Recap: Oak is the second most short-sighted tom we know, so unsurprisingly he ran right into a trap; ergo, he is now the prisoner of the rebellion and only three of his legs work properly. At least the banter is great.


I wanna make you mine but that's hard to say

Is this coming off in a cheesy way

-Melanie Marinez, Training Wheels


He is playing with Burrkit and Mallowkit. They are all so young, and it seems strange to him, but he doesn't want to stop winning their mock tussle and says not a word. It is easy to fend them both off, even at his tender age; he sits triumphantly on the back of Mallowkit, whose feeble protests are punctuated with giggles. Burrkit bats at him, half-heartedly, strength inhibited by the laughter shaking his small frame. He has missed this- winning- but this notion is also odd to him, and he can't fathom why it has sprung into his mind.

"I hate to interrupt," a sleek voice says behind them, "But I have to borrow my son." Startled, Oakkit tumbles from his defeated foe's back, landing with a thud on the floor of the dirt tunnel. He looks up into a face darker than shadows. Her green eyes are narrow and tense, and it strikes apprehension into his belly, and it all seems to make so much more sense than he ever thought it did.

"I was having fun!" he whines, and the words slip from his mouth instead of the things he desperately wants to say.

The dark figure mutters, "Who says time with your mother can't be fun?" and Oakpaw is ready to rattle off several reasons before she stoops to pick him up by his scruff. He relaxes instantly, but throws out a few meek protests to protect his image. He likes being carried like this, really, reminded of his young safe days where everything was so uncomplicated. For good measure, he lets out a disgruntled squawk as she sets him down in the leader's nursery den.

"Had a nice day?" she asks brightly, conversationally. He is unused to such a tone ever emerging from her mouth, and it makes him immediately suspicious.

"Fine, 'till you interrupted," he snorts, scuffing his paws. The memory of winning a two-sided tussle is still bright in his eyes, and he wants to go back to it.

"Did you talk to the new apprentices?" she asks, and this distracts him. Oakkit brightens instantly at the thought.

"Yeah!" he boasts, looking up. She freezes; he feels his mouth talking, and vaguely understands the kittish nonsense he is babbling, but he is hinged on her look of utter panic and despair. Now he understands. It was he, really, who betrayed his own mother with the mere colour of his eyes. Strongclaw is right; he damned her, and he may very well damn himself too.

"Do you ever stop sleeping?" someone exclaims loudly, clambering down into his cell with a series of loud thunks. Oakpaw opens his eyes reluctantly; though his vision is blurred, the dainty ginger shape sitting expectantly at his feet is unmistakable. He groans loudly, though she has a point; ever since his 'social excursion' yesterday, he has been sleeping. He blames his injured leg and the way it seems to sap the energy from him- that, and those damn stairs. They're a heinous invention, and Oakpaw can't see why anyone would want to use them. Still, his relentless napping seems to be helping, bad dreams aside- already the pain is his leg is dulling, though he doesn't dare use it properly.

"Because there is so much for me to do up here," he replies dryly, glaring at Az with no real heat. She's the only friend he has here, the only one he plans on making. She stops him from going stir-crazy, and for a Tainted, she's not half-bad. He'll be sorry to abandon her, when he returns to PureClan- and he will, he knows it. When he's not asleep or exchanging inane banter, he is plotting his way out. His glorious escape. His triumphant return. He must wait for his leg to heal, but that only gives him time to perfect his plan. Perhaps Az will even help.

"Miss will let you come down to talk to the others, you know," Az says, as if he should relish the opportunity to converse with a bunch of city cats who in all likelihood would rather kill him than look at him. The youngest of all have been raised on hatred; it is their fuel, their lifeblood, and soon it will serve a deadly purpose than Oakpaw cannot even imagine. They're content enough to gawk at him, some awkward broken spectacle, but he is not equal in their eyes. He is barbaric, a forest savage, and in the end he will be put down like one. They can all think what they like, he supposes, but it changes nothing. They'll all die in the end, someway or another, and he will saunter back to the forest laughing.

"I don't want to talk to them," he spits; not like they have anything worthwhile to say. Az's face falls and she looks rather mutinous. "I meant them," he signs, reading her expression; he's getting good at this interpreting emotions stuff, although it's mostly foreign to him. "Not you. I almost like talking to you, actually." This is meant to placate her, although he is not sure if it does the job. Oakpaw hardly wants to chase off his only ally and friend.

"It's fine," she says, flopping down with a hollow metal thud. "Elettra's still crabby that I left Cariad behind, and now Thad has jumped on the bandwagon, and everyone likes Thad so of course they're all leaping on with him...like, hello, I did my job, leave me alone! I told the idiot to run, and he didn't, is that really my fault? And it was his scatter-brained plan in the first place. Never let Cariad make the plan, I tell you."

He is content to let her ramble. She does this a lot; she has few friends among her peers, and Oakpaw can hardly throw his own opinion in about social concerns.

"Anyway," she signs, abandoning her frustrated rant. "Do you want to go downstairs again?"

"Do you?" he counters, fixing her with a knowing gaze. It must be bad down there if she's hiding out with the enemy. "Because I don't. I've had enough of being gawked at, prodded, affronted with questions I don't know how to answer."

"That little she-cat was quite persistent," Az muses. Both reflect on the dappled fawn she-cat; she is tiny, smaller than even Az. Something about her seems eerily familiar, although he's not sure she looks anything like her dark hulking brother. He doesn't understand why he was so gentle with her, when he could've snapped at her to piss off and leave her with her unending questions. Perhaps if it were Emberpaw, trapped in the same hopeless situation...he's not sure what he would do, despite their distanced relationship. There's a small part of him that aches to see her again, but it is quashed easily. Emberpaw can defend herself anyway, he assures himself.

"You don't remember her?" Oakpaw asks. Az has told him they all come from the same place- a 'basement', she says- although Oakpaw does not understand the system of barter and trade.

"I saw her sneak out every so often, and she was Ru's favourite, but I don't recall anything but that. Cariad's always been a pain in my ass though." She grins wryly, almost fondly, at the memory.

"Figures," he mutters. "Hero-types always are."

As he says this, someone throws a scrap of fresh-kill into the chute. They don't make a comment on Az's presence, which Oakpaw always finds odd. Is she supposed to be consorting with the known enemy? He guesses it doesn't matter, not when he's not meant to escape. They'll be sorry when he does. Sighing, he paws the torn mouse towards him with his good leg. It's missing several chunks of fur and a good hunk of its flank, but he doesn't complain. Oakpaw is merely glad they aren't starving him- it seems a suitable tactic for the cowards to employ. Morosely, he takes a bite, thinking he could catch something twice as good at home. Az looks disgusted.

"Is that all they're feeding you?" she snaps. "That's pathetic."

Oakpaw looks down at her blandly. "It could be worse," he says apathetically. It's true, and he doesn't feel sorry for himself when he has only himself to blame for his current situation. If he hadn't chased her, hadn't threatened and snarled at her...if he had only been quicker in his attempt to escape… He tells himself this every night, and it can only be amended when he escapes.

"Uh-uh," Az snaps, dragging his meal from him as he leans down to take another bite. "This is not good enough for my kidnap victim." Oakpaw rolls his eyes, but she isn't watching; she flings the mouse out onto the gallery and leaps out after it, leaving Oakpaw alone and hungry. He groans in faux despair and leans heavily against the wall behind him. She's likely gone to argue with someone, spitfire that she is, and will probably forget to bring his mouse back with her.

Alone and starving, he thinks pitifully, dramatically. Thoughts of his dream begin to invade his mind again, much as he tries to forget it. It is a dim, faint memory, the last he has of his mother. He can still picture her clearly; having Emberpaw as a living reference helps. He understands now, much as he wishes he didn't, that he is the evidence that condemned his mother to her death and Strongclaw to his undying misery. There's nothing he can do- and he supposes, deflecting the blame with ease, that it was Sablefrost's fault for falling in love. That was, strictly, the only thing prohibited in PureClan. His guilt eases at the thought. He didn't decide to be born, or to change his eyes to a shade of guilt-gold.

Az returns as he ponders this, dragging a large black-and-white bird with her. She drops it proudly into the chute and then leaps down after it. "It's a magpie," she announces, licking her chest as his eyes go wide with awe- it's half her size, easily. "You'll have to share with me, but it's better than some mangy mouse."

"Is this your food?" he asks suspiciously. He doesn't want to take from her, not when a simple mouse would have sufficed.

"Yeah, but you think I could eat all of this on my own?" she scoffs. "They feed me anything I want since my mission was successful." She wiggles her eyebrows at him playfully.

"Okay," he says, shrugging. He begins to pluck out layers and layers of feathers, deciding they'll be good for his nest. The newspaper is stale and the scraps of fabric are starting to smell. Az helps him in his task, ripping out plumes with gusto. Oakpaw has never shared a meal with anyone, and once the bird is devoid of feathers, he's not sure where to start.

"Do you-" he starts to ask.

"You should-" Az says simultaneously. They both stop and stare at each other; Az giggles uncertainly. "I was gonna say you should start first," she continues, with a light laugh.

Oakpaw flicks his tail uncomfortably. "Don't be stupid," he says, frowning, "eat what you want and I'll take the rest."

Az just shrugs, leaning down to take a bite and gesturing immediately for him to do the same. He complies- the meat is rich and gamey, and just as good as anything he could have scrounged up in the forest. A small purr builds in the back of his throat and for once he does not bother to push it away. Oakpaw takes another bite, and another- it has been easy to forget how ravenous he really is, considering all he does is sleep. The pair make quick work of the magpie, sneezing occasionally as drifting stray feathers brush their muzzles. He feels his whiskers brush hers, and they bump noses together twice- it brings a wave of heat to his face, which he chooses not to psychoanalyse.

"Thanks for that," he says as they finish. Though he had not realized it, a decent, fulfilling meal was something he had been deeply craving.

"Are you ready to come out now?" she says. "You don't have to talk."

Oakpaw looks at the bright opening in the wall. Twisted though it is, his prison is the only safe place he has left. He'd rather plot here in relative comfort than subject himself to that kind of garish attention again. "No," he sighs, fixing her with a imploring look. Az is beginning to look exasperated- an expression which, Oakpaw is quickly learning, is fairly perpetual on the ginger she-cat.

"Well, have you at least thought about doing what they want you to?" she sniffs. "It's got to be better than rotting in this hole."

"No!" he cries. They want him to betray PureClan...as if that venture won't get him and every cat in this warehouse killed. And there's the fact he could never forsake his Clan, his people, could never turn a claw on that well-oiled machine. Such a thought is painful, but an impossibility..He will never comply with their orders or their heretical demands. Oakpaw is as stubborn as they come, and PureClan is his home, his only home; his stability and comfort and safety.

"Why not?" Az snaps back. "What have you got to lose by leaving that awful place? We're willing to forgive you, spare you-"

"From what?" he bellows. They tip-toe around this mystery, their thinly-shrouded plan, and he can almost see right through. Oakpaw is sick of it. They're all liars- Az too, probably- and even worse, they're dangerous. An overwhelming urge tells him to flee, run, warn the Clan. The storm lies thick and heavy on the horizon but they are too distant to see it. Only he knows; it is a grave burden to bear, restless on his shoulders, and makes him anxious to leave.

"Just think about it," Az shrills, leaping swiftly from the cell. She darts away without another word; Oakpaw is bemused, angry, afraid. His concern is not for himself, as he slowly pieces the vague clues together, but for those he left behind. For everything which they stand for, closer than ever to the verge of ruination.


Several days pass, marked only by the appearance of food- mice and rats and distinctly lacking Az's insulted concern- and the occasional visit made by Emory. Oakpaw has quickly learned that he's what equates for a deputy (he's delighted that in a sense, Iceface has been demoted). Emory makes several stirring speeches, all of which enters one ear and exits straight out the other. The apprentice doesn't care what spiels they rattle off; he is only regathering his strength and stamina, and testing out his leg everyday. It is still weak, probably broken, and the thudding ache never really leaves him.

Azazel is conspicuously absent for four days, five, a week. He scared her off, perhaps, or maybe she's still fuming. He regrets the end of their last meeting, really, but she's still the enemy and he her unwilling prisoner. He can't lose sight of that, or forget himself, or shake off his heritage. He's leaving her anyway, whether he lives or dies. In her absence, he's taken to pacing the cramped floors, gingerly favouring his wounded foreleg. He practices several easy battle moves- Oakpaw is determined not to let his muscles waste away, or let his skills rot as he does.

He is sleeping when he next hears her voice. Faint sunlight blinds him as he cracks open his eyes, broken only by her looming shadow. Contempt simmers underneath his skin. He tells himself she is an ant, an inconsequential creature; he in comparison is a warrior, and should not disgrace himself with her fickle attentions.

Oakpaw sits up anyway.

"Come to apologize?" he asks, brisk but not harsh. He cocks an expectant eyebrow at Azazel. She looks abashed, something more even- she seems nervous, but Oakpaw's not sure because he's never seen such an expression cross her face. Her sandy fur is ruffled and her tail tip twitches fitfully.

"Well, not really," she says, looking slightly guilty. "I have my opinion and you have yours, can we just leave it at that?" Beyond her small dosage of remorse, she seems hopeful, optimistic, as if she can imagine this going anywhere, as if in two years she will bring his meals to this dismal cage, and they will bicker like an elderly couple, as if she likes the hunt and he is still chasing. Her faithful optimism wounds him, strikes a chord deep within him, and after days of waiting he can't turn her away.

"Whatever," he grunts, watching her eyes brighten. He still won't do what she asks- not now and not ever- but in some small semblance he can forgive her.

"That's great," she chirps, reaching behind herself with a paw, drawing it back with a thrush dangling from her wicked claws. "I caught this myself, wanna share?"

Despite himself, his stomach rumbles. He's already eaten a tiny mouse today, but he needs more now than the pittance they feed him. "Okay," he agree, and they settle down to pluck it together. It seems routine, this meal-sharing, and the intimacy daunts him. Nothing should be familiar in this place; anything mundane in unacceptable. And yet it does not concern him as much as it should.

Their whiskers brush once, twice, but he keeps his nose carefully out of the way. Is he disappointed, without that illicit thrill of accidental contact? Oakpaw will not dwell on it.

Silence reigns, until she says, "Tell me about being a warrior." Her tone is not wistful, though it is awed. He wonders what prompted this. Is it genuine interest?

"Well," he says, unsure of what to tell her, or how, "when apprentices complete their final trials after their training, they become a warrior. Morningstar holds a ceremony where you swear to protect and uphold the Warrior Code and the ways of PureClan. After that, she gives you your name."

"Your name?" Az asks curiously. "But you already have a name." The mention of the trials and the ways of PureClan have, thankfully, passed right over her head. He is not ready for an argument of philosophy, semantics or morals (and likely never will be, because words are not his forte).

"Of course," Oakpaw replies, "but that's only the prefix. When a kit is first born, they're given the first part of their name- Oakkit, for example. It describes their appearance or something they remind their parents of. When they're an apprentice, they become a 'paw. When they become a warrior, they earn their full name. It relates to their talents or skills or appearance." Here, he can't help but boast. "I'll be named something like Oakstrike or Oakstorm because I'm a good fighter and all that. My mother was Sablefrost, and my father was Smokefang."

Tentatively, Az asks, "Was?" She seems empathetic, which is a little grating- she knows nothing of him or his life and he does not want her pity.

"They're dead," Oakpaw says shortly. It's the way any rulebreakers end up, and it is a pertinent reminder. His tone is final, unquestionable, and he is relieved when she doesn't probe.

"I wonder what my name would be…" Az muses. He can see her as a warrior, albeit a reckless, brash one, and it is a mildly terrifying image. She would be battle-scarred and ruthless, following orders without question. If she were born into that life, she would enjoy it. Oakpaw considers her for a moment; her scruffy ginger fur, vibrant green eyes, turbulent attitude. Sure, she's tiny, but her ferociousness makes up for what she vertically lacks. In another world, they might even be paired together...it's possible, considering their fiery personalities would clash sufficiently, although he doubts it. She would go to someone like Willowpaw, or Scarpelt, dull and brutish and incapable of producing a single feeling. The mere thought irks him, and he dismisses it with ease.

"Probably Tinypaw," he teases. Her hackles puff up- looking the furthest thing he's ever seen from intimidating- and she glares at him. "Or Blazepaw, or Sagepaw, I suppose, if you weren't that fussed on Tiny." In this other world, she is Sagepaw, and she is perhaps his biggest rival. They compete without words- there is only one best fighter, and each desires that title. In some perverse twist, Morningstar pairs them together. And they hate each other, can't stand the thought of one another, and yet it begins to warp, deviate...Their kits, he thinks with amusement, would be terrors.

"And my warrior name?" she says, still lost in thought. She too is imagining another world, and perhaps she likes it. "Blazefang? Sagefire?" She seems like a natural, as though she were meant for a life in the forest.

"Tinyclaw," he mutters under his breath. She hears it and glares at him fiercely.

"This is my daydream," she snaps waspishly, and he can only shrug in mock-apology, failing to dislodge the smile from his muzzle. Her grin is a small thing in return, tiny and mercurial, but he takes it. He forgets why he shouldn't.


8 pages of fluff why the hell not

shit's about to hit the fan and i CAN'T WAIT