Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Seventeen

The Night of Writing Dangerously.

With a soft brown bunny cradled in her arms, Patricia stood on California near the corner with Montgomery, in San Francisco, very close to Market Street and the Port building. She eyed the gold lions decorating the building with appreciation. They had a pure clear elegance that she found soothing after a long day of sightseeing that had, she admitted, been a touch overwhelming.

She had started with Chinatown, which was probably for the best as, after a couple of hours, her brain had decided that everything was just too much: too many sounds, too many sights, too many people. Patricia had in one moment turned from wide-eyed wonder to yawning desire for sleep, but had thankfully been able to find a cab close by and had returned to her hotel room for a long nap – which had been strange. She still wasn't sure, for it had been faint and almost forgotten by the time she woke, but she felt that Alfalfa had been talking to someone while she slept, and she had caught the edges of that conversation.

Nothing had been particularly clear. She had understood Alfalfa far more than the other voice – perhaps due to her familiarity with the brown bunny. “She is a storyteller – she must be the one to tie everything together,” she had heard, and had warmed to the protectiveness in his voice, somehow certain he was talking about her. Storyteller, he had called her, and in her dream-like state she had felt suddenly more confident in her creative capacity. “Plot bunnies can only add complications, not end them – we need her,” he said later, louder, clearer, as if arguing, and then his voice had subsided into a softer, more persuasive tone, before fading from her awareness altogether. She had dreamed of Alfred, afterwards, and drifted into a warm and happy nest of nothing.

She had woken fully refreshed, wondering what Alfalfa had meant, but too pumped for getting out and about again to sit still long enough to discuss it with him. Besides, she felt like she had been eavesdropping, so instead she tucked the information into the back of her brain, and went to Pier 39 and enjoyed some delicious fish, then took another cab to the tea shop Alfalfa had requested she visit in Ghirardelli Square – where she also had quite a few delightful little chocolates. The intense darks were divine, and she had bought a big box of them to share with May and Laura. The rest of the time there had been even more uneventful than the previous night's trip to the tea shop in Mission, without even a single plot bunny sighting, but she had managed to get quite a bit more done on her murder mystery. She had already started tying up the loose ends, and hoped to finish the story – and the 50,000 word count – in the next few days. In fact, she rather suspected that if tonight's event went smoothly, she would be able to finish it tonight – before the had left Vancouver and her desktop computer she had done a check of her digital word count and had been over 42,000, probably thanks to all the writing she had done during her carrot-crazed phase, and had already written nearly 4,000 more words, by her rough count of her hand-written notes.

After the brief sojourn in the coffee shop, Patricia had returned to her hotel room and dressed herself up for the evening, topping her black dress and pearls with the pillbox hat – the Night of Writing Dangerously was Film Noir themed, so she felt it was only appropriate that she wear the hat inspiring her own Film Noir novel.

Alfalfa had asked her to bring him with her to the event, but she didn't want to carry a huge cage in with her, and he had indicated that he would behave himself, at least before they got to the ballroom, so she had just picked him up. She had space in her bag as well – it just carried her wallet, two notebooks, assortment of pens, and keys to her hotel room – but for now she was happy to carry him. He was soft and light and, Patricia thought appreciatively given San Francisco's chill air and brisk wind, he was warm.

Still, staring at the beautiful building in which the evening's festivities were to take place, Patricia shivered from more than just the cold. There was no way the plot bunnies would let a night like this, of such importance to the novelists and their leaders in the Office of Letters and Light, pass unmolested. She no longer harboured any doubts about the plot bunnies' malevolent intent.

Well, standing out here wouldn't solve anything.

Patricia shifted one hand free from Alfalfa's fluff, pushed upon the door, entered the lobby, and punched for the elevator.

“Ready, Alfalfa?” she asked the bunny, and he signalled yes. She set him down on the elevator floor, and tried not to look at him as the arrival ding sounded and the doors opened onto the 15th floor.

Two tuxedoed waiters greeted the arriving elevator with trays of what looked like martinis and ... red martinis with lime instead of olive. Patricia shook her head; it had been many years since she had had martinis with Alfred, and tonight she needed to keep her wits about her.

Instead, she headed to the coat check at the back of the lobby, handing over her wool coat and looking out the window at the breathtaking view of the city her position on the 15th floor provided.

“Hello there,” a young woman dressed in a fedora and a grey tweed suit with a black under-vest and one of the red drinks in her hand said to Patricia as they both moved away from the coat check and towards the group of people congregating around the couches by the closed door that seemed to promise the evening's excitement – once the staff were ready for all the novelists. “I'm Cait.”

“Hi Cait, I'm Patricia,” she answered with a smile. “Are you from these parts?”

“Sort of – I live up near San Jose, which is a bit of a drive, but not too far,” Cait answered. “How about yourself?”

“Vancouver, in Canada,” Patricia said. “I've never actually been this far from British Columbia before. Yesterday was my first plane flight – I'm so excited to be here.”

“How exciting! Did you come down just for this?” a man from the near edge of the group they were approaching asked, having overheard Patricia's comment. He was dressed in jeans and a NaNoWriMo t-shirt, with large brown frames on his glasses. “I'm Tom, by the way,” he added, holding out his hand to shake Patricia's.

“Hi Tom,” she said, shaking his hand. “Yes, I did come down for this. I realised this month that I haven't been so excited about anything, or been so creative, since my husband died four years ago, and I wanted to show my appreciation for the sheer exuberance of the whole thing and maybe get to meet some of the people who make it happen.” Patricia had decided it would be wiser not to tell anyone here about what she suspected about the plot bunnies, and if she kept quiet about her forum name perhaps no one would connect her with that appeal either. She didn't want to draw attention to herself in case the plot bunnies were listening in on the conversation, gathering the means to bring the whole gathering that night to a halt.

“How about you, Tom?” asked Cait. “Where are you from?”

“I just live on the East Bay,” he said. “This is my second year coming to the Night of Writing Dangerously, and I'm even more excited tonight than I was last year – my novel isn't exactly going swimmingly, and I'm hoping that tonight I can get some inspiration from the people I speak with. So Patricia,” he grinned at her. “I might have to put someone on their first flight in my novel. Tell me about your experience!”

Patricia smiled and allowed herself to be drawn into the conversation – surely the plot bunnies would leave them to converse into a sense of security and community before they pounced – and these seemed like such fascinating people- she began to tell Cait and Tom about the lightning striking her plane the day before.





The double doors opened and a tall dark-haired woman in a long black gown stepped through, throwing her arms extravagantly wide: “Welcome to the 2010 Night of Writing Dangerously!”

She stepped aside and waved the novelists past her into a zone of red velvet curtains and lush gold decorations. There were tables for signing in, and Patricia joined the line for the K-P crowd.

“Knox, Patricia, k-n-o-x,” she spelled for the pretty girl in the steampunk goggles who sat behind the table. Not exactly Film Noir, thought Patricia, but quite striking, and thanked her with a smile as she checked Patricia off her list.

Patricia followed the crowd past another entrance draped in red velvet and entered the gold-gilted ballroom. It was fabulous, she thought, unable to produce any more descriptive adjectives, and she allowed the press of people behind her to push her in amongst the maze of tables and chairs.

“Here, Patricia,” she heard a voice call, and turned to see Cait pointing to a chair. “Come and sit with us,” the fedora-topped young lady invited.

“Oh, thank you, Cait,” Patricia said gratefully and settled into the indicated chair.

The table was near the edge of the ballroom, on the left side up near the stage but out of the way enough to offer a good view of the whole space. Patricia found it much easier to take in everything now that she was sitting down, and she took a good long look around.

No sign of Alfalfa, which was a good start, she thought, but she had a lot of other things to see without looking for a single small moving brown furry creature. There were the people, of course, a mosaic of different colours and textures and movement and conversation. There were the tables, in matching maroon tablecloths and shiny stars, beneath gold-hued chandeliers. There was another table in the centre of the room, surrounded by space rather than chairs, which was covered in brightly-coloured bowls and tubs. She wondered what was in them, and as if in reply she heard Cait ask someone else at the table, “Have you checked out the candy buffet yet?”

Patricia couldn't hear the reply, but she nodded in understanding of the bright multi-coloured contents of the centre table.

Near to her own table, only a few feet from the far side of Patric'ias seat, a small stage was set up, perhaps 18 inches high, with a podium and a microphone set up at its front. Patricia wondered what the cowbell on the podium was for – perhaps announcing dinner?

Behind the stage was a large gold-framed fireplace, crowned by a gold owl.

The space was indeed decadent, Patricia thought, and turned to greet her tablemates.



The novelists hadn't even all finished sitting down and setting up their laptops when Patricia saw a petite woman in a sleek red dress and a black silk flower in her blonde hair scurry up onto the stage, grasp the cowbell firmly, and ring it twice quickly overhead. She stood on the stage grinning giddily and dancing from foot to foot until – moments later – the tall woman who had opened the ballroom doors swept up onto the stage, beaming.

“We have our first winner of the evening!” the woman said into the microphone after a brief conversation with the lady in red. “Claire of Santa Barbara has just crossed the 50,000 word victory line!”

Everyone, even the many people with their heads tucked under the tablecloths looking to plug their power cables in, erupted with applause and catcalls.

“Now for the rest of us, should we manage to reach the same lofty heights this evening, come and ring the cowbell and I'll be right up to congratulate you and give you,” her eyebrows waggled and her voice suddenly became more mysterious, “your winner prizes!”

The two women left the stage, heading for some piles Patricia couldn't quite see in the back corrner. She smiled at the room's enthusiasm, and began writing in her own notebook.






Flopsy was pacing.

She never paced: it was far too clear an indication of nervousness, and one never knew when someone was watching unseen.

Now, however, she was in her own carefully spelled and protected base, the head administrative office in the basement of the ferry building, where no humans would enter for at least another day, as the main administrative officer was on vacation until December 1. The outer office was more than sufficient for the needs of the rest of the staff.

As for other threats, she was guarded by Harey and Hopert, in whose skills she had unparalleled faith thanks to over a year of working closely with them, as well as Earry, whose ears had proven themselves time and time again. She felt safer than she had since she had become a full-fledged plot bunny, ironic given the danger that was giving rise to the nervousness that caused her to pace. In other words, she felt safe, and so was able to show how scared she was.

She felt for a moment guilty that she had never felt this safe when it had been Harey, Hopert and Alfalfa who were watching over her, and she suppressed – again – a desire that Earry would be allowed to remain on her team after this was all over.

Of course, when this was all over, either things would be quite different than they had been before, or Flopsy was unlikely to have a team at all. Either way, Earry's assignment was unlikely to coincide with her own. She felt an irrational desire to blame Alfalfa, and she scolded herself for it again. This was not his fault, nor was it his fault that she was feeling more than team-based interest in Earry, and blaming him only meant she wasn't dealing with the situation.

Flopsy flipped her ears in irritation and forced herself to sit still. She wished there was something left for her to think about, but there wasn't. No more planning, no more organising, no more figuring things out. There would be more to do soon – possibly more than it was possible to get done – but not yet. Still, she couldn't help herself reviewing what had happened so far in her head.

The message had come in from Bun-Bun almost an hour previously.

The note, directed to Earry via Bunniption Base, wasn't very long: it simply said “op ears go”. Flopsy hoped desperately that none of the elder archetypes or their helpers had read it, but even more that they had decided it was just a note between friends and not something more sinister. Still, both Bun-Bun and Earry were operatives of the elder archetypes themselves, which meant that they tended to have quite a bit of leeway and trust from their compatriots – she hoped. Perhaps they would think that there was some sort of collaboration in the taking down of Flopsy's team in the works, for she had agreed with Earry that it was a good idea to let the higher ups know that Alfalfa had been spotted in San Francisco. If nothing else, it gave them an excuse to communicate – and it also gave both Flopsy and Earry an excuse to hop back to base, because from there they could travel quickly to San Francisco. Finding Alfalfa was still listed as their primary mission. At least, that's what the official listing said; Flopsy guessed that Earry's primary mission was actually to watch her.

So far, so good, for getting them an excuse to head up, then. Bun-Bun's message meant that he had reported Alfalfa and that he was ready to support the next stage. Flopsy was still trying to work the details out for that. She was sure that there was something critical in the assignment Alfalfa's human had given to that other human boy, the one who was writing the plot bunny army. While she was relieved that the woman had not told him to simply destroy the whole plot bunny army, for she had no idea how much hopeless destruction that would have wrought amongst her people, Flopsy was unsure what kind of message to take from it, or how to work it into her own plans.

Obviously the human thought there was some way for plot bunnies and humans to be aware of each other and somehow work things out. Flopsy supposed that her interaction with Alfalfa had fuelled or at least influenced that impression, and found herself scared by the level of hunger it woke in her: she wanted her human partners to know that she was there, working with them on the creative endeavours that they so enjoyed. She wanted them to know that they weren't alone.

She also wondered if it might make some of them less likely to simply abandon projects in the middle – but she wasn't about to bank on it.

Besides, that was for the future, for after something was worked out, if anything could be worked out.

They had to deal with the elder archetypes first, and that meant finding some way to access them, some way to exploit their vulnerability, and some way to ensure that the vampire did not get lost in the fray.

Flopsy had several ideas for that, but none that she was sure would work. She didn't have a vampire narrative of any sort, and – strange – most of the bunnies she had known who did had died the previous year at the end of NaNoWriMo.

Actually, she thought, that was extra strange, for vampire stories were really big in the human world. There should be more plot bunnies around who focused on them – but no, of course not, she realised, and her ears flopped forward in bitter amusement. The vampire had already been in a position of power, and of course he would have had the ability to get rid of competition for his nourishment. She supposed that, now that he was no longer finding his own brain carrots, nourished as he was by Bunniption Base's collection mechanisms, he had made some sort of arrangements (or had simply manipulated them, as there was no guarantee that any particular type of plot bunny be smarter than the average, and she guessed that he would have killed off any that were more likely to compete or to question) to ensure that their power reinforced his own invulnerability. She knew that different stories held different to different qualities and characteristics, and Flopsy supposed that the vampire would only have allowed bunnies to continue to serve who had the right sort of descriptions. That way, even if the vampire didn't alter their nourishment uploads to the Base, the re-telling of their stories would reinforce the qualities in himself that he valued most highly.

Flopsy shivered. How was one little plot bunny supposed to stand up to him? she wondered, unconsciously crouching in on herself, making herself small.

“Flopsy?” Earry's voice broke into her reverie. “Are you okay?”

Right, she thought. She had allowed herself to feel safe and secure, but had forgotten that she still needed to maintain enough self-control to provide a front for the boys. She blinked her eyes open.

“Yes, I'm fine,” Flopsy said, but chose not to add too many obvious body language cues to make that point – Earry would respect her decision to lie more if she chose to make it as flat as possible.

He nodded, and swivelled his ears back towards the rest of the world. She twitched her ears in appreciation, and let herself settle her weight back onto her haunches.

It was almost time, she realised, and she hoped once more that they had been able to get enough power in Harey and Hopert for what they were about to do. Alfalfa's human had definitely helped, for Alfalfa was right: she was a complete powerhouse. But worrying about power was just an excuse not to think about the plan itself. Flopsy shuddered. She did not like this part, nor did she like the uneasy feeling that Earry had already crossed this line. Not only had he suggested it, he simply hadn't been appalled enough.

She didn't have time to slide down that slope again. It was time for her to be team lead.

Flopsy hopped over to Hopert's perch, part-way through the wall between the office and the front administrative area.

“You ready, Hop?” she asked, leaning towards him in a rare display of physical affection, letting her nose brush the fur of his neck.

He flicked his ears in what was normally amusement, but the gesture was stiff, and she softened even more, knowing that he had just shown her what Earry had not: Hopert was very uncomfortable with the idea of his role in this mission. But he was on her team, and he had more discipline than pretty much every other plot bunny Flopsy had ever come into contact with.

“You betcha, Flops,” he said, with nearly his usual bravado.

She flicked her whiskers at him. “I'm counting on you, Hopert,” she said seriously, then waved her ears in mock panic. “You're step one in this plot, and then I'm going to need you to keep your wits about you out here. Who knows what might happen without me here to keep an eye on it?”

“Yes,” Hopert said darkly. “Or what that Harey might do with all that power he'll be hanging onto.”

Her ears twitched involuntarily. “Don't let being my deputy go to your head, Hops! Harey might have some good suggestions.”

“Yes, and all of them will have you upset with us the minute you get back,” Hopert twitched his ears in imitation of hers. “So I'll only use the ones that I can pretend were my ideas.”

She laughed. “Good hunting, Hops,” she told him, and gave him a half-crouch, which he returned in full. Good ol' Hops... Flopsy left him and went to Harey's vantage point upstairs, where he was curled in a pillar. The boys were putting to good use their practice hiding from San Francisco: even plot bunnies tended not to notice people who were in the middle of objects physical to humans.

“Hey Hare,” Flopsy greeted him, touching his cheek with her nose as she had done with Hopert.

“Flops,” he answered. “All clear so far.”

“Good,” she said softly. All business. The clearest sign of worry she had seen from Harey yet. “Just don't steal a brain carrot out from under anyone else's nose and we'll get through this just fine,” she said, getting an ear twitch out of him – good. That had been his favourite prank – he'd nipped in neat as you please and taken a brain carrot almost from between the teeth of the top dog of the murder mystery world and Flopsy wondered if perhaps he had been assigned to her team so that she could give him the discipline he needed to know when that sort of thing was inappropriate.

Of course, most of their bureaucrat types thought it was never appropriate, but Flopsy thought there was a time and a place for everything. Especially when her team was under stress.

“But maybe you could do a little sanctioned pranking against Alf when we all get back together, hm?” Flopsy murmured. “After he's gone and put us through all this trouble...”

Harey perked right up. “Oh, I know just the thing! If I -”

“Don't tell me, Hare!” She interrupted. “How am I supposed to feign innocence if I know what was supposed to happen?”

His ears flicked and she relaxed a bit. He was tense, sure, but he'd be alright. “Okay Hare. Keep an eye on Hop, and make sure the story holds, right?”

“Sure Flops, you got it.”

“Happy hunting,” she said, tickled his whiskers with hers, and hopped back through the floor to the administrative room.

“You need a pep talk too, Ears? You probably heard those two already,” she wrinkled her nose at the white bunny seated in the administrative officer's chair as if he worked there, head cocked, ears open.

“Thanks Flopsy, I'm alright,” he said absently. “Sounds like the sarge might be coming a bit early.”

“Are you sure?”

Of course he was. She took a deep breath. No time to back out, no time to change the plan, no time to figure out what she should have done instead of this betrayal of her people... no, she told her brain, and wished her emotions would listen to. She was helping her people. She was saving them. It was the sarge's boss who had betrayed them.

But it was she who would be labelled the traitor if she failed.

Flopsy breathed in again, one long slow inhale, and settled herself comfortably onto the mouse pad she'd been enjoying since she chose this office.

Rhythmic hollow noises announced the sergeant's arrival. Flopsy wondered once again why had chosen that affectation – surely he, the primary intermediary between the elder archetypes and the mass of plot bunnies, needed no such heavy-pawed indications of authority. And surely there was something that could be done about the white tufts, sticking in all directions like that – surely the elder archetypes would be willing to help him out with those, for from what Earry said it would only take a minor use of the power from Bunniption Base – but it was a waste of energy that did nothing to consolidate their power, so of course it would never happen.

Again Flopsy scolded herself: now she was focusing on trivialities when she needed to be alert.

Flopsy crouched deeply in greeting.

“Flopsy,” the grey tufted rabbit greeted, offering the barest hint of a crouch in return, and she tried not to bristle at the insult.

“Sergeant,” Flopsy replied.

“Earry,” the sergeant added as an aside to the rabbit crouching on the chair a level below the two leads, but did not wait for a reply.

“Flopsy, your team has been found delinquent,” the sergeant started in on her. “The elder archetypes gave you an order,” he spat the word. “You may not have intended to disobey, but whatever your intent, you and your team failed.

“It's not the third week of November, three quarters of the way through our mission – a mission of vital import to the livelihood, no, the very survival of our people – and you have failed to find your lost little lamb,” the sergeant half-shouted in his parade ground voice, and Flopsy wondered how Earry handled the sergeant's volume in his sensitive ears. Focus, she told herself. “You know how much that little lamb knows about this mission and about our strategies and tactics – you know how much damage he could do to our cause and our people if he were to be captured, or worse, if he betrayed us to the novelists.”

The sergeant glared at Flopsy, tufts of hair seeming to strive for threatening angles. Flopsy felt a moment's amusement at them, as she always did, but the amusement disappeared instantly as she remembered her own plan. She tried to look contrite and not sorrowful, but it was hard.

“Now, the powers that be still like you, harvest knows why,” said the sergeant, continuing his patentable eyeball technique. “So they think you should know: your little lamb has been spotted in San Francisco.”

“Alfalfa?” Flopsy gasped, with every sign of shock. “What a relief!”

“Hah!” snorted the sergeant, full of derision. “You may wish he hadn't turned up – the elder archetypes have put Bun-Bun on his case, exactly because he may have become a weapon against us, and I know Bun-Bun well. He'll have no mercy for your little lost lamb. A word of advice,” he said, his ears twisting into a caricature of amusement as his tufts of hair took on newly divergent lives of their own. She was reminded of a poster she had seen once of a human sergeant with a huge cigar poking out one side of his mouth and a leer taking over his face. She had thought it ridiculous then, but she had not yet seen the sergeant at that point. “You just figure out a ay to get your little lamb back before Bun-Bun finds him.”

“Yes, sir,” she said, as he paused as if expecting a reply.

“That is all, team lead Flopsy,” he dismissed her,emphasizing her title with the clear meaning that he doubted she would keep it much longer, and bounded out through the door, Flopsy hurriedly crouching in case he looked back, but already turning to Earry as she did so.

“The boys will be busy some hours yet,” Flopsy said loudly, hoping to catch the sergeant's ears as he eavesdropped on the first words said after his departure, as he always did. “Are you up for a short hop to San Francisco, Earry?”

“Always, ma'am,” the white bunny replied, only the glint in his eye indicating that the subservience might be for show. “I just need to report in to the elder archetypes on our way.”

“Of course,” she said, shaking her head at the glinting amusement, and the two bounded through the narrative divide into Bunniption Base.

Flopsy spared a moment's thought for Harey and Hopert – they had the toughest part, and without it she and Earry would be unable to put their own part in motion.





The only window they had was the length of Earry's report to the elder archetypes. They had spent the past few days elongating that window, with Flopsy helping Earry devise excuses to delay returning to Bunniption Base, and both of them hoping that the delay would increase suspicion of her and encourage the greys to ask more questions – especially since Earry would make it clear that she was in a hurry, and that he himself was willing to stay to answer questions as long as they were asked.

The careful planning on that part meant that they created the exact current situation: Flopsy with nothing to do outside the elder archetypes' tower, obviously impatient, obviously fretting.

She was fretting much less over what others might assume, however. She knew exactly what Alfalfa was doing in San Francisco, or at least, she knew as much as she needed to know. Flopsy hoped he was successful but knew that her own part needed to be complete in order to support him. Instead, she was fretting, and this time she had no team to protect her vulnerability, so every sign she gave had to signal concern over Alfalfa, and not over Harey and Hopert, nor over herself or her people.

She could only hope that she would be able to do something – anything – before she started pacing. Not that the next part of the plan was any better than this, she admitted, but at least then she had a role to play besides looking anxious to get moving.

Flopsy let her ears twitch once, and prayed to the harvest that none of her fears about what could go wrong would actually happen to Harey and Hopert.

Thankfully the boys always did have excellent timing, and before she could work herself into a frenetic frenzy a small brown rabbit bounded into view from the human world. He was nearly identical to Alfalfa but for the patch of darker fur around his right eye – a pirate patch, the plot bunnies called them, and Flopsy wondered if his was real, for they were presently in style and quite a few plot bunnies had taken to dyeing their fur with the mark.

The plot bunny looked at her, where she sat crouched respectfully, waiting outside the elder archetypes' tower and sanctuary. She was sure she had given no offence that would justify his eyeing her with such suspicion, but she refused to react. The plot bunny, with no indication of respect or acknowledgement of her presence, bounded past her into the building.

So it was done, she thought, and prayed to the great garden plot for Harey, Hopert, and herself.

No going back.

She forced herself to remain calm, despite the erupting turmoil within her.





“Flopsy?” Earry's voice broke into what was turning into a bout of self-loathing. “The elder archetpes request your presence, since you are so close.”

“Of course,” Flopsy said, then followed Earry's white form into the tower. She sensed his sudden tension as soon as he entered, but before she also noted its cause: there were only elevent grey rabbits waiting for them.

This was not according to plan.

“Your eminences,” Earry broke the silence before it stretched too far, and Flopsy shook herself into a deeply respectful crouch.

“As requested, I have brought Flopsy, my team lead, before you. Now I must crave a boon of you – the news we have heard came as a great shock, for the sergeant trained me personally, and I would beg of you time to collect my thoughts... and perhaps to begin querying my sources.” He paused, crouching more deeply. “As Flopsy and I came directly here after the sergeant spoke to us, I understand that she is a sensible place to start, but I assure you she had no part in this.” Flopsy's eyes softened as he defended her to the greys in a way that she was privileged to hear. “I have come to value her insight and would appreciate her input on what information I am able to gather, so perhaps you might expedit your discussion that she might join me.”

“We will ascertain the facts, Earry, and that will take as long as it may,” one of the grey rabbits replied. “But thank you for your report, your patience, and your input. You may go.”

Flopsy kept her breathing from changing pattern. The plan had called for both she and Alfalfa to distract the elders, all 12, until circumstances allowed Earry to take on the vampire. Since he wasn't here, of course he would leave to find him. Of course. It would probably even play more into the narrative he had shared with her... Flopsy nodded to Earry, a pit at the base of her stomach causing her suddenly to wonder if she had the capacity for this without him – but also knowing, deep down, that not only had she managed without him well enough all her life, but that this would actually strengthen her ability to draw power from her own narrative.

She had already been capitalizing on its power due to her perception of the grey elders as having betrayed and abandoned her people, but this more personal abandonment, necessary as it was, was far more direct and gave her proportionately more power.

Flopsy turned away from the white bunny, and as Earry bounded out of the tower, she crouched respectfully once more, bravely facing the eleven members of the plot bunny leadership.





Phew, Flopsy thought as she made her final bows to the elder archetypes and scooted out of their chamber. That was one of the strangest interrogations she had ever experienced, and she had experienced a few.

She paused, noting that she was still in the character that she had adopted from Harey and Hopert's novels: the hard-done police officer, chasing down the by-the-seat-of-his-pants detective – Earry. She had never been in an interrogation before. Her narrative was about overcoming adversity, for goodness' sake.

However, she had kind of enjoyed playing the role. It had almost been fun to stonewall the questions about who and what and why (especially why – were all investigators this obsessed over finding motive and keeping it to themselves until they were ready to entrap the culprit?), and even more fun to experience what it was like to throw herself into a role in a narrative, instead of providing the ideas behind the narrative.

All in all, Flopsy admitted, it was far better all around that she had gotten out of there before she had gotten too deep into the role.

For a moment, Flopsy wondered if the grey council she had grown up with, the decisive group of twelve whose decisions had shaped her growth and character, would have been quite so willing to go along with an alien narrative. That wasn't fair, she told herself. They were under the thumb of a narrative they had chosen, for good or for ill, and that it was now going all wrong left them much more vulnerable to a new narrative. Hopefully together the story cooked by Harey and Hopert would be enough to keep them curious about what had happened to the poor old sergeant.

Of course, the thing about murder mysteries was that they tended to end by revealing the murderer and his motive, and Flopsy desperately wished that wouldn't happen.

Flopsy shook off her remaining concerns. Now she was done the first part of what she could do, and it was time for her to go give the detective a hand. Promising to send her at least something to go on, Earry had told her to check by her team's usual location, the little alcove third from the back on the right-hand wall of the plot bunnies' large meeting space.

A surprisingly large rabbit filled the alcove, and Flopsy stumbled as she recognised the dam who had watched over her during Flopsy's own development from plotlet kit into full-fledged plot bunny.

Of course, if no more plotlet kits were becoming grown, what would she have to do?

But how had Earry known which had been Flopsy's dam?

“Mama,” Flopsy greeted with her deepest crouch for the bunny with the coarse but very clean fur, and withheld her whiskers from quivering with emotion. She hadn't visited her dam in years.

“Flopsy dear,” Mama replied – all the dams were known as Mama, for together they were the mothers of all the plot bunnies. She rubbed her whiskered cheek against the top of Flopsy's head, just as she had done before Flopsy became a plot bunny in her own right, and despite herself Flopsy's whiskers vibrated.

“Mama, how did Earry know you were my dam?” she asked, wondering at the comfort she took in that half-remembered domesticity from her youth.

The big black bunny laughed and laughed, a hoot completely at odds with the comfortable and comforting Mama. “Oh dear,” Mama said, then burst into hoots again. “Dear Flopsy,” she said finally. “Did you think you were the only plotlet kit I mothered? I was his dam too.”

“Oh,” said Flopsy.

“Earry asked me to teach you one of our secrets, dear,” Mama told her. “We dams have always been able to keep track of our plotlet kits, because we have the greatest talent for this work, but any old plot bunny can do it to track another plot bunny inside Bunniption Base once she knows the narrative. Earry said you knew his, yes?”

“Yes, Mama.”

“Think of the narrative, then – the special quirk that differentiates his own from anyone else's – have you got it?”

Flopsy thought carefully. Earry had told her that his was a spy story, with a strong surveillance focus (of course, given those ears of his, she had thought), but had told her more, more than any rabbit usually told even his closest friends. That narrative quirk was almost the same as a trade secret, and she had been both surprised and touched when Earry had told her his – but she had not told him hers. She hadn't been ready for that.

Focus, she scolded herself. She was far too scatter-brained.

Earry's narrative was a semi-typical good-guy-versus-bad-guy story, with the spy always the good guy, and the spy always winning. What made Earry's narrative unique was that the bad guy always knew who the spy was from the very beginning and was always able to exploit the spy's biggest vulnerability, but that some third party who had fallen in love with the spy over the course of the story somehow saved the day.

With this in mind, Flopsy thought fondly of Earry, picturing him as a spy with big beautiful ears – but before she could continue, to find her own obvious place in that story, her ears stiffened in shock.

“And I didn't even have to tell you step two,” Mama said approvingly.

Flopsy could feel where Earry was, knew the exact direction in which to head to get to him. It was like... a tingle, in her ears and her whiskers and even her nose and tail.

But she also knew, with absolute and sudden certainty, that he was in trouble.

“Mama -” she gasped. “Mama, I have to go.”

Flopsy quickly bumped her head against her Mama's, then bounded through the wall, straight towards where her heart knew she could find Earry.