The Alley Cats never wanted a boardroom or a throne; they just wanted a verifiable say in the gutters they called home. But the Ego Rabbits couldn’t allow that. The Rabbits, bloated on their own perceived perfection, controlled the high-rises and the tech-grids, looking down on the streets with an entitlement that smelled like fake grass and synthetic gold.
But the Rabbits made one fatal mistake: they thought the Cats were just scavengers.
They didn't know about the Dreaming.
When the Alley Cats sat perfectly still, their eyes turning to glassy slits, they weren’t sleeping. They were astral projecting. Deep in the astral plane, the Cats didn't just wander—they built. Out of pure consciousness and raw street instinct, they forged extra-technological liquefied weapons. When a Cat snapped back into reality, these weapons materialized in their paws: glowing, shifting fluid-blades and plasma-rigs that chewed through the Rabbits’ heavy armored drones like wet cardboard.
For a few glorious months, the Alley Cats were a monster the Rabbits couldn't tame. A single Cat, mind detached and blade liquefied, could clear an entire sector of Rabbit enforcers. The Cats fought tooth, nail, and spirit.
But the Rabbits had one thing the astral plane couldn't fix: infinite numbers. For every hundred Rabbits the Cats cut down, ten thousand more swarmed out of the warrens, backed by cold, unfeeling machinery.
It wasn't a failure of heart, or mind, or magic. The Cats were just buried under the sheer, suffocating weight of the horde.
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