The life of mice is a quiet one, fearful yet content, and the colony of the old Blips motel was the perfect example. Each day, the mice would swiftly scamper through their hidden holes and passageways in search of crumbs. They hid from the slightest footstep and never ventured beyond their routes. When they had gathered enough specs of cheddar or shards of potato chips, the mice would return home to their peaceful pastimes. Tidying their nests, telling stories about motel guests, and visiting the neighbors next door for a friendly riddle over tea drops and cake crumbs. This was the comfortable life they lived: a perfect life for a mouse.
It was only the littlest mouse who disagreed. Her heart beat to a different rhythm than the others. It was quicker and louder and banged with a longing for adventure. She dreamed of seeing the world outside her home, of stealing gold coins and battling evildoers with her sharp teeth. She'd tell the other mice of her hopes and frustrations only to receive shaking heads in reply. This was why the littlest mouse never told a soul that, when her colony was fast asleep, she'd scamper outside near the trash can. There she’d sit, watching the blurs of blue and white cars beneath the hazy glow of a streetlight and imagine how exciting life would be if only she wasn't a mouse.
Then on one gloomy midnight, the littlest mouse snuck away to her usual spot to find it was already occupied. The lifeless form of a rat lay there; twice her size with ragged brown fur and riddled with teeth marks. When the mouse took a closer look, she discovered the poor creature was completely hollow.
How could this happen to a rat? She thought, gulping back the bile in her throat.
Rats were strong and fearless creatures after all, the kind of rodent that never made yarn-knitted nests or hid just because a human sneezed. Her instincts told her to scamper home that very instant; however, the longer she looked at the body, the brighter the lightbulb in her brain became.
With a sudden gush of moxie, the little mouse scraped the mossy rot out from the rat's skin. Using a bit of twine, she tied the corpse over herself like a rogue’s cloak. The skin was a bulky thing to move in but if she watched her steps carefully and didn’t breathe through her nose, she could make the rat come to life. Suddenly, her dreams of adventure didn't seem so impossible. How could they be if she was a rat?
Early the next morning, when her family slept, she dressed herself with the skin and left to see the world in all its danger and glory. Keeping to the shadiest alleyways, the littlest mouse soon found what she was looking for: A gang of rats rummaging through a dumpster. They were even bigger and tougher than she'd imagined: missing eyes wrapped with bandages, arms stuffed with muscles, and never-ending teeth that were as yellow as they were sharp.
"Oi!” Hollered the leader, his body as large and lumpy as a sack of potatoes. “Not trying to musl’in on our turf, is ya?"
The little mouse replied in a deep gravelly voice.
"Only lookin' for a new gang. My old ones went blind and lost their tails to a carving knife."
The rat laughed.
"Haven't heard that rhyme since I was a pup! Ya some kinda house rat?"
The little mouse quivered, but the rat continued.
"It's a breath o' fresh air I say. C'mon! Join the heap!"
Relieved, the littlest mouse scampered right up the rusted dumpster. From that day forward, the littlest mouse was known as the Ratskin, one of the oddest rats of the Black Street pack. When they discovered the old hole behind Patrizio's Pizzaria, she was there hauling away mounds of breadsticks. When they trekked through the dark muck of the sewers, she maneuvered so the poo didn’t stain her rat skin. When the Alfred Lane pack tried to muscle in on Black Street territory, she cussed out them and their moms until the intruders slunk away. It was the life she'd always wanted, and she loved every second of it...or at least she wanted to. The truth of her identity was as mushy as her rotting skin. Whether by nosy questions, odd twerks in her movements, or the difficulty of breathing and moving beneath her skin, she always felt her life hung at the edge of that nursery rhyme carving knife. Still, she felt certain the choice was to give up her rat life or keep up her rat hood, so the hood would have to stay.
A new year dawned, and it was tradition that all the friendly packs would gather together to celebrate their survival and boast of their daring deeds. This party was held in the Red Rim Junkyard, an abandoned rat paradise lit with candle nubs and filled with music played on copper pots and soda bottles. It was a jamboree to end all jamborees, topped off with enough rotted grape juice to drive a human drunk and jokes dirty enough to make a sailor queasy. Ratskin found herself watching from a mound of soup cans. There was no way her skin could move properly enough to dance and despite her efforts, she could never find a taste for rotting juice. The rats teased her, playfully, of course, to join in the fun, but their jests cut deeper than they knew. When they’d finally left her alone, the loneliness hung heavier than even the molding carcass on her back.
Even with all she’d accomplished, she was still that tiny mouse watching her world from the outside.
Then a cloud encased the moon, and the night sky went black. The candles winked out in the wind. Rats began to scamper in drunken fear, blindly snapping at whoever stood closest. When the moon returned, an even darker shadow appeared. It was gigantic, standing on three mangled paws with box-cutter claws. Its back was hunched, its eyes glowed a cruel gold, and its prey-filled belly brushed against the dirt.
"It's the Hell Cat!"
With that cry, the rats’ fears twisted into drunken courage. They charged forward with their teeth bared, but before they could take a bite, the moon disappeared once more. Shouts of agony filled the darkness as the rats fell one by one. In the returning moonlight, every rat lay blooded on the ground. Only a dozen of them were alive, breathing through aching lungs. The Hell Cat grinned its red tinted teeth at such an easy feast.
And yet…
The Hell Cat raised its head and sniffed the air. It turned to a pile of tin cans and sniffed again.
"Strrrrrrange..." The Hell Cat purred, creeping forward on padded toes. "I smell supper...an old supper...but why do I hear its heart beating?"
Ratskin held her breath, clenched her paws, willed her heart not to beat so loudly. The Hell Cat batted at a can, and the clanging rang in her ears.
"Do ghosts have heartbeats?" The Hell Cat licked its lips. "I've neverrrr tasted ghost before....and you were quite tasty the firrrrst time..."
Ratskin watched the black paw fish through the cans in front of her. Behind it, she saw the clouds moving towards the moon.
"Mmmmm...there you are....right....HERE!"
The Hell Cat drove its claws into the can pile and into flesh.
The world went black.
"RRRAAAAAOOOOWWWWW!"
The Hell Cat howled in pain as the littlest mouse clamped down on its throat. It tried to pull away, but its claws were buried deep into the dead rat skin. By the cover of darkness, the littlest mouse ran back and forth. Her bites were small, but they cut fast and buried deep. Four to the paw, two for the tail, five one the face, and one straight to the jugular.
When the moon returned for good, the Hell Cat was no more. The littlest mouse stood over its body, her heart still quaking. A long minute passed.
"That mouse has beaten the Hell Cat!"
The last living rats were staring at her—the real her. Her brain ordered her to flee, but her legs refused. Instead, she was forced to hear the rats pratteling.
"Out of all of us, a mouse was the one to get it?"
"Ha! Now this'll be a story to tell!"
"Hey! Mouse! How'd you manage that!?"
The rats surrounded her, each one three times her size.
“But…not as big as the Hell cat.” She still felt the warm blood on her fangs, and found just enough strength left to squeak,
"B-better than you did."
The rats raised a round of laughter, not mocking, she realized, but fizzing with relief. One lanky rat did mutter a few words about weaklings and house pets, but the leader slapped him down with a slap of his tail.
"Aw shove it! This mouse has done better than we have. What's your name, mouse?"
The littlest mouse took a deep breath and replied in her fake, low voice.
"Ratskin."
There was a lot to explain and the story flooded out of her. The rats laughed and gasped,but not a single one tried to send her away.
On that night, the legend of Ratskin truly began. Her adventures only grew greater and bolder without the skin weighing upon her. Some rats in her gang would mock her and her colony never quite understood why she’d left, but Ratskin no longer cared what they thought. She was free to fight and hide, compliment and cuss, adventure and wander as she pleased. It didn't matter what kind of rodent she was after all. Not as long as she bold enough to the life she wanted
And when she happened upon a young rat lingering by the hotel she once called home—a rat who wished to tidy nests, sip tea, and solve riddles as he thought only mice were allowed—she told him the very same thing.