Still gathered in Abigail’s living room, Quinn, the four groundhogs, and Skunk Scout could hardly contain their excitement. Reclaiming the land and stopping the monster was more than a plan—clearly, it was their purpose. And Abigail’s two-step solution? It was nothing short of daring, bold, and brilliant.

QUINN: “Although Scout’s right—we do need to map the entire black snake network, but we don’t have that kind of time. We need to act now! By targeting the Predator Pipeline and cutting off the methane before it reaches Hell’s Bells, we’ll send a clear message, one of resistance. And for that, as Abigail pointed out, we’ll need the beavers to, forgive the expression—Dam up the works!”

ABIGAIL: “Yes, Quinn, exactly! The beavers need to build dozens of durable dams at the VIPs.”

Scout tilted his head, looking puzzled.

SCOUT: “Wadya mean, VIPs?”

ABIGAIL: “Very Important Points—along the path of the Predator Pipeline. That’s what really needs to be mapped. And, hold on—just wait a minute, I have something to show you.”

Before anyone could respond, Abigail rose from her chair and crossed the room to an old cabinet. She opened a creaky drawer, pulled out a rolled parchment bound with twine, and set it gently on the table.

ABIGAIL: “This map has been in my family since Norton’s time. It doesn’t show pipelines—he couldn’t have known about those. But it traces the old waterways, root networks, and migration paths—what Norton called the living veins of the earth.”

She unrolled the map carefully, revealing a delicate web of blue streams, underground channels, and forest trails.

ABIGAIL (pointing): “When Hell’s Bells started building the Predator Pipeline about five years ago, I expected the landscape to change—but was shocked to see how closely it followed the same natural lines. Honestly, the layout hasn’t changed much since Norton’s day.”

SCOUT: “Y’know, my dad—Sebastian Skunk—loved telling the old tale of Norton, his Great-Grandfather to the Fifteenth Power of Greats. So believe me, I get how important the beavers are. They’re not just dam builders—they’re water shapers. Nature’s original ecosystem engineers.”

ABIGAIL: “I’ll never forget that story. It was written by Dylan, and Sebastian read it to me himself. Of course, you know it, Scout—and so does General Beauregard—but the rest of you groundhogs probably don’t. Norton was expelled from the Phalias of Germany after an explosion in his lab poisoned the forest. He’d been born without his stripes and became obsessed with creating them—Sebastian thought chemistry might hold the answer. But during one of his experiments, something went terribly wrong. The blast spread toxins through the trees, and that’s when he was banished. All the skunks were exiled with him.”

A hush fell over the room.

BUCKEYE CHUCK: (softly) “I didn’t know that. I thought the skunks just… disappeared.”

QUINN: (gently) “That may be the version that stuck. But truth has a way of resurfacing, especially when it’s been silenced.”

ABIGAIL: “Norton never meant to harm the forest. But after the accident, the others blamed him—and the skunks were exiled. The story faded, but the wound never truly healed. So now, it’s time to make it right.”

Scout glanced at the map, then back at Abigail.

SCOUT: “So… how do we actually do this? I mean, how are we supposed to round up the beavers? They’ll need to form organized crews to dam all the VIPs—and Abigail’s still mapping those out.”

ABIGAIL: (nodding slowly) “That’s the next piece. We can’t just show up and give orders—we need someone who speaks their language. Someone they’ll listen to. Someone they trust.”

PIERRE SHADEAUX: “Mais oui, I can relate to dat. Me, I got Cajun roots, so I’m more likely to listen when someone talk like I do—got that southern charm, you know? But if dey don’t speak my way… well, I ain’t so quick to do what dey ask.”

ABIGAIL: “Of course, Scout—having heard the whole ‘Tale’—should remember Norton’s dear cousin and best friend: a weasel named Mordecai Wilhelm. Don’t you, Scout?”

SCOUT: “Yup. ’Course I do. Mordecai—‘Mordy’ to his friends—was a legend. My uncle Willie was named after him. Took Uncle Willie a long time to bounce back after those awful burns from the Hell’s Bells explosion years ago. But he did—found himself a mate and raised a couple of kits. One of ’em—my cousin and good friend—lives just down the trail from my burrow, in a hollowed-out tree.”

GENERAL BEAUREGARD: “Let’s not forget—I was schooled in Sebastian’s Tale, too. And if memory serves, it was Scout’s ancestor, Mordy, who sweet-talked the beavers into helping Norton escape. Clever fellow—talked ’em into sawing down just the right trees to build a getaway raft—fast and under pressure.

The point is, we need someone like that now. Someone who can speak to the beavers, earn their trust, and convince them to organize. Scout, maybe your cousin’s inherited those silver-tongued weasel genes. He might be just the one we’re looking for.”

SCOUT: “Indeed he is. Name’s Wiley—and believe me, he lives up to it!”

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