Miska’s Tonic

Howe Greymoor peered at the yellow liquid in the glass beaker. The rat frowned and swirled it around before setting it back on the table. Miska Goldenfur, his research partner — although she continually insisted on the word “friend” — poked her head over the edge of the table.

“Is it done?” she chirped. Howe was used to the higher pitches of his mice brethren, but Miska’s always seemed particularly… piercing, somehow.

“Not yet,” the analyst muttered, grabbing a bottle of green liquid and carefully pouring a few drops into the beaker. It blorped into a muddy brown.

The psychic huffed and sat back on her chair. “It’s never ready,” she grumbled. “I should touch it. That’ll make it go faster.”

Howe barely stifled a sigh as he grabbed his magnifying lenses. “Your burgeoning abilities in humorism are not toys,” he intoned, turning to Miska. Wearing the lenses made his eyes look three times bigger than usual, and Miska giggled at the sight. With a huff, Howe turned back to his experiment and continued. “Besides, there’s nothing about necrotic touch that will help this creation in any way.”

The psyker’s laugh changed into a petulant pout. “Don’t think I’m ungrateful,” she hedged. Miska knew that Howe could be sensitive at times, and she liked to stay on his good side, no matter how irritating he could be. “You’ve taught me a lot about my psychic abilities. I just—”

At that moment, Howe dropped a flat white tablet into the mixture. It touched the brown liquid and crimson smoke burst into the room, filling it with a fine, oily, stinging vapor. Both rodents coughed, and Miska rushed to open the window to her apartment.

“That,” coughed Howe, “will keep your neighbors confused for a while.”

Miska hacked again and rubbed her eyes. Leaning her head out the window, she sucked in huge breaths of fresh air before she spoke. “It won’t be the first time,” she rasped once the gas cleared. “But folks here in Riverside don’t ask a lot of questions.”

Howe waved a wisp of gas from his nose and closed one eye, looking at the beaker again. “But they do ask questions,” he grumbled, half listening.

“Oh, sure,” Miska agreed. “Mister Meow even asked me if you’re a member of the Cult of Labo Tor.”

The rat jolted his chin around to look at her, and Miska fervently waved her paws to reassure him. “No! I mean, I told him you weren’t! You’re a good rat!” He snorted and returned his attention to the beaker, swirling it and frowning. The mouse prattled on. “But you come and go a lot, and your knowledge of science is greater than mine. It’s an easy mistake to make.”

“A mistake us right-thinking scientists constantly pay for,” Howe groused.

“Besides,” Miska continued, “I think he’s looking for friends for some reason. Maybe to try to make the lives of the cats in Riverside a bit better.”

“Particularly after the monarchies have recalled their diplomats,” Howe muttered.

Miska shrugged. “I don’t know much about politics, but Mister Meow seemed pretty upset about it. Which is why I asked you to make a tonic for him.”

Howe took a sip, nodded, and put the beaker on the table. “It’s a minor form of science,” he pronounced, “but in my travels I learned how to make a good health tonic. But I fail to see how this cat friend of yours…”

“Mister Meow,” Miska offered.

“… yes, so you said. I don’t see how he benefits.”

The mouse rolled her eyes. She’d explained this several times before. “Mister Meow is nervous about his health.”

“Yes, I got that much. Hence the request for a health tonic.”

“But he’s afraid to go to the Church of Man for healing. He thinks they’re still mad about the cats who left of whatever.”

“The diplomats.”

“Yeah, the diplo cats. So when I mentioned I knew a rat who could mix an excellent tonic, he got excited. ‘I must have Miska’s Tonic!’ he would say in that obviously really fake accent of his.”

“That accent really is quite atrocious,” Howe agreed.

“If I give him the tonic,” Misks concluded, “he’ll owe me a favor.”

The rat sat down on a battered wooden stool next to Miska. “What favor do you plan to ask of him?”

“Me?” Miska giggled. The thought made her anxious. “None. But if word gets around that he owes me a favor, the other cats will leave me alone.” She shivered involuntarily. “It’s hard being a mouse who lived in a neighborhood full of cats.”

Howe shrugged. “So move. Your village fell to the Unseen, true, but there are plenty of rodent communities who would value your knowledge. Even the warm darkness of Chewpost would accept you.”

Miska walked back to close the window, but she lingered, staring out at the streets of Pugmire. “But if I go,” she asked, “who will make this place better?”

Howe didn’t have an answer for that.