The hallway was spacious, and comfortably well lit. The welcoming smells of breakfast suffused the hallway. The first early risers were just starting to bring friendly chatter to the place.

“Down here is the cafeteria,” Lisa explained. “There are three meals a day, but its doors are always open, twenty-four seven, for those with more diverse schedules.”

The new resident’s ribbon-like tongue flicked out, nervously cleaning first her left and then her right eyeball as she peered around the secretary. It flicked a moment more, then returned to her mouth. “I can’t eat eggs,” she said, her tasting of the air complete. “Or bacon. Or pancakes. Or—”

“Just tell the cooks what you can eat, and they’ll make it for you,” Lisa said, with a reassuring smile. “Many of our residents have special—”

“I need a knife!” Jack called, nearly knocking them down as he burst through the doors from the lower levels. “Quick!” He disappeared into the cafeteria, to the sound of a clattery search. “Can I borrow this? No no—that one! The one with the handle on the back! I’ll give it right back, I promise, I—YES! Thank you!”

The teenager sprang back out, butter knife and pot lid in hand, and rushed back towards the living quarters.

The new resident tentatively licked her ear, toying with her line of circular hoops. “I smell smoke.”

So did Lisa. Her smile was large, and reassuring. “Could you wait here for just a moment?” She ordered politely.

“And lobster,” the mutant said, as Lisa followed in the wake of the EMP-emitter. “And cat.”

Halfway down the hall, the cheerful lights took on a more erratic, flickering cast. A subtle gray haze drifted over the scene. There were voices. Far more voices than Lisa considered appropriate, for this time of the morning. She emerged into the hallway of the living area. It was like stepping through the archway into a coliseum. Mutants jostled and shouted, pushed and cheered.

“Place your beats! Place your beats here! 2:1 odds, lobster to cat! Get your bets in now!”

Lisa did not push her way through to the arena’s center. She smiled, and the crowd opened a path for her. She smiled, but what she saw did not change. At the center of the pajama-clad spectators, two combatants fought for supremacy. The white kitten was a furious blur of tabby spots and claws here and there. The lobster had a butter knife, and a pot lid shield.

From the corner of her eyes, Lisa saw a tongue flick out and nervously adjust a shirt collar. “A dollar on the cat?” The new resident hesitantly spoke up.

“A dollar on the cat!” The impromptu bet-keeper cheered, one of his many arms reaching out to collect the money. “Another bet in the pot! Get yours in, before it’s too late! 2:1 odds, lobster to cat! Can the furious feline face that fierce gladiator crustacean? Choose your winner! Place your bets here!”

Whomever had given the lobster a sword and shield was going to die. Right after the lobster, that was.

The cat dodged this way and that, but the silver flash of the knife got between her and the lobster's armored body too many times to count. If she could only get behind him. No matter how fast she moved, though, he could just swivel and there would be his claws or his sword or his shield.

Katrina suspected that there were soft spots beneath the joints of his armor if only she could reach them. Katrina dodged behind Lisa, then turned to attack the lobster again.

The crowd gasped as the cat disappeared mid-pounce.

“Can I change that to five dollars on the cat?” The ribbon tongue girl asked the boy who had written down her original bet.

There are times in our life when we must stand upon all six lesser legs and face the worst that the world can throw our way. Times, yes, when we must simply brace for the kitteny storm. It is in these times that nobility’s claws rise high above the trembling, bet-switching masses; these times, that a crustacean’s true worth is shown.

At nine pounds, the lobster was worth quite a bit at market pricing, indeed.

As the scratching Hell-paws landed on his back, the lobster weathered the furious onslaught, and charged the rear. He scuttled with a speed marinated in dignity. To the tangled, twisted forest of legs. To the lobster-height space under the hallway table. Backwards, backwards to freedom.

Quite suddenly they were careening across the floor, faster than the little Invisicat had ever imagined that she could go with a lobster steed. Unfortunately, they were going backwards, which meant she couldn't see where they were going, not when her clickity clacking steed provided such a small space upon which to balance and insufficient places for her claws to dig into to hang on. She just had to hold on and watch as objects flew by on either side.

Leg. Leg. Legleglegleg. Ommph.

Her backside hit wood and her steed slipped out from beneath her. The cat reappeared for all to see sliding down the flat wood side into an uncomfortable position face down on the ground. The expression on on her face changed quickly from surprise to annoyance. How. Dare. He?

The blonde and white kitten spun and hissed through sharp white teeth at the lobster under the table. Hell-paws reached as far as they could under the table, but she could not reach.

Well. There were only so many ways to get out from under there. The cat backed up and leaped gracefully to the top of the table where she, turned around and sat watching directly below her. Or him rather, Katrina had nearly forgotten why she was so angry at the lobster after all this time. Nearly, but not quite.

The tip of her tail flicked back and forth. She could wait all day.

Kittens may be able to wait all day, but lobsters? Lobsters can wait a hundred years. Mere mammalian life spans—to say nothing of attention spans—were nothing to the titans of the ocean floor.

The lobster waited, his claws comfortably held in front of him, blocking any further scythe-tipped invasions into his sanctum. His knife and lid had been lost in the mad dash, but he had gained so much in the exchange.

The lobster waited, his lobenlungs filtering oxygen from the dry, sharp air. A mere inconvenience; nothing more. He shifted his claws a little lower; not because they grew tired, simply because it was more comfortable. They still adequately guarded his rectangular cavern’s entrance.

The lobster waited, his back growing heavy with the moss that grew as the ages passed. His claws lowered further still, touching the ground. His elegant antennae swept out over them, their tips wiggling outside the safety of his domain. The kitten was gone by now: of this, he was quiet certain. No kitten had the patience of a lobster.

The dark red prince picked himself up, and sedately strolled into the open. Odd, that there were still people here. His antennae twitched, quivered, wiggled in confusion. So many people.

One minute and forty-seven seconds after his escape, the lobster made an error in time perception.

The white kitten with blonde spots here and there waited patiently. While she waited she imagined all the different ways a lobster could be eaten. Boiled was traditional, but that didn't mean that other ways would not be equally as delicious. Perhaps skewered and roasted over a wood fire grill, rotated slowly so all of the juices stayed inside. A blonde and white tail flicked back and forth like a pondering trail of smoke. She could almost smell the cooking lobster in her imagination, and she could definitely smell the smoke from the fire.

?

!

With a hiss, one very frightened kitten leaped off the table / cupboard (more of a buffet, really, but it didn't matter because at this point it might as well have been kindling). If there was a lobster down below, it wasn't much of a concern to the kitten.

Katrina twined and twisted through the forest of legs away from the the buffet cabinet cupboard table as fast as four cat legs could take her him.

The new ribbon tongued girl licked the air suspiciously and started edging away after the cat. Moments later a fire anaconda burst out of twin mahogany doors, followed by the three babies it had hatched there. Slithering left trails of little flames behind on the hallway rug that didn't stay little for long.

The leg forest no longer stood still. It ran, not paying very close attention to lobsters, kittens, or any other small creatures that dared to exist in its pathway. Mother anaconda did not appreciate the stampeding that endangered her little hatchlings. She hissed and snapped and finally herded her young ones towards the ventilation ducts where her rage still billowed out after her in angry black clouds.

Our story really began, of course, nearly a month ago: on February 10, 2010.

Marshall Brown was a Homo sapiens in his thirty-second year of life, though he resembled more closely a young mouse. He had a way of holding his clipboard that made him merge with his background; when his eyes again peered around its edge, large and gray behind their magnifying lenses, people were often surprised to find him still standing there. In his third grade class picture, he appeared only as a wisp of dusty-brown hair behind a smiling girl in the second row; when he served as treasurer of the Student Council in high school, he took to wearing a name tag so the other club members would perhaps know who he was. All in all, Marshall was a forgettable human being. He was the second-youngest Health Inspector in New York.

When he arrived at the Sanctuary on that afternoon, he parked near McDonald Ave and the Fort Hamilton Parkway, and came around to the golden doors on foot. This took him past the cathedral. As a Health Inspector, it was hard not to notice the stain of red still fresh across its cheaply constructed stairs.

Wine, he told himself, his heart hammering at a mouse’s furious pace. It’s red wine. Someone has spilled red wine. Though no one spoke of it, it was known to all city officials that red wine spilled around the Sanctuary quite often. Particularly uniformed red wine. Labeled, as it were. Was that a police bicycle across the road?

Marshall brought his clipboard bravely to bear, and continued walking. He had a scheduled appointment with the Sanctuary’s secretary in four and one-fourth minutes. It would not due to be late on this particular day. Lollygagging was not a crime, but if caught, it could... increase a bottle’s desirability as a vintage.

The Sanctuary’s famed Lisa was already directing the clean up as he arrived. Men with mops and buckets and industrial cleaning solvents and bleach were trudging through the lobby under her watchful gaze.

“Mr. Brown,” she greeted him with her renowned smile. “Right this way.” He let himself be led to the kitchen, as complacent as any lamb. Things were in order, of course. They always were, under Lisa’s watch. He crouched down, examining the place behind a stove. Not a crumb. He minded his proper work as a man came in to speak with one of the cooks.

“We need bags.”
“What kind?”
“Heavy grade—how big do you have?”
“These good?”
“Naw, too sma—huh. Yeah, actually, those’ll do. Mind if I borrow a knife? Something that’ll cut good.”
“Go for it—try the ones over there. Hey, not that one! That’s my good knife. Use one of the old ones.”
“Sorry.”

Not a crumb, not a crumb, not a crumb. Marshall peered around his clipboard. Lisa’s eyes were there, waiting for him, perched above her smile. His own lips quirked nervously back as he made a check. “All done here. May I see your refrigeration units?”

The walk-in freezer had a light, and a door handle, and the ability to be unlocked from the inside, just as safety standards dictated. Marshall checked all these things before stepping inside. Lisa shut the door behind them. Her breath was warm on the back of his neck. His own came out in thin white ghosts.

The shelves were in order. The floor was kept clean. The temperature was proper. The door clicked open.

“Lisa, where do you want us to—?”
“Sorry, George, I’m a little busy right now. Why don’t you just do the usual?”
“Right. But where should we—? Oh. Oh, right. Sorry.”

The door clicked shut. Lisa’s eyes were warmer than her breath. Proper, proper, proper. Nothing improper here. Marshall made a check, and looked up. “Very good. Perfect temperature—you have no idea how rare that is. It’s perfect. Just... perfect. Ahem. Ah... Right. Just the trash disposal, then.”

“Right this way, Mr. Brown.”

The organic waste was processed out back of the garage. There was a jeep out back of the garage. It was stored in black plastic bags, heavy grade. There were black plastic bags being loaded into the jeep. There was already a bicycle in its trunk.

The trunk shut. The doors shut. Marshall shut the dumpster.

“Everything here looks good. Top notch, just like usual.” Marshall smiled. Lisa smiled. The truck driver hesitated, his hand on the door, squinting back at the health inspector as if seeing him for the first time.

“There any problem here, Lisa...?” He asked slowly.

“I’m a mutant,” Marshall blurted out. “Just... so you know.”

“Really. I had no idea.” Lisa was a good listener: her focus on his words was complete, her interest all-encompassing. “What’s your power?”

“Pre-cog. I’m ah—I’m a precog.”

She really had the most genuine, sincere of smiles. “What do you see right now, Mr. Brown?”

The health inspector gathered his clipboard in front of him, and quivered his spine up straight. “That there’s no problem here. We... have no problem. Everything’s fine.” He spent a long moment under that smile. He held as firm as any Homo sapiens of thirty-two years, or any young mouse, had every held before him. “Shall we go back inside, and finish up the paperwork?”

“All right, Mr. Brown.”

The jeep shut. Its engine rumbled to life as Lisa held the door open for him. He appreciated the chivalry.

No problem. There was no problem, he promised himself, as he pointed out where she should sign, and where he should sign, and where the new owner, Ms. Faust, should sign later. No problem. As he walked back to his car, too quickly, not quickly enough, he repeated that to himself: No problem, no problem, no problem. His eyes peeked around his clipboard, finding the cathedral’s steps. No wine, either. Just the smell of industrial cleaners and generous amounts of bleach. Marshall swallowed down a mousey giggle. When he returned to his home, he spent a long time hovering between the telephone and the bathroom, deciding what to do. What to do, what to do. One last time, he reminded himself: No problem.

He rinsed out his mouth and splashed water on his face. He straightened his tie, and took his name tag out of his sock drawer. His shoulders rounded into an approximation of a square as he clipped it on. Marshall Brown, Secretary. Inspector’s Union of New York City. Most of the people he called did not remember him, but they remembered his message.

No problem.

From that point forward, the Sanctuary had no problem on their inspections: health, safety, fire code. Every item down every list got full marks. Even a leaky gas line by the water heater; even a faulty fire alarm system, whose sprinklers had clearly been tampered with by a certain technomancer who refused to let a certain fire dancer’s poor control ruin his valuable equipment one more time.

No problem.

If the NYPD were Dobermans and German Sheppards, then the Inspector’s Union was a gathering of mice and voles. Still, they had taken their own oaths of office. In their own way, they were bound to protect this city’s citizens. In their own way, they proceeded to do so.

On February 10, 2010, a young police officer, new to the city, disappeared during a routine circuit of his patrol route. Whether he’d strayed from that route at all, whether he’d thought a green-skinned young woman was cute, whether he knew how deadly serious his new job was: these thoughts, the sum of who he was and could have been, disappeared with him.

On a Saturday morning in late March, an anaconda slipped into the ventilation system with her three hatchlings. Her tongue tasted the air: there was something she liked, wafting from down the hall. She hurried her hatchlings towards it.

Twenty-nine seconds later, a fireball exploded out the doors of the water heater’s room. Kittens and a forest of legs madly scrambled up the stairs ahead of the slithering fire wyrm and her python children; a ribbon-tongued girl paused just long enough to scoop up a lobster whose wibbling claws weren’t built for climbing.

The main floor water sprinklers kicked in as the smoke rose, but the ones down in the basement left the wyrm's brood have their warm, cozy nest. The soaked secretary smiled a pleasant, sincere, toe-curling smile, and went to call the fire department.

That was as funny as if she’d called the police about a robbery.

Matha blinked, not quiet believing what she heard. She repeated the information just to make sure she had it correct.

“The Sanctuary is on fire and you need someone to come put it out.” The woman on the other end confirmed that the information was correct. She wasn't laughing, and neither was Martha.

The emergency response service treated every call as if it was completely serious, even if it seemed like a prank call. Even if answering the prank call could lead to a very dangerous situation for the city's rescue workers. Even if it was a group of anti-human terrorists that suddenly needed aid.

Maybe next time they'd remember what the city of New York's emergency response team did for them.

“Help is on the way,” she assured the woman on the other end of the line. She cradled the phone against her shoulder, typed something into the computer, zoomed in on a map that showed the various locations of emergency vehicles and their proximity to the emergency underway. While the mutant lady was still on one phone, she picked up another receiver and held it up to her other ear.

“Frank, I need a team down at the Sanctuary,” she supplied the address then added, “Send the special unit in. The one with your hydromancer, etcetera.”
--

Waldo paid his mutant insurance. He didn't really have an option, considering his little coffee shop was right across the street from the Sanctuary. He hadn't realized why he'd been able to get such a good deal on the rent until one cold week in early February when a police officer had disappeared right off his patrol route, leaving his bike behind. He had polished his counter to shine just as clean and fresh as the Order workers had the front steps. Then, when the panther man came to collect his insurance money, he'd paid without a fuss. And every month since, too.

Surprisingly, though, his business had been doing well. Apparently even mutants liked their caffeine and as long as he served up their choice of java or joe, they read newspapers and used the free wi-fi just like anyone else. They just had razor blade elbows and prehensile monkey tails and smiled sweet innocent smiles with green lips and razor sharp teeth. They even tipped surprisingly well, some of them.

When fire alarms went off across the street and a ribbon tongued girl carrying a lobster led the evacuation efforts right across the street and to his freshly polished glass front doors he didn't even hesitate to invite everyone inside, or at least as many as could fit, to take shelter until the disaster had been averted. Free hot chocolate to anyone who wanted it? Sure. A tub of water for the crustacean? Sure. A saucer of cream for the white kitten with blonde spots here and there? Sure. Anything they wanted, really. Perhaps they would remember his kindness when the next collection day came around and give him a bit of a discount on his insurance next month.
--

The white kitten with blonde spots here and there purred as she watched the young fire fighter with shoulder mounted hydrocannons shoot short bursts of water at the flickering red flames licking at the edges of the cathedral windows. Waldo had found the sweet spot, just under her ears on the edge of her jaw. She didn't even care that a certain secretary was glaring daggers at her and her lobstery accomplice for their part in this disaster. All in all, this had turned out to be an alright day, at least for her.