To A Rat, The World

"To the world you are just one person, but to a rat you are the world."

Aristotle had been the first to come to him. the first to brave the fire, twisting through the flames to come to his aid. He could see nothing, the chemical had reacted with the intense heat of the fire and exploded into his eyes. "Help me!" his mind had called. He knew his mouth hadn't cried it out, it had only let out an agonized scream as burning pain riveted through his face and down his body.

The pain began in his eyes, he could feel the neurochemical splash in them, burning hot, blue-green liquid splattering all over his face. It was only a moment, less than second, of feeling the warm wet on eyes, the same temperature as tears, before the fire started on the inside of his eyelids. Then, the burning started on the rest of his skin. Where ever he was wet from the spattering suddenly burst into searing pain, hot as it kindled into flame.

He could smell the acridity of smoke, of plastic combusting, the almost pleasant aroma of flesh searing, the paperish smell of hair on fire. He knew it was not just his own skin, his own hair. He could hear the squeaks of the sewer rats as flames licked them, he could hear their screams as the flames engulfed them.

His eyes, gunked with fire, smoke, and chemicals, would not open, but then he was not sure he would have been able to see anything if they had. The world was black, and he thought, it will be black forever. He felt a pressure on his body, crawling up his arm, and resting on his shoulder. He heard the small squeak of the pressure's owner, a rat that had answered his call for help.

Then, then he could see! At first, it was only the flames around him. In the image behind his eyelids, he could see his own ear, his hand where he was holding his burning cheek. Then, he could see a thousand things, things all over the city. He could see the burning lab, he could see himself amidst the flames, he could see the outside of the building, he could see people walking about, their feet shuffling obliviously to their next destination. He could see garbage cans, he could see dumpsters, he could see the insides of buildings, wires and walls. He could see everything. With eyes destroyed by flame and chemicals, he could see everything.

He laughed out loud, and he could feel the rat on his shoulder fill with pleasure at the sound.

Aristotle, his brave little Aristotle, was a beautiful thing. He was albino, with pink eyes and beautiful pure white fur. He perched on his shoulder, stayed close to his skin and his face when he was healing. The rat fetched him things, with a thought, sometimes before he even knew what he was thinking himself. He was a magnificent creature.

He was with him when he went up to the street, a scarred thing, dirt encrusted in his skin turning it gray, his lips gone, his nose now only two holes in his face. He emerged from the warehouse, Aristotle, his brave little Aristotle, on his shoulder, the other rats at his side, at his front, at his back, staying with him to protect him, he knew now. The first person who saw him was a group of teenagers, three girls and two boys, laughing, drinking soda. One of the girls saw him first, and her brown eyes grew wide, and she screamed. It was one of those terrified screams, the kind that cannot be duplicated in falsehood. The other four screamed after her, even the boys, almost men, and they ran from him, cries of "Monster!" reaching his ears.

Aristotle, his brave little Aristotle, hissed at them, the other rats hissed at them. He had felt a great anger grow in him, like the flames that had engulfed him in the lab. His fleeting thought, a thought of those five teenagers being eaten alive by his rats, the many, many rats that surrounded him, flashed through his mind. The fleeting thought was enough, and all of them, even Aristotle, his brave little Aristotle, ran after them, as they screamed "Monster!" and silenced them.

They were all magnificent creatures, these rats. He did not know why he had not seen it before. As the burns on his skin healed, as his eyes wandered through the orbs of rats that his mind touched, he began to know. He began to know magnificent things, true things. The fire that burned him beyond recognition, that turned his skin gray, that had demolished his lips, that had ripped off his nose, that had degraded his gums so his teeth fell out, this fire did not make him into a monster. It burned away the lies of the world, it burned away the former life of a stupid man, and he had been reborn. Reborn as The Rat King. He saw now the beatitude of the rodents around him. The world was infested with human beings, not with rats. Aristotle, his brave little Aristotle, was wise, wise even for a rat. He showed him the truth. Through his eyes, he saw the parasites that infected the Earth with their worthlessness.

It is they who make us have to run and hide, the white rat told him. It is they who try to kill us at every turn. It is they who drive us down here to the sewers, while they destroy everything around them. The rat's voice was sweet and judicious, it spoke the truth.

"Yes," he said to the rat. "You speak the truth. I shall call you Aristotle."

The rat saw, he knew, why he had called him that, had seen in his own mind the truth of the name, and it filled the rat with pleasure. Aristotle's pleasure filled his heart to bursting, and he was glad of it.

His mind ran far afield sometimes, and Aristotle, his brave little Aristotle, would have to bring him back to his body, remind him to eat, to sleep, to move. During his wanderings, he felt something that was a rat, but at the same time other than a rat. The feeling niggled at the edges of his mind, like a memory one cannot quite bring forth. The sensation was powerful, but fuzzy, and he could not bring it into focus.

It is a rat, Aristotle, his brave little Aristotle, told him.

"But there is something else there," he said, "I can feel something else there."

It came into focus quickly, sibilating in his mind, and he felt the connection of a man. A lone man, not the hundreds of thousands of rats in his consciousness. This was a kindred spirit, close to him in every way. This man was as close as his brother, a brother indeed, who emanated power, who was worthy of being a man and a rat at the same time.

He should be with us, Aristotle, his brave little Aristotle said at the exact same time he had thought the same words.

"He will be ours," The Rat King said, his heart filling with longing. He reached his hands out, as if to grab the feeling in his mind of...of...Splinter, his name was Splinter, and bring him to him. "He will be ours, and he will help us to rule the world."