Slatepaw stretched his jaw into a yawn as he padded out of the apprentice den, his back slightly sore from his nap. He'd slept fitfully, tossing and turning and upsetting the moss in his nest. All of it had been upturned. Next to him, Finchpaw had slept quietly in a badly made nest - some old one that a former apprentice had abandoned after becoming a warrior.

He placed his paws solidly on the ground and stretched back, letting out a purr of satisfaction of his back cracked, spine seeming to snap back into place after his uncomfortable hour of sleep. 

"Hi Slatepaw," meowed an older she-cat, a pretty tortoiseshell. She was a rebellion member. The younger cat squinted for a second, trying to remember the warrior's name.

"Hey... Shortbelly," he managed, the name barely flashing into his mind. "Have you noticed all those weird symbols in the trees?" His question turned upwards at the end, curling in apprehension. "I swear... they seem weirdly familiar to me."

Shortbelly squinted at the young apprentice. "I've seen them, yeah. No clue what they're supposed to mean. Whoever did that must have cobwebs for brains and a lot of free time on their paws." The she-cat chuckled. "I bet it was that Finchpaw. She may be silent, but she's got something hidden in that pelt of hers."

Slatepaw almost recoiled in shock, but he held back his surprise, instead licking a paw and drawing it casually over one of his ears. "Who knows. I think it was an elder. I swear, they've got so many thorns in their pelts that one of them's bound to go nuts." He swallowed, hard. "And Finchpaw's not silent. She just doesn't talk to everyone, okay?"

Shortbelly let out a short, sharp laugh. "You betcha," she meowed, nodding. "Got to be something like that." The she-cat stood up, swiping her tongue around her whiskers and picking up the prey she'd been eating. "Well, I better go bury this. See you around, Slatepaw."

He watched her leave with wide eyes, his heart threatening to beat out of his chest. They've been wiped clean. There's no hope for triggering their memories this way. He swallowed anxiously. Or maybe it's just Shortbelly being... a bit slow. The she-cat had never been known for her intellect.

Finchpaw padded up to him, looking curious. Her whiskers were drooping as she gave a nod and sat down, curling her tail around her paws. The she-cat glanced around cautiously before opening her muzzle. "Thanks for defending me," she mumbled quietly. "Some people don't know what it's like to be shy."

He gave a nod. " Anytime." He paused, not knowing quite what to say. Awkward, he thought. "I'm hungry," he meowed, just loud enough that she could hear. Slatepaw quickly stood up and headed toward the fresh-kill pile, whiskers still trembling with a fading nervousness.

Slatepaw picked an old-looking mouse from the base of the pile, hooking it on a claw. On three legs, he hopped toward a shady corner of camp and settled down next to Cinderpaw, who was staring off into the forest. "Hey," he meowed, batting the mouse off his claw. It landed on the dusty ground with a faint thump. 

He looked over at him. "Oh, hey Slatepaw," he meowed. "Mind if I join you in eating? I haven't had anything today."

"Oh, go ahead." He scooched over to give him room, and Cinderpaw crouched next to him, taking a bite of the old mouse.

"Slatepaw? More like Stalepaw," he commented, voice muffled by the mouthful of the mouse he'd taken. "This is gross!" The tomcat swallowed and let out a laugh, his eyes twinkling. "Why didn't you pick something fresher?"

Slatepaw could feel his ears getting hot. "I don't mind it," he meowed, taking a small bite and chewing it quickly. He swallowed. "Someone's got to eat the old prey, right?"

"You're gonna have a fun time making dirt later," he snickered, stepping back and licking a paw. He drew it over her whiskers as if cleaning away the stench of the probably spoiled prey. "That's definitely some kind of rotten."

Slatepaw took another bite. "If you say so," he mumbled through his mouthful. "Tastes fine to me." He swallowed. "Anyways, have you seen those symbols around the forest?" The gray tom tilted his head to the side slightly, an anxious curiosity accompanying his movements.

"Yeah," Cinderpaw meowed between licks, now cleaning his shoulder. "They look sort of... familiar to me..."

Slatepaw's eyes widened. "Really?"

"Yeah, like a fire. Do you remember when there was a little fire in camp when we were just kits?"

Slatepaw slumped, taking another bite of the mouse from where Cinderpaw had eaten. He could taste the rotten staleness now. He spat the bite out, shuddering slightly. "Now I know what you mean. That's gross!"

He laughed. "Told ya so."

"And I kind of remember that. Didn't Rushshade go on about some omen or something? He was yelling so loud at Brightstar we could hear it from the nursery!" He forced a lightness into his tone despite the dejection that was ringing inside him. 

They don't remember. 

If even Cinderpaw doesn't remember, how am I supposed to get the rebellion members to retrieve their memories?

"That wasn't fun," Cinderpaw meowed, nodding. 

"If only there'd been a democracy then," the tom went on with a sigh. "Maybe then Brightstar wouldn't have listened to his ramblings and then we would've gotten to leave the nursery more often!" They'd been trapped inside for a quarter-moon after the fire, for Rushshade was insistent something bad was going to happen to the 'seeds of the Clan'. Everyone else had been privately thinking about how maybe Rushshade should've reorganized his medicine storage - surely something else in there had caused the fire.

Cinderpaw nodded, his eyes widening slightly. "Y-yeah," he meowed, dipping his head. "Getting stuck in the den sucked, but at least the apprentices didn't have to."

They continued to talk, but Slatepaw's mind was off somewhere else, dreaming of the perfect world where there was no tyrant to overthrow and he would never have to be worrying about mysterious mind-wipings. 

A perfect world, Slatepaw thought with a sigh. One that someday the cats of NettleClan will live in.