Domino Effect NPC Journal

So much to look forward to

2007-09-15T01:34:17Z

[Player: NPC Steven Gant.]
[Scene: Patience pays off. Funny how small the first stones rolling down a hillside look, right before they set off the avalanche... Backdated to very early in the a.m. on Saturday, May 5th, 2007. Note: You'll want to read this log first...]

Scotch in a glass. Celebration time; he swirled the amber liquid around before taking a sip, smiling into the thin, early hours of the morning.

It had been almost embarrassing, how easily he had found her; it'd taken a while, yeah, but... All that time, and all he had needed had been a little access, a password, an electronic key to an email door. And a little careful checking-- that was it.

Marik... he'd have to thank Marik for his help. Oh, wait, he'd already done that, hadn't he? And paid him damn well, too... Decent of Dad to die like that, leaving him all his cash to spend on such worthwhile pursuits-- His son had put it to good use. Hiring Marik had been one of his best moves ever; the guy was just amazing, so thorough, so perfect for the purpose. And he liked the guy, actually, admired him for his intelligence and skill; how often did that happen?

He'd have almost felt guilty for using him that way, he reflected, if he didn't consider guilt a complete and utter waste of time.

Thinking about it, he almost had to laugh; it hadn't even been the name he had expected that had given him the address, not the brother's-- it had been the old room-mate's. And she had gotten an email back in September from someone in Connecticut-- as he'd stared at the screen he had remembered: hadn't there been some girl in high school, some bitch in college named Jotteson? Carol, Karen, Cathy, something like that? Not that he'd really needed to remember, not with a subject heading like 'Stalker Alert, Vicki-- remember Serenity Wheeler's ex?'

Stupid girl. You'd think she WOULD remember the man who'd broken her arm. He'd almost felt insulted at the time; but now he smiled down into his glass and took another long drink, closing his eyes at the sweet burn of the liquor.

Wonder what she'd have done if she had remembered me? Screamed like before, probably. Maybe I should pay her a visit some time; that might be fun. But-- first things first...

So there it had been, laid out clearly on the screen: details of his attempts to contact, the places he'd been waiting-- all biased, of course; it made sound like he was completely cr--

--never mind. And then her old room-mate had responded, and then Jotteson had sent an email back (idiot) with her family's phone number in it and... After that, he had used the reverse phone-search directory, the online one where you typed in a number and got an address.

It had been so fucking simple when you got right down to it.

Simple, yeah. All that time-- nine months, nine goddamn months out of his reach... it was enough to make a man cr--

(he paused; blinked)

--it was enough to make a man burn, or make something burn, anyway. Maybe he'd go out tonight for a walk. Maybe.

Tomorrow he'd head out on a little trip, take a couple of days to go up-country... see the sights. Connecticut was supposed to be nice this time of year, right? He could do with a little time off. Not all that far from Hartford, from the map he had dug up; tiny little town, an old friend's family's place in Connecticut... as easy as that. One of her fricking oh-so-nice, oh-so-helpful, oh-so-inconvenient friends from high school and college, like her room-mate back then; like her brother. Friends.

She didn't need friends. All she needed was him.

Scotch in a glass, celebration time; so much to celebrate, so much to look forward to, so much to do to get what he needed--

And all I need... is Serenity. And after that, she'll never need anything else again.

.

[Asano] Unexpected E-mail

2007-08-26T17:31:58Z

[ Backdated to Aug 1st. ]

Asano was working online when Aidan's email arrived. For a moment, she just blinked at the address, not quite believing in its existence or trusting its authenticity. After an even longer moment, she closed her email and went back to the proposal she was drafting. It had been nearly six months since they'd spoken; whatever Aidan had to say would keep for a few more hours.

When she did finally read it, the offer of long-overdue forgiveness was a relief, but the unexpected apology that accompanied it surprised her. Yes, she had been rude, she admitted that, but his reaction had seemed... still somewhat irrational. Aidan had always been polite, but she'd learned all too quickly that there were hard-defined edges where that politesse ended. Confidence bordering on arrogance seemed to be a Mutou family trait, so she hadn't expected him to concede to having also been in the wrong. It was a pleasant surprise.

He hadn't tried to offer an explanation, which was fine. Whatever had been on his mind was his own business, really. She had enough people prying into hers lately to be willing to respect others'. But reading between the lines (as her curiosity still got the better of her), she had to wonder what had changed. Trying to read tone from text was nearly impossible, but... he sounded different, somehow. Or maybe she was just looking for a way to revise her opinion of him. The way they'd parted had damaged their fledgling friendship, but not destroyed it, she hoped.

There wasn't much more to the note. He hadn't heard from his Grandfather (but that didn't surprise him, or her, really). Yugi was busy working. His publisher was looking at a late Fall date for the launch party. Book launch? Her eyebrows jumped in surprise. He hadn't mentioned writing a book... but in the Fall....

She glanced at her calendar, frowning a little in thought. She still had a lot of work to do on the tourism marketing proposal she was preparing for the region, but a trip to New York could be useful for that, too. And she did still want to meet Yugi... and at least say hello to Seto again....

Expression firming into a bright and determined smile, she hit "reply."

Where There's Smoke--

2007-07-28T04:22:58Z

[Player: NPC Steven Gant.]
[The Scene: serenityw's old flame (heh) gives us a bit of insight into his character, his hobbies and interests. What's wrong with this picture? So many things on so many levels... Current date: February 26, 2007, but backdates all the way to June 20, 2006.]

(February 26, 2007, dockside near the Hudson River, back alleyway behind Karrels Frozen Goods, Ltd.; 4:50 a.m.)

Careful-- careful--

Long-fingered hands, almost delicate in their movements, tipped the can of paint-thinner that their owner had found behind a pile of old boards. Oily liquid spilled out across the floor; it followed the slant of sagging foundations, the clear gully in the worn tiles, a hazy rainbow puddling on its surface as it flowed through the dim illumination of a flashlight.

Careful-- yeah, careful-- tilt it a bit more, not too fast--

It was all in the timing; the timing and the props. The stub of a candle (because afterwards there was nothing left to point to how the fire started), the spill of flammable liquid (because hey, people left that kind of stuff lying around everywhere), a handful of wadded newspaper-- and then you just had to make sure you left enough time to get out before candleflame met newspaper and newspaper met incendiary.

That was all. And afterwards, you could watch the results, smiling inside and proud of your labor.

Careful, right,... The burned child fears the flame. Once bitten, twice shy. No smoke without...

...well. Ha. This will be good.

The thin hands with their well-bitten nails positioned the candle and its attendant paper with great attention; at the rate things were moving, there was at least two minutes before the paint-thinner made it to Ground Zero and began to soak into the newspaper. Plenty of time.

Two minutes could be amazingly long; it could be the rest of a person's life, if you weren't...

...careful.

* * *

(Eight months earlier, June 20, 2006; Auburn Correctional Facility, mid-morning)

He had learned about fires in prison.

Not setting them, no, of course not; but… Good behavior was its own reward, said the suits in charge, and sure enough: two years into being a model prisoner had first gotten Steven Gant a little more leeway, a few extra responsibilities, and then there had been all that time on his hands, time with nothing to do but browse the internet…

Landrigan had been his cellmate, Micky Landrigan, doing a seven year stretch for breaking-and-entering and arson charges. The man had been a freak, damn straight, but he had been smart enough. Who’d notice missing jewelry and so forth when the owner's home had just burned down? ‘You go for the small stuff,’ Micky had told him one cold afternoon while they were painting street-curbs with a bunch of other cons; ‘you go for the small stuff, get the shit packed away nice ‘n neat, and then you just… tip over somebody’s heater or somethin’. Or kick on the gas-stove, drop a dishrag on it and watch it catch. Lotsa ways to do it. Winter, that’s the best time, helluva lot of fuckin’ fires in the winter. So nobody sees the stuff that’s gone, they’re too busy screamin’ about the fire. Works great.’ He had spat on the concrete then, eyes bitter. ‘Works great ‘til some asshole puts up a goddamn sprinkler system in their home—and a security camera. Who the fuck has sprinklers in their homes, those’re for offices, man! But th’bastard was livin’ in this old building he’d fixed up, shit’d been some sort of art-gallery before and the sprinklers were still there. Didn’t burn down, filmed my face all nice’n pretty.’

A guard had come by then, and Micky had shut up for a bit; they and their fellow prisoners had had a smoke-break a little later, though, and through the haze of nicotine fumes (disgusting habit) the other had tilted his head back, considering the grey-blue wash of sky above them. ‘Fire’s nice to watch, y’know? All bright n’shit. Always thought, man, that’s how I wanna go someday, in a fire.’

‘Burning to death hurts,’ Steven had observed, turning his bottle of water around in his hands; he always used the smoke-breaks to rehydrate.

The other man had sneered. ‘Not for long.’ And he had spat again.

As it had turned out, Micky’d been taken down in a gang-related fight in the lunchroom, choking on his own blood with a sharpened screwdriver through his throat; so much for going out in a blaze of glory. In idle moments, Steven hoped that his family had had the man cremated. He'd sent flowers to them when the paperwork had been signed for his release from prison just that morning; it had seemed appropriate.

But… Micky had been right about one thing; fire was nice to watch, wasn’t it? And now, walking down the street towards his future without a backwards glance towards his past, he began, very slowly, to smile.

* * *

(Newspaper article from the Queen Courier, dated August 2, 2006.)

Queens Fireman Injured In Illegal Loft’s Blaze
By Raymond Toscano

A firefighter from Queens received second-degree burns and a broken leg last week battling a blaze in an illegally converted apartment in East Williamsburg, Brooklyn.

Fourteen-year veteran Thomas Cusic, of Wyatt, NY, fell more than 15 feet to the ground on Wednesday after losing his footing transferring from a tower ladder to the roof at 47 Meserole St. He was treated at Bellevue Hospital and later released.

Approximately 8 units and 40 firefighters responded to the all-hands call; fire marshals could not determine the cause of the fire but an investigation is in progress. It was suggested that the fire might have started in the alley beside the building, but possibilities of arson were considered to be negligible.

The four-story building where Cusic fell houses illegal loft apartments. Department of Buildings records show that a work permit was issued in 2000 granting permission for the owner, Jeremiah Swyers, to “convert existing factory on first, second and fourth floors to residential dwelling units.”

But there are no records indicating that a Certificate of Occupancy for residential use was issued. The building has incurred 28 DOB violations since 1989.

“This points out the fact that illegal construction is out of control in the City,” said City Councilman Tony Avella (D-Bayside), chairman of the Zoning and Franchises committees and long-standing critic of DOB practices. “The DOB is incapable of doing anything about it.”

* * *

(September 24, 2006; apartment belonging to S. Gant, 443 W. 44th Street, Hell's Kitchen)

SLAM! went the phone onto its cradle, hard enough to crack the plastic; WHAM! went the door a moment later as Steven Gant stormed out of his apartment and down the stairs.

She had gone. She had gone. That little bitch, how could she do that to him? How dared she do that to him?

Down the street, not even aware of where he was going until he got there; down the street towards the derelict warehouses along the waterfront—it wasn’t like he couldn't afford an apartment in a good part of the city, was it? But he had to be here, to keep an eye on things, so he put up with the neighborhood with its drunks and stinks and... And that was her fault, wasn't it? All her fault. All her fault. All her fault her fault her fault her—

He needed an… outlet, Steven did; something to stop the noise inside his head. Blond hair damp with sweat, he stopped in the middle of the sidewalk abruptly, felt around in a pocket, and smiled.

Yes. That’d feel good right now.

Matches in hand, he turned down an alley towards the warehouse district, looking for an accident just waiting to happen.

* * *

(Newspaper article found on page 4 of the New York Sun, dated September 30, 2006)

Employees Eyed in Aerodyne Transit Arson Case

By Janet Weiss
Associated Press
September 30, 2006 updated 4:13 pm EDT

Investigators are looking at disgruntled former Aerodyne Transit employees as possible suspects in their efforts to find the person who set fire to their main warehouse last week, federal officials said Tuesday.

Arson had been considered right from the start according to investigators; the blaze, which cost the company at least two million dollars in stored items, equipment and building damage, was apparently set via an incendiary device containing kerosene. Chemical tests on rubble at the source of the blaze proved positive for the accelerant in an area which normally would contain none.

Investigators have compiled a list of potential suspects, considered "people of interest," which includes former employees, a spokesman for the company, Angela Peterson, announced.

“We are investigating certain individuals either to remove them from the list or to gather more information on them," Ms. Peterson said.

* * *

(December 29th, 2006; construction area near Kennedy Airport, south Conduit)

There were other ways to distract one’s self, he thought, suppressing a smile, but not nearly enough of them were this—warm. And it was cold out today; he’d had such a headache earlier. And... the fire was…

…pretty.

It was pretty, too, making people run around like that. Look at them go, he thought, admiring his own work; yeah, a good feeling. Being in control of the situation, just a face in the crowd but actually the one that had pulled the strings, started the party, provided the entertainment—oh, he loved that, he really did. People, Steven mused with his hands in his pockets, really didn’t appreciate him enough.

What was that term he had heard in an old Due South episode—‘performance arsonist’? He’d have to remember that one.

And it just felt right, didn’t it? Watching the blaze, feeling all his frustrations burn up in a clean inferno of certainty. It wasn’t that he was some sort of freak like Micky had been, oh no. It was just…

…nice…

…to let it all go, put the anger and pent-up bitterness to use, let it all burn up, burn away. The internet had been so useful. He hadn’t been able to research that sort of thing in jail, obviously, but people chatted online about the oddest subjects sometimes. So much information had been available, so many creative little tricks to try, oh yes; 'performance arsonist' was perfectly appropriate. It was art, when you got right down to it; and he’d even considered becoming a fireman after getting out of prison, but… no. Too visible, and ex-cons didn’t make the cut. A pity; it would have been fun.

Three firetrucks for this one, he thought smugly; not bad. Next time he’d have to try for four. It wasn't like he didn't have a lot of stress in his life, what with his father's death last month and all...

...though... that hadn't been so tragic, had it? Heart attacks happened every day. And it wasn't like Steven couldn't use his father's savings. He had ideas about what to do with the money, wonderful ideas.

Next time, he thought as the flames licked higher, maybe he’d try for some place where people lived. Not to kill them, of course; that’d be inelegant. But it’d be fun to watch them scurry around, and who knew? Maybe one of them would be a redhead.

His headache, Steven noted, was gone. Come to think of it, he was feeling better every minute.

* * *

(Newspaper article carried by the Jamaica Tribune, January 3, 2007)

New Platform Project Not Affected By Crane Fire
by John Toscano

Three days after construction had started on a service platform for the Air Train elevated line between Jamaica and Kennedy Airport, a fire of unknown origin engulfed a crane owned by the contractor working there.

Although several television and radio reports of last Friday morning’s fire listed the cause as arson, a Fire Department spokesman said that was not true, and that the fire is "still under investigation."

Last Friday, a spokesman for the Port Authority of New York and New Jersey which has been updating the Air Train line refused to speculate whether the PA felt there was any connection between the fire and Air Train protestors from several years past.

The spokesman did say that the fire had not caused any delay in the Air Train construction schedule. "Work is ongoing," he stated."The Air Train update project is moving forward. The fire was only an impediment."

The Fire Department spokesman said the fire occurred in a fenced construction lot at South Conduit Avenue and the Van Wyck Expressway in Jamaica which is along the Air Train’s three-mile route. The parcel of property was described by a Port Authority spokesman as "a staging area" for the main construction site. The fire was in the cab of a 130-foot crane, according to the PA. No one was at work at the time of the fire, which was reported at 1:58 a.m. Friday, the Fire Department said. No injuries were reported and no assessment of damage to the crane was given.

* * *

(Back to February 26, 2007 again; dockside near the Hudson River once more, late morning)

This was a good one; they still hadn’t managed to put it out, and it had been burning since before dawn. And hey, wasn’t it amazing, thought Steven as he brushed a fleck of ash off his courier’s uniform, how much better he felt afterwards?

Yeah.

The smoke lay in heavy drifts along the street, scenting everything with burned rubber and scorched paint; it was sort of soothing, really, once you got past the harshness and the way it made your eyes sting.

So many things were.

She’d look good in smoke, he thought to himself as more ash floated past in the wash of the firehose-runoff. Smoke all around her, her pale face half-lit by flames in the background nearly as red as her hair. Yeah; she'd look good. And sooner or later he’d find her; she couldn’t hide forever, and when he found her at last he wouldn’t—

(Steven drew a deep breath of the smoke; it burned, but he did not cough.)

--he wouldn’t go crazy or anything like that. He wasn’t a psycho like so many ex-cons were. Psychos weren’t clever, psychos didn’t think. No. He’d explain it all to her very, very carefully, how really he knew best what was good for her (didn’t he?) and how she belonged to him (didn’t she?) just like any of his other possessions, especially since she would look so good backlit with fire.

So very good--

Steven rubbed his head, grimacing. Something about that thought gave him an ache in his temples, but never mind; he probably just needed a Starbucks.

He’d find her sooner or later. It was only February, after all, and his inquiries were going well. Rome wasn’t built in a day, don’t count your chickens before they’re hatched, look before you leap, out of the frying-pan and into the—

Never mind. Time for that Starbucks.

Pretty, Steven thought one last time, admiring the dance of the flames from a distance as he walked away.

The smoke followed his footsteps down the street.

[Van] Last Summer Centurion

2007-05-31T19:24:56Z

It seemed appropriate to post this now, even though Van won't be making an appearance for a little while longer. If it seems inappropriate to you, let me know, and I'll put him back in the closet until then.

Late summer 2006, somewhere on the coast of Italy...

The statue mounting the cornerpiece of the stone railing was marble, dingy in places and bright white in others; a match for its surroundings. Maybe it was the bust of a Roman Centurion, or maybe Van had it all wrong. He leaned on the railing as he looked over the garden below, elbows locked, blond haylike hair falling down around his face and shoulders.

Stress from a barrage of nature and acid rain melted the Centurion and rounded all his corners, giving him the look of marshmallow. The Michelin Man in armor made of merengue. Time warped his face, now he was nearly featureless but for the grime beneath one heavy eyebrow.

"You look like hell, man," Van said to the statue, then turned his back on the gardens and braced his hips against the metal railing perpendicular to the stone column supporting his Centurion. "Damn. Gotta get going, before I start forgetting my own face, too. ...On second thought, you look like John Cleese."

The statue, predictably, looked on in stony silence.

"No offense," Van added, with a dismissive wave that worked its way into his hair, flicking it back over his shoulder again, "it's the chin." Pause. "You're a little underdressed to be a Centurion."

Again, no response. A tourist, or so he thought, who'd been making her way toward the railing abruptly swerved away, stifling a smile. Van caught it, and tipped his head to look at her, finishing the smile for her when she glanced his way again. She paused, seeing an attractive and leggy young man grinning at her. He was sort of poetic-looking, with the long soft face, the dusting of facial hair and the sea-blue eyes. Oh. And the full lips of course.

"Gazelle," he murmured, thinking out loud but safely out of earshot, "the prey returneth." To her, he called, "I'm sorry, I was in the middle of a conversation and--" Another pause. "...Do you speak English?"

The young woman tilted her head, shrugged, and smiled again. "No, no English," she said with a thick accent, and continued to wait, watching him.

"Perfetto!" Van said, drawing a wry chuckle from the gazelle.

He stepped out to join her, leaving the Centurion to face another hundred years.

(Bert) Weekly Staff Meeting

2007-05-19T17:05:59Z

(OOC: Thanks to ysabet for handing me Seto's gardener. I think.

There is really no point to this, other than the fact that he showed up and demanded a voice of his own.)

I'm tellin' you, rick folk 'r such freaks.

Now y'all know who I work for, hell, half a ya at this table work for the same guy. Mr. Kaiba, he's a nice enough guy 'n all, knows my name, only called me Cuthbert once 'til I tole him I'd'a rather it was Bert if''n it was all the same to him, 'n it's been Bert ever since, but ya know, nice 'r not, he's a freak just like all a rest of 'em.

Mmmm? Budweiser, 'f ya got it on tap, thank ya.

I mean...see... here's what I mean. Guy's got an extra garage, way out there 'n the side a the house. I mean, wha's he need two garages for, one on the house keeps a couple a cars 'n I only ever seen him drive one at a time. I was tole that first day never ta go inta that other garage, ta jes leave it alone 'r it could be my job. How crazy is that?

I mean, wha'ds he have in there, bodies? Mr. Kaiba some axe murderer what dismembers people 'n keeps their bones 'n the back a his workshop 'r somethin'? So I hadda have a look once, ya know. Weren't nothin' in there but a car and a motorcycle 'n a buncha fancy tools and such. Place 's clean as a kitchen too, 'n not one 'v us did it so's he must keep it that way hisself. See? I'm tole that he's got a coupla rooms in the house like that, t'aint nobody 'llowed ta go in 'em. Maria there's got the inside track, if ya know what I mean.

No, ya idiot, that w's a joke. Maria's head a the inside staff like I'm in charge 'v the other two outside kids. Head gardener, tha's me 'n don' you ferget it. Maria's not screwin' him.

See, an' tha's another freak thing 'bout Mr. Kaiba. He never has no girls up'a the house. None. Hell, he barely has anyone over, fer all he likes ta have the place look nice. Thrown a coupla parties, had a few business guys up there. His riding buddies come once in awhile but tha's about all.

Well, if'n ya all will excuse me, beers runned out 'n I gotta get goin'. See ya next week, 'n don' let the freaks get ya.

[Quinn] Bunny Trouble

2007-05-16T07:51:39Z

[Characters: Quinn
Summary: I won’t make a habit of this, I promise. I just haven’t written much about him yet and you all should be properly introduced because he is part of Duke’s family now. And I wanted to try writing in a different sort of style too.]

* * *

Once upon a time, there was a little brown rabbit named Quinn.

Quinn was a good little rabbit, never made a fuss about anything at all. Yes, he was quite an angel of a rabbit, never complained about being called ‘Bunny Quinn’ and ‘Snuggle Bunny’ and never complained about being held and petted by everyone even though a normal run-of-the-mill rabbit would have tossed a fit after that sort of rude behavior.

And he never used his claws unnecessarily, not even when his hay was one day old instead of from a freshly opened bag, and he never nipped Duke’s heels to get his attention, not even when he was particularly in the mood for a forehead rub or a raisin.

Well… mostly, anyway.

But the point was that he was a proper, well-behaved rabbit and therefore was quite deserving of every ounce of love and respect that Duke could offer, along with the privileges of being an honorary sort of rabbit.

So you can imagine his purest surprise when he was only gifted with five items to claw and tear apart, which was something of a hobby of his to keep his teeth and nails from growing too long. Just five items, a wicker basket, a newspaper, a shoebox, a paper towel roll and a dried pine cone. How could that possibly be enough for a rabbit to keep himself occupied for long?

True, it was enough for a little while. Quinn did manage to dig a hole through that shoebox to make a hiding place for himself and he did manage to spend quite a while clawing and chewing the basket, newspaper, and cardboard roll to shreds. The pine cone fell apart much easier so it was not as much of a challenge for Quinn and certainly not enjoyable for him either.

Well, if Duke couldn’t give him enough items to shred to bits, he was just going to have to find something of his own. It was a tough responsibility for the little rabbit to take the effort to find his own toys. Really, he was used to being the king of his territory and having those items brought to him, but desperate times called for desperate measures and he really couldn’t wait the few minutes it would have taken for Duke to find him something else to play with.

A few minutes? So much could be completed in a few minutes as Quinn knew very well. The start of a basket could be chewed; the first few pages of the newspaper could be torn to shreds. Quinn was simply too impatient to wait any longer and decided to take the matter into his own hands the moment Duke’s back was turned.

Quite curiously, Quinn poked his head underneath the bed, walked near the desk, and finally inside Duke’s closet, but was quite disappointed that not much of anything was on the floor for him to snag. Duke’s apartment was kept quite clean, a dilemma for a needy rabbit like Quinn.

Or at least… until he realized a great play toy had been under his nose this whole time. Literally.

Experimentally, the rabbit scratched his nails against the carpeting just in front of Duke’s dresser. The soft tan carpet was only damaged a little, but it was enough for Quinn to determine that this particular activity would be fun.

So he scratched again. And then once more, and again and again until what he was scratching didn’t feet so soft anymore and was harder against his nails. It was so much fun, and he fancied himself quite the genius of a rabbit for discovering such an amazing place to practice his scratching. And he would have continued, would have tried out other places in the apartment to tear up the carpet, but he was stopped abruptly before he could go exploring again.

Rudely, a pair of hands snatched him up from the ground, yelled a harsh ‘no!’ at him, and wouldn’t let him back down to play. Quinn shuddered at the loud noise, not used to such treatment from anyone. Wasn’t he supposed to be a good rabbit? So very well-behaved and proper and an utter joy to be around? He hadn’t meant to be a bother at all, had only wanted to have fun, so why was Duke so very angry with him?

Quite distraught, Quinn sulked in his cage after being locked back inside, couldn’t be bothered to even lift his head to nibble on any hay. He was feeling rather insulted because no one had ever yelled at him like that before, but more than that, he was so very bored, left with hardly anything to play with inside his cage. But he didn’t want to play that night anyway, only wanted to laze about and sleep and ponder over whether or not he planned on forgiving Duke in the morning.

When Quinn finally did wake up, he was quite surprised not only to find his cage door open, but also to find a big basket full of toys waiting for him outside! A sea grass mat, plastic keys, apple tree twigs, an old phone book, a plush rabbit that looked just like him, among other items. And not only that, but a raisin was situated on top of the toys, which Quinn promptly hopped inside the basket to eat.

Oh, he loved all of his new toys! Yesterday’s troubles were almost forgotten now, and the carpet didn’t seem quite so interesting as it had the day before. He was feeling altogether confident again, knew that his place as king had been restored now that Duke had brought toys to him instead of leaving him to find his own. He had to forgive Duke after that, but not until after he received a thorough grooming session and another treat just to make sure Duke knew just who was boss from now on.

Quinn’s reputation as the well-behaved quiet little rabbit was firmly in place again. And never again did Duke neglect to shower Quinn with all the love, attention, toys and respect that a rabbit of his sort so truly deserved. And now that harmony was restored in the apartment, the two could now live on happily ever after.

The End.