“Tiff, can ya read me, cher?” Her ears perked up as her tail swished back and forth at her partners voice, his Cajun accent thick and crackly on the headset.

  “Franzé!” she yelped. “What the heck, man?!”

  “Sorry 'bout dat—my communicator died on me. Did you find de log manifest?”

  “Yes, I found it. I’m sending it to you now,” she said, tapping through windows on her bracelet screen.

  “Good girl! I knew ya could do it.”

  Her tail wagged feverishly at the praise.

  “Bae, ya did leave people alive t' interrogate dis time, right?”

  “Yes! I ran into a rat. He’s alive and in one piece, tied to a chair in the upper office.”

  “Where are you? Did you bring a team?” she asked.

  “No team, cher—made... warehouse—*Brrrreeeezzzzp*” Static crackled, cutting into the feed and making her wince, her ears flattening at the harsh sound. She thumped the headpiece clipped behind her ear, but it didn’t help.

  “And just like that, he’s gone again. Gods, I hope he didn’t come alone,” she muttered. At that moment, the *click-clack* of dress shoes echoed down the hallway, heading in her direction.

  “Great, sounds like company,” she said, spinning Trevis’s chair so its back faced the door.

  She shifted into her human form, crouching behind the desk. One of her favorite features of the stealth suit was how it adapted to the user (within reason). Shrinking back was never a problem, but growing larger wasn’t an option—a limitation that had caused wardrobe failures for other species. Tiff was thankful her own transformations stayed comfortably within the suit’s capacity.

  The door creaked open. It was another rat.

  “Hey boss, I sent a drone to deliver that package for ya. Boss?—Boss!” The underling spotted his boss’s head slumped over the backrest of the chair. Trevis wasn’t moving or responding.

  “Guys, I think we got a——Gaaahhh!” Before the underling could finish speaking into his earpiece, Tiff zipped around the desk in a blur. Wielding a stapler like a pair of nunchucks, smacking him in the forehead with the open end.

  While he was distracted by the staple now lodged in his forehead, Tiff shifted back.

  “Looks like no point in hiding now,” she said, her voice cold as she delivered a clawed fist straight into his rib cage shattering his sternum, sending him flying into the filing cabinets, which crumpled like empty soda cans. His body embedded itself in the stucco wall, leaving only his dress shoes sticking out, twitching as a confetti of papers and files rained down onto the floor.

  The sound of more click-clacking heels echoed on the concrete floor, heading her way. Without hesitation, she grabbed a filing cabinet and lobbed it through the plate glass window. She leapt through the opening, landing silently on the floor below. She dashed toward the side door—but froze mid-stride.

  Wait, why do I hear gunfire?

  A chill ran down her spine.

  “Shit!” She dashed back to the door leading to the stairwell up to the second floor. Not caring who heard her, she launched off the wall, springboarding upward to save time. But it didn’t matter. You can be the fastest in the universe; it still won’t change things that have already happened.

  When she reached the top of the stairs, she found Franzé crumpled on the floor in a pool of blood. She crouched beside him, checking as best she could. He was still breathing—barely.

  “Dammit old timer, I told you not to come alone! Why didn't you stay put in the survalence van?” Retracting her claws, she pulled a small jar of paste from her hip pouch. Unscrewing the lid, she dipped the tip of her claw into the jar and dabbed it onto his wounds—one on his shoulder, another on his upper ribcage, narrowly missing his heart, and a third on his lower midsection. The paste began coagulating the blood, slowing the bleeding.

  Franzé, being a Procyon—a small, raccoon-shaped person about the size of a dwarf—provided a pretty small target. Combined with the rats’ notoriously bad aim, most of their shots were glancing or off-mark, missing any vital areas.

  She used an old pocket mirror to check around the corner. It was a little outdated by their technological standards, but it was still useful—and a gift from an old friend. To her, that was more than enough reason to carry it.

  “Looks like there are about six,” she muttered. “If they cared about their security as much as their fashion, I wouldn’t have snuck in this easily, unnoticed.” Her gaze lingered on their dudded-out leather shoes, pinstripe suits, and matching fedoras. The closest one, in particular, looked like he’d stepped straight out of a 1940s mafia movie, gripping a .45acp-caliber submachine gun with a drum magazine.

  “GSA! Throw down your weapons and lay face down on the ground with your hands behind your back!” she shouted from around the corner.

  The reply was pretty much what she expected: a hearty “Fuck you and ya friend, copa!” followed by a hail of bullets.

  “Cowabunga it is then.” She tapped the side of her collar, and small metal plates ejected from the back, connecting to form a helmet shielding her sensitive ears. Her visor dropped down, displaying target info. Crouching on all fours, she leaped from her cover, landing on the opposite side of the wall. Zigzagging from wall to wall, she rocketed headfirst into the gunfire.

  The group was split. The closest one was the fancy rat with the submachine gun, unloading everything he had at her. The bullets that hit didn’t seem to slow or deter her trajectory. Two more were positioned midway down the hall showering her with small handgun fire that really wasnt slowing her down, while the rest clustered at the T-section of the hallway.

  She honed in on her first target—the rat at the start of the hallway with the submachine gun. Raising her hand, she unsheathed her claws and slashed straight through his shoulder and neck, severing his head. The headless body staggered forward a few steps, still firing the submachine gun until it finally ran dry, clicking, before collapsing in a bloody heap. Catching the severed head mid-flight, she hurled it full force into her next target, striking him square in the head. Both heads exploded in a shower of pink mist, leaving the second headless torso standing upright for a brief moment before toppling.

  Panic erupted among the group at the back of the T-shaped hallway as the remaining minions finally grasped what kind of creature they were dealing with.

  “Holy fuck! It’s a Lupus!” one shouted.

  “Shit! And a red one too!” another yelled.

  As she closed the gap on the group, one minion she hadn’t noticed stepped forward, wielding an M32 grenade launcher aimed directly at her.

  “Aw, fudruckles, I’m gonna feel this one.”

  *Phump; boom!* The grenade hit dead-on. The blast sent her hurtling backward, slamming into the wall she’d just bounded off of, knocking the wind out of her. She landed face down, and two minions pounced onto her back, desperately trying to pin her down.

  Shaking off the daze, she propelled herself—and her unwelcome passengers—into the concrete ceiling with an audible *crunch,* leaving an indention of her backside while embedding the two minions into the solid surface.

  She landed back on all fours before straightening up. The rat with the M32 fired directly at her chest—a target that was rather hard to miss. With a snap of her wrist, she caught the grenade mid-air and, using her thumb, flicked it back at the minion. The explosion sent him hurtling into the wall at the end of the hallway.

  Stolen from its rightful place, this narrative is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.

  The last minion turned to flee. Tiff crouched, grabbed a chunk of debris, and lobbed it with precision. It struck the minion square in the back, launching him into the remnants of the M32-wielding rat now splattered across the wall.

  She stood still in the debris-strewn hallway, carnage surrounding her. Tapping her collar, she retracted her half helmet and drop shield. Ears twitching, she listened intently for any further signs of movement. Sounds clear, she thought. Swiftly, she sprinted to the opposite end of the hall where Franzé was left.

  “Command, can anyone read me? This is Agent Raforus. I need a medic pickup ASAP.”

  A reply crackled through her earpiece, but it was buried in static; no audible words came through.

  Kneeling beside Franzé, she leaned in and listened closely for a heartbeat.

  “Good, he’s still alive.” Carefully, she scooped him up, carrying him as gently as possible while moving quickly to avoid jostling him. Once outside, her comms finally came back to life.

  “Raforus, come in! Is everything ok?!”

  “Roger that, command. I’ve secured the data pack; enemies neutralized. One agent down, en route to evac. Will meet with evacuees if they’re still waiting for pickup.”

  “We picked up the beacon and already have a team en route.”

  “Command, there’s also a detained suspect in the main office. They seem to be a person of interest in the smuggling operation back at the warehouse. I also have a recorded statement from the individual, which I'd like to submit as evidence of their high-level involvement. I’ll send it along with the data packet.”

  “Acknowledged. I’ll notify the drop team once they begin pickup rounds. In the meantime, proceed to the extraction point with the injured.”

  “10-4, heading there now.” Leaving the warehouse, Tiff tapped her collar to activate her drop visor. Before stepping into the alleyway, she peered out cautiously, scanning the nearby rooftops. Her visor highlighted a blurred object hovering above the top of the parking garage across the street.

  From the alleyway exit, Tiff scanned the street and surrounding area but found nothing unusual. Everything was shut down—businesses locked up tight, and the streets were empty.

  *Good thing this is a late-night job. No one around to witness anything strange,* she thought.

  With Franzé cradled carefully between her forearm and chest like an infant, she sprinted across the street toward the parking garage’s ground-level entrance. Spotting an elevator, she made a beeline for it and pressed the button.

  The numbers above the door flickered as the elevator descended, the soft hum breaking the stillness. Franzé stirred and coughed lightly.

  “I s'pose dere's worse ways t' die than bein' smothered by a giant hairy cow udder, ya damnable oversized rougarou,” he rasped.

  “Well, look who's still among the living,” Tiff chuffed. “Why didn’t you stay put like you were supposed to until backup arrived?” She tried to muster a stern, angry look, but her emotions got the better of her. Her tail betrayed her relief, wagging back and forth.

  “Backup was takin' its usual sweet time, and stupid me, I panicked when de comms stopped workin'. Rookie mistake, I know.” Franzé noticed the wagging tail and grinned weakly.

  “I’m happy t’ see you too, Cher.”

  *Bing* The elevator chimed as the old doors shuddered open.

  “I guess dat dere means it’s time t’ go,” Franzé wheezed as she hunched down to step inside, the floor creaking ominously under her weight. The elevator sagged slightly, but Tiff paid it no mind as she reached over and pressed the button for the roof.

  "You need to hush and stay still. You've lost enough blood, and I'd prefer the little you have left stay where it is." The doors stayed open, so she pushed the roof button again, but the only thing that happened was a buzzer sound with a digital display that read:

  **(over capacity)**

  “Are you freakin' kidding me!?!” She angrily growled at the display, mustering every bit of willpower she had not to put her balled-up fist through the panel. She took a deep breath with her eyes closed, then Franzé piped in.

  “Oof, cher, ya put on a few pounds since I seen ya last?”

  "Franzé, I will drop you here and now, swamp panda."

  "Calm down, Bea, ya know I'm only jokin'."

  She gently set him down against the wall of the elevator to shift back to her petite 5'1" human form. Even in that form, she was still taller than her partner, who was about 6-7 inches shorter.

  After shifting back to a more maneuverable size for her surroundings, the elevator alarm shut off along with the (over capacity) warning. She pushed the button again for the roof and walked over to pick her partner back up with both arms. Luckily for her, when she shifts she still keeps most of her strength, which for her human size is still pretty monstrous.

  “Ooof, easy Cher, oooh my; you lookin' mighty fine as a skinn!” She looked away, blushing about as red as her hair.

  “You know I only did this for the job, right?”

  “Doesn’t matta, Bae, fine is fine. If I was able to stand next to ya, I'd still slap dat nice backside.” He grinned wide. “An' I wouldn’t even need a ladder!” Tiff watched the numbers climb, then glared at her friend and started slowly digging her nails into his side until he let out a yelp. It was her way of poking back at him (literally).

  “Ayaayaaa! You shoulda got dat chip wit' a sense of humor, not da cheapo one you got.”

  While watching the numbers count up slowly, she responds, “That model was out of my price range; plus it was on backorder.” she said, her face was stone cold blank. Franzé just stared up at her with a blank face, then a toothy grin that led to a hard laugh.

  “Ooooooh, Bae, don't make me laugh so hard, it smarts!” he said, holding his side.

  “But I wasn't joking, it really was on backorder.”

  Franzé stared at her again before rolling in laughter and holding his sides from the pain. What he thought was a joke was made even funnier because she was dead serious.

  *Bing!*

  The elevator doors stuttered open, releasing a gust of air laced with dust, stirred up by the hovering craft. Pharoses scurried across the roof, being checked and inspected before the river noodles were loaded onto the ship. One of the ship’s guards, spotting a human stepping off the elevator, raised his rifle and approached Tiffany briskly.

  “Halt! This is a restricted area!”

  “GSA, hold your fire! I have a wounded agent with me, and he needs medical attention ASAP!” Tiff snapped. The guard lowered his weapon, placing a hand to his helmet to radio in the situation while closing the distance to her.

  Moments later, two individuals in white and red jumpsuits leapt from the hovering craft, carrying medical kits.

  “Hand him over,” one of them said quickly. Tiff passed Franzé to them, and they began their assessment. Some of his wounds had reopened, streaking his fur with blood. One of the medics carefully removed the small Procyon's shirt to clean the injuries thoroughly. From the kit, they pulled a small canister and sprayed what looked like shaving cream at first glance. The substance worked instantly, coagulating the blood and stopping the bleeding.

  Once Franzé was patched up, the medics carried him back to the dropship. As they finished loading the remaining rescuees, the ship lifted off the roof and blasted horizontally into the night sky. Tiff stood for a moment, watching it disappear into the cold night sky towards the stratosphere, eventually making its way to the distant main ships medical bay.