Ringer - Chapter 1

Epilogues: Ringer - Chapter 1

The beam from your flashlight stabs fitfully into the inky darkness, barely illuminating the industrial style hallway, hardly the kind of place that should be serving food, let alone marketed to children. You need to replace the batteries, obviously, but at the same time you would swear you'd done that at the beginning of your shift. Maybe the cold is affecting them? You seem to remember something about cold and batteries, but that's buried in your memory swamp, mists covering all but the barest hints of your former life.

A soft click rings out in the utter stillness, and you sweep the beam left, spotting the door in question just as it swings shut. A shiver runs down your spine, adrenaline sharpening every sense in spite of the utter lack of information they can glean from the oppressive blackness enveloping you.

“Miiiiiiiiiiiiiiike.” Comes a sing-song whisper of a voice, smokey and synthetic in timbre and tone. You can hear your heart pounding now, fear knotting your windpipe even before you decide not to speak. There's no security door to hide behind. No camera feed to inform your decisions.

And your flashlight just flickered out. Briefly, but still another worry, as the light flares back to life, giving you a fleeting glimpse of something before it flits into the inky darkness.

Something purple.

You can feel pinpricks of sweat dotting to life across your forehead, and you jump at the sound of metal slowly scraping on concrete followed by tearing paper. Whipping your light around behind you, you search the dark for the source of the disturbance. After a tense moment, your light and thoughts both settle simultaneously on three parallel scratches on the otherwise unblemished wall, sitting at perfect disembowelment height both for yourself and the three kids surrounding a smiling cartoon Freddy on the poster taped to the wall.

“You're gonna be laaaaaaaaaaaate.” Comes the artificial mockery behind you in the blackness. You spin around, just in time for your light to flicker out again. Backpedaling slowly, you fiddle with the switch before resulting to percussive maintenance in the form of smacking the butt end against your palm, frantically trying to restore your one lifeline against the lilac menace in the dark. Without success, you can feel panic rise into your throat, your breathing ragged and quick. With a wordless cry of surprise and anguish, you trip over something in the dark, crashing flat onto your back. Despite the lack of illumination, you can see stars dancing in your vision, your head swimming even as your panic threatens to overwhelm you.

“Need to get you ready for work, Mike.” Your nemesis intones, frighteningly close now. You can only offer up a brief, incoherent whimper before you feel that cold, powerful hand close over your shoulder, claws digging cruelly into your flesh as your nightmare shakes you like a ragdoll, your screams echoing endlessly down the hallway so like an empty tomb.

“Good to see you too, Mike.” Comes the snarky, sarcastic reply. You barely open one of your eyes, recognizing the familiar confines of your bedroom, now filled with the sounds of your panicked, labored breathing. Uncurling from your fetal ball, you sit up in bed, blinking tears out of your eyes and meeting the bewildered, yet concerned gaze of Bonita Rabbinson.

“You okay there? Or should I just leave you alone with the Boogeyman?” She asks, her trademark smartassery layered thick over her expression of concern.

“Yeah. Just...bad dream.” You reassure her. Or is that yourself?

“Apparently.” She replies, one eyebrow raised.

“So what brings you by?” You ask, flicking a glance at the clock and figuring you have twenty minutes before shift.

“Oh, just dropped by to say hi to Chiclet and Freddy invited me to stay for dinner, which is still warm in the oven for you, by the way.” She says matter-of-factly.

“Casserole night, huh?” You reply, cutting neatly through her veil of bullshit.

“Yeahhhhh.” She admits abashedly.

You smile slightly at your little victory, the endless battle of wits between you and Beanie keeping you both on your toes since it began over a year ago. “Well, I do need to get dressed, Beanie.” You pronounce neatly, offering her a slight smirk. “Unless you're wanting to stick around for the show. I can put on some slow music if you'd like.” You add, laying it on thick.

“Pffffft, as IF, monkey boy.” She fires back, rolling her eyes hard enough that you can *hear* them.

“You know you want to.” You add saucily, pressing the attack.

“Wrong bunny, dumbass.” she growls back.

“You know, now that I have my own bedroom, I don't *have* to wear pajamas to bed.” You lie convincingly, sliding the covers off your bare chest.

“Oh GAWD, fine! You dork!” She fires back testily, standing up and storming out of your room, earning a soft chuckle from you as she slams the door. Flicking the covers back, you roll out of bed, scratching yourself through your pajama pants as you trudge to your dresser. A haze clouds your conscious thought process yet, muscle memory thankfully taking charge as you get dressed. Sitting down a moment to tend to your hair, your gaze lingers on one of the very few snapshots you've bothered to save over the last year.

You've never been one to hang on to keepsakes, at least you think you're not, but this one stays wedged into the corner of your vanity mirror nonetheless. Halloween costumes are a pretty big deal among your makeshift family, and Bonnie's suggestion for a western theme for the party went over surprisingly well with everyone else this past year. The glossy print has you at the center, surrounded by multicolored fur, and dolled up like a cowboy straight out of a pulp novel.

On your left is a broadly smiling BonBon, in full saloon girl lace and frills, the pale lavender satin of her petticoat setting off her pelt rather nicely. And that's not just because the outfit gave her visible, even enviable, cleavage somehow. On your opposite flank is Beanie, a loosely woven straw farmer’s hat hiding her ears much like the denim bib overalls that conceal what little figure the girl has. Her trademark smirk is softened almost into a smile, or as much of one as you'll ever see from the acerbic rabbit. And in front of you is Bonnie, an ordinary gingham farmgirl dress in brick red a stark contrast to the beaming, radiant smile she's wearing. Not a hint of nerves or fear there, and you can't help but smile back at the photo, proud of how far the wisp of a girl has come in just over a year.

What gets a soft chuckle out of you, however, is the corner inscription in permanent marker, Chica's wingwriting precise and distinct.

Rabbit 'Rangler.

An understandable conclusion to anyone who doesn't know you, and them, but not exactly what you were going for. Your arms are wrapped around two lapine waists, your left hand resting on Bonnie's shoulder, your right stationed chastely on Beanie’s hip. Regardless of Chica’s, and Cheeky’s now that you think of it, opinion on the matter, you were just getting everyone into frame for Bonworth to take the photo.

And grinning like you just won the lottery.

Looking at your alarm clock, you shake your head to get those weird, vague feelings out of your head again, lest you be late. Sniffing the armpit of your cleanest uniform shirt (really need to do laundry tomorrow), you give it a passing grade, mitigating the slight smell with the last dregs of body spray in the can. Tossing the empty can of Sledge “Chick Magnet” (yet another gag gift from your feathery roommate) into the trash, you slip your shirt and pants on over your thermal underwear. Squirming your feet into your boots, you wander out of your bedroom, footwear flopping loosely as you go.

Rounding the corner, you find the kitchen something of a lively affair. Freddy is washing the last of the pots and pans, whistling a merry tune to himself, with Beanie and your resident rabbit drying. The lone surprise of the scene is Chica’s boyfriend, Chad, seated at the table with her in his lap, the two of them giggling over something one or the other said. Even more surprising is the fact that it's Chad that notices you first.

“Hey, brah. Workin’ tonight?” the sunshine yellow rooster asks, his west coast heritage on full display in his diction and accent.

“Yeah, it's my Friday. Coming in or going out?” you ask, trying to be hospitable despite the tiny twinge of jealousy you feel seeing his wing wrapped around her waist.

“Going out. Speaking of, babydoll, we need to get a move on. Movie starts in half an hour.” He adds matter-of-factly.

“Okay, sugar.” She replies warmly, nuzzling the top of his head, making his comb jiggle slightly before getting up.

“What are you going to see?” You ask, maintaining the veneer for Chica’s sake more than your own.

“Stolen 3. Trailer looks sick as hell, brah.” Chad answers, smacking Chica’s backside to usher her towards the door, and getting a surprised squawk in response.

You take the empty chair the two of them vacated, reaching down to tie your shoes as the two bunnies pull out chairs to join you.

“Three?” Beanie asks incredulously. “They actually made a third one?”

“At some point you just have to wonder whether dude is just a lousy father.” You say into the table, getting a titter of laughter from Bonnie, and a choked gigglesnort from Bonita.

“How'd you sleep, Mike?” Bonnie asks, taking a sip from her glass of chocolate milk.

“Okay, I guess.” You respond offhandedly, taking a deep inhale of the kitchen aromas. “Bourguignon, Freddy?”

“Coq au vin.” He replies over his shoulder, before placing the last pot in the drying rack and retrieving the stew pot from the oven and ladling your portion out. Placing it before you, you catch the barest glimpse of worry on the big bear's face before he takes a step back. Sniffing more directly this time, you smile broadly at the choice, a perfect warm dish for the snowy weather you're about to brave.

“Merçi, Freddy.” you say sincerely, and you see his expression brighten a bit. He gives you a slight bow and wanders off towards the living room, likely to pick up his latest book.

“I don't see how you guys put up with that dumb jock.” Beanie interjects bitterly, a long-standing grudge held by the professional Stronghold Master, apparently.

Incredulously, you find yourself coming to the golden rooster’s defense. “He's not that bad, honestly. I mean, at first? Yeah, total Fratboy McDouchebro.” You clarify. Your visceral reaction to meeting him at your anniversary party still gives you a sour stomach. “You and I met him at the same time, remember?”

“I try not to.” Beanie fires back acerbically. “Though I do get it. If I was the star, second string full back for the community college football team, I'd want everyone to know too.” She adds with mock sincerity.

“Hey, brah, nice to meetcha, name’s Chad. Chad 'Thunder’ Cox.” You add, your impersonation getting better and better the more you're exposed to the burly chicken. Beanie snorts in laughter while Bonnie giggles with that sweet smile of hers before adding to the discussion.

“I think he's nice, you guys. Chica certainly seems happy with him. And he helped put together my new dresser the other day.” She adds softly, punching you in the metaphorical gut in the process.

“I’m sorry, Bonnie. I just…” you begin before the pale blue waif silences you with a single finger held in the air.

“You needed the sleep. Still do, looks like.” She says with serene warmth wrapped in concern.

“Still sorry.” You mutter before digging into your dinner with gusto. “You're right though.” You add for Beanie's benefit. “Dunno whether Chica’s rubbing off on him, or he's just hanging around his buddies a lot less, but he's lost a lot of the jockiness.” you state, your generalized hostility towards the varsity jacket-clad rooster far smaller and more specific these days.

“Mmmmhmmm.” Is the lilac bunny’s reply, conveying a begrudging concession of the point while still remaining skeptical. Shooting her a sidelong glance, you resume eating and she fishes out her video game, firing up whatever her latest frustration engine du jour is.

You keep meaning to get a system like hers, but even second hand, you haven't had the ability to scrape together that much in discretionary cash lately, especially given the winter clothing you've had to buy. You don't envy your furry family the summer, but damn, a full pelt would be nice around here right about now. Compounding that problem is the fact that the only things that work for you are better suited to this world’s Arctic explorers, and are consequently low production, high-quality garments.

“Penny for your thoughts, Mike?” Bonnie asks quietly, and you realize you've zoned out yet again.

“Sorry. Just thinking about how lucky I am to have you guys in my life is all.” You sort-of lie. You see Beanie lift her gaze from her game momentarily, eyebrow raised to convey her utter disbelief of what you've just said.

“Awwww, we love you too, Mike.” Bonnie replies, rising to give you a hug and a gentle smooch on the cheek. Beanie merely rolls her eyes, shaking her head and returning to her game. “You stay warm tonight, okay?” She adds, taking up the matronly slack for Chica’s absences of late.

“Nah, I'd rather freeze my tail off.” You shoot back.

“But you don't have a tail, Mike. At least Mangle said you didn't.” she says, now slightly confused.

“Oh, well, since I don't have one to freeze off, I guess I'll just have to stay warm after all.” You add, a wry smile added in for her benefit.

“Silly monkey.” She replies, batting you in the shoulder. “I'm gonna head to bed, early start tomorrow.” she adds, fiddling nervously with an eartip.

“Doctor's appointment?” You ask, recognizing her apprehension immediately.

Bonnie takes a deep breath before responding. “Job interview.”

“Really?” You ask, genuinely happy that she's taking this step in her life.

“Just a part time spot at the diner downtown, where Leo works. Baby steps, like Doctor Gallo said.” She says, a quaver in her voice betraying her nervous state of mind.

“Well, I'll just have to stop by there more often then.” You add with a warm smile.

“I'd like that, Mike.” She admits softly, and you'd swear she was blushing under her fur. “Anyway, good night, Beanie, Mike.” She says before turning and toddling off towards her bedroom. “Good night, Freddy!” You hear her add from halfway across the apartment.

Shoveling another forkfull of delicious stewed chicken into your mouth, you almost spit it out a second later.

“She totally wants to bone you, you know.” Beanie dryly observes.

“She's like a sister to me, Beanie. Seriously, not happening.” You add emphatically, knowing full well there would be a laundry list of people willing to beat the shit out of you for doing so.

“If you say so.” The lilac bunny shoots back, her dry tone conveying her total lack of belief in your assertion. “I mean, I wouldn't blame you. If I was a guy, I'd totally think she was cute.” She adds.

“Wait a minute. You're not a dude?” You ask with mock incredulity.

“Fuck you.” She shoots back venomously.

“Not really into guys, Beanie. Though in your case, I *might* make an exception. You're kinda cute like that.” You add sagely.

“Die in a fire, monkeyboy.” She practically growls back, her game forgotten for now, purple brow furrowed in anger.

You're chuckling softly now, savoring back to back victories, even if you're worrying some also; both for what might be wrong with the otherwise sharp and witty rabbit, as well as what form her eventual revenge will take. You're also more than a little concerned you've genuinely hurt her, as odd as that sounds.

“You know I'm just playing, right?” you ask cautiously, your grin fading as her own expression softens into a pensive pout.

“Mike?” She asks softly.

“Yeah?” You reply tentatively, your gourmet dinner now all but forgotten.

“Do you really think I'd only be cute as a boy?” She asks you, voice small and quiet.

“Noooooooo.” You begin cautiously, brain already backpedalling.

“You don't think I'm cute?” She again asks, a gentle sniffle cutting you to the bone. “I’m not girly enough for you?”

“Beanie, you…” you begin hesitantly, pausing to choose your next words carefully. “...are the least girly woman I know, and by your own choice.” You conclude flatly.

“Shit. Pushed too hard, too fast.” She replies, snarky facade back in place.

“Yup.” You respond, wolfing down one last massive gulp of your meal as she resumes her game. And the first time you actually saw a group of *actual* wolves tearing into a tailgating spread at one of Chad’s football games... damn if you'll ever get *that* image out of your head.

You get up, scraping the last dregs of dinner into the trash before rinsing your dish and placing it in the dishwasher. Grabbing your thermos, a better gift you can't remember receiving, you make for the door. “Walk you home?” You ask Beanie, to which she merely shrugs before flipping her hoodie back up over her ears and standing, dropping her game into the voluminous center pocket.

“Little shit was up past his bedtime anyway.” You barely hear her mutter. Your only response is a soft, chuckling snort of breath. “I mean I know he's a rabbit too, but that fucker’s APS numbers are ridiculous.” She grumbles further, and you know better than to ask for clarification.

“Bonne nuit, Freddy!” You call to the gourmet bear, getting a friendly little wave from one of those massive paws in return.

Grabbing your heavy coat and pulling your key collection off the peg, you mentally brace yourself for the cold. Snow is forecast for the entire night, and the white shit is the one thing from your fractured childhood memories you have absolutely no fondness for. Coat, watch cap, scarf, thermos bottle, keys in pocket, now where'd your gloves end up? Oh, there they are, Beanie's raised eyebrow as she hands them to you betraying her impatience.

“I swear, it's almost not worth the effort getting you suited up for work.” She grumps sardonically, pressing them into your open hand, where you barely register them falling from your numbed fingers. “Mike?” You hear her ask as if you're underwater.

The snap of a fuzzy purple finger directly in front of your face breaks you out of a fugue you can't even explain, your gaze shifting downwards slightly to look your rabbit friend in her very concerned face.

“Damn, Mike,” she begins softly, gently placing a warm paw on either side of your head, “you look like you've seen a ghost.” She says, voice barely above a whisper. Two seconds later, her mask of concern drops, her eyes going wide in horror. “You didn't…” she adds, seemingly unwilling to even voice her concern, lest it be given credence.

“What?” You ask weakly. Several foggy seconds later, your brain catches up and snaps you back to reality. “No. No. Whatever that was, it wasn't…*him*” you clarify, likewise unable to speak the unspeakable. Beanie searches your eyes for a moment before seeming to find relief in your own fear mirroring hers, the tension melting from her shoulders.

“Don't do that to me, monkey boy.” She says softly, gently punching you in the arm.

“Sorry.” You reply abashedly, bending to retrieve your gloves, stuffing them in your jacket pocket for now. Opening the door, your can feel the nip of frost on your nose, barely catching the motion of whiskers as Beanie's nose wrinkles in protest as well. It occurs to you just how accustomed you've gotten to reading the nonverbal cues from your cartoon animal family, all across the spectrum. The rise and fall of chicken head feathers, whiskers and ears flicking, tails twitching; they're all part of the hidden language of society here, and you wonder if some of your misunderstandings are the results of your inability to speak the language of fur and feather.

Shoving that question aside for now, you step through the doorway into the amber glow of the sodium vapor lights reflecting off the snow falling slowly in the still winter air. “Gonna be nasty tonight.” You comment softly.

“Sucks to be a hairless monkey.” Beanie concludes sagely.

“Thanks.”

“Don't mention it.”

The brief stroll to and down the stairs goes quietly, save for the crunching of slush and snow underfoot, and the two of you split for a moment at the bottom, before Beanie stops in her tracks.

“Umm, Mike?” She asks quizzically.

“Yeah?”

“In case you've forgotten, my apartment's over that way.” She reminds you needlessly.

“I know.” You reply, raising your thermos in explanation.

“Oh. Right.” She responds, remembering your arrangement with Mango and trudging back to your side.

You resume your walk towards the door of 87a, giving the lilac rabbit a sidelong glance and slight smirk as you formulate yet another verbal jab. “Don’t worry, I'm still going to walk you home, darling.”

Your smile broadens slightly as you see her posture stiffen briefly before she pivots her gaze slightly in your direction, a skeptical eyebrow raised. “And why, pray tell, would you think I need an escort? Sweetheart?” she tacks on, voice positively slathered in sarcasm.

“All sorts of ruffians and vagabonds about this time of night. Have to protect m’lady’s honor.” You clarify, knocking on the door with a smug expression on what can be seen of your face.

“Oh, Michael! Whatever would I do without you, beloved?” She asks, smiling almost apoplectically, her voice so saccharine sweet you can feel yourself getting diabetes just listening to her act. You hear the deadbolt click open, and the door slowly opens to reveal BonBon, wearing a long nightshirt over neon yellow sweatpants along with an expression at once forlorn and shaken.

“Oh hey, Bon. How's you?” You ask, trying to noodle out what the problem might be. “Mango still up?”

“Yeah. Come on in, I guess.” She says dejectedly, stepping aside to let the both of you in. “I'm headed to bed. See you around.” She adds, plodding off down the hallway.

Even Beanie appears taken aback, until the realization hits her a split second before it does you.

“Shit. I'll handle it.” She grumps, stalking off after her best friend and leaving you watching her back, her tail twitching in irritation just under the hem of her hoodie. She barges into BonBon’s bedroom without warning, shutting the door behind her and leaving you alone but for the droning snore of Peanut passed out on the couch, and the aroma of fresh brewed coffee drawing you into the kitchen.

“Hey Mango. What's the selection tonight? Smells wonderful.” You ask, rounding the corner and finding the curvy vixen seated at the table wearing a tastefully kitsch Christmas sweater in red with white snowflakes. Surprisingly, Goose is also there, a crocheted afghan in variegated pink and black draped over her shoulders.

“Cinnamon hazelnut. Delicious.” She pronounces, rising up to wrap you in a nearly motherly hug, which you return eagerly.

“Hey, Goose. How you been?” you ask, stepping around to give the mellow hen a hug as well.

“Same old, same old. Haven't seen you around lately.” She says in her typically even diction.

“You haven't seen me around ever, Goose.” You correct her, an in joke between the two of you.

“Heh, true, but you know what I meant.” she says, breaking into a relaxed smile.

“Haven't been getting out as much. Trouble sleeping.” You add, an odd admission to make aloud.

“I might have some chamomile in the cabinet. Let me check.” Mango says, pacing over and digging through her collection. “You ever tried it? Never been one for the straight herbal blends, but it does the job for me.” She adds, finally finding what she's after, walking over and pressing three teabags into your palm. “No cream, and no more than a teaspoon of honey, otherwise you're defeating the purpose.” She says, very reminiscent of Dr. Rabbinson.

“Thanks, Mango.” You reply, pocketing the tiny gift, even if you're doubtful it'll help ward off the purple menace of your nightmares.

“If that doesn't work, you might want to see a doctor.” She adds, trying to be helpful, even if she has no idea about, or even the reason for, your aversion to doctors.

Speaking of purple menaces, Beanie rounds the corner, followed by a slightly abashed BonBon. The electric blue bunny doesn't say a word, instead padding over to wrap you tightly in a hug. “Sorry. Didn't mean to ditch you like that.” She whispers in your ear, getting an inadvertent (if you don't think about it too hard) nibble of your earlobe in the process.

“It's okay, Bon.” You say, squeezing your friend to you briefly before allowing her to flop into a chair. “How was your day?” You ask, trying to distract the hyperactive bunny.

“All right, I guess. Kids are on winter break, so I was able to catch up on a bunch of my shows.” She says, pointedly avoiding the word 'cartoon’. “Still kinda bummed they canceled HumieCon. Projecting numbers based on ticket preorders is always dicey. Plus everyone is playing PocketHumans Go! now, so you've got a lot of people who were too involved with AR gaming to remember to order tickets, but I'm sure they would have made it to 'con.” She adds, and you wonder if her heart is truly in that statement.

“My hair is grateful at least.” You quip, getting a snort of laughter from Beanie, and the barest hint of a smile from BonBon.

“Still say you would have been a shoo-in.” She mutters grumpily.

You only offer a grunt of acknowledgement, glad the argument was taken off the table by the 'con organizers. Helping yourself, you unscrew the lid from your thermos, dumping what's left of the pot into the steel vessel. A healthy helping of sugar and fresh cream follow before you secure the top and give it a good shake to mix the contents.

“Sorry I can't stay, guys. Running late as it is.” You offer apologetically.

“It's all right, Michael.” Mango replies. “You stay warm tonight, okay?” She adds, genuine concern in her voice.

“Do my best.” You say, lifting the thermos full of coffee like a talisman against the arctic chill. “Thank you. Sleep tight, Bon. Goose.”

“'Night, Mike.” Goose replies, giving a lazy wave of her wing in your general direction.

“Good night, Mike. Text me if you get bored?” BonBon adds, and you're reminded of just how little sleep the hyperactive rabbit customarily gets.

“Sure. Assuming my fingers don't fall off.”

“Assuming.” She says, perking up visibly.

“See you tomorrow, Bonnie” Bonita adds, shuffling off towards the door. You follow after her, cinching down your watch cap and scarf before heading out the door.

“If that bunny wasn't my best friend, oh *man* would I have had fun letting her twist in the wind.” She confesses to you with a wide grin on her face as you walk across the parking lot.

“You are such a damn troll, Beanie.” You fire back, laughter tinting your voice.

“Don't hate the player, hate the game.” She adds boastfully.

“Speaking of games, how's work?” You ask, the seeming contradiction in terms still quite amusing to you.

“Doing good. The initial rush of excitement has died off finally, but I've gotten quite a few hardcore players that are sticking with it. Speaking of, I have a favor to ask.”

“Oh?”

“Yeah, you're off this Thursday night, right?”

“Yeah?” You begin, wondering where she's going with this.

“We'll, I've been running a long term swerve on one of my campaigns. Have an NPC I've been playing off as being an actual PC instead, but the player’s been out of the country for business. I kinda need you to step in and run him for the session.” She clarifies, seemingly guilty for asking.

“Why me?” You ask, though more out of curiosity than reluctance.

“Who do I have to work with, and who none of my players have met? Rackham's working nights, Peanut too. They've met my brother, and Marion would be too much of an argument to get anything done. Besides, he's a human paladin. Right up your alley.” She reassures you, but you can't help but feel something has been left out.

“Okay, so why now?”

“Because I've run out of excuses to keep this guy on the back burner, and have painted myself into a corner. I really need your help, Mike.” She at last admits, getting a slight smile out of you. “I'll buy you Humburger for dinner Thursday. Just help me out here.”

“Are you asking me out on a date?”

“What...no…” she answers, backpedaling already.

“Because that sounded an awful lot like you asking me out on a date.” You add pensively, twisting the barb deeper.

“You don't have to be an ass about it, Mike.”

“Yes.” You state simply.

“Yes what?”

“Yes, I'll go out with you.”

“You shit.” She says, but you can tell she's laughing on the inside as she shoves your shoulder playfully.

“When and where?”

“I'll swing by your place around five? You usually up by then?” she asks.

“I'll be ready. I need to bring anything?”

“I've got spare dice and a book or two to complete the look for you. This is gonna be great!” She adds, genuine excitement bubbling to the surface of the otherwise stoic, laconic rabbit.

“Glad I could help.” You say, and you find yourself genuinely meaning it. And hell, maybe it's time you got out some more. Met some new faces and just had a good time. You love your new family, but there are still times you find yourself wanting more.

What could possibly go wrong?