"Begorra! It's not like that, I tell you!" The bat O'Niel was now plainly feeling better, having cast up the cause of his afflictions. He turned to his friend and chief drink-purveyor, the rat philosopher. Doc-or Georg Friedrich Hegel, or, as he had lately renamed himself, Pararattus-was an experiment in the download tolerance of the soft-cyber implant. They'd put the whole of Hegel's Phenomenology of the Spirit and Science of Logic into the chip's memory.

The chip hadn't cracked, but one had to be less certain about the philosophical rat's sanity. Still, given the dire state of the war effort, even experiments such as he had been drafted into the line. He was-as an aside from being a bad philosopher-a very good medic.

"Doc, explain to her, 'tis not wanton slaves to constant lust that we be, like rats or humans. 'Tis… 'tis…"

Doc nodded. "Merely biologically different, with each species considering theirs the only right and proper way to do things," he supplied, wrapping his tail around his love's in turn. "And you bats should, by now, comprehend that it is not disgust, but envy, that motivates the mockery of such as Pistol."

The bats blinked at the idea. Michaela Bronstein was, as usual, the quickest on the uptake "You mean…?" She looked in horror at the one-eyed rat, who was winking lewdly at her.

Pistol nodded cheerfully. "We'd love an invitation next time, you saucy winged jade."

Bronstein shook her head. "Rats!"

"That's us," said Fat Falstaff cheerfully. "Mind you, I am not so sure about doing it upside down. There is a great deal of me to hang by the feet, while distracted." He hauled a small bottle of the looted brandy out of his pack. "Methinks I'll quaff a stoup of this sack. At least we can drink in public, even if our girls prefer some privacy for other pastimes."