"Give me one reason why I shouldn't put this bladetip through your neck, fox."

And I mutter:

"Give me one reason why you should?"

I remember a point in my life living on the other coast, a land where the skies seemed to be eternally crowded over. The best way to describe this place would be with a color- gray. Dreary, pale and washed out, alleys lined with disease and poverty. This land never really had a name, yet it is the hub for us.

Why? Because it was.

You see, we have seemingly a cycle- the youngest generation starts the revolution, the oldest are the standard bearers, but the middle child is simply there.

Us, the middle generation, here to hold the status quo.

The voice above me chuckles.

"I've only known you for a minute and I hate you."

At this time, I feel that the tenseness against my neck just so very slightly, but I scuttle inches back regardless, putting distance between a sharp edge and fur and flesh.

I look up at this squirrel above me, who is wearing a cloak much too big. Ear piercings that look too uniform, a scar right in her neck- right where the javelin aimed in mine, the general aura of alcohol. This squirrel, she's most likely self-fashioned herself this way. Maybe the locals think she's intimidating.

We have a term for beasts like her, though: common wankers.

Salamandastron's Long patrol. The otter I "met". This female. Try-hards.

And yet this try-hard unlikeable little... Prick stands above me, victorious and with a weapon ready to slit my throat if I even exist in the wrong capacity, which I figure is my entire life.

"What's your name, fox?" The squirrel demands. Her voice is stern, like she's done this before. As if she is a specialist at hunting down insomnia-stricken beasts in the middle of the night, a grizzled veteran. Something in the back of my head makes the assumption she probably is.

"What does it matter?" I spit, ears low. I push the javelin off to the side away from my face, feeling a little more secure about things. The thought process for some with a weapon in their face usually includes one of three things:

Staring down your assailant with either defiance or fear. Usually the latter.

Trying to fight to get away or to gain control of the weapon, with either success or critical failure. Usually the latter.

Third option is to wait it out and try to evade out of it. This works, sometimes it doesn't, usually...

Fortunately, I am the former, the other 10%, the outlier. I'm slowly easing the spear away from me, even though it's firmly in the squirrel's grip and she could easily slay me. Usually, she would.

Instead of slamming it through my jugular, however, she simply crouches to my eye level, as I slump up against a tree, breathing ragged gasps of relief.

"I could have ended your life right then and there," she says coolly. "I didn't. You aren't even polite enough to introduce yourself?"

For a million milliseconds I dream of spitting straight into her eye, her left one, beady and brimming like a crosshair. I think of this, then shoving her onto her back- no, her stomach, rear-mounted strikes are more effective, I dream and fantasize of straddling on top of her and raining down blows like a storm brewing over an autumn sunset. My razor raindrops cutting through her fur and then her flesh and then her muscle and then her bones, her screams like a wave in the water, a crest of fear and desperation.

I got carried away there.

It happens, I am vermin.

"Landeskog," I bark, glaring.

"So you're not from around here."

"Are you?"

"I thought foxes were supposed to be the smart ones," she says, mouth slowly turning upwards into a smirk. Prodding me with the butt end of the spear, the squirrel female rolls her eyes.

I grunt, and she just sniggers.

"Gutless ones, too."

"Stereotype," I protest. "Like how you ran me down for no reason at all."

She shrugs. "I had a reason, a perfectly valid one."

"That being?"

Rap! Wooden end of her javelin across the top of my head. I yelp and cover my head, eyes straining.

"You're vermin," she states plainly.

For some reason, I think of falling into the ocean. Crashing from the sky, wind blowing all around me. I'm in the air, hurling down to the sea.

But this time, there is no impact. The ocean never reaches me, I'm stuck in limbo. Falling from the sky, but I've never learned to fly.

"I never learned to fly," I say aloud to no one in particular.

Squirrel female raises an eyebrow.

I shrug again.

"You don't think that lowly of vermin."

She scoffs. "Lowly? You are garbage, blemishes, screw-ups on this earth. I hate you, your kind, an everything you stand for."

"You don't hate me enough. You're still talking to me when you've had the chance to kill me at any time."

"I still can," she begins to rebuke when I start to get up on two legs. The female reaches for her javelin, which I scramble for. Me being a fox is one of the factors in why I beat her to the punch- I lead off with the brunt of my shoulder and crash into her, reaching for the dropped weapon with my other arm. The diving shoulder block is enough- I hear her gasp- but I land on the ground on my belly, still trying to grip the spear.

I feel someone kicking, and my ribs take the brunt of that one. I roll away to my right, reaching for anything in my belt- I can't remember if I equipped a cutlass or not.

I get into a crouched position, paw hovering over my belt buckle. The squirrel female looks at me only a length away, grinning.

"Do it again," she says.

"I don't want trouble," I state, backing out. I can't remember what direction I entered this area from, but any direction will take me to a safer location. "I'm leaving. I'm going."

"I want to fight you," she continues. "I like you. I have to kill someone like you."

I'm backing away as fast as possible.

"Don't follow me."

"I won't," she says. "We'll meet again. We'll have a proper battle then, right? I'll be waiting. I'm Marla, daughter of-"

Whatever else she had to say, I'm not hearing it over the rustling of bushes and twigs snapping beneath me.

I can't get that thought of falling out of my head.