# Chapter 1
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At Polly's hometown, feral rats terrorized crops and flowers, but the rats here were like cleaners: one picked up a plastic wrapper, forgotten beside a curb, and rushed to the nearest trash can. The sights of spring break differed, too; these streets replaced chatty neighbors with trash---lots of it. Everywhere she went, the landscape was a monochromatic gray: from clouds that masked the sky, to skyscrapers, houses and the asphalt ahead. No plants in sight---no barley, wheat, oaks or palms---only weeds in the cracks. Such was the cold, megalopolitan Portcinnere.

Polly wasn't supposed to be here for so long. Had her mom not felt the need to chat with every clerk, she would've been wearing something much, much looser than her plain clothes. Another shopping spree gone awry. Tired of waiting, sitting still, listening to mom's gossip, she took a walk; just two blocks, not too far from Jenny's Bakery---mom's latest victim. If she could navigate her hometown, she could navigate Portcinnere. But once she noticed the business signs and painted roll-up doors ahead, instead of houses upon houses, it dawned on her: that was not two blocks.

According to one of the signs, she was in 42nd South Street. How these streets had numbers for names always bewildered her, she couldn't imagine her place on the map. If she had wings, she could've flown to her mom and all would've been well---worst time to be a wingless parrot.

Bar shoes clapped against the sidewalk as she scampered towards the higher-numbered streets. 43rd, 44th, 45th; every one of them, up to the 55th, had no signs of people, let alone her mom or the bakery. She double-checked by returning to the 42nd; only then did she catch her breath. Another round of jogging: 41st, 40th, 39th, down to the 36th. Another double-check, back to the 42nd. In no time, Polly's legs wobbled, unable to run any more---patience gave way for panic.

"Mom? *Mom?*" she shouted. "Is anyone out there?"

No feedback.

She wandered off into a couple other streets and kept shouting: "*Mom?!*"

Even through the pounding in her ears, no sounds beside the distant hustle-and-bustle reached her. Until she felt a hand on her shoulder.

"Do you need any help, sweetie?" His deep voice surprised her.

The black, latex-gloved hand led the eyes up a lab coat's sleeve, then the---equally white---face of a cat man: bags under the eyes; long whiskers and ears, one of them featuring a bite mark; violet hair that zig-zagged in front and, at the darker back, flowed down to his waist. Skinny and tall---his lower half equalled her entire height. It took a while for a certain trashy scent to reach her.

"I ... need to find my mom. She's in a bakery, somewhere around here. Can you help?"

"Of course Mystery can help! Do you remember the name of it?"

"It's Jenny's Bakery." She squinted, wiping sweat off her forehead. "Wait, who's Mystery?"

"Mystery is Mystery Burns," a thumb pointed at his silly grin, "I'm the best doctor and artist in the area. And your name is ...?"

"Polly. What kind of name is Mystery?"

"Well, I just so happened to be a lucky guy born with a pretty name. I can't imagine it was the same for you. Come on, you're Polly cause you're a bird? I'd go *cuckoo* if I was that lame!" He giggled.

"There's nothing wrong with my name, just help me find mom."

"Oh come on, I'm just teasing." Mystery led her deeper into a maze of alleyways, where dumpsters, trash cans and parked cars lined the path, next to backdoors of random establishments. "You might want to hold my hand, you can get lost or too far behind."

"I don't have to, I can keep up just fine."

He glared at her. "Hold my hand."

"No."

"Hold. My. Hand."

Better not to annoy her only help. Her hand struggled to lock onto his, due to how much smaller it was, so she resorted to his middle finger. A victorious smirk spread across his face.

The first sign of sunset showed itself: the sky was dimming, along with everything below it, into a blue tint. Polly, through all her haste, forgot to even guess the time. "Are we too far? Me and mom were supposed to---"

"Oh, don't worry, she'll be right ahead." They crossed the street and went into another alleyway.

"Are you sure? I don't remember being anywhere near here."

"This is the shortcut. I know this town from the inside out, so you can trust me. We should reach the back of the bakery in a few."

"Why the back?"

"Uh, let's just say the owner isn't very fond of me."

"Why? Did you do something bad?"

"I ... oh! We're here!"

They reached a dead end. Three dumpsters lined the wall of yet another indistinct, grayish establishment. She read the faded paint on the set of iron doors ahead, then the labels on the dumpsters. "Medical waste? Isn't this a bakery?"

"Aren't you an *observant* little one?"

All too quick, she fell to the ground. Arms and legs stuck to her body; his limbs against hers. Inbetween screams, she writhed, kicked the air---not even one flinch from him. Instead, he squeezed her neck.

"You just couldn't keep to yourself, could you?" he whispered. "I wouldn't have to do this if you just played along. But no, little Miss Special has to let everyone know that she knows how to read. No one will come to help, so don't even think about screaming."

Trying to respond, she sputtered and coughed. Eyes almost closing; couldn't breathe.

"Good. You know your place now." Mystery let go of her neck.

Her gasp for air was cut short---he smacked her face hard, over and over. Every slap, a shriek---a tear fallen down, a cry. The sight of his toothy grin stung her more than his hand---his button-eye ate into her soul. She closed her eyes and thrashed under him; fists banged the ground. Until he stopped and stared her down. A puddle of tears glued her to the pavement. Softly, trying to keep her lips shut inbetween sniffles, she whimpered the last of her pains. Numbness in the teeth, whole-body shaking.

Mystery giggled to himself. "You're a keeper."

As if to comfort, he gave her a hug, a weird one; she was stuck between her arm and his shoulder. His stench was the last thing to fill her lungs. A strangling hug. Her body squirmed and kicked, kicked, kicked again. But soon, she stopped resisting. Blades of grass zoomed past her vision as she returned to the fields of home.
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A lightbulb, hung from a nest of wires in the ceiling, loomed above Polly's opening eyes. Olive wallpapers---just as greasy---bursted pockets of mold, peeling away. Faltering candle glow splashed onto the walls. The green bed she laid on mirrored her heat. Wet, feverish air. Dizzy, as if in a pot of stirring hot oil.

"Oh, look who's up." Mystery came and crawled on the bed, staring at her with a smirk. "You slept like such an angel ...."

"Get away from me!" she screeched.

Before she could back off, he pulled her closer---then ripped her shirt apart. Tufts of downy, yellow feathers still covered her flat chest, trailing down to the belly button. Frowning, her arms sprung up to cover her upper torso, but Mystery spread them apart to stare some more---huffing, puffing.

"Please ... leave me alone," she cried, "I wanna see my---"

"You're not gonna see shit. What you're gonna do is be my fucktoy for the night. You hear me, you whore?" His teeth clenched into a wide smile. "If you hear me, then you *fucking* say it!" A slap across her face.

"I hear you, I hear! Please!"

"You better, else I'll kill you and your parents. You understand?"

"I understand. I do."

"Good girl."

Shoes, skirt, then panties---every one of her clothes shredded. Sobbing, almost hiccupping, she curled to cover herself, only to be spread again; he cuffed her wrists with his hand, then pinned her knees apart with his. A finger dipped into her crotch, rubbing around---an odd feeling fluttered deep in her stomach. When she squirmed and struggled, the feeling got stronger; each pulse of pain---or pleasure, she couldn't tell---disoriented her. The cocky grin in his face broke the last of her guard; she could only cry.

"Don't be so ungrateful. I can tell you love it." The massage became quicker, harder. "Say thank you."

"Thank you," her voice trembled.

"Good, good." His finger poked lower on her crotch. A nail threatened to cut some sensitive skin---so sensitive, the slightest touch made her scream; even when she bit her fist, they escaped.

"Do you have any idea how hard it is to not just *ravage* you right now?" he said, withdrawing his hand from her privates. "You're the cutest one this year. If only you weren't so bratty."

"I won't be bratty anymore." She held in her cries.

"You better not."

Once his pants were off, his shaft sprung up at her; dark, veiny, bigger than Polly thought it was supposed to be. Curiosity crept up in her, but the jolts in her chest reminded her to stay away. Biting a finger, she watched Mystery stroke it with a thumb.

"See something you like?" He chuckled. "Hold it. Hold my cock."

Before she shook her head to refuse, she stopped herself and sat up. Her fingers wrapped around the twitching thing; it drooled as she felt the rough texture of its skin. Its smell was overpowering, filling her lungs at each hiccup.

"Put it in your mouth. Come on, it doesn't taste bad. It's like a popsicle."

She glanced up at him, then gave it a lick; salty, stinky, but tolerable. 

"I said inside your mouth." Mystery aimed it and entered her, nudging her head down on it. Thick, so thick, she opened as wide as she could. Grunting, he paced back and forth on her tongue, filling her tear-streaked cheeks; every time it hit her throat, she gagged. "*Fuck* yeah, there we go."

Polly drowned in his stink, humming on his thing; her jaw and neck ached from bobbing back and forth so much. Yet, even through the pain, something pleasant was brewing in her crotch.