Well... Damn.

This was one of the toughest writer's blocks I've ever had the misfortune to crash into. I can still hardly believe it took me this long to get the chapter out, even though I knew what I was going to write, what I had in my head. Still... ugh... Brain pooped out. Need mental break.

Hope you enjoy this latest chapter, and find it interesting, and all that. I love hearing back from you too, no matter what you got!

Shut up, me! Let them read the darned thing already!

Okay! Fine! Here we go then:

魂魄を追いかけて、番目の本

Chasing Shadows
Part II

On her invitation, Rick Cooney and Wiley entered Cassandra's apartment.

The walls were adorned with arts and ornaments from, or at least inspired by, many different and varying Lylatin cultures; Fortunan, Katinan, Aquasi, even obscure Cornerian, and several more that Rick recognized, as well as several he didn't. The space smelled of a gentle incense, and some other fragrant scents from the kitchen. It all gave the impression of an eclectic, new age aesthetic.

She'd be considered an eccentric here, an oddity, but not entirely out of place. Dense urban areas like Port Seyid tend to be more or less tolerant of eclectic eccentrics, who can simply fade back into the background noise. The act would've certainly helped her cover, living as an incognito Cerinian; 'Cassandra' probably wasn't even her real name. Even if it was supposed to be a cover, Part of Rick couldn't help but think she may have relished in some of what she collected, learned about. If her curiosity about Lylat was as strong s some Lylatins' curiosity about Cerinia, then it might even be motivation for why she left her homeworld in the first place.

Cassandra directed her guests to a sitting room area. It had the usual amenities, but they were just a little different. The couch however had a quilt or fabric covering overtop with a woven pattern; might've been Fortunan. The coffee table didn't quite look like a coffee table, more like a slice of polished tree trunk with legs.

"Can I get you two something?" Cassandra offered, doing her part as the polite host, "Tea?" That would be the rich, just a little bit bitter aroma from the kitchen.

"Yes, thank you." Rick accepted with a nod as he sat down on the couch. Wiley soon followed next to him, or maybe it was Makita, they'd have to decide which to use later.

"I'll be right back." and the older Cerinian went to the apartment's kitchen, leaving her two guests alone.

The white wolf wasn't doing well. He sat hunched forward on the couch, looking down at his fidgeting hands. He didn't want to be here.

"What's wrong?" It was a redundant question, Rick knew exactly what was wrong. He just wanted to get him talking, and hopefully ease his nerves a bit.

"I felt her." Wiley told him, still staring through his hands, at his feet, into the floor, "She was in my head, just like Harrow."

"You're gonna be fine." the raccoon assured, as much to Wiley as to himself.

"Me? What about you, and your... shadow thing?" The wolf asked as he looked up, and glanced around the room, "Where'd he go? He was here just a second ago."

Rick was about to say something, not sure what, but something, when Cassandra's voice cut in.

"He is not real..." She'd returned, carrying a small tray filled with three steaming mugs with her, which she set down on the coffee table in front of Rick and Wiley, "At least, not in a physical flesh-and-blood reality, since he exists only in Mr. Cooney's mind. You were able to see him when I briefly linked your minds together: you saw what he saw, even that which wasn't strictly 'real'."

"But was that little show really necessary?" Rick asked her, lifting one of the mugs.

"Maybe not, but maybe it will help." Cassandra answered with a small shrug, and took a seat opposite the other two, "If nothing else, I supposed it would be rude to keep my awareness of it secret from you." She took one of the mugs for herself, peering up at Rick with a gaze that seemed to see right through him, "And speaking of secrets, I suppose you are not here simply to keep an eccentric woman company, hm?"

Might as well play this straight.

"Are you familiar with a certain Cerinian known as 'Harrow'?" Rick reached into a pocket and produced a printed image of Harrow, which he handed to Cassandra.

Her brow dropped when she saw the picture. She let out a long, quiet sigh, and took a small drink of the tea in her hand. She knew Harrow, or at least knew of him, and responded, "You mean Haran, his name is Haran. 'Harrow' is nothing more than a moniker he adopted when..." she stopped short, looking back and forth between the wolf and raccoon, "Serge sent you, didn't he?"

"Sort of, but I don't work for him." Rick insisted, "My intentions are my own."

"Just as his intentions are his." Cassandra replied with furrowing brow and drilling eyes, "I don't believe Serge would have told you about me if he didn't stand to gain from it. He's incredibly guarded, that one."

"How do you and Serge know each other?" Cooney inquired.

"He came to me, much like you have, seeking answers, seeking a means to control or resist the influence of the Gift."

"The gift?" Wiley asked, confused.

"It is what we call our powers, our abilities..." the Cerinian trailed off, quietly scrutinizing the two others. "Before I agree to anything more, I would ask that you tell me why you seek these answers, what you intend to do with them."

"Can't you just dig into our minds and find out?" Wiley asked. [add more?]

"That would be... impolite, and it's not as easy as that." Cassandra answered, "No, I would prefer to know your reasons in your own words."

Rick's personal comm buzzed in his pocket, announcing the incoming call. He dug the little handheld device out and checked it: it was from LCI Operations. Of all the times, they just had to pick now to send him a jingle and touch 't they have waited a little while, or made the call earlier?

He'd like nothing more than to silence it and keep the conversation with Casandra going, but he'd have to answer it. If he didn't, the supervisors at HQ might think he's in distress, start worrying, start taking action, and the whole situation could turn into a big messy pile of awkward.

Holding down an irritated grumble, Rick got up from the couch, insistent buzzing comm in hand, while both Cassandra and Wiley stared at him with curious, slightly quizzical looks. Cooney responded to that with the annoyed, almost apologetic, "Excuse me, but I need to take this."

He left the sitting room area, heading into the apartment's deserted kitchen instead. Even without looking back, Rick could almost feel Wiley's discomfort explode, being left alone with another Cerinian after his experience aboard Cerberus. Maybe it'll be good for him, or maybe not; put that on the shelf for now.

Finally, Rick accepted the call, held the comm up, and spoke into it in his practiced 'calm tone', "Now really isn't a good time. I'm meeting with a contact."

"Director Hawking would like to speak with you," a dry monotone voice replied from the comm's speaker, "personally."

The annoyance and irritation Rick had been suppressing evaporated almost instantly. In its place rose a certain uneasy concern. The Director didn't normally intervene in ongoing operations, let alone directly to a field operative.

"Okay." Rick said in a flat monotone of his own.

"Richard." an older, authoritative woman's voice greeted.

"Director Hawking." the raccoon responded in kind, waiting.

"I've reviewed the reports you've sent us on Plowshare." "It's... interesting. It's troubling too, of course, but very interesting nonetheless."

"I hope you don't mind me being a little terse here." Rick told her, "I was meeting with an important contact when I got this call, and I'd like to get back to it as soon as I can."

"I'll be brief then." Hawking responded. She understood the dilemma's of a field agent, and balanced it with the needs of management; short and to the point, "I'm making the capture of this Harrow character your utmost priority. If that isn't feasible, which it may not be given what you've learned, then eliminate him. He's proven to be a far more dangerous and insidious threat than we originally believed, and he has more than his share of blood on his hands to answer for. If that isn't feasible either, then track him, observe him, learn as much from and about him as you can, so that he may be dealt with as soon as possible."

"Got it." Rick acknowledged, holding in a sigh of relief.

The Director could've called and given any number of odd, unusual or unorthodox orders, but Rick had already been a few steps ahead of administration, as Rachelle and the others had already been sent after that shuttle with pretty much the same mission. Granted, it was a gamble to send them out before the data-punchers had a chance to juggle it, before administration had time to do administering, but it was a safe bet what HQ would make of the situation, and it once again seemed to have paid out.

"I'll leave you to it." Hawking said with a terse note of finality.

"Hold on..." Rick snagged the moment before it got away, "Before I go, who in the agency I can contact for more information about Cerinians, anyone who's looked into this at all?"

"Well, I don't mean to be a damper on the situation Richard, but right now, that person would be you."

"You mean to tell me that no one has investigated how to deal with Cerinian psychic shenanigans?"

"No one in this Agency." Hawking confirmed, "The Cerinians have always been remarkably reserved, well behaved, never a major threat before now. The need for a contingency on them simply wasn't there, not when we've had more immediate problems to occupy our time, attention, and funds–"

The comm buzzed against Rick's ear, making him flinch a moment. It was another call, which he put on hold for a moment, "I've got to go. There's another call coming in from one of my contacts."

"You certainly are a busy one." Hawking remarked, "We'll comb through our backlogs and old contacts here, see if we can't dig up something to assist you. Otherwise, keep up the good work, and don't let me detain you."

"Appreciated."

The call was from Rachelle.

\

/

A pair of spacecraft slowed from reentry speeds as they descended over the desolate, sun scorched landscape of Titania. One of them was a large fighter, an older but well maintained Havoc class attack fighter. The other was a barely larger than shuttle sized spacecraft, outfitted with a wider and more prominent array of sensory equipment than a ship of its size would normally carry; a surveyor.

Despite being settled, much of Titania was still uncharted outside the few patches civilization. Few cartographers would be willing to trudge across vast, highly hazardous expanses of a planet that consisted almost entirely of scorched sand, burnt dust, and roasted stone just to map the damned place and get a good look at the rocks. However, the desolate planet was quite popular with a certain kind of people: prospectors.

There were two things mainly sought after by prospectors who scoured the endless deserts of Titania, the first raw materials: mineral veins, mines, oil wells, gas deposits, anything worth hauling out of the ground to refine and sell, and of special importance were the precious rare sources of water. If not for what little water there was, settlement and exploration of Titania simply would not have been feasible, and the planet would've remained an untouched wasteland not unlike Venom. The second thing prospectors searched for were the ancient ruins, often buried beneath the sands, of a long lost civilization, one that historians and geologists were pretty certain was wiped out with the cataclysm that turned Titania into a dusty sand ball, and gave the planet its ring system and moon. These locations were highly valued, either to mining companies, archaeological interests, or other less scrupulous interests on the black market.

Since there was little official jurisdiction outside Titania's sparse settlements, being well armed or traveling with a well armed escort was considered almost as essential a supply of water. Thus, posing as a freelance survey crew was as natural a cover for pursuing Harrow's trail as any, and even the plentiful weaponry wouldn't appear the least bit out-of-place. Anyone that couldn't defend themselves in the endless desert was easy prey for the predators that stalked the sands, either the opportunistic bandits that braved the endless open desert, or other threats...

"We're coming up on the site." Rachelle announced from the surveyor's pilot seat, "Stay sharp."

The interior of the surveyor was utilitarian, functional, and not much else. The cockpit melded seamlessly to a bank of instrument feeds just aft of it, with the outer access door a little behind that. The rear of the cabin ended in the spartan crew accommodations, and the interior engine and systems access at the furthest aft interior point.

James McCloud, Pigma Dengar and Scott Aberdeen had geared-up in utilitarian fatigues, armed and prepared for the possibility of a trap. Scott sported his usual handgun and sword combination, James carried an assault rifle slung over one shoulder, and Pigma had taken up Adrian's combat shotgun. They stood waiting in the cockpit/instrument readout in the forward compartment of the surveyor, watching as the dusty red Titania sky slowly faded to the dusty red Titania landscape.

Scott was not flying his Havoc fighter for this mission, as he gave that position to Peppy instead instead. When asked why, the terrier shot an angry look, and spouted back in equally angry words, "I am looking at that shuttle with my own eyes, with me own boots on the ground. I am not just goin'tae sit there with me arse in the sky, listening in over the bloody comm!" at which point there were no further objections. Peppy Hare would fly the Havoc fighter, act as the watchful eyes on lookout duty, and also act as heavy firepower should the situation need it.

The surveyor craft slowed down as it cam lower over the ground, passing only a little ways over the dunes below. Soon the craft was going slow enough, and there was something else down there, only a small ways ahead; something other than the endless sands, something artificial. It was the shuttle Charon, little more than a blur against the endless sand and dust at this distance.

"It's these little moments, you know?" Pigma mused, mainly to James. Scott wasn't in the mood for smalltalk, preferring to brood in what had become his trademark smoldering silence. "These breath-holding pauses right before the action that really got to you, eh Jimbo?"

"You don't get to call me that." the fox said bluntly, giving the swine a quick glance, "Nobody does."

"And why not, if you don't mind me asking?"

"The goofy nicknames, they're just..." James trailed off, shaking his head, preferring not to finish the thought, "Plain old 'James' is fine."

"Okay, suit yourself." Pigma accepted with a shrug, "Like I was saying, it's times like these you can't help but think something out there's gonna go horribly wrong, but I guess that's a little redundant here. We're walking into what we're pretty sure is a trap, something is supposed to go wrong, and here we are gonna take the brunt of it. What I mean is..." the young swine looked down, and fidgeted with some of the equipment he had on him, "We got this, right? We got an LCI spook, we got some professional badasses on the ground, we got Peppy in the air with that flying tank if it gets really ugly... how horribly wrong could things go?"

"Oh, I could probably think of at least a dozen or so unpleasant scenarios," the fox answered with a healthy dose of humor. But then his tone hardened when he followed with, "but... I'd rather not."

"Yeah, probably a good idea." Pigma agreed, shaking those unsettling thoughts from his head, "Just gonna get stuck thinking in circles that way."

The surveyor came to a stop with the shuttle Charon in clear sight before them. hovering over the sand as the engine's roar whined down to a grumble. The craft made its final descent straight down, and moments later came to rest on the ground.

Rachelle Cooney stepped away from the cockpit area and scooped up a satchel bag as she joined the other three near the surveyor's door. "Focus on the mission: keep a lookout for the trouble we're expecting, and let me take care of the detective work." She assured the nervous swine, "You can start worrying about how horribly wrong things can go when you know for sure that horrible things are coming."

And with that, Rachelle punched the door switch, and the outer access door swung up in front of the party, opening to the outside. The four disembarked from the spacecraft moments later.

James winced as he stepped outside the surveyor craft, squinting against the sudden brightness, and onto the shifting, unstable sand under his boots. Then there was the heat. Nothing could have prepared him for the sheer, unrelenting, sweltering, parched-dry heat that descended on him outside the shelter of the spacecraft. Not even the breeze was a comfort; the gusts of wind that brought only dry heat, sometimes laced with a helping of stinging sand and dust.

Plenty more of the rusty red sand stretched in every direction, mostly in the massive dunes and curving slopes that they'd seen already while airborne. It all faded into a dim red mist in the distance along the horizon, almost like a thin fog, but drier than dry should ever allowed to be. The sky was only blue, or bluish, further up, above the constant haze of dust. The most apparent feature in the sky was Titnaia's gigantic moon Oberon, squatting there on the horizon. The great pockmarked silver orb was easily visible, even now in the broad daylight, thanks in large part to how much space it took up in the sky, dominating a large portion of the hazy horizon.

"Ugh..." the fox grumbled. Everyone else had, or at least hid, their own looks and expressions of disgust and discomfort.

"Hey, at least it's sunny, right?" Peppy's cheery voice piped over all their comm headsets.

"Oh, sure, it's fantastic!" Pigma sassed back, shielding his eyes from the oppressive glaring sunlight, "In fact, why don't you come down out of that climate-controlled cockpit and check it out yourself, huh?"

"Love to, but somebody's gotta keep an eye out for y'all down there." then an engine's roar cut through the desert's stifling silence, and the Havoc attack fighter rumbled passed them overhead.

As expected, Scott had very little to say, and he simply marched straight on forward, giving the others little more than a passing glance.

"When you boys are done taking in the scenery, we've got a shuttle to investigate." Rachelle, gesturing ahead where Scott was headed.

Just ahead, and thankfully not too far away, was the shuttle Charon, parked neatly on the ground. Some windblown sand had begun piling up around the landing feet, and more sand had collected at other parts like on the dorsal turret dome and a few other nook and crannies. Other than the smattering of sand and dust though, the shuttle looked perfectly intact.

Scott looked around the other side of the shuttle, and stopped when he saw what was hidden on the other side. His stony grim face suddenly flashed with worry when he said "Wait..." and he turned back to Rachelle, who was jogging to reach Scott, "There's bodies here."

"Is Chakori–" Cooney began asking once she was close enough.

"No." Scott cut her off, shaking his head, "They're all... others."

Rachelle stepped around the front of the shuttle, and sure enough, there were bodies. There were six of them, mostly reptilian; locals probably, since the reptilian species were pretty comfortable in these hyper-arid conditions. They must've been caravaners, one of the several bands that often criss-crossed Titania's barren wastes. They typically worked either as guides, scavengers, traders, prospectors themselves, or sometimes –and far more dangerous– as raiders.

Rachelle moved in for a closer investigation, looking for any clues to their identity. All of the reptilian corpses were armed, many with higher-end weaponry, and some of them were wearing some kind of body armor as well...

"We've got company!" Peppy barked over the comm channel, catching everyone else off guard.

"What kind?" James asked as he quickly unslung the rifle off his shoulder and armed it, scanning the landscape around him for any movement.

"There's a whole mess of ground traffic closing in from the southwest. They're small, and moving fast." the hare told them, "Hover bikes I'd say by the looks of it, about a dozen."

"This'd be the trap we're all expecting." Pigma figured as he prepped the shotgun, and worked to suppress his nervousness.

"Want me to light'em up?" Peppy asked.

"No." Rachelle ordered, shaking her head, but she seemed focused on something else, "Hold your fire." and she crouched down next to one of the larger and better equipped bodies, examining it closer.

"Well, how about warning shots–"

"She said hold your fire, Peppy!" James cut him off, "So you hold your fire!"

"God– dammit!" the hare cursed, "You wanted us here for protection, against a trap that we're expecting, and now you're just gonna let these fellas swarm all over y'all!"

"Only a dozen, ye say?" Scott scoffed as he drew and readied his hand-cannon of a handgun, "It's not that many, we can take 'em down here just fine."

"Even so, you'll understand if I'd rather err on the side of sanity." Pigma snarked back.

"They're desert biker filth." the terrier explained, his gruff tone falling just short of bitter, "They make lot of fuss, a lot of theatrics, but in the end they're not any more deadly than your average scum."

"How much time do we have?" James asked into the comm, taking position at a corner of the shuttle, facing southwest where the alleged bikers were supposed to be coming.

"I reckon a few minutes at most." Peppy told them, "If you got any snap judgments to make, you'd best make 'em quick."

After some examination, Rachelle stood up from the dead reptilian she'd been examining, "Look at this one, in the plated vest:" his metallic body armor had been broken open, and he sported an empty hole in his chest, long since dried out by the hyper-arid environment. "the plates here were shattered– not bent, not punctured, not melted, not sheared– shattered. For a material like this, it'd only happen under cryo-shock, flash-freezing to very low temperatures."

Scott took a look at the body for himself, and mentioned, "Harrow's got that ice-spitting thingme on his stick, that might've done it. He's been busy here I'd say."

"So... what then?" Pigma asked as he found a spot to take cover like James had, holding his shotgun close, "Are we saying the guys headed our way and the dead guys here are part of the same group, and they don't like Harrow either? Or is this all a bunch of coincidences?"

Before anyone replied, the dusty desert air was filled by a chorus of approaching engine whines, growing louder and louder as the desert bikers came closer and closer.

"Us in Intelligence have a saying:" Rachelle said, raising her voice to be clearly heard over the growing noise, "No coincidences." She stood up, and started walking forward in the direction the engine whines were coming from, completely in the open.

"Rachelle!" James shouted, baffled by what was tactically the absolute worst possible choice she could be making, "What are you–"

He didn't have a chance to finish.

A line of screaming hoverbikes burst out from over a nearby ridge, carrying a plume of dust behind them that partly obscured the vehicles and riders as they came, making them look something like wailing desert phantoms. The bikers spread out and around as they gathered, surrounding the party and the two landed spacecraft, throwing even more of the suffocating, blurring, obscuring dust into the air until one could hardly see clearly, or breathe comfortably. Then the bikes stopped.

James, Pigma and Scott all had their weapons ready, but not yet trained on any one target. They were all three still in a tense wait-and-see mode

One of the riders, the one who stopped directly ahead of Rachelle, dismounted from his hoverbike and began walking toward the raccoon. As he stepped out of the blown dust and into better visibility, it became apparent he was a larger reptilian specimen, easily standing head-and-shoulders above Rachelle or the others. The rider wore a rough, sand-encrusted cloak over a set of higher-end combat armor, and sported a pair of tinted protective goggles, which he lifted from his slit eyes before he spoke.

"Cornerian?" he asked in a raspy, guttural voice, heavily accented toward one of the native Titanian dialects.

"Yes, we speak Cornerian." Rachelle answered.

"Who are you?" the rider asked, "And what are you doing here?"

"We're surveyors, and this wreckage looked–"

"A survey crew already came through these parts over a year ago..." The towering reptile gave a hand signal, and the surrounding silhouetted riders all readied their weapons in a cacophony of clicks and cocking. Most of them toted rifle types, though some sported submachine gun sized firearms, and a few were hefting larger, shoulder-mounted heavy weapons. The on-foot lead rider turned back to Rachelle with a cold stare beaming from his eyes, "Let's try again little lady: who are you, really, and why are you really here–"

* rrrrrrRrRrRRRRR *

It was a low grumble from overhead, getting louder. The surrounding riders became uneasy, chattering amongst themselves in native Titanian. Some of them looked up, searching for the noise source.

"Uh oh..." James began.

"Everybody clear out!" Peppy's voice screamed through the comm.

A deafening roar descended over the scene as the Havoc fighter swooped down, kciking up another billow of dust as it took up a hovering position directly behind Rachelle, with both of its massive gatling blaster cannons trained directly on the large reptilian. Some of the surrounding rideers hesitated, some almost panicked, but those who had heavy weapons immediately set their sights on the new arrival above them.

"Stand down Hare!" Rachelle bellowed into her comm, struggling to be heard over the engine noise. "You're going to get us all killed!"

At the same time, the lead rider turned to his men and shouted a set of orders in Titanian accompanied by hand signals that must've conveyed 'hold your fire!', since the other riders all lowered their weapons shortly afterward, but not before the Havoc fighter ascended safely away.

"That is most impressive firepower for a 'survey crew'." the lead rider commented as the engine roar died away, giving the raccoon a loaded gaze, "If I were feeling suspicious, I might guess you were expecting to find trouble..."

"Maybe, but it looks to me like the trouble already came and went." Rachelle retorted, pointing out the bodies strewn across the landing site, "Were these your men?"

"What of it?"

They were his; no question. The dead corpses and surrounding riders were all similarly equipped, and there simply weren't enough people in this part of Titania in the first place for them to belong to another near-identical group. Add to that the fact that they were killed by means the surrounding live riders did not likely have available, eliminating the riders themselves as the killers, and a piece of the puzzle fits into place.

"They were killed by a Cerinian, weren't they? This Cerinian." Rachelle produced a small handheld holoprojector, showing a clear image of Harrow, "You wouldn't happen to know anything about him, would you?"

The towering reptile gazed into the holographic projection for several silent seconds, and then looked up to the raccoon, "If you want a truthful response from me, I will first require a truthful response from you in trade. So I ask again: who are you, and what business do you have with this... little blue demon?"

He recognized the image, that much was certain, but he wasn't about to give away information for free. He was smarter than the average desert scrounger– a shrewd bargainer– probably why he was in charge of his group, and why they'd survived. Already he'd gleaned that the landed party here was far more than their official cover story, and he'd hinted that he had a bone to pick with Harrow. This'd be a stretch, but it might pay off...

"My name is Rachelle Cooney, I'm an agent of Lylat Central Intelligence." Rachelle answered in straightforward, "We've tracked this Cerinan here and intend to capture him for questioning, or failing that, eliminate him."

Even if this situation fell through completely, anything said here can easily be denied. Titanian caravaners spin lies and half-truths all the time, who would believe them if one group claimed to have spoken with an LCI agent? Still, it was a risky play.

"Your honesty is appreciated, Ms. Cooney." the tall reptile said with a little smile and a small nod, his tone sounding sincere enough, "My name is Ashk'habat, chief of this band of misfits you see here..." he made a sweeping gesture toward the other surrounding riders, end his attention soon returned to Rachelle and the others, "Now tell me, do you know what he is capable of? Any of you?" Ashk'habat asked, not only to Rachelle, but also to James, Pigma and Scott, "Do you know how he undermines strengths, and exploits weakness; how he can make one doubt, hesitate, and even turn against their own?"

"All too well." Scott growled back at the reptile, piercing him with his lance-like glare.

Ashk'habat matched the terrier with a grim, steady gaze of his own, "Then you know your goal is not an easy one."

"All the more reason for us to be open to any help we can get." Rachelle said, stepping between the other two, "Are you able to help?"

"Ah, now that depends..." Ashk'habat turned back to the raccoon with a hungry gleam in his eyes of a merchant who smelled opportunity, "What sort of 'help' would you offer in trade?"

"Credits, arms, equipment, other supplies, and most valuable of all: connections with LCI that'll all but guarantee mutually beneficial arrangements in the future."

Cheap muscle can be rented, used once and disposed of, but someone as sharp as this Ashk'habat character though might be useful down the road in other circumstances. That, and few things ensure short-term loyalty as securely as the opportunity for repeat business; it's the same reason small-time restaurants distribute punch cards to customers...

This had better work.

Ashk'habat took a few moments, considering the terms of the deal. There was something more underneath it though, other cards in the hand, something that deeply unsettled even this grizzled desert rider. This was confirmed when he finally uttered, "I think you will find, Ms. Cooney, that our situation is... a little complicated."

"They usually are." Rachelle exhaled, covering a quiet sigh of relief.

By his cryptic, almost forced tone he used, it seemed like he'd been given the short end of a bad deal, and wanted out, maybe. Given the evidence and events that likely produced it, it could easily have something to do with Harrow. In fact, it was almost certain that was the case.

"We have a place for shelter not too far from here." Ashk'habat mentioned, stepping closer, shifting to a more inviting demeanor, "I would rather discuss further details in a comfortable, more accommodating setting, with you and your party as our guests."

With the desert caravaners invoking hospitality, the pieces of the game finally started to play out to their advantage. That was the hope at least; one can rarely be completely certain about these things.

"Of course, we would be honored to join you." She extended a hand to Ashk'habat, who then clasped it in his much larger "But before we go, I'd like to examine the shuttle, recover hardware and data. It's why we came here in the first place."

"I understand..." the towering reptilian turned toward the other riders and shouted, "Samirr!"

In a few moments, one of the cloaked figures dismounted and joined Ashk'habat at his side. This one was smaller, with his face covered in a head-wrap and eyes hidden behind protective goggles. For all they could see, Samirr might not even have been a 'he'. He was reptilian for sure though, as shown by the thick scaled tail behind him.

"Stay with Ms. Cooney and her party, then guide them back to the camp when they have finished their investigations." Ashk'habat instructed.

Samirr didn't speak, but gave his leader an affirmative nod.

"I'll see you when you're done." the lead rider said with a tone of finality, "I hope you find what you're looking for."

"So do I." the raccoon replied, "Thank you."

With one final affirming grunt, Ashk'habat turned and started walking back to his hoverbike, barking orders to the rest of his men in Titanian. In a flurry of activity, the riders all replaced their weapons, started their noisy vehicles, and zipped away into the desert as swiftly as they'd arrived.

When the engine screams died away, James McCloud approached Rachelle, a mixed look of astonishment, puzzlement and skepticism stretched over his face.

"Hold on, we were all pointing guns at each other one minute, and the next we're invited to dinner? What exactly just happened here?" the astonished fox asked, shooting a cold look to Samirr.

"Hopefully, we made a friend." Rachelle answered, starting toward the shuttle Charon, "Enemies tend to leave potential allies in their wake, if you know how to spot them."

\

To be a spy you need physical fitness, a facility with languages, a tolerance for exotic food and the bugs that come with them. But ultimately there's no greater qualification than the ability to look someone who ruined your life in the eye and say "Let's work together."

-Michael Westen, Burn Notice-

/

Rick Cooney returned to the sitting room area of Cassandra's apartment to an intriguing scene.

Wiley sat there on the couch across from the Cerinian hostess. Their eyes were gently closed, and each sat in an identical, relaxed stance; meditating? Whatever it was they were doing, he was calm then, more calm than Rick had ever seen him before.

"Haran did this to you?" Cassandra asked aloud.

The wolf nodded slowly, keeping his eyes shut, and spoke in a serene voice Rick had never heard him use, "He linked my mind with others, then killed them, made me experience their final moments firsthand as they died."

"Ju'shi..." The Cerinian said in quiet shock. She opened her eyes, and found Rick standing there in front of her, "You!" she spat as she stood up, and confronted the raccoon, "Tell me who you are working for, and what you want with me. Tell me now, and tell me the truth, or leave."

Cassandra pierced Rick with demanding eyes, but he just stared back at her with a blank, almost glazed look, "I'm with Lylat Central Intelligence, and my mission is to stop Harrow, or Haran." Rick explained in a voice almost as glazed as his stare, "Do you know the things he's done?"

"I know he's committed Ju'shi, Living Death, one of the most heinous acts of torture one can perform with the Gift." Cassandra said coldly, and gestured to indicate Wiley, "No one deserves to experience dying without the release of death, not even Makita."

"That doesn't even scrape the surface." Rick said with a shake of his head, "He slaughtered an entire ship's worth of crew and passengers on the Sojourn, almost succeeded in doing it again with the Amity, then systematically murdered some of the most talented mercenaries I've ever worked with, and that's just what we know he did."

"He's done a hell of a lot more, you can be sure of that." Wiley chimed in.

"My partner has just tracked him to a location on the planet Titania. This is the best chance we have to bag him, right now, before he gets a chance to regroup." For once in a very broad while, Rick spoke in complete straight sincerity, and not just another practiced mask, "Looking at the evidence though... I can't do it, I just don't know how. If I don't have some kind of edge over Haran, something I can use to undermine his command of 'the Gift', I don't think I'll survive the encounter, let alone be able to stop him. And yet, despite that, I am going to Titania to hold up my end of the mission to try to stop him, right now, and I'll do it with or without your help. So I need an honest answer from you Cassandra, and I need it now: will you help me stop Haran?"

She stood there for a few moments, stunned, confused, agape, dumbfounded, until she managed to ask, "How do you possibility expect me to trust you?"

"Look in my head with your 'Gift', and judge for yourself if I'm trying to deceive you." Rick challenged, looking back with dead serious expression carved into his features.

And so she looked with her 'gift'; he could feel the tendrils, like probes. It was another consciousness occupying his mind, another identity, like a visitor in the house of his mind. Rick could feel her skepticism and curiosity directly, as if he himself were thinking the thoughts. Then the visitor in his mind left.

"I'm sorry... This is..." Cassandra rubbed her forehead, eyes downcast, struggling to find the words, "It's all very sudden."

"I'm not asking you to be a hero, Cassandra." Rick assured her, "I just need to know what I'm up against, and I don't have much time to find out."

"I... I shall go with you to Titania." The Cerinian decided, looking back up with a resolve to match his own, "It should make the best use of what little time you have."