The air after the rain was damp and chilly, but a rare shaft of sunlight pierced the clouds, falling across the dark blue uniforms of the officers lined up neatly in the Eastern District Precinct's backyard.
Every off-duty officer had attended. Even Chief Bob had, for once, changed into a crisply pressed dress uniform, his cap sitting squarely on his head as he stood at the front with his belly thrust out.
At the center of the formation, a coffin fashioned from a hardwood shoebox rested on a platform. Its lid bore a sticker printed with the Gotham Police Department's emblem and a tiny national flag. On a small display board beside it was the only reasonably clear photograph of Bastian taken during his lifetime. Otis had secretly snapped it with an old Polaroid, capturing the little fellow alertly clutching a small piece of bread.
Otis stood beside the coffin in a spotless uniform, his eyes swollen and red, though he fought to keep his back straight. He held a velvet cushion bearing a medal of valor painstakingly handmade from a bottle cap and colored thread.
"Attention!" Li Jie's voice broke the silence.
With a rustle, everyone straightened.
"Salute!"
Every officer, Bob included, raised his right arm in unison, offering the Gotham Police Department's highest salute to the rat who had given his life to deliver vital intelligence.
"Order arms."
Li Jie glanced at Bob, who nodded and stepped out of the formation to stand before the others. He carried no prepared speech, merely gazing at the tiny coffin.
"Around here," he said, his voice quiet but exceptionally clear in the silent yard, "we judge a fellow not by his background, not by his race, not even by his... species. We judge him by what he does."
"Bastian, police rat