The Prince, the Mouse, and the Toad

Getting into the hanger wasn't the real issue, of course.

It was all about getting into the hanger with clothes.

Fortunately, Kat had a solution for the later, and Calley had one for the former. Thus was a young Italian man with tousled brown hair, baby brown eyes, and a Hungarian nose seen strolling casually through the Mansion. Barefoot, of course. With a little blonde mouse on his shoulder, and a screwdriver in his hand. He tossed it as he walked along, whistling.

The hallmark of innocence in progress.

Down the broad steps from second floor to first; past the kitchen, and down a less glamorous set of stairs to the less frequented basement. A slight pause for an inconspicuous glance around (self-accompanied with whistled soundtrack), then the screwdriver was put to quick work on a very particular ventilation duct. The screws were politely pocketed; the grating neatly set on the floor and the little screwdriver set thoughtfully inside. The mouse took its cue and ran up the young man's arm, lightly stepping off into the newly excavated metal tunnel, whiskers fanned ahead. The boy wiggled free of his over-sized shirt, clamped both hands on the vent, and--with a last merry whistle--croaked.

The toad launched itself quickly inside as the young man's clothes drifted gently to the floor.

Pay attention, now. Class has begun.

For certain gifted individuals, being naked was not a state of undress. To them, the social dress code need not apply; stigmas were just another breeze to pass by their au naturel posterior. Calley was one such special person. Some people accidentally blew things up with their powers; some people couldn't watch Jell-O wiggle. As natural as all these things, as inoffensive, was Calley's own mutational weakness: he got teh nekeds.

Thus, clothed only in an overly straight spine and two burning cheeks, the young man made his way to locker 1337. As the locker's owner was a good natured and trusting sort, it was easily opened. Since said owner would surely not mind helping friends in need for educational purposes, Calley helped himself to the contents. Then he moved down the line, rummaging through the team lockers until he found his battle kilt. Hopefully its owner--whoever that cool individual might be--would not be needing it until they returned. Hopefully Ghosty wouldn't be needing her X-uniform, either. Ahem.

Calley wrapped himself in his plaid armor, bundled the other clothes under his arm, and put down a hand for the mouse to scramble up. Thus equipped, he raised his eyes to their classroom.

It was, in a word, mobile.

Key in ignition. Mouse in pocket. Takeoff.

Correction (shouted an illusionary voice much larger than the body that produced it): hanger doors open, then takeoff.

Right, right (the young man quickly agreed). There was a proper order to these things which one must acknowledge.

Autopilot is a wonderful thing, especially when you hit the button one ("Perfect, now we just--"), two ("NO!"), three ("...Please don't touch anything unless I tell you to") times. After that, the flight was actually pretty boring. Until it came time to land.

Kat was still a mouse then. They hadn't been counting on that.

"We're still alive," Calley re-iterated. "Huh."

Now, of course, came the truly fun part: getting to shore.

In the center of the lake, somewhere very close to where the cloaked jet had just landed, someone else was contemplating this same question. This someone was sputtering, and flailing somewhat. If he had been flailing less, he may have questioned more just where the tidal wave had come from on this otherwise placid lake. At the moment, though, flailing would have to do. Flailing, and clinging futilely to his swamped boat. Was it sinking? Why yes, yes it was. Bother. And sputter.

It took only a moment of thought before Calley solved the problem. Then the door of the X-Jet opened--

--and the sputtering young lad saw a two-tailed fox appear from nowhere, paddling itself along not ten feet away, with a blonde mouse captaining from 'tween its ears. There appeared to be a tidy pile of clothes on its back, wrapped in a plastic bag.

This, the boy decided, was probably due to a lack of oxygen. Nearing unconsciousness, and all that. Though he did not remember swallowing all that much water. Right, then: well. The fox-that-did-not-exist had the right idea (his subconscious, at least, had its act together). Charles kicked off his water-logged shoes, and followed it towards shore with the natural grace of a drowned rat.

By the time his feet touched pebbled shore, that's about what he resembled, as well.

Let's see, then. His bag was gone, along with his money and--more usefully--his check card. Likewise his passport and the e-conformation number of the train ticket to Belgium that his father would find on his next statement or later tonight, whenever he checked first. Also, his shoes.

So.

Charles Auditore the Fourth nodded cordially to his two delusions, coughed twice, then gracefully swooned.

The fox's two tails flicked behind him in a drippy-droppy, wishy-washy manner. CPR, eh? He would see about that.

Pad, pad, pad. A visual inspection came first. First impression: the biped was not unappetizing (though maybe it was the resemblance to a rat that did it). Rumbly stomachs aside, was the bedraggled morsel breathing? Perhaps. The mouse did indeed seem to be moving up and down atop its soggy footing. Aha: CPR was quite unnecessary, then. This was just as well. The fox was not inclined set his lips on another male's mouth, for reasons that shall go pink-haired. Ahem. So then, what to do.

Fortunately, every recently bathed canid is nothing if not a doctor possessed of gentle bedside manner. He braced his legs for the operation--

--and unleashed a tidal spray from his red fur that left him feeling quite dry and warm, thank you. And also produced several positive effects.

Nurse Mouse, shocked by the deluge, suddenly became a bit more weighty. Having already wisely positioned herself on the ailing lad's chest, this new found weight was instrumental in pumping a regal fountain from the lad's lungs.

Their patient spurted and sputttered, and tried to sit up. Failing that, his eyes slowly opened, focusing on the blonde vision silhouetted above him.

“Mi amor,” the young lad breathed, in one of his three native tongues.

To certain gifted individuals, being naked was not a state of undress. The blonde girl was not one such individual.

She was, however, a deer. Nay, a creature more exotic—a gazelle, a unicorn, a kirin. A pale vision with plastic bag, vanishing into the trees. A—

>> “Calley, how could you?”

--An American. Scheisse. The fifteen year old boy sat up, swallowing back a bitter taste which was two parts lake water and one part knowing that his tutor had been right.

“A worldly gentlemen must know English, young Auditore. These empty workbooks shall return to haunt you.”

“Miss,” the lad protested (or was that an out-dated form of address?), “my name is not Kay-lee, it is Charles.” He stumbled to his feet, pausing a moment to get his breath back when inconvenient black spots floated in front of his eyes. The fox peered up at him, its expression nearly human. It really did have two tails, he noted upon less panicked observation. First tomatoes with scorpion genetics, corn with pesticides on the inside, and glow fish that truly glowed; now two-tailed fox-dogs as pets. Americans were such a strange breed. How the enchanting young woman had gotten her endearing abomination of nature through customs, he did not know. Perhaps she was rich? Perhaps his father would like her considerably more, if she were rich. Or perhaps he would simply start an internal investigation into bribery at the airports.

“You are… on vacation, yes? Looking for beach-with-no-clothes, yes?” There was not one around here, but that did not dim his smile. The two tailed fox coughed up water, in what sounded like a laugh.

Her name was Katrina, and she spoke as quickly and as vehemently as his heart. And she was not here for ‘nude’ beaches, she was here for ‘education purposes.’ His tutor would be most pleased: of these three new vocabulary words, he was fairly certain he understood one. ‘Nude’ joined his repertoire, along with ‘Tuesday’, ‘Wednesday’, and ‘Would you like an ice cream?’ (Realizing the usefulness of this last as a key to her abundantly fed American heart, he tucked it away for later.)

Her name was Katrina, and she was wearing spandex with no shoes. And angrily demanding money from her fox-dog.

…Charles could overlook many a fault, for love.

“Yes, I live here. I live over th—” He thought better of this, and suddenly changed the direction his hand had started to point. No, he did not live in the large manor visible above the trees. He lived… that way. That other way. “No, sorry. I live in Belgium. Not here. Close to here. I will take the train to my home, because my home is not here.”

Quite suavely handled, if he did say so himself. Clearly, his tutor’s help was unnecessary.

The fox under her arm treaded air with its legs, wiggling its body in authentic doggy protest of its mis-handling.