My soft, controlled breaths, and the steady heartbeat thumping in my ears, are the only things I can hear as I press myself down into my hiding spot.

I can’t be seen. Our plan will fail if I am.

I try to ignore the cold metal pressed against my split cheek and my arms slowly going numb beneath me as I hold myself completely still, carefully listening for anything outside my little nook.

Eventually, I hear the distant creak of a rusted hinge followed by a man’s furious screams and hurried footfall coming towards me. I hold my breath, tuning out my beating heart and the man speaking, and focusing on the moving feet a few metres away from me.

He doesn’t stop, not even slowing a step as he passes and continues running off down the alley.

The distraction worked!

I can’t move yet, I don’t want to be the one to ruin my own plan, so I remain still despite the shouting fading into the distance. A few seconds of sitting in silence later and a hollow vibration shakes my cheek through the washing machine I’m pressed against, immediately followed by a familiar crinkling, the sound of small paws on plastic bin bags, above me.

“Eee eee,” a low chittering call reaches me, marking my chance.

I spring into motion, pushing myself up with my half-feeling arms and scattering the bin bags piled on top of me. Chip eagerly leaps off one of the falling bags, landing smoothly in front of me on all fours and dashing forward a few feet. He stops and turns back to look at me, standing up on his hind legs and tilting his head.

I can practically see the impatience oozing from his beady black eyes as I clamber over the smashed washing machine, but it’s not my fault I’m so big and clumsy compared to him!

I quickly push that thought away though, no use complaining about my cursed height right now when I should be moving instead. I run past Chip, pursing my lips and whistling a single harsh note to urge him to stop judging me and follow.

“Eee!” he responds with a chuckling squeak, sprinting straight past me to our target’s back door.

Rude.

I slide to a stop in front of the door, my worn boots slipping slightly as they struggle to find purchase on the grease-smeared fake cobbling below. I grab the door’s handle and glance down as I regain my footing, noticing the small can holding it open. I squeeze into the narrow gap left between the door and the frame with relative ease before kicking the can out, letting the heavy metal slam shut behind me.

Infiltration success! Now to find our target.

I scan the dim workshop we’ve snuck into and can’t help but let out an impressed whistle of praise at the sight. The workbenches lining the wall to my right are all completely bare, but the floor around them is absolutely covered in stuff. There are thousands of loose nuts, bolts, and screws, along with dozens of the cheap plastic tubs they were definitely organised into.

Not to mention the random tools sprinkled amidst them.

No wonder that guy was shouting so much. Chip may have driven him to murder! It will probably take a while for Spot to shake him.

I look down at the culprit of the massacre before my eyes and see him grinning back up at me proudly. He immediately turns and runs to my left towards a wall of stacked tyres and points into the dark corner behind them.

“Ee,” he squeaks eagerly before turning to point up at the door’s window and stare at me, begging for praise. “Eee!”

Yes, well done. You followed the plan perfectly. No one ever thinks the raccoon outside is a different creature entirely.

I whistle a quick tone, promising him some belly scratches when we get back to the den later before heading deeper into the shop. After all, we can’t waste too much time right now or we’ll miss our window to escape, even if Chip may have delayed it by taunting the mechanic.

I head straight towards the open double doorway towards the loading bay a room over, stepping through softly and barely making a sound. I immediately start to hear the faint hum of working machinery leaking in from the main workshop, and my gaze instinctively drifts towards it.

I see the oversized main workshop doors and the small, open personnel door beside it, along with several piled-up crates sitting before them, freshly unloaded from the empty main bay between us.

I quickly scan the room for people and glance through to the main workshop, not seeing anyone from my position. I break into a half-spring across the room, approaching the crates while fiddling about with my old augs trying to open my texts.

This tale has been unlawfully lifted without the author's consent. Report any appearances on Amazon.

They crackled in and out of my vision slightly as they usually do, but I managed to work past the instability and find the text from Hands at the same time as I reached the nearest crate.

[The shipment ID is: #PRS142-2QH, crate: 0032] - Hands

I can’t see any IDs on top of the crate, so I search around the sides and find a small, raised plate on one with a tightly packed print of information. The shipment ID matches, but this is box 0011, so I turn my attention away and scramble over to the next closest crate.

Six crates in, I find 0032 stacked on top of another crate. I shove another crate a little closer to the stack before clambering up on top of it and staring at the heat-sealed lid of 0032 with a frown. How am I meant to open this?

Should I push it off and break it?

“Eee!” Chip calls out to me, so I tear my eyes away and look down to see him standing on two legs, offering me a crowbar.

“Ki ki,” I click my thanks with my tongue against the back of my teeth in a harsh clack and take the offered tool without questioning where he got it.

I’m not gonna look a gift raccoon in the mouth!

As Chip climbs up onto the crate to join me, I ram the sharp end of the crowbar into the half-melted plastic under the edge of the lid. I push down, leveraging the lid open as Chip scales my clothes and comes to a rest on my shoulder, expectantly staring at the crate as he holds himself on by long, scruffy hair.

The seal tears away with a satisfying crack, and I drop the crowbar, catching it with my foot and laying it down gently, not even sparing it a glance as I focus on getting my grubby mitts on our payday.

And boy do I have no clue what they are!

There are six, strange silver cylinders, about the size of two of my fists stacked on top of each other, with some slimy-looking plastic tubes coming out of them at random jaunty angles. They’re surprisingly boring for something Hands wants so much, but whatever. As long as we can eat something with some real flavour tonight, I couldn’t care less what they are!

Chip jumps down, letting out a small joyful squeak as he moves to collect the shiny things. I can’t fall behind, so I pull my empty backpack off, and rip open the main zipper before holding out the bag to my furry partner-in-crime. The moment the last cylinder falls in, I pull the zippers back into place and sling the bag over my shoulder, offering my arm to Chip so he can join it there.

Suddenly, a loud banging echoes across the room, coming from where we entered. It looks like Spot gave the mechanic the slip. Time to leave.

I drop to the floor, cushioning my landing with my arms against the crate behind me before pushing off into an instant sprint towards the main workshop. My strides land softly, barely making a sound despite my speed, but that habit proves completely pointless as I barrel through the personnel door and get hit by a wall of harsh sound.

The mix of crackling electricity, grinding gears, and metal scraping against metals makes me wince, but I ignore it and power through. Chip buries his head into the side of my neck and squeals in displeasure, so I give him a reassuring scratch behind the ears as I run.

I follow an open path along the edge of the room, passing countless cars suspended in the air with various robotic arms wildly swinging around them, carrying power tools and random components I couldn’t even start to identify. Scanning the room on full alert as I move, I confirm there isn’t anyone else in here. It looks like the mechanic we trapped out back earlier was working alone. We got lucky.

I slam into the heavy door leading out of the workshop, and stumble into the corridor connected to the main reception. The door swings shut behind me, instantly dampening the noise from the workshop, and I keep running accompanied by only the sound of my own soft footfall and the quietly chittering raccoon hanging around my neck.

I pause at the door to the reception and push it open slowly. Unfortunately, or maybe not for me, the first thing I hear is a high-pitched scream. A jolt runs down my spine, and I lower myself immediately, ready to spring back if I see trouble as I peek through the gap in the door.

My worry quickly proves unwarranted as I watch the cheap synth hotdog stand from across the street come barrelling through the shop’s front door with two familiar raccoons riding it, screeching with joy. I hold back my laughter as the stand rams into the receptionist’s counter and the woman behind it runs out of the way, still screaming in panic.

Taking my chance, I bolt towards the front door. Spot and Stripe both leap off the mangled stand and scramble after me, each carrying a hotdog in their mouths. Normally, I’d berate them for not bringing enough for me and Chip, but I think I’ll let them off for now.

We’re about to step out onto the street before the receptionist can recover and question where I came from, but it seems my luck ran out, because the food stand owner moves to block my exit, placing himself in the doorway.

He’s a tall, plump man, maybe a head taller than me, with a greasy apron and a fierce scowl on his ugly face. He reaches for the small of his back and pulls out a chunky, forearm-length bowie knife, because of course they targeted a man clearly carrying a knife.

The moment I see the glistening sheen of metal, I lower my centre of gravity and whistle a sharp command to my siblings. I explode forward, pushing my legs to their limit and forgoing silence in pursuit of speed to close the distance between us. I narrow my focus on his blade-wielding arm and raise both my hands as Chip dives from my shoulder, latching onto the man’s face in a fluffy hug before he can react.

With his vision and airways suddenly blocked, the man panics, reaching up to pull Chip off with one hand and wildly swinging his knife with the other to keep me at bay. My eyes follow the unstable arc of his weapon, and my hand suddenly shoots out to clasp his wrist, ending his attack before it could even gain momentum.

Spot and Stripe scramble past me and jump onto the man’s feet, so I pull on his arm, slamming my shoulder into his chest and sending us both to the floor. He splutters out a cough and drops his knife as I land on top of him. I push myself up while he’s dazed, grab the shiny blade beside us, and take off down the street without looking back.

I slip into a side alley once I’m out of sight of the shop and finally glance back to check on my furry companions. All three of them are hot on my heels, but I immediately notice Spot and Stripe have somehow replaced the hotdogs in their mouths with the belt and sheath of that stand owner.

They were totally after the knife in the first place… It’s shiny... Approved!