Springer looked in the mirror at the scabs over his eye. They didn’t look infected, or red, and they itched a little sometimes, and all of that was a good sign of healing. He hoped they wouldn’t leave a hideous scar, but he knew that was likely to happen. The nip in his ear had also scabbed over and was now just a permanent gap in the flesh. 

It had been a rough few days since his first night in the apartment with the kangaroo, and he hadn’t gotten much sleep. He was hoping that the bed and blankets, and the fact he was in an actual room would soothe him to the point of a regular sleep schedule, but the sounds from that… event kept him up at night. Dark bags formed under his eyes and his fur grew scraggly and unkept. If it wasn’t insomnia, it was a nightmare about that night that forbade him from sleeping. Having another herbivore, or any animal, in the next room over was comforting at least. At least he wasn’t alone in that cell, or alone in general anymore. 

He had gotten used to his meat-based meals over the past week, and though it was far from a rabbit’s ideal diet, that didn’t change the fact that meat was still protein-rich. That combined with his twice daily workout of lifting and carrying heavy crates of meat, his form was getting noticeably more muscle-toned. His body wasn’t designed to process that much protein and so little fiber, but he felt like he’s been getting used to it since the stomach aches have subidded. Mostly. 

His reflection didn’t even look like him anymore. The clothes he wore were limited to a blank white or gray tank top and either jeans or cargo shorts, which was very different from the vibrant T-shirt or jacket he used to wear. His muscular upper body was a horrendous difference from the thin jackrabbit everyone back home knew him as, and his once bright green eyes seemed faded and dull as they rested in the dark rings around them. His ears had lost their attentive standup and slouched to the side slightly, or they simply rested back against his head. 

Railroad really wasn’t helping, what was his problem? He was always dwelling on and around the bar, sometimes he wouldn’t notice him slip by, but most of the time he’d engage. What was this? Grade school? Springer didn’t have the energy to deal with someone who was mentally a fourteen-year-old, and bullies never usually bothered him. Usually just a friendly smile or lack of response, or simply saying “thank you” got them to stop. It confused the hell out of them and he rarely heard from the same person again. Of course, none of them have ever slammed his head into a wall or anything physical, let alone mark him with a scar. 

“Oi,” Cartridge snapped him from his thoughts, “are you gonna’ take all mornin’ or can I have a shower?” he teased. 

“Oh, sorry.” Springer said, stepping to the side. Cartridge frowned at his tone of voice, or lack thereof, just as the intercom bell rang, and Sterling’s voice came over.

“Good morning, everyone. Breakfast will be served in half an hour, make sure you do not miss it. Please make note of the heat, it has not gone down and it is expected to stay this way for the rest of the week. Water barrels are posted at every corner and we encourage you to inform one of the medics posted nearby if the barrels or the paper cup dispenser should be empty. I apologize for the lack of potable water bottles, our metalsmiths are hard at work working on them. They should be up for grabs by the next harvest.” the intercom hung up. The word he used, “harvest”, made Springer’s vision fuzzy. 

“At least our food is delivered to us. With your special diet n’ all.” Cartridge chuckled. Springer cracked a weak smile and sat down on the bed.

“Are you okay?” he asked. 

“I’m fine. Just… tired.” Springer said. 

“Alright,” the roo said sharply, setting his clothes down on the sink, “what’s goin’ on? When I first met you, you had a light in your eye. Where’s that gone?” he said in a gentle tone, sitting next to him on the bed. 

“I told you, I-” he paused, “I- do you remember that coyote? The one who yelled at you for kicking the door?” he squeaked, Cartridge nodded and scooted closer to him, “I-I lied about my eye. He hit me and I fell. And then he scratched me.” He pinned his ears and refused to look at the roo next to him. He never liked bringing things up. It always seemed so childish when, for example, Wilson watched his sister die. 

“He what?” Cartridge said coldly, his expression stone-cold. 

“He- nothing. Never min-” he tried to stand but the roo held his shoulder, keeping him there. 

“Nono, stay here and wait fr’ breakfast. I’ll deal with it.” The roo stood. 

“Wait! It’s oka- you’ll get in trouble.” 

“This ain’t school, mate. Ya don’t git in trouble so long as they don’t find the body.” he chuckled, “I’m kidding! I’m not gonna kill 'em, just ruff 'em up a little.” he reassured after Springer’s face grew more concerned, “I’ll be back.” he said before leaving out the door. Springer whimpered, he knew he shouldn’t have said anything. 

---

Cartridge pinned the coyote to a brick wall, high enough to forbid his feet from touching the ground. The roo held him up by his shirt caller, Railroad already having a few nastey lacerations from Cartridge dragging him outside. 

“What the hell is wrong with you?” the red roo growled, “Picking on a li’l rabbit, what, just because ya can? A li’l jack like him is an easy target, eh? I should do to you what I did ta that fox all them years ago, but I won’t. You’ll live.” Cartridge picked the coyote up and threw him like a sack of rye. Railroad tried to run but one hard kick sent him back down. Sharp hind claws tore both fabric and flesh, sounds of ribs cracking and small, animalistic yelps attracted attention of others. The three other herbivores were cheering for Cartridge to keep going, the carnivores just watching the show. Railroad whipped his head up and snapped his jaws on the kangaroo’s arm, receiving a hard slap on the nose for it. 

“Where’d ya pack go, eh? HA!” Cartridge taunted, ears ringing too loud for him to notice the crowd going silent. 

“THAT’S ENOUGH!” a gruff British accent snapped him still, the fur on the back of his neck standing up as footsteps in gravel transferred to clicking of claws on concrete. Railroad smiled a smug grin as Sterling placed his hand on the roo’s shoulder. 

“That’s quite enough, wouldn’t you say? Stand up, Cartridge.” he ordered, the roo inhaling, then exhaling, and standing up. Sylvester looked down at the pathetic pile of coyote and scowled, making the grin on Railroad’s face vanish as he looked down at the ground in shame. 

“Axle,” Sylvester snapped, the feline stepping to his side at attention, “Take the mutt to the medic.” 

“Yes, sir.” Axle replied sharply, picking up the injured dog and tossing him over his shoulder, then jogging to one of the tents. Others murmured at the word he used, “mutt”, and he glaired at them. 

“Everyone else leave, I’d like to have a word with… you.” he paused, then scowled at Cartridge. 

“Now.” he snapped at the crowd after no one moved, sending everyone off. Cartridge stood with his back turned to Sterling, a few people muttering as they left. 

“Look at me.” the brown hare said calmly. The roo breathed slowly, then turned to face him. 

“What in the name of god was that about?” Sterling asked. 

“…he attacked Springer. It’s not right; taking advantage of a small animal. You can do whatcha want t’ me, but I stand by what I say-” Cartridge snarled, Sylvester waved his hand at him, trying to interrupt him. The hare sighed through his nose, then clicked his tongue. 

“I understand this is a personal topic for you. For future reference, keep personal disputes out of the public eye. We don’t need fights or riots, understood?” he said. The roo’s expression softened a little. 

“Y… Yes, sir.” he replied after a moment. 

“Good.” Sterling said, removing his hand from Cartridge’s shoulder, “Now, one of The Reminder’s quadrants hasn’t been releasing steam as it should be. Take a look and see what the issue is, then report back to either me or my Mastiffs. But, uhm, get that looked at, with all the crap coyotes eat and all. They’re the garbage disposal of canines.” he gestured to the roo’s arm, which Cartridge hadn’t even realized was bleeding. 

“Yes, sir. Thank you, sir. Can I… eat my breakfast first?” 

“Sure, be quick.” he said, Cartridge nodded, then hopped across the street. He spotted a madic tent, but it was already occupied by none other than Railroad. Cartridge grinned to himself. He knew he’d needed stitches for those injuries, and since the Isle didn’t have access to anesthetics, he’d get exactly what he deserved. There was another medic tent across the street, manned by the familiar hyena who watched the commotion from afar. Cartridge hopped across the street as Feral looked up at him. 

“Ahoy, lad. Get in trouble?” he asked. 

“Ay, mate. No, actually. Did get bit, though. You’re a medic now?” the roo asked, sitting on the stool. 

“Aye, been workin’ at it f’r a while now.” The hyena examined the bite mark as Cartridge laid his arm on the table, “He gotcha pretty good, lad.” 

“Ah, it’s just a bite. He just struck a nerve in me. Metaphorically. Ya don’t fuck wit’ a roo.” he chuckled. 

“Aye.” Feral replied, dabbing salt water on a cotton pad, then grinding it against the wound in an outward circular motion. He  discarded the pad and fished out a new one, repeating the process for every tooth mark. Cartridge winced as the salt water stung, the muscle twitching a little. Feral took more cotton pads and gauze, and wrapped the limb up. 

“Thanks, mate.” The kangaroo stood, waving to the hyena as he left the tent. 

“Take it off t’morrow mornin’.” Feral called, Cartridge nodding and crossing the street again. He entered the building, Railroad’s gang staring at him as he passed, but his ever bloodied hind claws sent his message far more clearly than any verbal exchange could. Added with eye contact, the canines stepped out of his way as he neared the stairs, climbing up them and disappearing behind his door. He was greeted by Springer immediately, the worry on his face worsening once he spotted the bandage. 

“What happened?” he cried. 

“I got bit. You should see the other guy, though.” he giggled. 

“I told you not to go.” Springer pouted. 

“Oh, I’m fine. Did breakfast come yet?” he asked. Springer nodded, then sat down on the couch, Cartridge sitting next to him. The golden hare picked up his fork, then took a bite of sausage. A strawberry dropped onto his plate, then a bit of lettuce. He paused, then glanced at Cartridge as he looked away like he didn’t do anything. Springer smiled, then finished his sausage before he even touched the salad. They ate in mostly silence, aside from the TV and clicking of silverware on the plates. 

“You never got in the shower…” Springer said quietly.

“Ah, I’ll take one later. I gotta go.” Cartridge stood, setting his plate on the small counter. 

“Where?” the golden hare asked, standing as well. Cartridge inhaled sharply before speaking.

“Somethin’ with The Reminder, she’s not releasing steam right, probably a bone caught in the pistons. That happens sometimes.”

“I gotta feed the dogs anyway. I’ll see you later?” 

“Yeah. Hey, look at me.” Cartridge said, “See if ya can find Doc. He’s this old wolf, but he’s really great to talk to. I gotta go.” he said, Springer nodding as he left the room. 

---

Cartridge pushed open the heavy, metal door that made a horrific squeal and peeked down the dim corridor. The cells were already half full and it had barely been a week since the last harvest. Usually, Sterling put up wanted posters of people he was hunting, usually with a small reward for bringing them in, assuming they weren’t part of the society. The less injuries the suspect has when they’re brought in, the higher the reward. However, he didn’t recognize any of the frightened faces peering back at him and none of them had tags on their ears. At this rate, they’d either have to start doubling up the cells or harvest every couple weeks. Cartridge shook his head, finding it easier if he just didn’t look at them. 

He entered The Reminder’s room and was met with a hiss of steam, three in unison, one was delayed. He flicked on the lights, a low, metallicy/static growl emanating from the stage as if the AI was irritated by the sudden bright light. The head of the AI lowered, the single red eye narrowing at Cartridge. 

“Oh hush, you. I’m just here ta’ help.” he said. He knew that she didn’t understand English, or any language for that matter, but he also knew she wouldn’t grab him unless ordered specifically by Sylvester. Steam hissed again every few seconds, three in unison, one delayed. Like the breath of a great beast resting in slumber. 

The Reminder could also control the back doors that let people into the back area, sometimes she’d let Cartridge in, most of the time she wouldn’t. He had no idea why Sterling thought that was a good idea, but there wasn’t really anything he could do about it. She must have had a good day though, because she didn’t seem to mind him. The back chambers were where further processing of meat was done, mostly by different components of The Reminder’s system. This was why any and all meat harvested was first dumped into the storage containers underneath her behind the stage until she was done with the slaughter. When she was, meat was processed more thoroughly. Cut into steaks, roasts, stew meat, or ground into burgers. Scraps and specific organs were also ground up and made into sausages or just ground up into, well, ground meat for the lesser members of the society. Two types of meat were never mixed, but Cartridge had no

After processing, meat was wrapped in wax paper, labeled, then dropped onto a steam-powered conveyor belt that ran under the streets and sent it to the three kitchens. The east and west conveyer served the lesser members, green card to yellow, the north one served highest members, blue and the only purple card being Sylvester Sterling himself. Some bones were also sent up to the north, for flavor or for the dogs, skulls sent up for one they’ve been cleaned for display. One of these small bones must have gotten stuck. 

Cartridge opened a wooden box, grabbed the toolbox and put on some thick, leather gloves. He then pried open a trapdoor on the wall, the opening leading to most of the pistons and gears where bone commonly got stuck somehow. These pistons worked the two right steam pipes, the right-front pipe being the issue. Some of them also worked the slaughter area, or “mouth” as Sterling calls it.

It was exactly as Cartridge thought; a bone fragment stuck in the cog. He didn’t understand how that happened at all, let alone this often. Bone cutting was done in the back rooms, and this wasn’t even a fragment, it was a vertebrae. This was the best case scenario, however. It could have very well been a dislocated cog, and with a machine that can’t exactly be turned off and hated everyone, that would be rather dangerous. He opened the toolbox and picked up the long pliers, then grabbed the vertebrae with them and twisted it until it came loose. Steam blew into his face immediately after it came loose, like a breath of fresh air after holding your breath for a long time. The distant hiss of steam bellowed, all four in unison. 

Cartridge smiled to himself, then packed up, closing the trapdoor gently. He pulled off the gloves and set them back in the wooden box, then left the back rooms examining the bone. He stepped out by the stage and a chrilling noise caught his attention. He turned and met The Reminder’s eye looking at him curiously. 

“What? You wanna know what it was? Here.” he held up the vertebrae. She took it in her pincers and scanned it.
    “I was just gonna throw it out-” small cracking silenced him as the AI crushed the bone and set the fragments on the stage, playing with them. Cartridge blinked a few times, then shook his head and left her to it, leaving the room. He stepped into The Corridor, a red deer named Arch pushing a food cart in front of him. 

“Cartridge, can you get this for me? I gotta do something.” the deer said, not really giving the roo a chance to respond before darting back out the door. 

“Hey-” Cartridge sighed, then pushed the cart down the hallway, sliding open the slots in the cells and pushing in a tray. He scanned the cells, faces large and small poking out of the darkness. 

“Why did Mr. Sterling bring us here?” a small voice asked from the deep black of the cell. 

“Cause ya pissed ‘em off.” Cartridge replied, continuing down the hall. 

“But what did we do?” another small voice pleaded. 

“I dunno everything that goes on in his head, I don’t even know him. All I know is that you crossed him.” he peered in the cell at a few chinchillas. There were three of them, and four in the cell next to them. 

“We were traded here. We were brought here in a sack.” one said sadly. The roo crouched down. They were so small. They looked like they would barely come up to his knees if they stood. The lack of tags made him uneasy, since chinchillas were known for their incredibly soft fur, he feared he knew what Sylvester’s plan for them was. But, no tag didn’t necessarily mean he was going to kill them, but it didn’t exactly mean he would spare them either. 

“What’s going to happen to us, mister?” one squeaked. He averted his eyes, then stood up. He shook his head, if they were here, on the Isle, then they deserved it. They did something to deserve it. He shook his head again as they cried for him to come back, but he was here to do a job. It wasn’t his job, but no one else was gonna do it.

He hastily finished giving out the meals, then returned the cart to the fill-up station outside and locked up the door. It killed a little bit of his soul, but he had to ignore them in order to not end up like them. He whimpered, leaning on the wall outside the building, then slowly sat down against the wall. He planted his face in his hand, curling his tail around his hind legs. He wondered if Arch pinned his job on Cartridge for this reason, because even that narcissistic dirt clod wasn’t emotionless. The roo stared into the street, watching as everyone did their jobs. He was basically done for the day, so it’s not like he was stalling. 

The more he thought about everything, the more odd things got. Why were the cells so full? The tags could be explained by simply running out, but what about The Reminder? Usually things got stuck right after or during a harvest, not a week later. Knowing Sterling, he wouldn’t wait that long to get it fixed, and it’s not like he just didn’t notice, he usually went in there often checking on the workers that aided in processing. Almost daily, in fact. Come to think of it, why was she awake? She couldn’t be turned off, but she did sort of sleep for the rest of the month, because it’s not like there was much else to do. Why was she active? 

After a moment of recovery, the red kangaroo stood up, stretching his arms and tail. He took a breath and crossed the street again, stopping about a hundred meters away from the tall building Sylveter resided in. He wasn’t sure if Sterling wanted him to report back to him afterwards, but he supposed it was better to be sure. Unless he was busy, then that would just be a sign that he shouldn’t have bothered. But knowing a little about how Sterling ticked, he’d probably like to know. Maybe Cartridge would ask about the cells filling up so quickly. 

---

Springer had thought about it and decided that maybe he should see the old wolf Cartridge had mentioned. He asked around and he was known around the society as another innocent soul brought here. He was in room 403 in the “Maternal Building”, where elders watch children who were unfairly brought into this world while their parents fulfill their simple jobs. So, daycare. Apparently, Sterling has been very particular about who is permitted to watch the kids, Doc being one of only three adults. Well, at least he did one thing right. 

Despite the Isle was crawling with the worst criminals from many different countries, everyone liked to be listened to, especially those who were wrongfully brought here. So, Doc was popular. He even had those old people candies that no one could ever find in stores, yet they managed to get to The Isle of The Damned. Maybe he could get Wilson to talk with him. He had more emotional baggage than Springer, so he’d probably need it more. Sylvester had said he’d allow them to get together again, but so far that hasn’t happened. Springer planned to go up there and ask him what was taking so long, but he figured later in the day when he was less likely to interrupt supposedly important work was better. 

“403 Maternal Building, 403 Maternal Building…” Springer repeated in his head, walking down the hallway of said Maternal Building. He scanned the doors, the numbers jumped all around and had no order. Some of the doors didn’t even have numbers, but letters on them. Some of the doors weren’t even the same color, shape, or style. They were probably brought here as repairs, the walls on this building looked like they had been badly burned. 

He finally spotted room 403 with Docson’s name carved in it. Springer stood in front of the door for a moment before knocking, slow footsteps followed by an occasional faint thud approached the door. He heard it unlock and opened slightly, a chain lock keeping it mostly shut. 

“Hello? What is it?” a raspy voice peeped from behind the wooden door. He could see his decrepit form leaning over a wooden walking cane as a snout tipped with gray fur poked out. 

“Uhm, are you Doc?” Springer’s ears drooped a little. 

“I am. Are you here to deliver a message or are you here for my word?” the old wolf asked. His voice sounded like it was made of sand and his vague southern accent was hoarse. 

“... your word?” Springer said after a pause. 

“Are you askin’ me or tellin’ me?” the wolf hissed. 

“Tellin’. I was told you’re the wise old wolf everyone talked to. I was wonderin’ if I-I could ask you’ something.” 

“Ha! Old maybe, I wouldn’t say wise. Come in, dear rabbit.” Doc unlocked the chain and stepped to the side. Springer stepped in and was met with that iconic old person smell. Doc turned to sit on an old recliner, an exaggerated grunting noise escaping his lips as he sat down. 

“Gettin’ old sucks.” he chuckled, “What’s your name, son?” 

“Springer Bonfield.” 

“Bonfield? Hm.” 

“I had a question,” Springer started, “I had a green tag before I started feeding the dogs, and someone told me that I had to have something to offer in order to be upgraded…”

“Do you?” Doc asked.

“Well, I dunno. I was a tech major, but I don’t really offer much else.” 

“Well, feeding the dogs is a pretty mundane job, so that’s probably a placeholder for you.” Doc said.

“Oh. I have another question,” Springer leaned forward, “what do ya know about The Reminder?” The hare rushed, Doc’s face blanked and Springer swore he saw his fur turn a few shades lighter. The wolf clicked his tongue, looked over his shoulder at the window behind him and leaned in close. 

“The Reminder is not a machine, she’s an AI, I’m sure you knew that. Hate’s everyone but Skinner. I heard she can read emotions and can tell whether or not he likes you by the way he holds his eyes. The glare she shoots you is enough to kill someone, I try to avoid goin’ in there, even for the harvest. Especially for the harvest.” he trailed off, “There was this one guy who got into an argument with Skinner while he was on stage. He struck a nerve r’ somethin’, ‘cause he snapped his fingers and The Reminder grabbed him and skinned him alive, then dropped his body on the stage. Everyone thought he was dead, until he lifted his head to look at the audience, then at Skinner.” Doc took a shaky breath. 

“Oh, my god. Is that… a rumor?” Springer pleaded.

“No, I saw it. Everyone saw it. That’s where he got that nickname, ‘Skinner’. That was the last time I went to a harvest. He knelt down and whispered something to him, but I don’t know what. That guy was some fox I think, he was known f’r making things difficult f’r people. Harassing others, theft, just overall being a nuisance.” 

“Like Railroad.” Springer thought, “What does he do with the skins?” 

“Dries ‘em, sells ‘em, sometimes he keeps ‘em. They’re like trophies to him. Only a demented mind would keep trophies of people he kills.” Doc trailed off, leaning back in his chair, “Don’t go repeatin' anything I’ve said. I get in a helluva lotta’ trouble. Now,” he leaned forward again, opened a drawer and picked up one of those strawberry candies you can never find anywhere. 

“Don’t tell anyone I have these, I’ve got a guy on the inside if ya’ know what I mean.” he winked, then placed the candy gently on Springer’s hand. 

“Course not.” Springer smiled. 

“You best be hittin’ the road now, son.” 

“Okay. Bye.” 

---

Cartridge stepped up the stairs to Sterling’s office, having to tell several people why he was there since anyone below Phantom wasn’t allowed in the building unless requested by Sterling. He stepped into the hallway that led to his office, the door being ajar. He knocked, and a few other members turned their heads to him. 

“Is Sterling busy?” He asked. 

“Not any less busy than he usually is,” Envar said. 

“But he’s here?” 

“Yeah. Whaddya want?” the stallion snapped. 

“It’s about The Reminder. He said the steam wasn’t right, so he sent me to fix it.” Cartridge snapped back. Envar nodded and tapped on Sylvester’s door with his hoof, then stepped aside for him. The roo cocked a fake smile as he passed the standardbred, the door swinging shut behind him. The brown hare had removed his ux jacket and bore his strong arms in a tight t-shirt, the pink flesh of scars exposed through his rich, chocolate-brown fur. Sterling glanced up at the roo, hunched over a few papers, pen in hand and a small bone hanging out of his mouth like a cigar would. 

“Ah, Cartridge.” he breathed, sitting up straight and dropping his pen, “This is about The Reminder, yes? What was the issue?” 

“Uh, small bone, sir.” 

“Yes, I thought that may be the issue. Well, thank you for checking in.” he waved his hand at Cartridge. 

“Ya know,” Cartridge started, pulling out the chair opposite of Sterling, who stared at him with a cocked eyebrow, “It’s a bit odd that a bone would get stuck this long after a harvest, isn’t it?” he bit his lip in thought. Sterling breathed a small scoff disguised as a laugh, lips parted in a slight smirk. 

“Yes, a thief was… dealt with this morning.” The brown hare cleared his throat. 

“I thought you liked ta’ make an example of ‘em?” 

“This was a… more personal issue.” 

“I thought Mayhem dealt with personal issues?” 

“She was busy.” 

“With another personal issue?” 

“Yes.” Sterling hushed. Cartridge nodded, leaning back in his seat. Sterling did so as well, moving the bone from one side of his mouth to the other. 

“What ‘bout the chinchillas? They said they were traded here.” Cartridge tapped his finger on the chair’s arm. 

“They were, it’s how we sealed the deal with Yoka. I asked for something rather simple and he delivered. Why do you care? They must have done something to be sent to the isle, they’re better off dead so they can be made into something useful.” Sterling leaned forward again, the confidence in his tone being more apparent. 

“I also noticed that the stocks were rather full. What’s up with that?” Cartridge chirped. Sylvester stiffened oh, so slightly, but there was plenty for the red roo to pick up on. 

“Thieves.” 

“But you executed the one, why not save space?” 

“Like I said, that one was personal.” 

“Ah… helluva lotta ‘f ‘em.” 

“Yes, it must be breeding season- I really must get back to work. Thank you for checking in.” 

“What ‘bout the tags?” 

“CARTRI-” Sterling roared, snapping to his feet, then biting his lip, “Please, I must be getting back to work. Leave.” Sterling hissed. Cartridge bit his lip, exhaled sharply, and stood, being escorted out the building by Envar. The stallion opened the front door for him, Cartridge turning to face him. 

“Next time, send a Mastiff up. We wouldn’t want any misunderstandings, would we?” Envar snorted. 

“Course not. Wouldn’t wanna get kicked.” The kangaroo snorted back. 

“Indeed. Now get out of my face and do your job.” 

“Job’s done.” 

“Then go back to your room. Watch some television or something.” The stallion ordered, then shut the door, locking Cartridge out. His ear twitched, irritated, then he hobbled back down the sidewalk. 

---

Sterling gnawed on his bone while he wrote. Considering the isle didn’t really have email, and not everyone could get up to his office, many members of the society wrote him letters. No internet, but they had television. If only you could communicate through the TV. Newer members who didn’t quite know how things worked were usually the ones who asked questions. Where to get supplies or where to put finished goods, how the card system worked, or to inform him of things such as pregnancy or loss, and to expect a slightly higher or lower demand in rations because of it. This one was less about the society, and more about the Isle’s background, why there were so few herbivores, and where the Isle got its power. The letter was from a member of what used to be Yoka’s clan, and said that she was told Sterling knew almost everything about the Isle, which was very true. 

“Dear Navana,” Sterling wrote, “As you may know, the isle was once a modern-for-the-time city. I believe it was a part of the English settlement, despite being so far away and having a different landscape. The city, however, has fallen to war with, I believe Germany and Austria. As you can tell, this island is rather far away from either of those countries, so neither of them wanted it, so now it’s a prison island used by about half the countries in the world. 

“Herbivores here are rare, as you’ve noticed. The main reason is because this island was used as a place to dispose of the mentally ill before laws were passed in many countries prohibiting such treatment. The problem arose from the fact that herbivores were sent here with carnivores who had lost control, and the fact that there was no food for the herbivores. These two combined lead to every feral herbivore being eaten one way or another. Feral dogs specifically took over, being able to overpower even big cats in their large numbers, and the descendants of those who guard my buildings. Unfortunate, but that’s how nature worked way back when before we founded cities and civilizations. 

“And finally, as to where the isle as a whole gets its energy, I don’t know. But, White Fang uses both steam and lightning with complex generators and converters. Steam is used mostly for The Reminder, conveyor belts, and pistons. Lighting gives light to the smaller buildings, most in my building being nocturnal carnivores who find bright light irritating, so we use oil lamps. We don’t use them in the smaller buildings because there is more that can burn there than there is here in the hallways, so fire is not of much concern here. 

“I hope this letter finds you well, and has answered some of your questions. If you have any more, I’d be happy to answer them for you! 

“Sincerely, Sylvester Sterling” 

He signed it, folded it into three segments, and stuck it in an envelope, sealing it with melted candle wax and stamping it with his seal, a two-headed dog with skulls for faces. He dropped it in the basket of letters he’d written for the day as he prepared the next one, this was what made up most of his day. It was boring and tedious, but needed to be done so everyone understood the rules and practices, so any executions were made fair and a mistake was not caused by a misunderstanding. 

He sighed dramatically, then stretched his strong arms and leaned back in his chair, yawning. He liked to get up and move around a little every three letters read and replied to, so he could stay in shape and keep the blood flowing. He rose, leaning over his desk and stretching his legs and back, the fur on his tail and body puffing up as he yawned again, bearing his inch-long canines and throat. Sterling turned to face his window, gazing out and watching the little people going about their business. 

His ear twitched at a knock on the door, he turned in time to see Envar leading in the small and clearly timid serval known as Wilson. 

“Dove! What can I do for you?” Sterling exclaimed, putting his hands on his desk. Envar shut the door behind the serval, who flinched at the sound. Sylvester stepped forward and pulled him into an embrace, the serval’s face being planted into the tuft of fur that stuck out of his V-neck shirt caller. 

“Uh, you said a few days ago that I could see Springer… Could we do that tomorrow?” The small cat asked. Sterling’s chest burned, but his face showed none of it. He was appalled by the idea of Springer’s idiocy and incomptant ideas rubbing off on Wilson, but he supposed he couldn’t keep them apart. Not while one was alive at least. 

“Well, it’ll have to be either very early or rather late at night. His job is not on a schedule so much as yours is. But, I suppose we can make something work. Sit, sit, I haven’t seen you all day.” Sylvetser chirped, sitting back down as Wilson did the same. 

“How’s Chyanne been treating you?” he asked. 

“Good, actually. But a lioness showed up today instead.” 

“Ah! Yes, that’s Mary. She is, say, the substitute chef. I meant to introduce you, but it must have slipped my mind. She didn’t kick you out, did she?” 

“She tried, but she decided to keep me around once she realized I could do the dishes for her.” 

“Yes, well, lions are opportunists, aren't they? Cats are opportunists.” Sterling grinned, “Oh! How rude of me, would you like one?” He reached to a shelf with a tray and bowl on it, grabbing the tray and setting it on the desk. Inside the bowl were mice, all nude and very much alive, but their eyes didn’t have the same domestic look to them, and the tray had many different condiments and seasonings. Wilson stared at them, but accepted his offer and picked one up by the tail so it couldn’t turn around and bite him. 

“I-It’s a statement. Just eat it, it’s fine.” Wilson thought. It couldn’t be that bad, this is what small cats like himself ate before society, but Sterling could have at least killed them first. Small cats hunted and ate small rodents like this. And birds, and… rabbits. Part of him wanted to put it back, but the primal carnivore brian wanted to eat it. He looked into the mouse’s eyes, absolutely no thought behind the rodent’s gaze, flicked it in the head. He wasn’t sure if it killed it, but it stopped moving, so he bit it. His large teeth pierced the rodent’s small body with no issue. He expected the mixed flavor of fur and blood to make him gag, but he had no issue swallowing it. It was both disgusting and extremely satisfying, his nerve was much more calm than he expected from this. The more he processed it, the more he liked it. 

“Have as many as you’d like, I can always order more.” Sylvester purred. Wilson nodded and his body reached for another one, his primal mind doing nothing to stop it as he bit into another mouse. 

“I’m so glad you like these, they’re personally one of my favorites as well.” Sterling said, picking up a mouse of his own, but taking some cilantro oil and dipping his mouse in it. Wilson scanned the tray of seasonings, cheeses, spices, and crackers. 

“I don’t know how well tomorrow will work for your little reunion.” Sterling said, “But, by the end of the week, you’ll see him. I promise.” 

“Okay.” Wilson said, trying a mouse with some cheese. They say mice like cheese, so this was perfectly morbid. 

“Go ahead and take these back up to our room, I’ll get myself another bowl.” Sterling said. 

“Okay, thanks.” the serval said, taking the tray and leaving the room. Sterling smiled, his conversion process couldn’t have started more perfectly. He would just hope the next stage would go just as well.