The way McFleur’s legs moved was unnerving. His ankles wobbled like they were made of twisted branches, popping with nearly every step. For the first time Misty could see clearly how the robe was only a shell for the cat inside, as if he were a puppet being pulled by strings. Clearly, McFleur’s robe didn’t fit him quite right, and he was making do with what he had.

The potion cat swung around another corner, pushing the dolly with his full weight. Unlike the other cats, he couldn’t just use a spell to move things, he had to use his shoulders and waist to push the weight of that crate over cracks in the ground.

There were a lot of cracks, because this part of the hall reached into Outskirt territory. There were signs it was still being used by Himalayans, train parts and fuse switches lined the wall, but the lights were dim and the air was filled with flecks of dust.

A cough echoed ahead of them, excacerbated by the dusty air. It was by another cat who had tied his robe at his ankles. There were about a dozen or so comrades with him, who tried patting him on the back to help him clear his throat. The coughs came from deep within his chest; this wasn’t just an allergy.

With them was a gaggle of birds, who had death written in their eyes, like the predator wolves who would scream into the night from the park near Misty’s alley. Both groups welcomed the sight of McFleur and his giant crate, anything to break the icy silence between them.

“It had better be the good stuff this time, McFleur!” A skinny bird said, who had beady red eyes like the doctor that had earlier worked on Brinkley.

Misty started to recognize that there were three types of Sugarbirds; the plain ones with red eyes that were the smallest, the ones with more colorful feathers on their long tail like a peacock, and the largest of them all, whom Misty could see were the real reason to fear a Sugarbird. The largest birds had green eyes and talons that could easily tear apart a wire fence. Their wings were built to sprint faster than she would ever outrun. Their bone and keratin grin was a menacing mask.

“I know, I know, cane’s like candy—but this is pure nectar and fruit, I swear it, we’re talking real, substantial, unbleached food. It’s thick, like quartz!” Mcfleur insisted, slapping the side of the crate with a resounding “thump.”

The bird didn’t seem to trust him, and at his whistle a few large birds tested the weight of the box by gripping it’s edge with their claws. Misty was fascinated to see the box lift from the ground with only two sets of claws gripping it’s edge. From how long it took Mcfleur to move the box in the first place, it must have weighed as much as a car.

“Speaking as a Westerner, I know how long it takes for the Northerners to start feeding us.” McFleur continued, who spoke as if he had the authority over the other potion cats around him. “They don’t. Now are you going to pay?”

The birds contemplated the box, and after a moment, their leader pulled out some money from a pouch on his foot. It was made up of golden metallic disks reflecting in the dim lamplight.

“We have this much.” He said.

“Not enough.”

The man who had been wheezing this entire time in the corner had another fit of deep coughs. The sound of them grated the side of Misty’s throat. It was the type of pain you could hear.

“You want me to heal some nearly dead soldier, don’t you? Fine. Go ahead, bring him over.” The bird relented, eyeing his patient as the potion cats gently pushed the man towards the very sharp birds. 

He stumbled a little in fear as the bird jumped to his head, draping it’s feather’s over his face. A red glow emanated from under the long and delicate wings, and the man’s breathing steadied and cleared.

“This was a close one.” Said the bird, illuminated by the red glow beneath his feet. His feathers cast hot streaks of whispy shadows along the walls. “I have a hard time thinking it’s an ordinary flu.”

“Bad potion.” Said McFleur boldly. “You already know.”

“I don’t enjoy fueling your damn wars, McFleur.” The bird answered tersely, his eyes rapidly shrinking into tiny pupils with his mood.

“I don’t live on Earth anymore, OK? Those wars don’t come here.” McFleur explained, pointing to the dilapidated halls. “I know it’s hard for you to believe, but I live here, not on Earth.”

The bird jumped from the sick man to McFleur’s shoulder as a dozen beady bird eyes squinted in disapproval.

“Don’t make anything too dangerous with the money.” The bird said through gritted beak.

“Just healed a man, a freaking miracle and do you even care?” McFleur hissed, “I hope you like your sugar!”

The birds picked up the crate with ease while the largest ones felt so offended by McFleur’s words they jumped from their perch. Gruffly, one picked up Brewski McFleur with his talons and pushed him directly into the ceiling light. As the light popped, electric sparks singed his checkered coat.

“We let you stay for now.” Said the Sugarbird with a voice laden with the screech of a banshee, “But you stay out of the sector Center, do you understand?”

“C’mon!” Another cat said, who pulled a bottle out of his pocket. “Leave him alone! We’re playing fair!”

“Put the bottle away, Pickles!” McFleur hissed at him quickly.

“We don’t allow your kind here! We just need to eat the few table scraps you so generously give to us!” The bird sneered. Pushing him deeper into the light on the ceiling.

“I risk Laquems every day for that crate!” McFleur insisted.

“So do I!” The bird screamed. “But you’re just as bad as any Gentry!”

He dropped McFleur, who landed on his hands and feet as adeptly as he would even without the robe. The birds fluttered down the hall the opposite direction of Misty while the cats regrouped. Misty kept her eye on McFleur, who was attended to by the cat who seemed to be a close friend. She gathered his name was Pickles.

“Why do you let them talk to you like that, McFleur?” Pickles asked, pushing him to the side as the rest of the cats dispersed into the Outskirts. They walked close to Misty where she could overhear them from behind a stack of train parts. “You don’t let cats talk to you like that.”

“Because potions don’t work on birds, Pickles.” McFleur sighed. “If they did, we’d be ruling this kingdom. Besides, too many gentry in North Sector anyway. The birds are right, we should move our operation soon.”

“We’ll be fine once we’re on Earth again, right?” Pickles asked, placing a hand on Brewski’s shoulder. An eagerness was in his green eyes. “No gentry there.”

“More and more of those hairless freaks every year though...damn Laquems…” McFleur muttered, taking a seat on a set of spare train wheels. McFleur pulled a glass vial from his jacket and popped the cork off with his teeth. Misty could smell a medical fume from it, like false cherries and bitter pen ink.

“We’ll end up like a trader then, living only in our trains? Please? I like trains!” Said Pickles, who seemed to be quite a bit younger than McFleur, maybe some sort of apprentice. He was a Siamese with long ears, his whiskers a little curly. Like McFleur, he wore a comfortable scarf, which must have been necessary if they lived out in the cold and harsh Outskirts most of the time.

“That’ll be the day.” McFleur laughed.

“But then no one can tell you what to do! Imagine!” Pickles smiled, leaning against the wall and dreaming about a life made out of a caboose.

It didn’t help that he was surrounded by train parts to tempt his imagination, as they were basically living in an old storage unit. Pickles fondly picked up an old train conductor hat that was discarded next to other supplies. Since the hat was made for a Himalayan, Pickles looked like he were wearing a train conductor fascinator more than a hat.

“Do you know how to run an inter-dimensional train?” Brewski McFleur asked with a smile.

“No.” Pickles answered.

“Lets stick to Bootlegging sugar then.” McFleur shook his head, placing the empty bottle back into his coat and pulling out a little notebook. As the two settled down for a break, McFleur to make some small accounting notes and Pickles to dream about trains, a song echoed through the hall.

Like singing in the shower, whoever was belting out was doing it for the love of the craft and not for his actual vocal improvement.

“Ah! Who’s there?” Brewski demanded, pulling a spray bottle from thin air.

“We’re damned by the existential moment where/We saw the couple in the coma and…BREWSKI MCFLEUR! My favorite potion cat! It’s just me!” Said Clovis, a large white cat that had so much fur, that it was practically exploding out of his dark jacket. He had a popped collar and a swagger to him that was almost leonine “You don’t have to look so guilty all the time, McFleur!”

“Clovis!” McFleur gasped, his eyes widening. “How much of that did you see?”

Misty sniffed, clearly she wasn’t the only one spying on McFleur, but the man who had done the spying did not realize he was also being spied on by Misty.

“Oh! I don’t like to step on Miranda’s turf, not yet.” Clovis insisted. “I’m not King yet!”

“So…”

“I’ll look the other way.” Clovis insisted jovially, while fixing McFleur’s scarf. “Keep shipping in the nectar. It makes the birds restless, and it distracts Miranda from the front page whenever my face is on it. You help maintain a very special balance, cuz you see, my stupid mug is ALWAYS on that paper.”

Misty crept out of her hiding place, low to the ground. She could barely believe her eyes.

“And what else do you want in return?” Mcfleur sighed.

“Got anything for stress?” Clovis asked, a click as he tipped his head with a smile.

“Stressed about something?” McFleur asked rhetorically.

“He better be.” Misty said clearly.

Clovis spun on his heels and slowly looked down. Recognition lit in his eyes. A tension crawled from his ankles to his neck. The tail that was already as round and furry as a brush bristled in terror.

“Misty!? Fang!?” He hissed, “MROWW FFT! What are you doing HERE!?”