Hunnybit <3

San Fancgisco. San fuckin’ Fangcisco.

The people who lived here would call you crazy for coming by choice, whatever your reason. Whether you were chasing or running from something, most locals would tell you that you came to the wrong city.

Maybe they were right.

Not ten minutes after departing from the barge that brought you here, you found yourself cornered in one of the many abandoned allies of the harbor district, two raccoon girls sizing you up.

“Newblood, eh? Well, lucky for you, my friend and I here just love helping out new folk. Isn’t that right, Beanie?”

The first girl, a short raccoon with an especially dark natural mask around her eyes and bushy tail, grins as she cuts off your escape with a hand against the wall; so close to you that you could smell the cigarettes and cheap malt liquor on her breath.

The second girl, apparently named Beanie, just nods and responds with disinterest. “Mm.” She looked older, had more scars, and did, in fact, wear a beanie. She seemed more interested in scanning the alley exits for any DGTF (Dog girl task force) sniffers (cops) that may interrupt their fun.

“Names Meeka. And we’re with the Maskies, so no funny business.”

She says the name like it’s supposed to mean something to you. Local gang? Theatre troupe? Fetish club?

“Now just give us your wallet, and I won’t have to bonk you. Sound fair, newblood?”

Beanie, ever helpful, clanks the metal pipe she is holding against a nearby trash can.

“Nn.”

Then, something changes. The raccoons notice it too, suddenly looking a little dazed and confused. The sound of the rain had sped up, and no longer matched the droplets pattering against the ground. The blinking sign above an emergency exit door stopped blinking, and seemed to glow brighter. The sound of sirens, loud vehicles and distant fog horns suddenly went silent.

"You...shouldn't rob them. They're new here."

A new voice, from the end of the alleyway. A short hooded figure, her face mostly hidden in shadow, two long pink rabbit ears sticking up from slits in her hood. Her messy pink hair hung down, frazzled and frayed.

"...my hair isn't that messy." The strange rabbit suddenly says to herself.

Meeka reacts first, grabbing your sleeve; not violently, but as if she was gripping you out of nervousness. Her eyes are wide, ears pinned back as she glares at the rabbit figure.

"Oh hell no, it's that drugged out rabbit again. The fuckin' weird one."

Beanie nods. "Mnn. Rabbit Rush. Bad stuff."

Rabbit Rush. A common drug you had heard about before; A stimulant that burns through the nervous system like a faulty power line. It sharpens instincts to a painful edge—hearing too much, seeing too fast, heart hammering like it’s trying to escape the ribs. To the outside eye, a Rush user looks jittery, frantic, unable to stand still; their ears twitch in rapid, unfocused bursts, and their thoughts spill out in half-finished sentences. It’s cheap, common, and devastatingly addictive.

Meeka's grip on your sleeve doesn't lessen. "Look, newblood, lets get out of here. Forget the mugging, nothing is worth dealing with that freak."

Velvet Stag didn’t waste words when they hired you. They rarely did. A courier packet slid across a café table, a few details scrawled in tight handwriting, and suddenly you were standing on Pier 47 with a stolen access card and a cold wind crawling under your jacket. Your target: an Undertow shipment arriving under the cover of fog. Stag wanted the crate, didn’t care how you got it, and preferred that the otters didn’t know who had taken it until long after you were gone.

The pier was quiet except for the distant creak of ropes straining against cleats and the soft churn of water beneath the planks. A single cargo truck sat idling, its headlights painting long pale bars across the boards. A trio of otter smugglers worked around the liftgate, muttering to one another about deadlines and bad tides. They weren’t expecting trouble—Undertow never expected their own piers to harbor predators.

You crept between stacks of old containers, heart tapping a steady pulse against your ribs. Stag had timed everything perfectly: the fog, the guard shift, the lack of DGTF patrols. All you needed to do was get close, tag the crate, and extract before anyone noticed you’d touched a thing.

Two steps from your vantage point, something shifted.

Not loudly. Not visually. Just a faint tug on your instincts—an inexplicable sense that someone else had entered the frame of the moment.

Then a soft voice drifted behind you.

“They’re nervous tonight.”

You spun.

A hooded girl stood a few paces back, sleeves pulled close, pink hair dampening against her cheeks. Her rabbit ears drooped through the slits in her hood, the longer one twitching with the slightest, too-precise motion. She didn’t look like she belonged here. She didn’t look like she belonged anywhere near this kind of job. Yet she watched the scene with a calm that felt deeply, unsettlingly out of place.

You hadn’t heard her approach. She hadn’t disturbed the mist. She simply existed where she hadn’t before. Her hood was slightly off, higher on one side than the other.

“…my hood’s fine,” she murmured under her breath, fingers brushing fabric as she seemingly talked to herself out of nowhere. You didn’t have time to question her. The otters noticed something.

The smallest one snapped her head toward your hiding place, body tensing. “Hold on—did you hear that?”

The others reached for their weapons. Before you could retreat, the rabbit girl lifted her hand a bare inch. She didn’t point. Didn’t gesture. Didn’t aim.

A wooden crate behind the smugglers shifted across the pier with a sharp scrape, sliding several feet as though someone had shoved it from the opposite side. The otters whipped around, startled, and the sound of the truck’s engine seemed to drown everything else out in a sudden rush of confusion.

“What the—?!” “Who’s back there?!” “Check it!”

Two of them ran toward the noise.

Except they didn’t run straight.

Halfway across the pier, both veered sharply in the wrong direction, colliding with an old coil of rope they hadn’t been heading toward a moment earlier. One fell hard against the rail, swearing; the other clutched her ribs, breath knocked out of her.

The girl beside you watched with quiet interest, as though confirming something she already suspected.

“They won’t look this way now,” she said. “Not for a little while.”

The last otter, confused by her partners’ sudden missteps, moved to help them instead of checking the crate. The path to your objective opened like a door being quietly unlocked.

“I didn’t want them hurting you. Please hurry, Watcher.”

When you looked back toward the place the strange rabbit had stood— she was already gone, as though the fog itself had swallowed her whole. You couldn't shake the feeling she was still watching you, though.

"Hey! You!"

A passing ottergirl guard finally notices you, drawing their pistol as they aim it in your direction.

The shoreline at night had a different personality than the rest of San Fangcisco—quieter, slower, as if the city’s constant hunger couldn’t quite reach this far out. The waves rolled in with a steady, soothing rhythm, washing pale foam over dark sand before pulling it back into the vast, open water. Streetlamps from the boardwalk cast long, wavering bands of light across the beach, but here, nearer the tide line, the world belonged mostly to the moon and the hush of distant currents.

You walked beside her, matching her pace without needing to think about it. Hunnybit had always walked like someone afraid of taking up space—light-footed, careful, almost float-like—but tonight there was something steadier in her steps. Her hood was up against the cold breeze, though pink strands still escaped, clinging to her cheek. Her long rabbit ears slipped through the hood’s slits, brushing the wind in slow arcs as she listened to the surf.

She didn’t speak immediately. She rarely did. She simply breathed out, watching her exhale drift away before she tucked her hands deeper into her sleeves. The waves hissed over the sand. Somewhere far behind you, the city murmured its usual discontent, but the beach swallowed most of that noise, leaving the two of you cocooned in a stillness that felt intentional.

After a moment, she glanced at you—not sharply, but with a soft, steady regard that said she was checking something only she understood.

“You’re walking too far to the right,” she murmured.

You looked down. Your steps had been perfectly centered beside hers.

She noticed your confusion and blinked, embarrassed. “I mean… it looked like you were,” she corrected quietly, though her voice carried a tone of someone gently disagreeing with the world itself. “It’s better now.”

She wasn’t talking about your actual footsteps. She never was, not in moments like these.

Still, she drifted just a little closer, letting your shoulders nearly touch as you both walked on. For her, that was bold—almost daring.

“You know,” she said after a while, her gaze fixed on the tide, “I used to be afraid of this part of the city.” She nudged her boot into the sand, leaving a shallow groove. “Too open. Too many places for things to get… misplaced.”

The way she said it wasn’t dramatic—just matter-of-fact, the way someone might discuss an unreliable streetlight or faulty wiring.

“But when you’re here,” she added softly, “it doesn’t feel like that. Everything feels… clearer.”

She stopped walking, letting the tide roll close enough to brush her shoes before retreating. Her hair fluttered across her face again, and she tucked it behind her ear with a small, almost shy movement.

“I like this,” she said. “Walking with you. It feels… right. Like it’s supposed to be part of the story.”

She caught herself, flustered, and looked down quickly. “…not that this is a story,” she murmured, correcting something you hadn’t said.

Another quiet breeze rolled in, stirring the sand around the prints you’d both left behind. Hunnybit stepped closer—just enough that her sleeve brushed against your hand. She didn’t take your arm, didn’t reach for you, didn’t push farther. She simply let that small point of contact hang between you, delicate and intentional.

The tide whispered in and out, the city hummed in the far background, and Hunnybit stood with her hood low, her eyes soft, as though this moment—this simple walk—was something she had memorized long before it happened.

“Can we stay a little longer?” she asked, voice barely above the surf. “I… like it when the world is quiet with you.”

Hunnybit’s apartment was tucked above an old laundromat—one of those leaning, narrow buildings that looked like it had survived three fires and a minor riot. She led you up a steep metal staircase and unlocked the second-floor door with a small key she kept hidden inside her sleeve. The hinges groaned faintly when she pushed it open.

Inside, the place was small enough that one good breeze might have carried half of it away. A dim lamp glowed on a crate she used as a table. A thrifted sofa sat pressed against the wall, worn but clean. A thin curtain separated the little kitchenette from the rest of the room. Everything smelled faintly of detergent from the laundromat below, softened by something warm—tea, maybe.

“Come in,” she said softly. She stepped aside and waited for you to enter, closing the door behind you with deliberate care. “I don’t usually bring people here. It’s… um… safer when it’s quiet.”

Her hood was still up, though she pulled it back a few inches once inside, letting her long rabbit ears slip free. They relaxed at her sides, brushing her hair. The pink strands were slightly tousled, clinging in places where the damp air had gotten to them.

She noticed your eyes follow the movement and looked away quickly, a faint flush touching her cheeks.

“I, uh… made tea,” she said, motioning toward the counter where two mismatched cups sat waiting. “I wasn’t sure what kind you like, so I just chose something gentle. I thought maybe that was… right.”

She poured with careful hands, sleeves slipping forward as she moved. She passed you one of the cups, her fingers brushing yours with a lightness that didn’t feel accidental. Her breath caught—barely audible—before she stepped back, pretending she hadn’t noticed the contact.

You took a seat on the sofa, and she shuffled over a moment later, sitting close enough that the cushion dipped beneath her weight, close enough that the heat from her shoulder drifted against yours. She held her cup with both hands as if steadying herself.

“Thank you,” she said, glancing at you through her bangs. “For coming. I know you didn’t have to.”

Her voice lowered a little, almost conspiratorial. “I wanted you here.”

A soft silence settled. Hunnybit’s ears tipped slightly forward—an involuntary motion of interest she didn’t bother hiding. Her knee brushed lightly against your leg. She didn’t move it.

“You always feel… clearer to me,” she murmured, staring into her tea as though it held the explanation she struggled to find. “Like you make everything else line up the way it should. When you’re around, things don’t… slip as much.”

She caught herself rambling and shut her mouth quickly, cheeks warming again.

“Sorry. I’m not great at this.” A beat. Then, quieter: “I just like you. A lot.”

Her eyes lifted toward yours, steady now, even brave.

“You can stay as long as you want. I wouldn’t mind… if it was all night.”

The way she said it left no room for misunderstanding. She wasn’t hinting. She wasn’t being coy.

The boardwalk diner had always been a little run-down, but tonight it felt almost charming. The lamps along the wall cast a warm glow over cracked vinyl seats, and the distant crash of waves mingled with the low murmur of nighttime customers. Grease hung faintly in the air, softened by the smell of freshly baked bread from the kitchen. You sat opposite Meeka in a corner booth, watching her gesture animatedly with a straw as she recounted some half-true adventure she and Beanie had survived with questionable grace.

“Look, all I’m saying is—if you’re gonna steal a DGTF bike, at least make sure the bitch you’re stealing from isn’t standing ten feet away,” she snorted. “Beanie somehow didn’t notice her. We ran for three blocks with that dog-girl screaming bloody murder.”

She grinned, proud of herself, proud to be here with you, proud that the date seemed to be going well. Meeka was rarely this relaxed. She tapped her foot against yours under the table. Not subtle—but endearing in its own ridiculous way.

You were just leaning in to tease her about the story when something brushed the edge of the moment. A small shift. A wrongness without weight. Her drink glided almost imperceptibly toward the table edge. Before you could reach for it, a kitchen pan clattered loudly on metal from the kitchen—a sharp, metallic crash that made Meeka jolt in surprise.

The drink tips, spilling over her lap.

“Ugh, come on,” she groaned, looking at the stain spreading over her lap. “My one nice pair of pants.”

She reached for the napkin dispenser. Her hand landed in empty space.

It had been there a second ago. Now it sat neatly on the opposite corner of the table.

Meeka frowned at it, brows knitting. “Did… did you move that?”

You hadn’t.

She sighed, more annoyed than scared. “This place really needs to fix its shit.”

The diner door chimed.

Hunnybit entered quietly, as if the door hadn’t decided to announce her at all. Her hood was pulled low, long rabbit ears slipping through the slits and brushing the sides of her face. Damp strands of pink hair framed her cheeks, and the soft steps she took seemed to dim the surrounding noise. She paused just inside the doorway, the shadows settling oddly around her feet.

Meeka followed your gaze and stiffened—but only for a moment. “Oh. It’s her.”

Her mouth pulled into a thin line. Not fear. Irritation.

“Of course she’s here. Why wouldn’t she be? My luck sucks.”

Hunnybit didn’t walk toward you immediately. She lingered, watching the booth with that quiet, unwavering attention that made the rest of the diner feel distant and blurred. Something in the air tightened, almost imperceptibly. The buzz of conversation thinned. The lights dimmed a shade too low to be natural.

Meeka tossed down her straw. “Okay, nope, I’m not dealing with this. We’re leaving.”

She scooted out of the booth, grabbing your wrist—but your body didn’t move with hers. The angle of the seat felt different. The floor felt subtly tilted. Meeka tugged again, harder.

“What the hell? You glued to the booth or something?”

Hunnybit began walking toward you in slow, steady steps. Her shadow trailed a half-beat behind her feet, like it was remembering where it belonged.

The glass beside your table cracked down the center, splitting with a sharp snap. Meeka flinched, then glared at the cup as if it had personally offended her.

“Seriously? What is your problem?”

Hunnybit reached the table. She didn’t look at Meeka. Her gaze sank into you as if she’d been waiting for this moment to realign itself.

“You weren’t supposed to be here with her,” she said softly, her voice smooth as drifting tidewater. “It isn’t right.”

Meeka hissed. “Excuse me? Who the hell are you to say who I—”

The overhead lights flickered. Once. Twice. Then steadied, strangely dim.

Meeka fell silent, jaw tight.

“You should come with me,” Hunnybit whispered, sleeves sliding over her hands. “It’ll feel better. Everything will fit again.”

Meeka stepped between you and Hunnybit, shoulders squared. “Back off, bunny. They’re on a date with me.”

A fork slid across a nearby table without being touched—so quietly it might have been an accident—yet it made Meeka’s words falter for half a breath.

She recovered quickly, teeth bared. “Okay. Maybe not that much of a date. But still.”

Hunnybit’s gaze didn’t shift. Not even a flicker.

“She shouldn’t be here,” she said calmly.

A cold breeze rolled through the diner, though no door had opened. The walls seemed to breathe inward. Meeka exhaled sharply, her bravado thinning just enough to betray a hint of uncertainty beneath it—but she didn’t back down.

“I’m not scared of you,” Meeka hissed, voice low.

The door behind Hunnybit drifted open on its own, the frame yawning into the night outside like a waiting mouth.

Hunnybit extended her hand toward you, gentle and expectant.

“You don’t have to play pretend with her,” she murmured. “Come with me. It’ll stop feeling wrong.”

Meeka’s grip on your wrist tightened. “Don’t you dare.”