They had tried to cover it, but this place still smelled like antiseptic, and his whiskers twitched in displeasure. They could probably take the building apart brick by brick, and each one would still carry the same sharp, hollow scent.

They'd obviously tried to make the room comfortable, with warm polished wood, soft colors, and welcoming cushions. A vague hint of floral sweetness--lilac, he thought--hung about the fabrics, so they'd considered scent as well when they'd furnished the place. But underneath everything, like a whisper, that chemical smell...

He thought back to the hotel room of the night before and how wonderful it had been. That hotel had been everything he'd ever heard, everything he could have imagined. The bed had held enough covers and pillows to satisfy his rodent instincts for burrowing, and room service had brought a silver platter with a rainbow of exotic fruit slices, cubes of gourmet cheeses, and nuts that were so perfectly whole that they almost didn't look real.

And the girl... Oh, she had been lovely, slender and sweet, her fur pale as the first snowfall. She hadn't laughed at his inexperience, only guided in such a way that she made him feel as if he were the expert. If he closed his eyes now, he could still remember her scent.

How different it had all been from the night before last, with his family crowded around in the dim basement dwelling, his father proud to bursting, his mother teary-eyed but trying to smile for his sake--

No. That was over. It had been... good. Yes, good, but over, and he let go of it. He thought of the girl instead; he didn't feel as much for her, so that was easier, nicer to recall.

Dr. Bharani came in then. He liked Dr. Bharani; the man smiled a lot, and the action didn't seem practiced or forced the way it did with the other doctors. Bharani also didn't flinch when he saw him the way some of the other doctors--indeed, most humans--still did. He'd read somewhere that his hairless tail was a trigger for human fears, possibly related to the primate brain's innate fear of anything serpentine. It was an interesting explanation, but still, it was nice that Bharani didn't seem to be affected by it.

Bharani placed the tablet on the table between them and handed him the stylus.

He looked at the screen. The first page was a form already filled out. "Please check that your name appears correctly," Bharani said. Everything he said sounded gentle, soothing, like rippling waves on a warm afternoon. That was more comforting than anything in the room.

His name was correct, but he double-checked it anyway, terrified of having it spelled wrong. He wished they didn't wait until afterwards to engrave it, but he could still imagine how it would look in the stone, and the inscription on the little plaque to go at home.

He signed that page and went on to the next. One form followed another; they'd all been explained to him days ago. This was just procedure, formality. Bharani guided him, and he signed where he was told.

Humans loved words. They played with them, fought with them, worshiped and cursed with them. For his kind, things were at once simpler and more nuanced: body and scent, vibration and touch. He had not needed words that first day his father had taken him Below to worship. He had already known, from the taste and tingle of it, from the feelings inside and out, that he would come here someday, he would fulfill his great purpose, the first in his family to do so, and--he hoped--not the last.

His wrist ached a little as he continued through the files. He wondered if he should ask for something for it, then decided he didn't want anything anyway; the pain was somehow tied with his endurance, his loyalty, and he did not want to diminish any of that. Even so, he fought back a wave of irritation at the rat who had grabbed his arm on the way in--the one who had called him "brother" and spoken of masters and slaves.

He had brothers, real ones. He was oldest, and he hoped they would learn from him and follow him here. They knew, as he did, what was right and true. Their father had taught them all from the moment their fur came in, the moment their eyes opened and they could begin to understand.

"All right, then," Bharani said, pocketing the stylus. "Are you ready?"

"Yes."

Bharani nodded. "Under code 3-A, I am required to ask if you give consent for this procedure and those that follow it, as outlined in Section Three."

His signature had already given that, but again, humans needed words, needed these spoken, so that there could be no forgery in the files.

"I do," he said, just as he had said the week before, when they began.

For a moment, Bharani looked as if he were going to say something else, and that troubled him. Some of the doctors argued or pleaded, he knew; worse, some were not really doctors at all and would haul them back home to live the rest of their lives in disgrace. But Bharani was good; he merely nodded again and opened his case.

As it had before, the needle stung just a bit going in. He was lying down now on the couch, comfortable, not as nice as the hotel bed had been, but comfortable, and the sunlight coming in the window was nice and warm, and perhaps, he thought, what they would learn would help, would help all of them, make things better, when they took him apart and did their tests, to see what had changed within him and what had not...

He closed his eyes. He could see it now, even though it wasn't there yet: his name etched with all the others' in that slick stone, that place where humans left crutches and empty bottles of pills, all the things they no longer needed because of what had been learned. They would leave flowers, too, and handwritten notes. And his mother and father, his sisters and brothers, they would all go there, and read his name, and remember, and be proud.

Remember him, and be proud...

This work and all characters (c) 2008 Renee Carter Hall ("Poetigress"). May not be reprinted or redistributed without written permission.