A/N: Hello Redwall fandom! Originally I was going to publish this after I finished Journey to Japan and The Feral Islands-but I lost inspiration on those two and don't want a rushed ending, so I'm going to be patient and wait for it to come to me. House of Tamod has the same problem and I'm unsure of how to proceed with Back in the Day: The Tournament, so I decided to write this.

Now I haven't read Redwall in a long time and the accents are alllost one.I will try to replicate it with some characters but not all of them. This story is kind of based of Outcast of Redwall, but not entirely. I always liked the vermin in the books and tended to like them more than the uhum Sue-ish good guys. They were more realistic-save and except that they were all pretty much bad guys.

I don't want to write a 'good vermin' fic. I want to write a 'vermin' fix. What makes them 'bad'? And things like that. So without further ado let it begin!

The warrior stood atop the walls of the abbey, looking down at the praising populace, showering him with flowers. In his paw he held the sword of Martin the Warrior, high above his head, behind him the defeated villains were kissing the dirt and begging forgiveness.

"Fret!" The town cried. And he showed off his huge muscles.

"Fret!" The ladies swooned, and fainted clear away.

"FRET!" Abbot Martin was yelling into his ear.

Fret was not like most abbey-beasts. Most denizens groomed themselves daily, Fret was practically forced to take baths. Most Redwallers ate with polite attitudes while making smalltalk. Fret spoke with bulging cheeks, tearing at his food like a hungry animal. Most Redwallers got up early, Fret would have slept all day if he could. But then again, most Redwallers weren't ferrets.

The ferret woke with a start, remembering painfully that he was supposed to be learning the abbey's history.

"You were sleeping." The old mouse scowled darkly. Abbot Martin was a light brown mouse, his whiskers long and crooked. His habit was a bright red.

"No!" He replied too quickly. "I was-"

"And you drooled all over your copy of the History of Mossflower." He seemed to be scowling even deeper. Then turned away from the ferret.

"As I was saying, Mathias defended Redwall against Cluny the-" The old mouse snapped his fingers at a hedgehog near the front of the class. The young hedgepig opened and closed his mouth. "Cluny the S-s-spatula!" This was from Grollo, the large chubby hedgehog was as dumb as a doornail in Fret's opinion. Clad in black pants he went bare footed, for he could not find sandals big enough for his feet. Though as the Head Cook's son he was skilled at naming any culinary equipment.

"No! Matiya!"

Matiya was a red squirrel about as tall as Fret and infinetly slower of mind. He was the best fighter of the abbey's youngsters, but he was also the most pompous and-Fret practically gagged at the word-chivalrous. He wore a grey vest and pants, an empty sword case hung at his size. (His wooden sword had been confiscated). "Cluny the Scewer!"

"NO! Come on this was your homework." The abbot seemed to be torn between Momchillo, a small brownish yellow mouse with humongous ears sticking out the side of his head, clad in a darkish brown habit; and Fret, the black-footed ferret with his sinister a looking black 'mask', wearing a dark grey habit. He went for the mouse.

"Mathias beat Cluny the Scourge, in single combat."

Fret frowned, he had been hoping to get that question.

History was by far his least favorite subject. It was easier for Momchillo, with his proud mousey grin, to learn and remember all the heroics his kind were remembered for, with heroes like Martin the Warrior, Mathias the Warrior and others it was easy for him, all he had to do was imagine himself with a different name. Fret had none of his kind to look up to-the way history said it they all ended up dead or missing, and before that they had all been villainous scum.

"And Mathias's first son was named, what? Fret?" Asked the abbot.

"Um-", it had been a mouse… And Slagar the Cruel had kidnapped them-but Slagar was really called Chickenhound and he was a fox and... "Martin?"

The abbot bit his lip. "Momchillo?"

"Mattimeo."

"Correct."

Fret scowled and slouched. He had known about Cluny the Scourge and Slagar the Cruel, but not about Mattimeo. Why couldn't it have been another question? Why couldn't it have been a ferret wearing Martin's armour, and waving the sword around his head and defending Redwall? Fret imagined himself in his mind's eye, banishing the cheeky grin off of Momchillo with a wave of his sword.

"Fret! Stay awake!"

"How was History?" Constance asked, as she picked up the young ferret. She was somewhat chubby, and taller by a head than her 'son'. She was a mouse, and wore a lighter green habit.

"Great." He lied. That was another oddment. Lying was easy for him, and came naturally. Sometimes he lied so convincingly he wondered whether he was telling the truth.

"You are a horrible little liar." Was Constance's reply. The young ferret frowned.

Of all the people in Redwall Abbey, Constance was the only one who seemed to truly care about him. There was Jon Connington… But there were times where Fret felt that that mouse only acted the way he did because Constance made him. She had raised him from mischievous dibbun to rude youth, and yet loved him like he was an angel.

"I'm not lying! I'm great at History!" He snapped. Fret snapped often, something in his chest seemed to always force him into defending himself. And that defence came out as snapping.

Constance rolled her eyes, and turned him towards their home, pushing him forwards gently. "And I'm a dibbun. Fret you really mustn't lie, it's not what we do here in the abbey."

Fret snapped again. "But I'm not lying!" But he was lying. He was awful at History, he hated history and he wanted Abbot Martin to just go die in a hole! Well, maybe die was a tad harsh.

"Dearie you hate history and wish Abbot Martin would stop being a stick in the mud." Sometimes it felt like Constance was also abnormal-how else would she be capable of understanding his complex mind?

"Yes momma, but it's not my fault. He gives Momchillo all the easy questions! And he only asks me when I fall asleep in class!"

"You fall asleep in class?" Constance chided with a wide grin on her face.

"No! I don't!"

As the two travelled further down towards the mousemaid's cottage, arguing back and forth that Fret was not bad at lying, and that that was offensive to lying! Jon watched from within. He was a grey mouse, smaller than Constance by half and a head bellow Fret. Clad in old, grey armour with a round wooden shield strapped to his back. At his side, buckled and ready was a shortsword. He waved merrily at the duo and walked over to them, beaming.

"Sweet sister!" He hugged her round the middle, before turning to the skinny ferret. "Ah, Young Fret! What ho? Still want to give Abbot Martin a kick up the-"

"Jon!" His sister exclaimed.

"I don't want to kick him! I want to get him to shut up!"

Jon nodded knowingly and hugged his 'nephew'. This was another oddment. Most of his age adored getting babied by their parental figures, and while Fret didn't mind that affection from Constance, he heavily disliked it from Jon, and thus cringed at the feel of the mouse.

"I got you something!" The grey mouse said suddenly, and withdrew a round metal thing, with a string. For a second Fret hoped it was a club, with which he could repeatedly whack Momchillo with. Maybe the next time that mouse tried to lock him in the latrines he could get a black eye... Then his uncle flicked the metal Bob, which spun downwards, and with another flick it spun upwards. It was a toy.

"Thanks. I love it." Fret replied as the mouse placed it in his paw. He was unable to hide his apparent disappointment and dislike.

Connington frowned. But waved away the bad mood. "We'll call you for dinner. Have fun!"

Much to his chagrin Constance gave him a large, wet kiss on his forehead fur. Before shooing him away with a 'have fun sweetie!'.

Fret turned away, feeling grumpier than ever. Constance understood him… Or rather most of him. She lived amongst other mice and nobody treated her like filth, most people treated Fret like an unpleasant smelling slug or some other slimy thing that must be avoided at all costs. But the youngsters loved him-they loved to bite his tail, to pull at his small ears, to try and pull off his 'mask'. And those his age loved him even more. Grollo loved to sit on him, Matiya loved to demonstrate his skill at swordplay on him, and Momchillo enjoyed laughing at him while the other two pretended he was vermin and they were abbey heroes, giving him his due for trying to sack Redwall. One time he had been Cluny the Scourge and was forced down a latrine, another time he had been hung over the wall until 'Slagar the Cruel' told them where their young ones were. And both times the trio had gotten nothing but a trip to the abbey's kitchen to scrub pots and pans.

Seething from the past injustices Fret flicked his paw, the circular item rolled down, but with another flick it rolled upwards. Despite his disappointment Fret came to love the toy. It was entertaining, the up and down swaying of the circle at the end of the string. And distracting too. He idly watched the maids of his age, picking berries, and felt something in him melt as his heart skipped a beat as he caught sight of a pretty albino. He blushed and continued with his toy.

"Hey Fret!" Matiya's paw landed on his shoulder and squeezed tightly. He and the ferret were the same height, but the squirrel was unimaginably more powerful. "What's that new toy you got?" Momchillo and Grollo were not in sight.

"Let me go!" Fret snapped.

"But you didn't answer my question." He sneered.

"My uncle gave it to me!" Fret retorted.

"Let me see it!"

"No! It's mine!"

"He stole it Matiya. You have to take it back by asking nicely." Momchillo turned the corner.

Fret was infuriated. This was not fair. It was his, his uncle had just given it to him. How could they suggest he stole it? "Come on vermin, give i"-the toy doubled as a cheap weapon, Fret unfurled it quickly, so that it landed on the mouse's nose with a loud THWACK! Momchillo fell on his rump and started crying. Fret slumped, he knew what was coming, as the maids gasped and rushed over, the albino giving him a look of utter disgust.

"Why do they always gang up on me? I can take that stupid mouse just fine if Grollo and Matiya aren't there to save his tail!" He complained, ripping the skin of an innocent potatoe he seemed to especially loathe.

"Well darling, they just don't like you." Constance said soothingly.

"It's not fair! I had to crawl through excrement for a whole day and all they had to do was wash dishes! Then I hit him on the nose because he was being a total prat, and I have to clean the dishes, clean the latrines out and polish Martin's ugly sword for three days!" He threw the potatoes into Constance's cauldron with so much anger it bounced back and got him on the nose. "And I had to give that toy to that stupid mouse because he picked on me!"

Fret had been ranting since the Badgermum-he didn't call her by her name- had proclaimed his punishment. The punishment wasn't what truly bothered him, it was that the maids had all vouched along with Matiya, that Fret had attacked Momchillo for no reason, and had hit him multiple times, while cackling madly. It wasn't fair. They had seen Matiya grab him, but had still lied-it had been Fret's word against all of theirs, and everyone was convinced he was a liar anyways, so his word wasbas good as dust.

"Fret calm down." His mother chided. "We all get what's due to us one day-"

"No you do! Because you're not a liar!" He now was violently chopping the watercress. "I'm a lying, sneaky, good-for-nothing ferret! All I get is that stupid mouse's ugly grin!" The knife missed his next target, a pile of carrots, and left a gash in his finger. He hastily dropped the knife and placed his finger in his mouth, tears welling up behind his eyes as he tried to blink them away.

Constance walked forwards and hugged him. "I'll have a word with their parents. They might not like you, but that's no excuse for hurting my baby."

"They didn't hurt me!" Fret snapped, again feeling the need to defend himself. They hadn't hurt him, the albino had. She had vouched for her fellow mouse rather than the innocent. So had the others...

"Of course not,sweetie." Constance murmured, rubbing the back of his head. "Now, wipe away those tears-"

"They're not tears! They're allergies!" Fret snapped. But he was lying again.

"Of course. Now wipe them away and let's chop up those carrots."

Fret picked the knife up again. But he paused. "Why are there no ferrets in Redwall?" He asked.

Constance stopped and paused for a while, thinking of the easiest way to describe the situation.

"And why do they say I'm a vermin? I don't do rotten things!" Except lying. But they think I lie anyways, even when I tell the truth.

"Dearie, I have no idea why they would call you that. They just feel the need to be able to push someone around." She replied, glad for once that his tongue was quicker than his head. She hadn't thought of an answer for the first question.

The door opened and Jon Connington walked in, though now he looked a little more serious. "Oh there's my favorite nephew!" He said, throwing a fake smile at him.

"I'm your only nephew!" Fret snapped.

Connington seemed to deflate. "Look, son, I heard what happened. I'm sorry about the to-"

"I don't care about the stupid toy! It's that stupid mouse, he won't leave me alone!" And the maid… Her pristine white fur wouldn't leave him alone either…

Connington seemed a little hurt by his nephew's rude reply, but beared with it and changed the subject. "Anything I can do to help?" He asked Constance.

"You can start by throttling that fat, ugly son of a-"

"FRET!" Constance yelled.

"WHAT!?" The ferret snapped.

"You're bleeding thick!" The ferret looked down at his paw and found it dripping with blood. He went pale after that. "Here. Come with me." The mouse ushered him to the safety of his bed, where she lay him flat on his back. She bandaged it quickly, and gave him another big, wet kiss on the forehead. "Try and rest up dearie. If you're still hungry I can bring you the soup later and some bread rolls." She gave him another kiss and left him. He sighed, feeling uncomfortably grateful for his mother's support. Uncomfortable? Why was he uncomfortable? Weren't young ones meant to be comforted by a parental figure? He loved his mother. It was normal, wasn't it? Why was he so different?