“Aha!” cried Skittles, jumping out from the shadows. “I smell a conspiracy. A connection. An evil alliance, of sorts. Now what business could the two of you have to discuss in a out-of-the-way, shadowy corridor?”
Anakron and Igör gave her blank stares. “What are you on about?” asked the Grand Anarkonist, grandly.
“There are Wereducks afoot. Or should I say, aweb?” Skittles informed them. “And I’m on the lookout for suspicious behavior. Like odd fraternization between parties not given to regular fraternization. What, praytell my pretties, are you discussing in so cloistered an area?”
“Invisibility,” supplied Igör.
“Or, being ignored,” Anakron put in.
Hissyfit sauntered up and sat down next to Skittles, taking a moment to smooth down the hairs on her chest before observing, “They don’t look very ducky to me.”
“Oh?” Skittles raised an eyebrow. “And what exactly do you consider as ‘ducky’?”
“Well, if it looks like a duck, quacks like a duck, and waddles like a duck, it’s a duck.”
“Igör has been known to waddle.”
Igör wrinkled his forehead in confusion. “I’m sorry, are you talking to me?”
Skittles ignored him, attending to Hissyfit, who replied, “But he doesn’t have any feathers.”
“That doesn’t mean anything during the day.”
“I think,” Anakron said to Igör, “she is speaking to her cat.” Sylvestor, who had been yowling before Skittles rudely interrupted, uttered an impatient bleat to remind everyone that he was still around and he was ready to put the whammy on somebody.
Hissyfit forgot her duck-assessment for a moment and looked at the staff, her tail fuzzing out like a woolly bear caterpillar. “What is that?” she hissed.
Skittles shrugged. “It’s a cat on a stick. You act like you’ve never seen one before.”
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