Mark you my words — when the gnawers are in peril, they will not hesitate at anything. Say they that they will send an escort, be warned that they will. For when a creature and all that creature's brethren and the brethren of those brethren is the most mortal peril of all dangers — total extermination, the death of all pups and soldiers alike — they will stop at nothing to save themselves. And know you that the killers would do the same, had they been the ones dying like flies.

As it is, it is the gnawers who have sent an escort. Well, "escort" is something of a misnomer. The word "escort" implies that somebody has been sent to accompany and perhaps even guard you. And that is certainly not the case here, for the small rats skittering through the walls, squeezing their furry forms through holes and clawing at plaster and brick, they are driven by pure desperation. They are driven by the rawest form of fear — that is, the fear of death. And when one's life is on the line, one would rather kill than relent.

The small and the large are in league with one another. It is only natural — that the little, brittle creature may bow its head to the big, tough one. They help one another. One speaks of what goes on above the other's head, and one speaks of what goes on below the other's feet. About what danger lies in wait. About what salvation may lie just around that corner, or what delicious catch might be found if only we do this and that. Yes, it is quite useful to know one another.

Now, the small gnawers are on the move as per the command of the larger. They pour through the walls of the apartment complex, climbing and descending as their noses twitch with the smell of the warrior, the princess, the last hope. Their claws rattle against the sides and their tails flop in their wake. And they will do anything for this. Anything.

They would sooner kill the warrior and the princess than let them stay.