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Hello all! It's me, Cheetahpaw, with a new idea for a fanfic. I'm going to be trying something different and try to make this one a little more serious. So bear with me please, because I'm new at this.

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Rage.

It's a strange emotion, if you really think about it. It usually stems from pain, or suffering. It makes cats' minds weaken and strain until all they can feel is the silent and ever-lasting thrum of misery. Rage breaks your mind until all you think about is pain and suffering, propelling you forward until your world revolves and spins around the thought of making other cats feel the same way. Minds can be broken easily, but cannot be peiced together quite as quickly. Rage clouds your thoughts, your reasoning, and puts minds in a fog. But at the same time, it seems to make everything clearer, your goals so sharp and easily-reached that you are dazed by the simplicity. True rage isn't something to be feared. It's something to be longed for.

I did not understand this in my younger years, the naive fool that I was. I thought true happiness could be achieved as easily as catching a mouse; that if you work hard, and are kind and loving to others, everything will pay off in the end. But StarClan is cruel in this way, that they believe they can trick stupid cats into thinking happiness is earned that easily. True happiness is only earned by the worst of hardships. Not that it matters to me, because I don't need happiness anymore.

I only need rage.

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A blinding white light seeped into my slowly-opening eyelids, giving me the urge to shut them immediately. I opened them wider, feeling a purr of amusement rumble in my throat at the tom curled up beside me. I prodded him with my hind paw, feeling his soft, black fur swallow my foot. He gave a slight groan, rolling over to reveal the fur plastered to his body on his side.

The morning breeze ruffled my thick gray fur, the chill lifting the hairs on my pelt. Most of the nest around me were empty, aside from the two snoring bodies of my Clanmates from the other side of the den. The one thing I hated about the warrior's den was the morning sun, which scorched your pelt into a drowsy awakening, and blinded you when you open your eyes right into the harsh rays. One of the only bad things about the moor is the lack of cover in greenleaf, which makes you victim to the heat scorching through the air, giving a thrumming pulse to your duties, as if the sun was going order to the day itself.

"Sleepy-paws," I murmured to my mate, "Wake up."

The black tom gave an incoherent reply and rolled back onto his belly. I rolled my eyes, not really offended.

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