the streets of Paris. A sort of spectral calm came upon the square, framed by the monotonous roaring of the flames and punctuated by groans of the dying. Professor Ratigan stumbled to his feet, eyes dull as his adrenaline dissipated and the enormity of events set in. Was Paris to be a new Dresden? Why had Stuart Little chosen now to end his exile and unleash his evil? And why did Ratigan's heart pang so at the loss of his enemy, Basil? The professor gave himself over to morose thoughts.

It was at this point that a gust of air from above blew the tatters of his coat, as - with a soft thump - a plump mass landed behind him. He turned and - confused more than surprised - saw Dr Dawson, gently rubbing his rear as an exhausted Fidget muttered apologies for the rough landing.

'What?' asked Ratigan flatly, unable to muster much emotion.

'I must speak with Basil at once, before he fights Stuart Little. Where can I find him?' asked Dawson, betraying a slight hint of fear.

Ratigan turned away and sighed, lifting a hand up and gesturing towards the burning cathedral wreckage.

'Y...you don't mean…'

Still facing away, Ratigan nodded.

'Fuck!' shouted the generally softspoken doctor. 'The fool, the genius fool, why didn't he tell me where he was going! I had to rough up a dozen of your minions - no fatalities, professor - to find out.' His voice cracked. 'I could have gotten here earlier… if I had only gotten here earlier…'

He broke down in sobs. Ratigan (what a day full of firsts!) reached over and placed an arm gingerly around the old doctor, sharing silently in his grief. After some minutes he spoke up:

'There was nothing you could have done, Dawson-dear - Stuart Little was beyond any of us. One extra fighting man would have made no difference…'

'That's where you're wrong, Ratigan,' said Dr Dawson softly, through a tight throat. He reached into the pocket of his trenchcoat and drew out a small, plain wooden box. 'I could have given him this.'

At Ratigan's inquisitive eye, he continued:

'A few weeks ago, the good detective had asked me to look into the contents of this box. He had received it in a will from an old major, an acquaintance from the last rodent war. Neither the major nor Basil could make heads nor tails of it, and so he passed it along to me - knowing that, at least when pertains to lore esoteric, I could be of much use.'

'Well, what is it?' asked Ratigan.

'I know not what it is, but I know what it can do. And what it can do, is grant one a strength and power many times beyond one's normal ken. I'd venture so far as to call it magical.' A pause. 'Oh, I wish he'd told me why he'd left so suddenly, I would've told him about what I'd discovered!'

'You mean, you knew? And you kept this knowledge from Basil - this life-saving knowledge?'

'I…' Dawson looked down at his feet sheepishly. 'I wanted to surprise him for his birthday. I knew how miffed he was about it being on a Monday this year… I wanted to cheer him up with this.' He sniffled. 'Perhaps if he had taken it with him, or if I'd managed to catch up with him before the battle, he would have had the strength needed to face this demon and triumph. But now my chance is lost…'

Dawson slumped to the floor, deflated. Ratigan was about to join him, when a thought occurred.

'Hold it, Doctor,' he said, holding up a hand. 'Perhaps not all is lost. Give it to me.'

'The box?'

'Yes, the box - give it to me, and show me how to use what's within. I'll avenge your friend, and send Stuart Little back to Hell where he belongs.'

Dawson's eyes flashed with a clash of hope and mistrust. Slowly he nodded his head, and held the box out, opening it as he did so.

FAUBOURG SAINT-ANTOINE

Linguini clambered out of the sewer manhole, sludge, slime, and blood on his hands, in hot pursuit of the white mouse. It was mere seconds before Stuart Little had found himself a new host, a young blind man whose cane was now being brandished as a garrotte. Linguini must have slain a hundred of Stuart Little's flesh-puppets, but that rodent devil had simply moved along to the next proxy. Linguini still held both sabres in hand, but a thousand knicks, bites, scratches, and kicks were starting to take their toll on his body.

Remy quickly pressed the button of his tiny remote-controller once again, and a second later the apartment buildings at either end of the boulevard caved in and collapsed in flames, the screams of their occupants drowned by the crackle of wood and stone. This was the sixth time he had attempted to box Stuart Little in; every time, the mouse had managed to slip away. It was no matter. He would do it a seventh time, and an eighth, if need be. He was burning down all of Paris in his attempt to contain his foe.

The two mice and their men approached each other warily. The men stared forward with glazed eyes, puppets to their rodent masters. Remy looked on with determination and hate; Stuart Little, with bloodlust and amusement.

'Time to finish what we started, all those years ago,' hissed Remy.

'Gladly,' said Stuart Little, as cane and sabre met in the air, the ring of metal on metal barely audible.

Garrotte and sword clanged and clanged, each swing more savage and primal than the last. A sabre broke in half; the hilt was thrust into the blind man's guts. The other sabre was knocked to the floor, at the price of several fingers. The cane clattered to the ground as the two proxies wrestled amid their rapidly pooling blood. Above them the fires of Paris spread higher and higher, plumes of smoke blotting out even the moon. The scene was of Hell.

The rodents wrestled also, struggling to maintain control over their hosts while punching, kicking, biting, tearing at each other. Rat and mouse fought more savagely, clumps of fur and loose fangs knocked asunder. The blind man, bleeding out, thrust his fingerless hand into Linguini's throat, tearing open a hole and releasing a flood of blood. Both men died in each other's arms, as the rodents continued their struggle without a second's thought wasted on regret or mourning.

Stuart Little pinned Remy to the ground and took a bite. He ripped the rat's jaw clean off, savouring the blood and crunching bone.

'I've won, little chef,' he taunted as he swallowed his meal. He laughed as Remy gurgled, starting to choke on his own blood. His laugh stopped abruptly as he noticed a glint in Remy's eye, a glint of triumph.

Just then, Remy's body convulsed as he vomited, spraying bile and acid directly onto Stuart Little's face. The mouse's eyes sizzled as they burned, his paws clawing at them in desperation as sight left him.

Remy flipped Stuart Little off one last time, before heaving his last breath. He lay motionless.

Stuart Little rose to his feet. He was shaken, but not unsteady. He grasped a nearby splinter of wood and held it as a cane.

'Fuck you, scum,' he spoke, his voice hoarse and full of malice. 'Couldn't even die with dignity. No matter. I did what I came here to do. Now I can continue my work in peace… I will take my time with this Paris of yours.'

He turned his head suddenly, his remaining ear perked up. A split-second later, he just barely dodged a pebble thrown right at him, as a familiar figure leapt to the ground in front of him, teeth gnashing.

'You'll pay for what you've done, Stuart Little,' hissed Ratigan. He was beefier than he had been, his eyes red, his claws longer and more sharp. Around his finger was a gently flowing band of some odd material, which glowed chartreuse. This ring pulsated some strange energy into the rat professor's body, causing his muscles to grow and shrink and grow again and his fur to mat.

Stuart Little sniffed the air.

'If that is what I think it is, you'll finally be a challenge,' he said mockingly. 'Shame you don't know how to use it properly. There are only two of our kind that have ever learned - and you're looking at one of them. Prepare to die.'

The two locked in a desperate duel. Stuart Little stuck his cane in a nearby flame (for the fires had only grown fiercer and hotter as the night wore on), igniting it and brandishing it at his foe. Ratigan, buoyed by the knowledge that he was the last hope of stopping the monster, felt no pain. The two tore into each other.

The two were seemingly evenly matched. While Ratigan was quicker in his reflexes than the now-blind Stuart Little, and fortified by the mysterious ring, he was also unstable: a fiery poke into his engorged arm had burst a bicep, tossing both rodents back in a burst of explosive energy. But while every injury wore Stuart Little down bit by bit, Ratigan was unphased by his own wounds; victory for him was a matter far beyond merely life or death.

Finally, the professor was poised for victory, his adversary pinned against a burning wall. Both rodents' fur burned and melted in the heat. Ratigan reached out his hand - the one bearing the ring - and shoved it down Stuart Little's throat, determined to rip the fiend's heart out and tear his body apart.

That was a mistake.

In a last desperate gamble, taking a lesson from Remy's digestive-based counterattack, Stuart Little bit hard. His bet worked: upon being punctured by the mouse's fangs, the swollen forearm deflated and burst, and the wave of energy was enough to tear limb from rat. He scamped away from the fire and chewed with a desperate hunger as Ratigan howled in pain.

Ratigan rapidly deflated, his eyes returning to their normal hue as he felt his strength leave him and the heretofore ignored wounds assert their pain. Stuart Little, meanwhile, began to glow with power. Energy rippled through him. He grew to towering heights as what remained of his fur turned silver and his flesh purpled.

'Fool… I told you you were untrained in using the jewel. Now watch as I assume my final form-' Stuart Little gasped suddenly, coughing as new eyesockets grew out of his skull and his fangs multiplied. His body convulsed rapidly, barely containing the power within, but he stabilised and drew himself up to his full height.

'You did a good job, Ratigan. It seems I lack the strength to wield this power for long. But no matter. Even if it kills me, I will turn this city into a crater and its people to ash. Run along now, see if you can outrun the miasma and live to tell the world of how Stuart Little died and killed.' He put his hands together and began to vibrate, preparing himself for this final act. The smoke began to swirl around him, encasing him in a black vortex.

It was then that a lilting melody was heard from off in the distance, growing rapidly closer. A heavy beat reverberated. Both Ratigan and Stuart Little looked on in confusion as a figure arrived, gently stepping off a small cloud and waddling over to them.

'Hi guys I'm Biggie Cheese.'

To be continued.