The Bronc Town Abductions (shorthand version)

by Draes Letum

[Faster updates but shorter]Eleven years ago, a series of terrifying abductions spooked Bronc Town, a place that was once a little haven at the southern end of the countryside. But rumors spurn the advent of another series of kidnappings, drawing Nick and Judy into the shadow of the elusive Carrion Killer but when anyone can be the culprit, they find they can only trust each other.

20. Chapter 7 - Ghosts of Yesteryear (pt1)

We took entirely too long to update this. XD Sorry, we got caught up cause of graduation, being sick, building a house, etc. etc. But now we're back! (Finally)

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Chapter 7 – Ghosts of Yesteryear

Bronc Town…? Well it's a fine place. Lush valleys, great food, wonderful people, and the air is clean for the most part. It's a haven in the south, but most of all… it's home. And I'll remember it fondly, each and every day. I may not see it again lest I meet the grave, but for as long as I'm buried at home next to my wife, I'll live happy knowin' my road ends with her… and that town.

~Marcus Hector, a recording of his conversation with an unknown party inside the Zootopian State Penitentiary

~~~o0O0o~~~

Across the great old valleys in the south, the silence of the countryside is disturbed by a great roving mass of steel, a tank and its great engine roaring through the air to the tune of Wagner's Ride of the Valkyries playing off an excitable old radio taped haphazardly somewhere inside.

The hatch off the tank's top opens and out comes a badger, a soldier coming home from war with his ragged fur whipping in the wind around his pale, sleepy eyes that watch the horizon reverently. His name is Henry Avery and for the first time in months, the air he smells is of dew and heated grass, a contrast to the familiar scent of gunpowder and fresh cinders, of memories he prays will fade in time.

It feels like he's in a distant dream, aloft in some erstwhile slumber, entirely expecting to wake up to a warzone again, but he opens his eyes and the valleys remain. But more than that, the great forest up ahead catches his attention gleefully.

And he laughs at the sight, an elation he has long thought lost to him finally returning, pouring strength into his aching bones as he lets it sink in where he can feel it heal him. And suddenly he is weightless, as if he sheds the ghost of his war-torn self, left behind in the trenches across the seas in a country he'd much rather forget. And now he is reborn in this valley, signaled by his laughter with enough overwhelming rancor that perhaps the Valkyries carried in Wagner's song join him.

He sees the entrance of the forest in the distance, a sense of relief overcoming him, filling his lungs with a great breath of air. "Almost home," he sighs thankfully, another laugh bubbling off his lips.

And then, suddenly, his engine sputters and almost dies, slowing to a crawl as he drops back inside to get on the controls, swerving it into the grass beside the road.

"Shoulda known," he sighs, though he is neither surprised nor actually disappointed. Since he'd ridden the thing across the country, he actually expected it to break down much sooner. But it's gotten him close to home so he's more than happy he's made it this far.

Still, he's a ways away from town so going on foot isn't going to cut it right now. And yet he prepares to do it anyway, sitting at the rim of the hatch, slipping his hot, sweat-drenched fatigues off his shoulders, letting the wind cool his bare, taut arms.

Then, a shiny two-seater car that he doesn't recognize pulls up to the side of the road.

The window rolls down as a pig pokes his head out. "Mr. Avery?" asks a young Marcus Hector. "Yer back early! I thought you were comin' in next week."

"Got impatient." He laughs. They wanted to transport us over the coming weeks and I thought I'd kept my woman waiting long enough." Then the badger gets an idea, eyes alight. "Say, you wouldn't mind taking a war vet home, would ya'?"

"Aw, shucks, Mr. Avery," the pig responds apologetically, "I would but… I've myself some company." Marcus leans back, letting another pig, a woman with a brunette tuft on her head, come into view as she waves up at the badger, almost as apologetic as her partner.

"Glad yer back with us, Uncle Henry," Karvina Milrose greets from her seat, smiling brightly at him.

"Always a pleasure, Kara," Henry responds, slipping off the tank to approach the window, eying the rear of the car but finds it tinted. "What about the trunk there, boy?" he asks Marcus.

"If yer comfortable with a ton o' bricks and hunks o' metal, then be my guest," Marcus jokes before giving the badger a sad smile that quickly drops with a sigh. "Sorry, Mr. Avery, there ain't any room in here."

Henry sighs but again he isn't disappointed, smiling through it still. "Then could you two do me a favor?"

"Whatever ya' need," Marcus says, relieved.

"Do tell my wife I'm here. I was planning on walking through my own front door but," — he looks back at the empty tank, the once loud and clattering monstrosity now silent and solemn like an old beast laid to rest — "I'm a little stranded. Still, her knowing I'm here is surprise enough, I suppose."

"We won't let you down," Karvina announces with a salute, beaming.

Henry thanks them, laughing heartily.

He leans into the window, eying their fresh faces with some nostalgia, relishing in their youth that ebbs off their chubby, rose-tinted cheeks. "Now you drive safe, Marcus. Get your girlfriend over there home to her family in one piece."

Kara coughs, "Um… fiancée, actually."

Henry blinks at them. "At such a young age?" It isn't like he's against the idea, but marriage is a commitment and… well they have been dating for a while already. If there has ever been a pair more certain about their future together, it would be these two.

"It isn't the strangest thing that's happened lately," Marcus offers. "If ya' haven't heard, the interspecies movement just got marriage between them approved across the country!"

Henry presses his fists to his hips, his cheeks tugging further upward. Looks like the world just keeps changing for the better since the end of the war. "Well I'll be damned, guess Idella gets to become a Mellivora after all."

"Aw, Uncle Henry, they're getting' married in a month. I'm sure your wife got the invitation. We'd be pleased to meet ya there."

~~~o0O0o~~~

I drove straight home in that tank because I grew impatient with that bitter feeling in my gut left to me by that daunting, ever-present impedimental mountain that was war. In contrast, coming home to the familiar scent of sweet country air was an inviting relief. Soon enough, those days knee-deep in mud down in those trenches became nothing but bad dreams, nightmares I'd awaken from, gasping as I sat up in the quiet comfort of home, relaxed suddenly by the loving presence of my wife and daughters.

~Lt. Henry Avery, overheard by his eldest daughter when they were visited by the Hectors

~~~o0O0o~~~

"Marcus," Henry says slowly as he lays lazily on his tank, head twisting to meet the eyes of the man in question, "when I told you to tell my wife I was here, I really meant just her. You didn't need to bring the whole town too."

"I don't know, Mr. Avery, I think it's quite fittin' that we bring in the town to celebrate. An end o' the war celebration." Marcus remarks with youthful glee. Though Henry could scarcely disagree, what with the mouthful of pie he's getting fed to by his wife, and the form-fitting civilian attire he's wearing, a far cry from the familiar yet discarded military fatigues hanging off the tank's gun.

Though it isn't actually the entire town, there is enough of them here to at least warrant the suggestion. The rancor and all that life brimming off the townsfolk is a refreshing sight, one that welcomes him back, literally and figuratively.

He meets old friends he thought he'd never see again, thankful that much of them have stayed the same. From every brimming feature down to their quirky little nuances, Bronc Town seems to have stagnated to some degree since his departure. They also seem so much younger, but perhaps that is only because his bones feel so old now, trapped beneath burdened skin – scarred, scorched and bruised – where theirs have remained much the same.

In fact, he almost feels like a stranger amongst them, but that is a notion he believes will fade in time. But Henry Avery is changed, and it is a contrast that runs deeper than his scars.

Perhaps it is strange to eye his old friends with scrutiny, even if only inwardly, but he can't help it anymore. After what feels like a lifetime in the trenches, he's emerged as a paranoid neurotic. Though still socially able, he certainly doesn't feel like it.

The Whitewoods are a family of otters who essentially lead much of the suburban social circles. Their rivals as the center of Stable Village are the Rivers, another family of otters. They compete in garnering the society's social high with lavish parties and superior decorations on the holidays. It's a race to them, a competition that consumes much of their prudish, domestic lives here.

But to him, their quarrels and contests are all petty and meaningless. But there was once a time when he merely accepted it as part of being what life in a modern town was like. Today he feels no such things, and even actively grinds his teeth just to brush away the irritation twitching his brow.

"We're trying to get the Rivers to marry off our children together," Ronald Whitewood tells him as he sips a watered down beer.

"Well aren't you two ambitious?" Henry responds. It comes out smoother than he anticipates, perhaps the old him still shining through, but it feels like a façade, one he's sure might shatter the minute one of them utters something truly useless.

"Hey!" calls Jackson Rivers, stomping towards them with a heated glare for Ronald, "we're supposed to keep all that hush-hush. What if our wives hear?"

Henry pays them little mind after that, groaning to himself as they descend into a whispered argument that their wives quickly break up, none the wiser of their schemes.

Perhaps it is shallow of them to presuppose their children's futures for a pointless social hierarchy in a small town far away from everywhere else, but they're only parents who want the best possible future for their individual child. And though he'd never do something like that himself, Henry is not a man who outwardly judges if he ever attempts to judge at all, and so he keeps silent.

Then Henry meets a distinct perversion to his senses, the incongruent baritones of the Maui's, a family of rhinos who, despite being a rather close-knit family, are incredibly competitive with each other. Each one competes with more flare to their song, sometimes with instruments, and though it is largely nothing worth paying too much attention to, the Maui's have essentially devoured all sound in the area.

The crowd around them takes it with glee, perhaps one of the few truly exciting things here in town – not that Henry would ever call it that – but the fact that their tones don't actually match, turns the collective song into noise.

He looks away in an attempt to ignore them, but then he is quickly greeted by the littlest Maui himself: Javan. The rhino child tilts his head up at him, and then looks at his family, then back to Henry.

Henry blinks at the child as he suddenly covers his ears and shakes his head.

In his amusement, Henry then picks him up and then puts him on his lap. Henry's sentiments feel alien here, but the idea that a child, one that can barely even speak, shares the same notions for his own family is incredibly consoling.

Then his mother scampers towards them, the twenty-one year old Jahla Maui, out of school and pregnant too soon, she is a woman who is so distinct from her family that she is almost like the black sheep. Unlike them she prefers the field and not the stage, would rather keep to herself than draw attention to herself, who favors art over song. All of it a testament to her individuality, self-defined rather than by her family. And that is why Henry is adamant in making her feel comfortable, unwilling to let her see the critical glares that come their way, keeping her distracted with talk of her son.

Then the hum of a refined engine fills the air, muting the sky for a moment before it quiets. Henry eyes the Austin Terrier that pulls up beside the tank, distinct in its polished frame that refracts brightly even in the dying light of the setting sun.

Out of it comes the Prides', the veritable "silver spoon" lions of the town. Despite having been locals for years, they're still very much strangers to its residents. They keep crisscrossing between Zootopia and Bronc Town that it's a wonder if they have permanent homes in either anymore, which saddens Henry but not for any social reason.

In their arms is the little lion cub: Calvary Pride, and the tiny thing, he fears, might never know a real home.

Ultimately, they live and breathe city life, evident in their designer apparel and clear-as-day make up. And to anyone else, they might have seemed snobbish, but they're really quite friendly as far as city folk go.

One of them, the father, walks up to Henry and gives him a surprisingly firm handshake. "Glad to have ya' back, Henry."

"Glad to be back, Ronald."

Henry's smile is almost insincere, because Ronald never went to war, and is thusly a coward in his eyes. But he pushes away these bitter feelings, considering that he is perhaps only envious of the man who never had to see what he had to.

Lutessa Avery sees the quiet discomfort in her husband. And so, with a knowing and quick wink, she presses herself into the conversation, drawing the attention away from Henry. She then leads Ronald towards the crowd to rejoin his own wife, looking over her shoulder to flash a smile at him.

The badger soldier quickly excuses himself from the crowd, thankful for the moment of solace his wife has given him. He leans on his back at the rear of his tank, eying the sky that turns to twilight, the closest stars peering out from the ether.

And he wonders if he'll every truly adjust to urban life again. But that is a question he'll have to answer in time, no sense in forcing the issue now.

He sits up, weary eyes drifting across the rapturous crowd seated around a bonfire in the middle of a dirt clearing.

Then, he quietly slips into his tank and pulls out a helmet that isn't his own. An ID tag is wrapped around it, glimmering in the somber light. A bayonet glimmers at the corner of his eye, an old friend's M1 Garand attached to it. He pulls them all out as he sits at the rim of the hatch.

He sets the items before him as he looks down at the old solemn steel that has kept him alive and laughs at himself as he realizes that the turret is facing the rear somehow. He pats the rough, withered surface of the machine, thankful for its grit and its sacrifice.

Then he puts on his late comrades helmet and leans back again to watch the stars fill the sky.

"Watch the front, old man. I'm taking this soldier home."

~~~o0O0o~~~

I never expected to love the Broncs as much as I did. When Ross and I agreed to separate for a time, I was wary about finding someone else… But then I did. And then I discovered that love is not dictated by destiny, it's something you make happen. And home is not where you're born, it's where you're most comfortable... Family, home, love, all of these things: you choose and make happen. That's why I felt like I was missing something back in Orca and why a small part of myself was missing while I was there… I knew then that I needed Ross and the Broncs. That's why I came back. That's why I chose him in the end. So I pray you forgive me for leaving your home to find my own…

~Elira Ferris, excerpts from her letter to her late mother on the anniversary of her death, written only a week before her wedding with Rostetler Rundi

~~~o0O0o~~~

It is midday beside the Horace Memorial on a bench against the fountain where Tali, for the life of her, cannot fathom the joy Eli is feeling. The woman is positively gushing from her thin, fragile, almost glass-like frame, twisting and smothering herself in an attempt to quell the warmth bubbling from her center, fighting every urge to giggle and squeal like every other school girl from their year.

But her heart sings songs that everyone can hear, emanating happiness too pure to ignore, too vivid to not draw attention to herself. But she can't help it, she really, honestly, can't.

And Tali wonders if at any point during the rapid-fire story she's telling, if she's inhaled a breath at all.

"…so when I finally say yes, he pumps his fist in the air — completely shattering his cool-guy persona, by the way — but before I could even comment on it, I find out he'd triggered some fireworks and suddenly the sky lit up with so many colors that I swear I invented a few when I kissed him." Eli's sigh is long and thoughtful, carrying with it the last true vestiges of her erstwhile glee, pouring out of her overworked throat so she can inhale fresh air again after what seems like minutes of non-stop talking.

And then, suddenly, all the excitement has left her lungs and the young woman just barely out of eighteen defaults to her usual self with enough poise to make her appear older than she is, the glimmer in her eyes now lukewarm.

"Done?" Tali asks as she shuts her book, a little frustrated that she'd tried to read the same page eight different times whilst attempting to pay enough attention to her friend. Though none of that irk comes out, looking only at her friend with honest elation, happy for her

Eli chuckles. "Oh I sincerely hope so," she says with her lithe fingers gently against her chest, "because anymore gushing and my heart would have given out."

"Good. I didn't want to have to get you a respirator," Tali jokes, smiling at her. But there is a weight in her eyes, something heavy and deep seeded lingering beneath her quiet visage. And this ghost beneath her irises is not lost to Eli who, in a personal struggle of her own, tries to find the right words to say.

Instead she looks away, cursing herself for not noticing sooner. Pensive and uncertain, she glances quickly at Tali whose gaze is far away, listless, but her hands fidget, flexing much too tensely to be relaxed. Tali thinks she's being clever by softening her features, but Eli knows her tells and sees right through her.

Tali wishes to redirect the conversation but can't bring herself to do it. Perhaps it is the atmosphere, or the quiet summer breeze, where her dire thoughts act as its perversion, tasked to sully Eli's good spirits. So Tali remains silent, eyes elsewhere as she quells the aching in her chest.

Eli can't stand for it, unwilling to let it lie, so she forces herself to speak, clutching her eyes shut for a moment. She doesn't have the words, but she deigns to speak anyway, to bring attention to it even though she can't give her answers.

But then Eli is almost startled by a hand resting on her shoulder. She thinks it's Tali at first, until she opens her eyes to see the wide, bold paws. Then she's kissed on her other cheek, turning again to find the brimming visage of Calvary Pride.

He comes in dawned in his signature letterman jacket, a raven black "C" outlined with a bright yellow, telling of his quarterback status at school. He is tall and well formed, muscles snugly within his sleeves, and a meticulously cared for mane that frames his head like a portrait. Calvary is by every means, a beautiful man, but Tali is in no way attracted to his species.

Tali also thinks that the beautiful new girl dating the local quarterback is terribly cliché, but she is thankful that the two don't actually like showing off, letting her remain the little mayflower in the background around them instead of standing out as one of their posse or, worse, the pitiful third wheel.

The lion then sinks into the seat between them, greeting Tali with a head-butt, the pair laughing at the age-old greeting. Eli winces at the sight for a moment, because unlike them, a football player and captain of her wrestling team, she is quite fragile, and constantly forgets that everyone around her can actually take a hit.

Calvary catches it and gently taps his head to hers. "You dolt…" Eli whispers, pressing her forehead against him before quickly pulling away.

Calvary's gaze swivels to Tali who quickly smiles at them… but not before he notices the brief flash of a frown. On its own it would have been nothing, but she's not making eye contact too and she's nursing her left wrist, one of her signs that she's hiding something. And all too soon does he realize that she's uncomfortable. "You alright there, Mink?"

"Yeah, I am," she responds quickly, tilting her head at him. "Why are you asking?"

He deadpans at her, his smile faltering beneath the concern, a heavy green, in his eyes. "Ah' know yer tells, Ta'darie. Please don't play dumb…" He wants to sound frustrated but a part of him is dying at the sight, watching her smile, fake as it is, wither beneath the taciturn recluse of her distant gaze, staring at the floor as if her torments are found there.

"I've noticed too, Tal…" Eli adds as she leans into view, startling Tali, Onlookers then take notice of their sullen gazes, and now Tali feels more cornered than ever. She wilts and hugs her knees, voice dying beneath the eyes that multiply in her head.

Then a hand finds hers, pulling her from her seat to stand, meeting Eli's eyes finally as she flashes her a comforting smile before leading her away. Calvary then takes her other hand and gives her the same smile with a wink. Then he tugs her once to join them shoulder-to-shoulder, and now Tali feels like they're acting as walls around her, sheltering her from the stray, intermittent glances of the locals.

It is not long until they get into Eli's car where she sinks into the backseat with Calvary. The puma drives them away as Tali finds her heart opening in their warmth in the short drive. She cries in the backseat in Calvary's arms, her gut twisting openly in the safety of their presence.

The world is quieter then, the rancor of some erstwhile despair, sullying a once wonderful night, now haunting her with some lingering consternation, eating away at her as she dissolves her strength, clutching her belly.

Then they reach Calvary's home in Stable Village, and she is brought into his room where they sit on his bed, holding her close until she is ready to speak. There is a long silence then, permeating through the room to mute Tali's senses.

"You remember Max?" Tali asks.

"The druggie?" Calvary can't stop himself before the words spill out of his mouth. Eli herself doesn't even have the chance to look disappointed at him before Tali laughs sadly.

"Yeah, he's… he's a lot sweeter when he's clean and… we may have…" The exposition is lost to her, the words failing the minute they leave her lips. Because none of the backstory is important, only what happens at the end. So she takes a deep breath, holds back another sob, then looks between them as she summons enough willpower to speak.

"I'm pregnant."

~~~o0O0o~~~

I lost meanin' in the world. Findin' a job was hard, the woman I loved left town to marry her childhood sweetheart, and my folks were gone the minute I graduated – back then I still felt bitter about that. Soon enough I became disconnected from the rest of the town cause I, for some misguided reason, blamed it for everythin' that went wrong. But that was a dark time in my life, where youth was robbed from me and where my ambitions fell apart. These days they're nuthin' but sour afterthoughts about what was and what could have been… left to be forgotten the moment after, focusin' instead on what is and what should be. The past is like a great shadow, but like a shadow it is intangible and is utterly incapable of hurting you unless you let it. So don't let it. And hold on to those you hold dear, cause even in the dark, they'll find ya'.

~Calvary Pride, in an interview at the beginning of his mayoral campaign where he was asked about why he was the town drunk

~~~o0O0o~~~

Winter comes, icy and listless as the town vanishes beneath the fog rolling down the hills. It is a quiet time in Bronc Town, as the holidays and their obligatory cheer are shrouded in the mist, only their songs ever managing to ring through the air.

And through this lingering frost comes Calvary Pride, his footfalls crunching against the snow-laden path, eyes peering through the hazy obstruction every minute or so before his gaze retreats to the trees lining the sidewalk, a familiar sight that tells him exactly where he is.

When he comes upon the sight of a large tree surrounded by cement benches embedded into the floor, he veers off the path, feeling the grass at the bottom of his feet beneath the ankle-high layer of snow. He walks on until he finds another cement walkway that leads into the block. He follows it, eyes still low, affixed at his feet.

He rolls his shoulders against the cold, old man winter whispering in his ear, making him shiver against the frost, patting it with a gloved hand.

He finds the bushes that hug the path, leading him towards the pale green double doors he's been looking for. But he doesn't immediately enter, his heart sinking for a moment, caught in his inhaled breath.

And despite being there for barely a minute, he feels that it's taken him entirely too long to come in. But he's there still in the tundra, thinking of what to say or how to say it, delaying him further and further, all to quell his aching heart.

He does not find the words or the calm he's looking for, and yet abandons their pursuit to press on unprepared, opening the doors to announce him to the room.

The school's gym is dark and relatively empty, and his eyes shifting to the bleachers that was once filled with a roaring crowd, once seating him as he cheered Tali on when she competed in wrestling against other schools here, or sat in idle admiration at Eli's first performance on that adjacent stage, playing Moonlight Sonata, her favorite piece.

Drifting his attention to the center of the room, he finds Tali sitting on a wrestling mat, her winter wear just as heavy as his, all alone underneath the only light in the area. Perhaps it's a little dramatic, but it's supposed to be. And it isn't like he'd argue, he'd made a promise after all and he'd fulfill it.

He wants to say 'hi', to greet her as easily as he normally would, but this moment is tarnished by a lingering loneliness. Embittered, he cannot hold his tongue. "So you're leavin' me too?"

She looks over her shoulder in surprise, so lost in her own thoughts that she hadn't noticed him enter. She stands but cannot bring herself to face him, almost making to walk a bit further so he doesn't come too close, but she stays in place, seeing her own sorrow mirror his before staring back into the floor. "I don't have a choice, Cal. It's always been my dream and… I get it, it's so last minute but I can't pass up this opportunity." She glances back at him again, hand timidly clutching her forearm. "Can't you just be happy for me?"

His hands clasp her upper arms gently. "I am… I'm just not happy for me."

Her hands come together, shrinking at the thought of leaving him alone in this town. "I'll be back in six months," she reasons, trying to comfort him as much as she is herself.

She can feel his fingers tense, but they aren't hard or angry… they're desperate, whimpering. "And if the Academy decides yer too good for a quiet little town down south? If they decide you should be in Zootopia? In the city?"

She shakes her head. She only barely got accepted because someone had to back out in the middle of training. She'll be a latecomer to the Police Academy, so she'll have to work extra hard to even catch up. There's no guarantee she'll even graduate at this point. "It won't come to that…"

"Now don't sell yourself short… not in front o' me." It comes out like a whisper, a plea of a different kind, one that tells her that his faith in her, bold and ever present, challenges her waning confidence. He shifts to her front, a hand rising to her cheek to wipe away a tear and staying there. "You'll do great things," he says with an aching smile.

His sodden gaze meets hers, hating himself. "My pain is selfish, lonely. But it doesn't mean I don't think you'll make it big. In fact, that very idea is what hurts the most. Yer destined for great things." He feels trapped in this small town, alone in the world because the people he loves are leaving him. His parents live in Zootopia while he stays at home, Eli has gone off to reunite with her childhood sweetheart, and Tali is leaving town for the academy. But he's still here, drifting in stasis, his ambitions trampled and stained.

Suddenly she loops her arms around his neck, his hands falling to her waist over her jacket. "You make me strong," she whispers, "so I don't want to leave you. I'll write, I'll call, and you'll be the first person I'll see when I come back. Just… hang in there, for me."

Calvary would never forgive himself if he ever managed to make her stay, to snuff out her dream because he'd be left alone, and she knows this. So she'll make it as easy as she could possibly make it for him. She'll do whatever she can to make this transition less daunting for him and, honestly, herself.

They embrace, filling the gaps with their warmth, smothering the pain till the moment overwhelms it.

She steps back and out of the embrace. "I was supposed to have my Debut," she laughs, looking up at him a genuine smile. She leans down at the boombox behind her and hits play for a slow, quiet melody. "And you promised me a dance."

She takes off her jacket, revealing a deep silver dress that hugs her frame but does nothing to cover the taut strength in her arms and legs. Tali is barely a thin woman in this regard, but he has always known her this way.

His own jacket falls and his dull brown suit beneath it doesn't compliment her, but she doesn't care, and neither does he.

Slowly he waltzes with her, the song drowning out the sounds of the whipping tundra, her body flush against his as they draw each other in. A scene that might have been intimate were it not desperate.

His fingers slip between hers, clutching her carefully before their hands fall away. The waltz ends and they hold each other instead, his hands on her waist and her arms around his neck, forehead-to-forehead, eyes shut to revel in the other and nothing else.

For a moment he thinks he could love her, more than he ever has before, but his heart does not take that plunge despite the yearning across his lips. When he opens his eyes, he finds her lips quivering for much the same, but neither of them are foolish enough to engage in that empty gesture, not wanting to tarnish their friendship with a desperate need to feel warmth.

But even as they pull away and she smiles gently at him, love is in their eyes, one that is genuine, platonic. And there is comfort in that, perhaps more than there should be, but it might be enough to keep him together.

She leans in to whisper in his ear. "You'll dance with me again, won't you?"

"One day," he says with a hint of heartache.

She pulls back, gaze stuck staring down his chest. "One day soon," she corrects, as she fiddles with his lapels, not meeting his eyes.

She kisses him on the cheek then, her hands falling down his arms to finally clasp his hands for the last time in what will be a long time, walking away as she takes her jacket and hitting stop on his boombox.

Light pours out of the open door into the hallway, and she stands at its precipice, dress glistening in the pale, cold light. "I leave in the morning," she says, turning to him. "Will you see me off?"

He almost laughs at that, cause it would be silly of him not to. "I'll be there early."

She laughs briefly then, not sure why but she does so with the brimming colors off her frame, telling him that her heart is aglow with the relief that he'll be there for her anyway. She walks off with the promise stitched into her sleeve, making her way to the door.

Calvary almost walks away himself, but he is transfixed on her back and then to the boombox she helped him buy. There is history between them, one that is long enduring yet littered with too many things left unspoken. And in an instance of desperation, he calls her out. "Mink!" She turns, sparing him a curious glance. "Ya' think that, if I ever loved you, then maybe you mighta stayed?"

"No, Cal," she laughs, almost bitterly. "It would have just been harder to say goodbye."

~~~o0O0o~~~

When she told me that she wanted to move out, I disagreed. It was the first time we ever had a difference of opinion on something so major. To most people it would have been a problem easily resolved, but there was more that lingered beneath the surface. We knew nothing of a life outside of each other, and that harrowing unknown looming overhead… it was something we'd have to resolve immediately, else we'd risk letting it destroy us later on. But in the end we had faith that we'd come back, that we were meant to be, and that sense of underlying loyalty had only made us stronger together.

~Rostetler Rundi, a conversation between him and Lutessa Avery over some coffee at Catfrani

~~~o0O0o~~~

There is a quiet apartment in the coastal city of Orca, tucked away in a building that sells permanent residences, standing high above the city in its towering vantage point, encompassing an entire floor. It is lined with glass windows, itself touched by the morning sun that leers in the western horizon, breached by the silver slithers of twilight bridged by the ocean in the east.

It has housed the Ferris bloodline for four generations now, serving as their haven, their sanctuary. But where it once housed each generation individually, the many rooms have been left empty save for the dust and their ghosts lingering in the frosted air, leaving behind only the youngest two to sovereign the home: Elira and Mark Ferris, and their charge, Rostetler Rundi.

There is a symphony that echoes against its walls, a song of a lifetime carved heartily into every crevice. A tempo that rises and falls, a cacophony of sound that whistles quietly against the cracks and flits aimlessly in the wide open spaces.

At first it is solemn, peaceful, as the pitter patter of tiny feet is offset by careful stomps of Eli's mother and father who watch their children play.

Little Ross and Eli blow raspberries at Mark before scurrying away as the elder sibling chases after them. Mark is careful of the spaces about him, not wanting to make a mess with their play.

His much longer legs give him a significant advantage over them, however, and he quickly catches up to them as they round a corner and bolt for the front door, only to realize that they can' treach the knob. He nearly pounces at them but when he's a mere foot away, he raises a finger to "give him a sec" and pretends to be out of breath.

His mother giggles at the sight as Eli and Ross push passed him and away.

She notes how Ross's hand is basically plastered to Eli's and she only hums in approval, her tired eyes fluttering shut as she leans onto her husband's shoulder. "They're inseparable," she muses, "isn't it just the cutest thing you've ever seen?"

"Cute is one thing," her husband grumbles, "whether or not he's good enough for her is entirely another."

She raises a hand to flick the side of his ear. "Hun, please, they're only children. It is far too early to be thinking about that."

"Is it, really?" He turns to her, his somber features burning through his guilt-ridden eyes. "He doesn't even know about his mother yet."

She doesn't argue, adopting her optimism still as she fiercely denies her own dejection from bubbling up to the surface, in fear of letting the children see, disregarding the fact that her husband is not so adamant. "We'll tell him after dinner so he can sleep on what to do about it."

"That's not a lot of time for a kid to process something so serious."

She sighs drearily, the curl of her lips upward still. "No one at any age can process something like this overnight, but this way he'll be asleep for the first few hours of it at least."

"Will that really help?"

"One can only hope, dear. Small mercies are all we can offer him."

The song turns dour, slowly yet surely, as the end of the night draws in and Ross is met with terrible news. His mother, who is in Zootopia for the weekend, has come down with a terrible illness, a sudden affliction that might take her life long before he even manages the three day trip there. It tears at him, gnawing at his fragile resolve as the young cub cries himself to sleep. But Eli is there like she always is. Already without a father, he fears he'll be orphaned and alone, so he decides that he will never lose anyone ever again.

Strength becomes the herald of the symphony, a strong yet vibrant staccato accompanying Ross as he finds his lot in life, a fervent, valiant dream to become the stalwart guard that protects all that he has left.

The coming morning brings with it great news, however grim it might still be. Ross's mother has survived her operation but they have only managed to give her a few days. So Ferris's take Ross to her.

They drive as fast as they can but the car never goes fast enough for Ross. It's been two days already and his mother's condition only manages to worsen. He is anxious in the car, fidgeting endlessly with his puffy little eyes still red from all the balling he'd been doing.

Eli is close by, only an inch away so he can have his space. If he ever needs her, he'll close the gap, but now the little cub is alone with his thoughts.

She watches him and his faraway gaze, aching terribly at the sight, but Mark steadies her extended hand with his own. Then his hand slips away and pets her head to calm her down.

He gives her a smile that she only sighs at, but she surrenders, knowing that she can't force Ross. So she falls against her brother's grasp, sinking into the gap beneath his arm as he pulls her close.

And then Ross falls to her side as she cradles him too, a fuzzy feeling bubbling inside of her as he nestles himself in her side, shutting his eyes.

Mark rests his arm over them both, sparing a glance at the rearview mirror where his parents look straight on, doing all the worrying for them.

His gaze turns somber as his mother directs his father into another turn, a shortcut she says, trying to make it there as soon as they can.

They make it there the following day, on a quiet, rainy afternoon, and it all but devastates Ross. Cause his mother loves the rain, and little Ross can only think that God is welcoming her into His home with it, all too soon for him to accept.

Its soft pitter patter against her window eases her in her last moments, her calm filling the room as the symphony turns somber again, the strings playing languidly against the darkening skies.

Ross cries but he hates himself for it. His mother asks him to see her off with his bright little smile with his gentle, loving eyes, but can't bring himself to do it, burying his features in her blanket, trying to smother the sorrow away for her.

Then Eli sings and the symphony quiets to her melody, her voice filling the spaces. It's a lullaby his mother used to sing to him, ushering a quiet little soul to slumber… and Ross sings along, wiping his tears away as he holds his mother's hand for the last time.

His strength pours into her, begging her to stay just a little longer. But she lays a gentle hand to his head, and she tells him it's going to be okay and that she and his father will always be there for him.

And so she quietly passes away.

Then the symphony comes to life again, the final note on that act ascending in a deep, playful crescendo as years pass and the baby fat of their cheeks gives way bolder, older features. Though still quite young, preteens wiggle their way out of their innocence and discover a word called love…

Ross walks into Mark's room with a hard, sturdy look on his face which, in all honesty, cannot be taken seriously with a cub his height. But his determination, steely yet undeniably adorable, is enough to warn Mark of his pseudo-brother's inevitable proposal of whatever childish scheme he has going on…

But he doesn't expect an actual proposal.

Mark stares intently at the tiny black box Ross pulls out and he is momentarily stunned, rather terrified really, until he realizes who it's probably for.

He stifles his laughter but it's already too late and Ross is embarrassed enough to turn his ears red. He grunts readily at him. "Mark! C'mon, I'm trying to be serious here!"

He kills the laughter in his throat, slapping his chest so he can rid himself of it. "Okay, okay. Sorry." He leans back then rolls his hand, gesturing for him to go on.

"Mark Ferris!" he shouts, a little louder than is entirely necessary. "I, Ross Rundi–"

"Rostetler," Mark corrects calmly.

"Ross," he readily denies. "Rostetler's dumb and hard to pronounce."

"But… you just said it," he responds pointedly.

"Mark!" Ross whines.

He pats Ross on the head slowly. "Alright, alright… I'll stop." He rolls his hand again.

With a huff and another bout of determination, he clasps the box and opens it to reveal a tiny plastic ring. He shuts his eyes before going on, not wanting to see his face. "I, Ross Rundi, would be most honored if you would allow me to take your sister's hand in marriage!"

Ross cracks open an eye to see Mark's unimpressed gaze, raising a playful yet quizzical brow. "Ugh! Please?"

Mark's face brightens as he pats his shoulder. "That's my boy," he says proudly.

"So it's a yes!?"

Ross's bright little eyes make Mark chuckle, but the little guy's got a lot to learn still. And though there is some merit in giving a child the freedom to discover things on their own, Mark is of the opinion that there are some things you don't let them get away with misinterpreting. And so, with a quiet yet brotherly sigh, he sits Ross down. "It's not a yes, kiddo, but not a no either."

The cub's deflating expression almost kills him inside but it's clear that he wants to hear what else he has to say, clinging to the "not a no" part rather desperately.

"Maybe in the future you should ask me that again… but not today, or any time soon."

"But I want to protect her!"

Mark shuts the box in Ross's hands, cupping his hand over Ross's. "And you don't need this to do that." He pulls away, giving him that same brotherly smile, silently asking him to listen like he always does with that look. Mark's features soften then, deciding not to take his response much too seriously. "You gotta take this slow, buddy, cause you're going too fast for even me. Marriage and love are both big decisions and even I don't know what they are just yet. So I gotta ask ya' to slow down for both me and El and… let us catch up. And when I know what those words mean, you can ask me again."

Ross isn't ignorant to what he really means, but he isn't a stubborn child and concedes. Mark, operating on the same wavelength, laughs with him as Ross surrenders and playfully headbutts his one day brother-in-law.

The juvenile little jingle quiets for a moment as Ross places the little box in his drawer for safe keeping, giving himself time to know what it really, truly means to love.

And one day, a few years down the road, he gets an idea of what love might be… and then asks her out. It's a disaster since they both try way too hard to make it as textbook as possible, following advice from friends whose understanding is as equally limited. Then they give up and consider that maybe they shouldn't be dating.

Saddened by the idea, they comfort each other by doing what they usually do together for fun. They go out for ice cream and crack jokes about the lifestyles of passersby who'll never hear them behind the parlor's glass windows. Then they watch a movie and toss popcorn at each other at the expense of other movie-goers and skillfully hiding under their thin, ebony fur in the darkness. When they head home, they're laughing and intentionally bumping into each other. It's then that Mark comes in to welcome them home and comments, "I see the date went well."

And then they realize that they'd had it right all along.

Then years pass and the pair is already sixteen, having been dating for three of them.

She plays heartily on the piano, her fingers dancing excitedly against the keys, spring her hand in her whole arm staccato. Beside her, Ross picks at the keys with the same fervor, swaying against his own melody beside her on the same piano, giving her a coy smirk as she bumps his shoulder with her own, playing his keys without looking.

She mirrors the purse of his lips, heads bobbing as they play together, then they both raise a brow as they look each other up and down with a once over.

Their heads seem to dance with the rhythm, pulling back then slowly forth in sync with the crescendo at each other.

Mark Ferris, leaning against the archway behind them, shakes his head at how silly they're being, letting the joy sink into his tired bones as he struggles to ignore the somber gloom beneath his skin. He sighs at the sight, dragging a smile against his lips once more, telling himself that it will all be alright… that she'll come back and they'll happily be together again.

Ross and Eli know full well that their love for each other has been the only one they've ever known. And the idea that one day they might look to the world and wonder what love elsewhere might have been like is a terrifying prospect.

So, together, and with the careful approval of their guardian and elder brother respectively, they decide to separate for a time and look for love elsewhere. And if love deems that they are meant to be, they'll find each other again.

Ross's father, who died at war, knew a man named Henry Avery, and Mark has had the pleasure of knowing the man as well. They live in Bronc Town, not too far inland from Orca itself, and with their eldest daughter going off to college elsewhere, they've decided to take Eli in for a time.

She'll be taken care of, and they'll endure this test with silent determination, but even now it seems like their resolve for this mutual and – hopefully – temporary separation quickly wanes like a wilting flower beneath their quiet, almost stormy denial, grinning ear-to-ear in an attempt to quell that dissonance of what they want to feel and how they actually feel.

And then there's the music… it's been their longest lived companion, and today it serves to bury their woes. But as much as the Marche Millitaire serves to distract the two, the song only lasts so long.

So as it ends, together they play Schubert's Fantasie, a piece that is first slow and contemplative, drawing away the playful smirks from their faces, replacing them with gentle smiles curling their hearty lips. And that last image of them together is exactly what Mark wants to remember. And he leaves with that in his mind's eye.

But they never finish the song.

Their fingers suddenly converge at the center, perhaps intentionally, leaving the room in silence, gawking at each other with a million and one things to say… but none of it ever said.

Instead they kiss, thinking that it might be their last together, begging fate and God above to bring them back together in the end.

And so the symphony quiets as the room empties. Ross studies so he can join the Police Academy in two years and Eli goes to Bronc Town to finish her high school. And the goodbye is as bitter as any farewell, the song dying in the wind along with their fantasy of a perfect life together, killing the fairytale as they harden their hearts to find love again… somewhere else.

Then the symphony plays again, different tunes for different couples. They have their crescendos, their own flare and whip, they have fireflies whistling to languid nights, burning against their skin as they find comfort in the arms of another.

But then those songs – like any other – find their end.

And on that piano in a lonely apartment over the city, they find each other again. And together they play a new song to seal their love in matrimony… until death do they part.

~~~o0O0o~~~

Before I even married into the family, I had always felt like I was already part of it. I suppose it's par the course by the quality of such folk, bein' so welcomin' and irrevocably kind. And there's an allure to it, an atmosphere that always feels safe. Bein' a Hector meant that I was part o' somethin' bigger than myself… we're a whole, ya' see, incomplete when we're not all together.

~Karvina Hector in an evening chat with Lutessa Avery

~~~o0O0o~~~

Raeger Hector slams open the front door as he drags in a large crate, heaving even with their large cake cart tugging the large thing in. He doesn't hear the wheels turning and he grits his teeth against the uncomfortable sound of the cart scraping against the hardwood floor.

Once finally in the center of the living room, he lets loose a great sigh as he falls onto a recliner. And just then, the sweet smell of apple pie fills the air, alighting his senses, letting him relax to it. "Marcus, brother o' mine! Are you makin' that sweet, sweet oven music again?"

Toiling at the kitchen still, Marcus groans in response. "Quit the flattery, Raeger, it ain't even supper yet."

Strength renewed, Raeger jogs in to see the baked goods lining the island counter, slobbering after it, just about ready to steal one, but Marcus is vigilant and swats his hand away.

Then his sister-in-law walks in, the gentle Karvina "Kara" Hector leaning against the doorframe. "Oh, Marcus, don't be such a prude," she says. "Let your brother have some pie."

Marcus only deadpans at them both as he readies another pan for the oven. "Kara, I'd be far more inclined to agree with ya' if you weren't gunnin' for 'em too."

"Not my fault my husband's the best damn baker in town." Karvina shuffles to her husband's backside and rubs his shoulders to ease him. Of course she's only teasing and she's a patient enough woman to wait for dinner, she'd otherwise set a terrible example for her son, which is more than she could say about her brother-in-law Raeger.

Then, said son waddles into the room, the baby fat cheeks of Marshal Hector gleaming against his soft skin as he tilts his head at them, no doubt drawn in by the same smell but is too short to see them on the counter.

"Yer son's famished too, Marcus," Raeger remarks, winking at Marshal. "At least let him have an early slice."

Again, Marcus is steadfast, but chooses not to argue it further, shaking his head.

Raeger takes the hint and rolls his eyes, leaning against the counter as he inhales the heady scent of sweet apple pie, but a bead of sweat trickles down his brow and the pig realizes that the heat off the oven is circulating in the room without an escape. "Mighty hot in here, brother."

Marcus leers snidely. "Then stay out of my kitchen if ya' can't handle it."

Raeger rolls his eyes playfully. "At least let me crack open a window."

Marcus makes no effort to stop him as he makes his way to the window above the rusted oven and he looks down at the decaying thing with unease, almost fearful that it might erupt beneath him. They'd gone through so many this year that it seemed like they'd go broke buying another cheap oven. Instead, Karvina had found a quality Victory-branded brick oven. It's expensive, monstrously so, but it's an investment in their future, opening avenues to all sorts of things in the Savory Bakery's business.

Marcus hums proudly as he pulls out another pie, though it's a little burnt on one side. These cheap ovens tend to lose even heating, so they end up having to cook longer. Though Marcus has mastered a sense of timing with making sure he pulls it out just before it burns and just when it's ready, he still falters here and there.

He then places the pie on the counter as he looks at his brother and then his wife as they take in whiffs of the freshly baked goods. He can only sigh, hiding the little inkling of pride swelling in him that his talent for cooking could emit such genuine, wordless praise. But he pulls himself out of his pride and catches his brother's attention. "Hey, ya' brought in the crate, right?"

Raeger nods. "Sure did. You manage to find my old crowbar?"

"Mhm," Marcus replies.

Karvina takes initiative and ushers Raeger towards the doorframe where the old rusty tool leans against the wall. "C'mon, let's crack it open," she winks at him, knowing full well that he likes showing off how strong he is.

The family shifts into the living room with the large crate. Kara immediately worries about the stress they're putting on their cart, and if her husband's frustrated sigh is any indication, he is too.

Marcus slowly tips the cart to drop the box, and Raeger, ever eager, is at its side, ready to pry it open.

Since the crate is as tall as Raeger's eye level, he first jams the crowbar into it and then grasps the tool firmly. He hops up and down for a bit as little Marshal watches him with anticipation. Then Raeger jumps as high as he can, pressing down on the crowbar as he descends.

The wood gives way with a hardy snap as the nails come loose and the lid pops off, the sight of it and Raeger landing like an action hero on one knee making the little pig clap proudly, Raeger responding with a snide grin at his little fan.

Dropping the lid uselessly to the side, the adult Hectors leer over the mouth of the crate to find the various assortments of metal and piping inside, wrapped cleanly in plastics with a manual sitting at the top.

"Looks real complicated, brother," Raeger remarks, holding up the thick instruction manual and leafing through the stacks step-by-step guidelines.

Marcus shrug. "We'll sort it out."

"Besides," Kara adds, the pleasant glint in her eyes swallowing his hesitation, "I've already got an idea of how it's put together so it won't take long."

There is a sudden crash in the kitchen, the sound of one of the pans clanging against the floor, causing Kara to gasp and her son to jump. "What was that?"

They pour back into the kitchen to find a crow that has apparently flown in from the window and is now nibbling on one of the pies that it has toppled to the floor. Marcus almost makes to shoo it away but Raeger is the first to react, pushing passed them in anger with the crowbar still in hand.

The crow is struck with a meaty thud as it slams against the wall and slumps to the floor. It is mangled now, bones clearly shattered with some of its feathers displaced. A crow might have normally died from such an impact, but this one didn't… and the prospects of it are now immediately apparent to all in the room.

"Rae!" Kara scolds as she shields her son's eyes from the grizzly sight. "What were you thinkin', doin' that in front o' Marshal!?"

"It's a pest and it was eatin' our supper!" Raeger reasons, shaking his head when he sees that she isn't going to agree with him. He storms over to the crow, its broken wheezing doing nothing to earn his pity, only furthering his ire.

"Raeger," Marcus says calmly, a hand on his shoulder. "Whatever yer' thinkin', you best refrain from doin' it."

He almost doesn't respond, face twisting in a scowl down at the twitching cretin. "I say we kill it," he says, tone agitated and baleful.

"No!" Kara shouts, clearly having had enough of his malign. "Poor thing's still breathin'. We oughta save it, given what ungodly thing you gone and done to 'im."

"I'm not about to waste my time on a pest!"

The two devolve into an argument but Marcus tunes it out.

He approaches the crow and gives it a scrutinizing gaze, its eye staring up at him with a hint of pleading. It's more than just injured… its bones are broken, too many of them, even. The bird is too far gone, already on the process of dying, but its body refuses to give up when all it wants is the pain to end.

Mercy… it's all Marcus can think of when he stares down at it with pity, its squawking is perhaps a prayer for just that. At least, that's what he tells himself.

"It's in pain," Marcus says, turning to the two. They're surprised to find him so calm and collected about it. But before Raeger can argue, he continues. "It deserves mercy, but not the kind that can save it. It's too late fer' that."

Karvina doesn't like the idea and Raeger just wants it to suffer, but there must be a compromise. It's unspoken between them, but it's clear as day. Marcus could very well take the lead and do what he wants, but he's only stalling because this is a joint decision, something the family decides together, and Marcus takes this opportunity to ask them to make it like that.

Kara sighs, leaving her son's side to join the three of them around the crow. "What do you need me to do?"

Raeger steps forward as well, the look he's giving her echoing a silent apology for his outburst. Though not entirely sincere, since the man is still adamant about his opinion, Karvina accepts it as it is and offers him a smile, however sad it might be.

Marcus instructs them to cradle it gently whilst holding its body still. And the tiny thing, so fragile in Raeger's hands, looks up at him strangely, as if thankful to have it all end.

He doesn't know what to think then, any semblance of his fury evaporating in an instant. He glances over at Karvina beside him who is also left feeling rather surreal. But just as the pity sets in, they hear a snap.

It startles the two as they look down at the crow, fast enough to see Marcus's hands over its head, retreating back to him. Before they could've even realized what they were doing, Marcus had already done the deed, and without blinking.

His stoic expression doesn't come into question. Kara merely accepts it as is but Raeger feels like he's watching a different kind of person. Familiar but not the same. But as he looks at his hands being emptied of the bird, he realizes that he still doesn't quite understand his brother.

And as little Marshal walks in with a shoebox ready to bury the crow in, he thinks that perhaps he doesn't quite understand his nephew either.

~~~o0O0o~~~

Old Monty's cottage was a safe haven for us when we were kids. When we heard stories about the war, they were never littered with all that patriotic propaganda because our music appreciation teacher, Mr. Balsif, – bless his soul – felt like we shouldn't be enamored by the idea of war. And since Monty was a soldier himself… well we treated him like a recovering family member rather than a war vet… I think he kind of preferred it that way too. In a way, we all felt like we were safe in that place.

~Elizabeth "Liz" Waterdale, an excerpt from her diary she shared years later with Kayla Rivers when she asked about Fyfly and Monty

~~~o0O0o~~~

Home. The concept of it almost felt foreign to Montgomery Kidd. War made it feel like a lifetime away and now that he's here it's almost difficult to fathom, to fully accept that he's found peace. But now the old walls of his cottage echo with the laughter of children, the semblance of a freedom he's fought for, aloft in some overwhelming sense of tranquility.

When he exits his front door, he hears the soft creak of his porch, the wood tapping beneath the footfalls of little Marshal Hector with Liz Waterdale on his shoulders and Audrey Avery giggling after them as she runs down the steps and scampers towards the dock where she feebly attempts a swan dive into his lake.

Her splash is follow by another as Marshal tosses the little otter on his shoulders into the lake, as far as he can throw her, pulling off a successful swan dive, plunging into the water before emerging as gracefully as her species permits. And then Marshal cannonballs off the dock, his splash wetting his dry friends relaxing on the lake's edge.

Monty leans over the railing of his porch, spying his nephew, Arthur Kidd, in the distance on a lifeguard's chair, eyes scanning cautiously over the children. He tries to hide his apprehension beneath his shades, a show of bravado that betrays his worrisome demeanor but the anxious goat flinching at any sign of trouble is every indication that he is anything but.

Monty only shakes his head at the sight, but then he sees him relax a moment later as he leans forward on his seat and, suddenly, smiles and waves.

He follows his nephew's sight and spots a bull, a donkey, and a musk deer wave at the kids as they scream excitedly.

"Fyfly!" the children yell, voices on varying degrees of juvenile fanfare.

There is a hint of disappointment in him when he realizes that they haven't brought any liquor with them like they usually do, but their expressions are just the tiniest bit sad, so he shrugs it off in favor of his curiosity and concern.

Monty steps down from his perch to approach them, hiding his worry beneath a smile. "Good to see you boys."

"Always a pleasure, Monty," Suther Hicks greets, his fanged teeth baring on his grin.

Casey Cell, the donkey, however, spares no context when he readily embraces Monty instead.

Barry Whitman, the bull behind them, is typically the friendliest of the lot, but he's suspiciously hesitant at the moment, entirely unable to even meet his eyes. But Monty won't have any of it and spreads his arms wide for the silent bull, and the display is enough to make him embarrassed, and then, suddenly, a little emotional.

Barry can't take it anymore, promptly embracing the comparatively smaller goat. "I'm gonna miss ya', Monty," he says, almost in a whisper.

He returns the steady embrace and then pats his back. He looks solemnly at the three young men, his expression telling them that he hasn't missed Barry's meaning at all. "So you boys are skipping town?"

"'Fraid so," Suther shrugs, smiling sadly. "Wish we didn't have to but our music is all we have and we won't get anywhere if we don't start learning from people who actually know what they're doing."

"Ah, so you're following that music teacher back to Zootopia?"

"That's the plan," Casey pipes up, his sharp voice rumbling along his throat as if chambered in a thick flute. "Our only regret is that we have to leave you all behind…"

Monty thinks it's quite humbling to be around them. The boys have no delusions of grandeur, knowing full well that they aren't born musical protégés. Instead they strive for talent, to be adept enough to make a living, the ideology of wannabe rock stars well behind them, stricken by adulthood but struggling for their passions devoid of a suffocating desk job.

But as mature as they are, the idea that they might sustain themselves outside of their band is a dream that is still a little far off. And Monty chuckles at the idea that they might have to take odd jobs to keep themselves afloat there in Zootopia, but they'll make it, he knows they will.

Otherwise, he'll drive out to that city and fetch them himself.

"Why don't you boys stay a while," Monty says as he ushers them towards the dock. "Consider it a hearty farewell."

And as he sits them at the dock, the children gather at their legs, laughing and playing as the young men splash water their way.

It is not long until they forget their woes, the world vanishing beneath the elsewhere river the lake bleeds into. And the quiet of the forest permeates through the air, sheltering them like a veil, their rancor lost in muted echoes through the ancient wood, stirring the crows that flutter overhead.

Monty's age is almost ripe to be elderly. Luckily he isn't greying just yet but he can feel his bones physically age in the presence of so much youth. So he laughs bitterly, quietly, but only to himself.

No one hears him when he sighs, he wouldn't want them to.

A moment passes and he strikes away his little torments and settles in his own resolve, planting a foot against Barry's back then kicking him into the water as the kids giggle around him. Then the children join in by pulling Suther's lightweight frame down to join them. And Casey only shrugs as he slips off the dock.

The goat then makes his way to the porch, before turning around to stare at the lake up ahead.

Then, with a hearty yell that actively defies the countdown to the inevitable, Monty runs across the full length of the dock, shouting with all the strength in his scarred lungs, the pain lancing through his legs being rigorously ignored as he propels himself off the dock's edge, soaring over the water until he reaches the center of the lake, before plunging in himself.

Though the display is much to the dismay of his worrisome nephew, Arthur takes in the sight carefully as everyone around him enjoys themselves.

A hefty sigh escapes his dry lips, allowing himself to finally relax now that the water is filled with able adults. But it is with a somber thought that he wonders where they'll all be in a year's time, and if the memories they make today might last passed the lives they'll build outside this little sanctuary in the forest.

~~~o0O0o~~~

Capo, Head of Forensics, The Winter Scourge, they were tokens of my life, my past, and I cannot deny that they were part of me, but it did not take me long to not want them. Because in each one of them I saw blood, by my hands or otherwise. I was witness to it, an unwilling participant to a show reel of endless death… and a life lived that way…? In the end I knew that I had to walk away from it, I had to retire, early if need be. But then I was asked to be Sheriff to Bronc Town, for in its heyday, during its official turn as a county, it needed someone like me to watch over it, and I was chosen as its Sheriff without election… I thought it would be no different, really. Just another bloody chapter in my life. But then it wasn't. I met good people, had a quiet little home… fell in love… and soon enough I thought, "God has forgiven me, and has blessed me with a drop of Heaven's glow after my arduous penance" … I've always been a religious man, but I never knew I'd ever feel loved in every way like this…

~Sheriff Denzel Creed, a snippet of a recording from Gizelle Ripple's interview with him that was never released to the public… kept instead in a personal keepsake box as the rest of the recordings were deleted

~~~o0O0o~~~

Perhaps it is an act of mercy – by either God or by some political head with an attentive ear and some pity – that Creed has been gifted an escape from Zootopia and all its underlying turmoil. Though his time in the ZPD alongside the famous Sam and Bogo might have been an invaluable service to the community, a hint of redemption that might have very well absolved him, Creed still feels the weight of his age coiling around his tired bones, heavier still with his past still lingering beneath the brimming neon lights of Zootopia that slowly ebb away in the distant horizon beside the rising morning sun.

There is a hint of remorse in him for leaving home, really, and the letter he received about this whole "becoming sheriff" debacle might have been written off as a scam were it not for the almost urgent phone call he received prior to leaving.

Creed coughs, the heat of his old Valiant pouring out of the broken AC that he swears he should just turn off already, but the open window invites in the cold air but is perhaps a little much with all the country air. Creed's just trying to balance out the two temperatures, but it's all at a cost of his comfort. However, it nevertheless serves as a distraction from his journey.

Though still not old enough to retire, he certainly feels older than he looks, and it shows when he yawns and nearly falls asleep at the wheel. He used to have more stamina than this but he hardly gets much exercise when he's locked away in the lab. In the very least, he's hoping that being Sheriff might make him more active.

He greets the sun peeking out of the hills with a snarl, feeling more and more bitter with every same-y looking pasture, its luster long lost amidst its duplicity in practically every mile back!

But then the valley gives way to lush farmlands, the sweet smell of fresh produce and the scent of great grain silos filling the air, and suddenly he feels like he might come to like the place after all if it kept smelling like this.

He comes upon Old Henry, the old war machine sitting idly on the roadside as it rusts, gathering hints of flora snaking along its frame. He knows it's a landmark, a clear sign that he's on the right road, but he only spares it a glance. He never went to war, a hint of shame blooming in him still as that chance to right his wrongs was ruefully ignored in favor of his lavish Mafioso lifestyle. But the memories of that are tucked away again as he enters the forest that hugs the town, the wheat, dew, and produce scents trapped behind a wall of oak that burns the heavy smell of oncoming Autumn into the air instead.

The welcome sign for Bronc Town is quickly sped past, but all Creed can think of now is finding his new bed. But he knows the formality has to come first, so instead of heading straight into Stable Village, the only neighborhood in town, he goes straight for City Hall which, to him, is honestly a strange name to keep for a political building in a town of all places. "Cause that's not going to get confusing anytime soon..."

Now at the town proper, Creed rolls down the road against the uncomfortable heat dominating his car. All of a sudden, he's too hot to carry on and too tired to give enough shits, especially not about that gaudy bronze statue in the center of town, refracting the sun's rays to burn in his periphery.

It's then that he sees Catfrani, a diner just off the side of the Horace Memorial. And he is at awe, as everything about its city-like aesthetic and the promise of hot commercial coffee is enough to lure him in immediately.

The air is of burnt coffee and morning breath, of air conditioning and the lukewarm heat of early sunrise, and they recall memories of nights spent in a lonely diner either on a stake out or just to be out of the house.

As he sinks into one of the peach-colored seats, he sighs happily, and wonders if this will perhaps be his new favorite place.

"Mornin', hun," comes a feminine voice, his eye opening to the sight of an ocelot waitress. "What'll ya' have?"

"Coffee, if you would."

"What kind?"

"Any," he laughs heartily, his rotund belly heaving with it, "but preferably the strongest you have."

She giggles at the large man, perhaps overcome by his bellowed laugh. "One Wake-up Call, then. Who should I make it out to?"

"Denzel Creed… though I suppose Sheriff Creed is more appropriate?" he asks quizzically, not a hint of sheepishness about him.

She blinks at him for a moment too long, almost to make it awkward for herself, until she realizes that he'd been expecting an actual answer. "Oh! Um… I guess it's really up to you." She gives him a nervous chuckle, but then he laughs again with her, and suddenly she regains her composure, draining her embarrassment straight out of her cheeks. "The new sheriff, huh? Think I could get a free pass sometime if the coffee's free?"

He shrugs apologetically, hands splayed out. "I'm afraid not." He wishes he could at least be playful about the idea but he can't encourage that behavior even in the slightest, because that attitude towards local law enforcement is exactly why he, an outsider, is being sent in as sheriff. The mayor is afraid that the new county and its minimalistic populace might abuse their close-knit relationship with a locally bred figure head in their new Sheriff's Department.

Creed was briefed of this rather explicitly before he even left Zootopia, drilled so readily into his skull that he'd deign to ignore such sound advice. The mayor seemed incredibly stern on that.

"Was worth a try anyway. I'll be back with your coffee."

He lets his bones sink into the seat the minute she'd left, only to be immediately disturbed yet again.

"What inconceivable luck…" comes the amused and rather familiar tone of a well-dressed arctic fox. Beside him is an ocelot, whose posture is sluggish by comparison, wearing a trench coat just as worn as he is, crowned by a beaten fedora and… a badge?

Creed deduces that this is likely the local detective who had donated his building for the department, and the fox is likely the mayor himself.

"You know," the detective says, "we thought we'd have to drag you out of the fanfare just to get a word in edgewise with you and your adoring fans from the station but…" he laughs to himself, "here you are. Godsent and," he looks Creed up and down, sighting the stiffness in his bones and the bags under his eyes, "by the looks of it, just as tired as we are."

Creed shrugs. "My morning was rather abrupt and the drive… arduous, I'd say. I'm mostly just surprised I didn't collapse on the wheel."

The fox looks away shyly for a moment, a little embarrassed perhaps for bringing him here on such short notice. Though they had informed Creed of the news months ahead, the public was all too keen on getting their new sheriff early before the offices were even finished. "I'm terribly sorry about that, by the way. We were given some rather pressing and… unforeseeable demands."

"Think nothing of it," Creed dismisses quickly. "In the very least I'm glad I'm out of that city." He'd already bid his goodbyes, half-awake and half-sober some of them might have been, but the city won't miss him, only very specific people will and that, honestly, is more than enough for him.

"Oh?" the fox intones, glancing at the mimicked gaze of his companion. "I'm sorry, I was under the impression that you liked Zootopia."

"Oh, I still do. I just don't think it liked me very much, as sordid histories tend to do." He looks between them then, confusing them with his cautious apprehension lingering beneath his still steady gaze. "You are informed of my past, aren't you?"

The detective chuckles, leaning into the table. "We've been thoroughly assured that you've left that life behind, if that isn't absolutely clear already."

Creed sighs sadly, the shadow of his self-doubt lingering beneath his frosted breath. "I regret to inform you that that is not entirely true… My past has come to shape me, and to say that I have left it all behind would be akin to lying. So no, I'm not entirely a changed man, but I hope we can work together regardless." There is no pleading in his eyes, searching only for an understanding between them with the hard truth placed before them. Creed doesn't like pretending to be something else, it isn't – and never will be – how he operates. Transparency, through and through, so if they're uncomfortable with that, he has no business being their sheriff.

"Glad to hear it," says the detective, rather proudly, the hint of relief evident in the way he leans back into his seat.

Creed blinks at him, and then at the smiling fox. "I'm… a little unclear. Does it not bother you at all?"

"We're glad to have your honesty, Creed," says the fox. "Personally speaking, anything else would have had us suspicious still, but you seem like the genuine article." The fox sips his tea. "So I think we'll get along swimmingly."

He almost makes to thank them for their open-mindedness but then he realizes that he doesn't actually know their names. He'd only ever heard the secretary's over the phone, but not the mayor. "Forgive me, I… didn't quite get your names,"

"Detective Taepur," the ocelot says. "Friends call me Typer, but that would be a matter of preference on your part."

"And I'm Glenwell Greycastle," says the arctic fox. "I'm the mayor's secretary. Sorry I couldn't introduce myself over the phone. We had a rather hectic morning."

Creed could almost slap himself for jumping to conclusions. He'd all but assumed the woman over the line was the secretary but… it seems like she was the mayor. "I'm terribly sorry, I… I had thought you were the mayor."

"Don't worry about it," he replies easily. "Ani, the actual mayor, is very hard to offend. I doubt an honest mistake would ruffle her furs."

She introduced herself as Anita to him over the phone. If he's using a nickname to address his superior, there might be something more between them. "I'm assuming you two are quite close?"

"She's my wife, actually."

Creed gives them another look of genuine surprise, and Typer raises a brow at the whole thing. "I think it's weird that no one's told you anything about the people here," he says. "Why did no one brief you?"

The polar bear notes the lines along his skin, and finally he can see the age of the ocelot well passed his groomed fur. He'd all but assumed the man was around his own age in the very least, but it seems that Typer is actually far older.

"I wasn't even given directions," Creed responds, "I only just happened to know where this place already was. I had almost assumed the letter I received was a fake were it not for that phone call."

A tall brown puma stands beside them suddenly, his notes at the ready and his gaze irate and serious. Glen and Typer raise quizzical brows at the man, but Creed only sighs.

Typer leans in to catch the man's attention. "Excuse me, sir? Can we… help you?" The ocelot squints analytically at the puma. Typer clearly doesn't want to waste time trying to figure this guy out, so he decides to just make fun of him instead. "Do you speak English? Are you… literate somehow?"

Glen palms his forehead, sighing at the way his quarry is thoroughly enjoying himself with their intense and unwelcome guest.

"Mister Creed!" the puma says suddenly, scaring the wits out of Glen. "I am Loris Gilmore from the Zootopian Courier, and I believe whole-heartedly that you should be transparent with the people of this town as well as Zootopia itself! But I am not here to demand a platform for which you may speak, only to offer it, as denying this would only force me to fall back on established assumptions about you…!"

He continues to monologue then, and his pompous tone makes Glen twitch, but Typer amuses himself with the sight, confusing his friend. Glen finds Typer's gaze is affixed entirely on Creed, and the polar bear seems barely bothered by him at all, clearly considering this one-sided conversation an utter waste of his time.

Creed blinks for barely a second to look at them before returning to the puma and his thousand-words-a-minute garble.

"…so it would be in your best interest to take me up on my offer!" the puma finally finishes, not even gasping for air after that single-breathed speech. His expression, however, stays the same as he squints angrily still.

Creed knows Loris, and has effectively avoided him for the duration of his stay at Zootopia, but now that he's here, he no longer has locked doors to hide behind or a case to excuse himself for. But he takes this unique opportunity to perhaps rid himself of this cretin once and for all.

In a single motion, he deftly cuffs the puma to the leg of the table.

It takes all of them a moment to fully realize what just happened, and the reporter is the first to react. "W-what!?"

Creed shrugs. "You're under arrest," he says plainly.

He tugs at the cuffs, trying to pull free of them. "On what charges?"

"Harassment." Creed doesn't raise his voice, maintaining a matter-of-factly attitude that dejects entirely from the sheer, vivid panic of the reporter. "You're clearly only out to slander me and have chosen a place far too public, and entirely too early in the morning."

"You can't do this!"

He looks the pair with a wide grin. "Can't I?" He laughs. "In case you haven't noticed, Mr. Gilmore, I'm officially the sheriff of this town. And if that isn't clear enough for you, allow me to simplify…" He leans in, meeting his eyes haughtily, "…I am the law here."

Loris mumbles incoherently, further still when Creed's paw audibly extends its claws over the table's edge, entirely much too close to his arms.

Then the cuffs unlock and he falls to his rump.

He blinks as he rubs his suddenly freed wrist before looking up at Creed, his cocky grin permeating over him like a menacing miasma. Then Creed leans back into his seat, not even facing him when he speaks, being far more interested about the arrival of his coffee than some irate, self-servient reporter. "I believe it would be in your best interest to take a vacation." He sips his coffee, relishing in the taste, much to the amusement of the ocelot waitress. "Preferably elsewhere, wouldn't you agree?"

Loris then quickly scrambles to his feet before bolting through the door.

"Shit!" the waitress intones. "He didn't pay!"

Before she can run after him, the detective grabs her by the wrist. "Hey, kiddo, don't worry about it. I'll take care of his bill, alright?"

She doesn't make to argue, sighing as she concedes. "Fine, fine. Thanks, Dad."

Creed immediately offers to cover in his instead since he's the one who scared the guy off but Typer is adamant about doing it anyway. It's then that he begins praising Creed for "not taking shit from nobody". He feels a sense of camaraderie with them and considers that maybe he'll truly start to love this place after all.

By the end of it all, they decide to head to City Hall together where he is then met with the thorough fanfare of the deputies. Many of them are really just interested in his relationship with Sam and Bogo, and very few are actually aware of what he does. Regardless, the majority of the guests at the welcoming party are mostly dazzled by the city of another man. On the outset he appears none too remarkable but everything from his English accent – which, to them is rather posh despite being rigid and gruff – down to his old beat-up Valiant, is so outside of their quiet little bubble down here that they marvel at the idea that he at least appears foreign to boot.

Creed struggles with the stereotyping some of them let slip. And though he tolerates it, he can't help but feel the twinge of irritation still.

Once the party actually starts and everyone is busy with the dance floor and all the eating, he quietly slips out into the garden which is already halfway from being demolished into a parking lot. Still, he finds himself a pair of back-to-back benches to sit down on.

He sighs, eyes skyward as he leans into the backrest, begging the heavens for some relief from this, but there is no answer in the stagnant air, only the muffled sound of music inside. "Maybe they're not so bad," he says, "I could get used to them, surely."

"Delude yourself into thinking they're something they're not, and you'll only end up disappointed," comes a feminine voice from behind.

"You're certainly optimistic," he replies sarcastically.

She laughs, a voice dipped in honey, but quiet like the soft hum under a snowy night. "I'm a realist, Hun. It puts things in perspective and, frankly, looks like you'll need a bit of it."

He doesn't face her, whomever she is, and he honestly couldn't care less for it at this point. But she speaks so easily, in a manner that he envies. "Then what am I supposed to do? These people will be my charges and my subordinates. But I certainly can't work if they're being overbearing." His tone is pleading, his bravado lost in his thirst to forget everything.

"Then be honest with them."

He laughs dejectedly, shaking his head. "If you haven't heard, I'm not exactly the kindest person when I'm honest. I tend to scare people away and… well it will do more harm than good, I assure you."

"Maybe." She does share in his dejection or his woes, her voice still languid, almost wise. "You never know how people will react. And, shoot, if you're trying to make everyone like you, you'll just keep struggling with yet another impossible expectation. You can do everything right and people will still find reason to dislike you. I say you stop caring about whether or not they'll snap or run away in fear and just do your job the way you need to."

Then, suddenly, he can feel her sit on the bench beside him, shifting the weight of the seat underneath him. "Besides," she continues, "I happen to think their subjective opinions, baseless or otherwise, mean nothing in the face of your objective labors. You'll make results, and they can snarl and scream all they want, but you'll ultimately keep doing good anyway."

He turns to her then, finding another polar bear with a tiny, pleasant smile to her. Covered in the comfiest sweater he's ever seen. She reaches out to him, pulls him to his feet. "Relax a little, yeah?" she says.

And suddenly Creed realizes that Chopin is being played, and the dulcet rhythmic tones from whomever is doing the cover does him well to relax, even more so in her presence.

Which gives her an idea.

Wordlessly, she takes him to grass littering the garden and he dances with her. "You're stiff," he says, her awkward stance dispelling her magic, letting him laugh.

She rolls her eyes playfully. "I'm a pianist, not a dancer."

"I could teach you," he offers.

Her smile widens. "That would be lovely."

"Forgive me, I haven't been much myself all day… I didn't catch your name."

"Mona. My name's Mona Mellivora. And yours?"

"Cre — Denzel… Denzel Creed."

~o~~~~o~

In a high-rise apartment deep in the heart of Sahara Square, Gizelle Ripple paces anxiously over her carpeted floor beneath the pale light of a rainy afternoon. She is pensive and cannot stay in place, shaking her head as she reads through reports only to throw them back onto her coffee table in frustration.

She pivots, suddenly gets an idea, then immediately rejects it, burying her face in her hands in as she extends an annoyed grunt. "Ugh~!"

She chews on her hoofed finger as she contemplates further but the ideas don't come, a blockade somewhere in her mind that refuses to give way.

The papers on the table seem to haunt her, plague her with a hint of something lingering amidst its pages. A secret she doesn't yet understand… but it feels so close, as if it's just within reach.

If only she could actually get a grasp of it.

A sudden ring of her doorbell catches her by surprise, causing a shudder of excitement to burrow into her as she bolts for the door, nearly tripping on the coffee table with her thin, clumsy legs.

The door practically flies open, much to the chagrin of the mildly terrified Liandra Hunt. "Jesus Christ, girl!"

Gizelle doesn't bother to respond, skipping right ahead to business. "Did you bring it?"

"Yeah, yeah, I got it." She huffs at the gazelle as she enters the doorway. "You're lucky I decided to pack it. You'd have made me toss it over the railing by accident." An turns to face her as she shuts the door, crossing her arms as she looks at the jittery gazelle up and down. "Hey, calm down," she says quietly, softening her gaze.

Gizelle, in response, loses the tenseness in her muscles, shaking her head. "I'm sorry… It's just been a busy few weeks and I still don't have everything."

An sighs and takes her by the waist, ushering her to her own sofa to plop them both onto it. "Look, Zel, you'll be fine out there."

"I'm not nervous, An, I'm… ugh!" She nearly tears out her hair, hiding behind a pillow which she screams into. "I'm sorry… I don't mean to be so… difficult." She says almost with a snarl, clearly angry at herself. Under normal circumstances, Gizelle would have been timid but these past few weeks have made her irate, but no less apologetic.

"Quit being sorry," An says, nudging her playfully before taking away the pillow she's hiding behind. "Just…" another sigh, "tell me what's wrong."

Gizelle stares drearily at the reports scattered over her coffee table, theories and speculations, findings and almost-truths, altogether so thick that it's almost the size of a technical manual! And all of it spans only a week of investigation… but it feels like a lifetime. "There's something off about the case, I know it! There's another dimension to this, something the police aren't talking about."

"Yeah," An leans back into her with a slight scowl running over her cheek, "Terry hasn't spilled the beans about what he saw either, said it 'wasn't important'." Then An raises a brow and tilts her head, suddenly remembering a peculiar detail. "Wait a minute, aren't you interviewing Nick and Judy next week?"

"I can't wait that long! If I can find out now, I need to. If they avoid the topic, I can push for it if I already knew." Gizelle's stern expression wins her over, clearly having been far more affected by this case than she thought.

An shrugs. "It's not like I'm here to argue or anything..."

"Good, then let's get started."

The wolf takes her sling bag off before pulling out an overflowing binder of photocopied documents. "The original case file… you really think we'll find anything different?"

"Maybe… maybe not. But I know where to start." Gizelle peels away at the papers, aiming directly at the bottom of the stack… the first kidnapping.

An looks quizzically at the girl. "Raeger Hector? The first victim?"

"Mhm." Gizelle is transfixed on the paper, unable to look away as she absorbs all the details she can, but she forces herself away to regard her quarry, wanting to bring her up to speed. "I know this is gonna sound crazy but…" she trails off, not quite sure how to gauge her.

An rolls her hands, urging her to proceed. "But…?"

Gizelle glances back at the papers, going over the details for only a second in the hopes that her theory might be immediately dispelled so she doesn't have to say it, but it holds true anyway.

"I'm not entirely convinced that Marcus killed his own brother."

~̵̨́͟͞~҉~̸̴͢͢o̵̧̢͢0̴Ò̶̶͜0̨̢̡͜͢ó͏̷͡͠~̢̛͡͞~̵̴̨͞~̷̴͢

I love my family. They're all I need, and all I've got. Sure I could go out there and find myself a woman, but… why look for love when you already have so much? I don't need nuthin' else from the world. Just let me watch my brother grow old with his wife, let me see my nephew turn into a fine young man, and I'll live the rest of my days happier than any married man.

~Raeger Hector, from a conversation in an officer's report when the man was arrested after a bar fight with the Kayman's top baker, Rios, over whose bakery was better. They later made up and continued drinking together, the officer soon joining

~̴̵̡̢͝~̕͝~̨̡̕ơ̵͟͝͝0̕͏̧͏͢O҉̷͏̶͡0̢̕͢ǫ҉̴̢~̸̡͠͡~̴̨͞~

The smell of a swamp is typically rather appalling, the heated breath of some moist earth and dying plant life churning like some witch's cauldron across the great expanse of its woodland like a curse, but the Hectors have taken the scent with some obscure sense of security, as if the scent itself is every indication that they're in a dangerous part of the swamp: the ever familiar and continually conquered Hunting Grounds.

And yet, when they come across a clearing where the wind's strength wanes and the stench gone with it, a sense of overwhelming alertness washes over them still, stronger than before the trek. The serenity in the clearing is much more menacing to them, the veritable calm before the storm.

Perhaps they're overcautious, but they've been hunting in this swamp for longer than some of their Hunting Club have been alive, and they're all old enough to legally own a firearm.

The two men heft some supplies at their backs, their trusty shotguns looped over their necks on their straps. Once at the dock beside the murky swamp lake, they set down their bags.

"Smell that, Marcus?" Raeger says, sniffing the air with a mischievous grin, "it's the smell o' danger."

"Don't get too excited, Raeger." Marcus takes a whiff of the air himself and catches something vile downwind through the treeline. "There's the smell o' death somewhere…"

Raeger eyes the lake with a weary gaze, curious of its stillness, the waters so stagnant it almost feels empty. The only two rafts sitting on the dock, a pair of rubber ones that are mysteriously inflated, are accounted for so it seems that no one has died in the water.

"Gators got a fresh meal somewhere? What do you think they caught?" he asks, following his brother out of the clearing.

Marcus scans the floor and finds an oddity amongst some bloodied branches. He holds up a blue feather for his brother to see, the ominous thing glistening where the splotch of blood streaks down the cool azure texture. "A blue jay," he says.

Raeger raises a brow. "They ain't native, they wouldn't travel downwind o' this stench, and there ain't none in the Whitewood's aviary." He shakes his head, giving his brother a sad tilt of his lip. "So it oughta' be someone's pet."

Marcus sighs. "That's unfortunate."

Raeger takes the feather, careful not to touch the blood, inspecting it from both sides. "Can't have been far though. Blood ain't dry and neither is the pointy end o' this thing. A fresh pluck is what it is."

"If that's so, then likely he set up camp somewhere. Place is too far from the road to otherwise be from a vehicle." Marcus says, looking at his compass to reorient himself. He knows that there is a clearing through here where the forest starts and the swamp ends, so it's likely there. "You remember that clearin' you used to talk about, the one North-West o' here? You know the way to it, right?"

"Sure 'nough," Raeger shrugs smugly, taking the lead. "Found an old rusty pike there once, dug into the dirt with some initials on 'em. A landmark o' sorts. So I'm thinkin' it might be the same folk who plugged it in in the first place."

Marcus would have called it a stretch but the clearing is off-road and is easiest to get through via the swamp clearing, which isn't a very popular tourist spot. The pike means that at least someone found it, and if so few people know about the place, then Marcus isn't about to argue his brother's point.

Their feet crunch against twigs beneath them in audible snaps, intending to leave a trail for someone to find if they ever get lost. It's unlikely, given their experience with the place, but they're not about to take their chances.

Marcus looks again at the feather Raeger twists between his fingers, the blood drying as its excess falls harmlessly against the dirt below. That poor blue jay… if it was here as a tag along with the owner or was simply released into the wild, then death by gator on the day of its arrival seems like an incredibly cruel twist of fate. He honestly hopes that it's actually unharmed and the blood is from some other source, but the ruffling of the feather indicates a struggle, so chances are low.

He audibly sighs at the thought, making his brother turn to him. Marcus looks up to him then, quickly confused by his brother's sudden wide-eyed gaze.

Raeger reacts faster than Marcus can analyze what's going on. In an instant he's pushed passed him, his shotgun swinging downward towards an oncoming gator from behind. The barrel slips into the reptiles powerful jaws, but before it could clamp, the weapon fires, ruining the animal's insides as it slumps.

Marcus's heart is racing but he is far more angry than he is afraid. The dead creature makes no sounds when he kicks it, daring it to try again if it's still alive, his own weapon just about ready to kill it if it tried.

Raeger pats his back. "You owe me, little brother."

Marcus scoffs playfully, walking off. "I'll put it on your tab."

"A life is priceless," Raeger replies, sidling up to him, "so that means I get free reign o' your kitchen for life."

"Don't push your luck, Rae. I still need to feed this family, and I can't do that if you just eat everythin' on the shelves." Marcus makes to leave but as he lifts his foot, he hears a crack beneath him. He steps back to reveal the now broken compass, causing the usually reserved man to lose some of his cool again and silently curse.

Raeger worries after him, electing to soothe the rising frustration of his kin. "Hey, don't fret. I know the way back so it'll be alright."

His brother's peculiar ability to differentiate trees and branches to lead them anywhere has always been reliable, so Marcus decides to place his trust in his brother with a resigned nod.

It takes a little longer than Marcus expects to get there. Nearly half an hour's walk doesn't seem nearly as close as Raeger first said it would be, but then again, this is a man who considers the trek from home all the way to the Rogue's Gallery on the other side of town as a "quick drink".

Once they breach the treeline, they spot an RV on one end of the oblong clearing, smoke billowing from behind it in a waning grey plume. The air smells of fresh dew aloft wet grass, a welcome scent that would have accented the sight were the ground not littered with wide patches of dry dirt, making the area almost look ugly.

Raeger stares confused at the RV, then shifting between it and the treeline. "Now how on earth did someone manage to get a whole RV through the forest? There ain't enough space between them trees for all this!"

Marcus shrugs. "If there's a will, there's a way." Personally he thinks that whomever did probably cleared a path somehow, but it seems like a lot of work for a camping spot. But then again, the town itself is isolated in and of itself, and to find further isolation all but guarantees personal solace.

He thinks that perhaps he should find a space like this. A place where even his brother won't know about.

His eyes turn skyward to the plume of smoke again, billowing in the empty sky. His brother watches it too and gives him a concerned look before glancing elsewhere.

"Fire's still burnin'," Marcus points out, "strong too, so it ain't a dwindlin' flame."

Raeger almost doesn't hear him as he squints at the other end of the oblong clearing, the faint sight of the rusted pike lingering in the distance still.

Marcus walks passed his brother who quickly follows suit. "Hello!?" he calls out once, then twice. His brother tries for the third but there is still no response for them.

Raeger is about to point out how strange it is but Marcus jogs ahead, prompting him to follow.

They make it to the fire place and see a set of five plastic chairs, two for moderately sized adults and three for children. Judging from the coloration and his then hers scrawled onto the adult seats, it's clear that it's a family.

But none of them appear to be here.

A set up awning off the RV, a still burning fire with a careful arrangement of stones around it, and a barely finished tent tells them that they were here recently.

Marcus finds his mirrored caution etched carefully over his brother's features, trying to appear stoic like he is. Though it is still entirely possible that they just went out to find a lake or something and left their things here, confident that no one would ever find it, but the thought is optimistic, and they already had a bad feeling about it.

Something is wrong here, and it's clearly more than just a dead blue jay and a possible fire hazard.

Marcus makes for the RV while Raeger makes for the tent.

On his way, Raeger finds a ready bucket filled with water, and uses it to quickly put out the unattended fire. But then he takes a peculiar look at the bucket and thinks the worst… cause a family ready with a way to put out the fire would certainly know not to leave it unattended. Sparing a glance at the leaning half-finished tent, its almost dug-in stakes and haphazard yet somehow stable guy lines, all indicating that a child tried to set it up with some middling success.

It's a family that is, in the very least, experienced in camping... so negligence is almost foolishly unlikely.

The RV's door swinging open might not have normally drawn his attention away from the tent he's meaning to investigate, but the way his brother vocally flinches at whatever's inside certainly does.

He runs towards him, but Marcus turns to him with a look that is barely concerned himself. "Don't worry, it just smells like someone didn't flush…"

Marcus climbs into the RV and finds a deep darkness cloaking the inside. He flicks on a light but finds that only the one above them is operable. He might have chalked it up to age, but his hand runs along the upholstery of the booth inside, and there are no cracks nor discoloring to indicate such detrimental age; the seats themselves barely seem worn either.

Marcus turns to the light pouring out of the front windows and sees a small hand slumped on the armrest of the driver's seat. "Hey, kid, you alright over there?"

No response… so he fears the worst. And yet, he dares to hope, calling out to the child again.

He is hesitant still, not quite sure if he is ready to see him, but Marcus pours his resolve into pushing himself forward, heart racing and hands sweating, he reaches for the backrest and pulls himself to the front.

First he notices the stench, but the sight is far more grisly. Seated at the driver's seat is a young buck slumped against the wall, absent eyes staring listlessly at the cracked glass beside him, a hole through his head that splatters gore against the seat beneath him.

Raeger nearly hurls when he sees it, taking a step back and away from the scene.

Marcus takes a careful look at it, head tilting to see the splatter against the seat again. Judging from his position, he didn't see the shot coming. And judging from the angle of the gore and the bullet hole, he was clearly shot by someone taller than him.

Marcus turns back to tell his brother but Raeger is already at the other side of the RV, eyes locked onto the limp body of another child, a tiny fawn too young to speak words, lying flush against the far back atop a slept-in bed, a pillow over the child's head to muffle the bullet that clearly rung through him.

He approaches his quivering brother, reaching out to rest a hand against his quaking shoulder—

—but then a metallic thud shocks them both.

Their eyes lock for a moment, before adjusting to a door jutting from the RV's wall: the toilet.

Marcus opens the door and enters, the darkness of the room washing over him with a sense of weary dread, like tendrils of some otherworldly forbearance, telling him what he'll see… and when he finds it, it actually comes as no surprise.

He stands there, shaking his head at the figure lying slump against the wall, seated over the toilet.

Raeger comes in and flicks the light on, nearly gasping at what he sees.

The mother, a doe no older than thirty, stares down at the tiled floor, a bullet hole straight through her head. No pillow this time. She's sitting on the cover here too, so she wasn't caught off guard, she was led here.

"There's tears…" Marcus points out, noting the dampened fur and shirt that runs down her thin cheeks.

Raeger shakes his head at the sight, fighting back the upchuck he's sure will come sooner or later. Instead he focuses on her form, and notices the bruising on her wrists… but her arms are folded neatly over her lap. "She struggled, fought back, but… not here. Her fightin' died in this room for some reason…"

"She accepted death," Marcus adds grimly, "but why?"

"The third kid maybe?" Raeger speculates. "Maybe she gave her life for the last of her kids."

Marcus wants to say that the father did it, but there's no certainty to it, nor is there any for the mother's sacrifice. Something went down here and it'll take folk much smarter than them to figure it out.

He walks out then, leaving his brother in the RV as he scans over the area, the door slowly clicking closed behind him. His eyes first latch onto the tent, its flaps billowing in the breeze, abandoned and unfinished, though still standing. He thinks of the father then, teaching his children to pitch a tent while his wife tells them to prepare water to put out the fire in an emergency… tiny, almost ignorable moments that might one day mold a child into a respectable adult.

And that future is now robbed of them.

Even if the last child survived, it's almost certain that being witness to this trauma might very well scar him for life. And in that brief moment of somber contemplation, he considers taking the child in himself, to perchance save it from such a fate.

Then his eyes catch a glimpse of something in the treeline, stumbling out of it beyond the tent. There is a goat there in a long brown cloak, body bloodied with an unsightly gash along his cheek. His eyes are desperate and pained, scanning the clearing with fearful caution.

Then his eyes fall to Marcus, and his first immediate response is to raise his pistol, the barrel's tip still dripping with blood.

And suddenly Marcus knows who shot up the family.

A great, white hot fury billows within his core, clutching his shotgun with almost enough strength to snap it. His forward stride is filled with purpose, stomping with abreast the feverish tempo of his rapid footfalls.

The goat tries to warn him that he'll shoot if he comes any closer, but Marcus knows that this murderer would have fired already if the gun was even loaded.

As expected, the cloaked goat discards the empty weapon as he sprints in the opposite direction, weaving through the trees in some feeble attempt to outpace him and lose him in the thicket.

But Marcus is fast and the great strength in his legs propel him faster and further than the goat could ever hope to match.

He dares to glance back at Marcus and sees the fury in his eyes, the unkempt anger searing through his frame makes him look like imminent death. So the goat dares to push further even as the strength in his already aching legs feels about ready to buckle and fail him.

Marcus sees the goat pick up the pace, and though he is certain that he has the stamina to outlast him, he isn't about to take any chances. He levels his shotgun, aiming down at the man's legs. His breathing is uneven, trying to sputter screams of some otherworldly wrath in attempt to articulate his blinding ire.

Then he holds his breath… and pulls the trigger.

The buckshot tears through his cloak, scattering bits of cloth and gore along the detritus that litter the floor, and immediately the goat stumbles into a tree, head slamming into the bark to cut another gash over his forehead.

He doesn't even have a moment to gasp as Marcus is on him in the next moment, turning him around and pressing him against the tree, grabbing him by the neck as the goat tries to claw at Marcus's large fingers, trying feebly to escape.

"Why did you do it!?" Marcus demands, loosening his choke to let him speak.

"Imanidre Patre!" the goat manages to gasp, ignoring the pain in his torn leg to stare down the devil in his eyes.

Marcus doesn't like the response, dropping his weapon to take both hands to his neck. "In English!"

He loosens his grip again, and the goat finds enough purchase to manage a response after some inhaling. "Th-they were sinners! The man and the woman, th-they're not even married! Their children are bastards to that unholy union."

Marcus's grip loosens ever so slightly as the man before him suddenly appears so… sure of himself. He wholly believes what he's saying, he truly believed they deserved to die. "The Father has no place for such sinners!" He no longer stutters, his steely gaze meeting Marcus with some estranged hope that he'll understand. "They will burn in hell for their adultery as will their children. You're a holy man, aren't you? You can see that they needed to die for such trespasses."

Marcus's shock vanishes in the next moment, comprehending the man's sheer madness, and the slit of his eyes return, a righteous fury releases one hand to ball it into a fist. "The good Lord has no place for the likes of you."

A good swift punch across the goat's unopened cheek gives him some middling satisfaction.

The man then spits blood on Marcus's face, spouting some Latin insult before he's elbowed in the temple, knocking him out.

Marcus eyes the man below him then, and quells his ire before he does something he'll regret. Because even though he has no qualms with injuring the man, killing him would be going too far.

He takes his empty shotgun and loads it just in case, then glances back down at the deranged goat, sighs, then hoists him onto his shoulder.

His eyes are deadpan then, cold calculating efficiency filling his addled mind with clarity

He first thinks that he should bind him with the rope from the tent and get his brother to run out and get the authorities. But then he shakes his head.

This man is clearly a cultist of sorts, and he likely didn't come here alone. And who knows how many more are out there in the woods?

Come to think of it, he didn't see the father buck of the family… he's probably out there with the rest of the cultists for some insane ritual. But then he realizes that the gash in the man's cheek and the fact that he was already covered in blood perhaps means that the father might have either fought his way through them or died fighting them off.

A part of Marcus hopes that the buck managed to kill some of them off before he had to go down, but he shakes the grim thought away.

He emerges from the clearing then, eying the tent as he approaches.

He takes his hunting knife out of his rear pocket and cuts out the rear and front guy line which apparently were only for reinforcement as the whole thing is still holding together, as haphazardly as it is. But then the front flaps billow against a strong wind, revealing the still legs of the third and final child.

Marcus sighs once more then proceeds to bind the cultist by his arms and legs. He'd have chuckled at the hogtie were the situation not so dire.

He walks out towards the RV. "Rae!" His brother doesn't respond. Then he realizes that the door to the RV is open.

He almost makes to enter the RV but then his head twists to look over the area. Immediately his keen eyes spot the glint of his brother's shotgun leaning against a distant tree. Running towards it, he notices the trail of intentionally snapped twigs weaving into the forest towards the swamp.

He takes the gun beside his own and then follows the trail slowly at first before jogging through the forest. "Alright, Raeger, where ya' taken me?"

It is not long until the smell of the swamp fills the air… quickly followed by the distant tail-end of a shout.

He recognizes it as Raeger's, then he bolts through the trees, making a beeline to the familiar dock of the Hunting Grounds.'

The desperate screaming of his brother continues even as he breaks the treeline, spotting Raeger on one of the rafts in the middle of the swamp's lake.

Ahead of him, however, is a stag covered in blood, paddling his way to the center of the lake. He mumbles things, glancing back at Raeger and then Marcus before turning his eyes forward.

"Get back here!" Raeger shouts desperately. "This ain't the way!" He then turns back to his brother standing restlessly on the dock, searching for a way to get to them. "Marcus! Watch the water fer' gators!"

He nods in response, loading his weapon and checking his brother's. Both shotguns at the ready, he stands as far out onto the dock as he can, kneeling to aim down the lake.

Raeger pours all his strength into paddling, trying to cut through the water faster than the buck before him, but the man's taut arms prove more capable, and Raeger pulls dangerously behind. But then there is a glimmer of hope as the man stops suddenly… only to realize that it's only because gators have begun to swarm his area.

There is some fearful hesitation there when Raeger stops himself, not sure what to do at this point as he leans out and calls for the buck again. "Hey!"

Then the buck steadies himself into a stand, an amazing sense of control in his legs as he looks out at them. "I'm a sinner! I deserve this! I'm sorry!"

Raeger can only describe the stag's expression as serene, at peace, but it is fleeting, gone as quickly as it came, the man falls backward into the water, vanishing beneath the surface as the gators dive down with him.

There is only a moment of thrashing over the water's surface, and then the silence permeates. And for a second it feels like what they just witnessed was only a passing nightmare, a glimpse of some otherworldly madness too surreal to have actually happened.

And yet it did.

"Rae!" Marcus's call snaps Raeger back into reality in time to grab his paddle before a gator grabs it.

Panicked eyes glance over the raft's edges, finding the predators lurking just beneath the murky water.

He plunges his ore into the water just behind the tail of one of the gators, trying to avoid striking them for fear of earning their ire. But this caution causes him to slow down, furthering his panic as he realizes just how far he is from the dock.

Marcus's own panic rises as he sees the gators swarm around the raft, one in particular being exceptionally aggressive as it bumps the front of the raft continuously.

And then it tries to climb the raft.

Raeger curses as he sees it, beating it with his ore. "Marcus! Shoot it!"

Weapon at the ready, Marcus aims at the aggressive creature, cursing silently as he pulls the trigger.

He manages to cleave through it with the buckshot, letting it fall off the raft, but at a price. The reinforced raft has some holes in it now, and though Raeger breathes a sigh of relief before paddling further, it's clear to both of them that the raft is gonna give soon.

Marcus knew this was going to happen, and can only sit and watch as his brother struggles to reach the dock. And by some miracle he gets close, just a scant few feet from the dock's edge so he springs into action and holds out his brother's gun, gripping it by the barrel so he can grab it by the stock.

Raeger inches closer and it seems that the gators are realizing that their prey is about to escape, and so they up the ante and ram the underside of the raft. And though it does nothing to capsize it, it does however manage to squelch out more of the air.

Before it starts to flatten Raeger decides to just go for it and stands up. He then sways his body back and forth, and with a final huff, he jumps.

His hands reach out for the stock, and he manages an able grip as he tries to scramble up the dock.

Marcus almost breathes a sigh of relief that mirrors the look on his brother's face, but suddenly Raeger's face twists in horror as he screams.

Marcus scrambles to pull his brother in and takes him in his arms, but then he looks down his back to see the wounded gator from earlier – body still littered with buckshot – clamping down its powerful jaws over Raeger's lower half.

Quickly, Marcus pulls out his shotgun, aims down its head, and the release of the trigger sends his world tumbling back into the dock as the gator's head erupts, effectively killing it and releasing his brother.

He takes only a brief moment of respite to catch his breath before he gently lays his brother down.

Marcus feels relief wash over him, quelling his nerves, but it immediately vanishes at the sound of his brother's gasping, the deep undulation of his throat burning out of him as the scream that erupts from his lips seems to ignite the air.

All Marcus feels is vivid panic as he stares down his brother's lower half… only to find that it is almost entirely missing.

Raeger is attached to nothing but a stump, bleeding profusely along the wooden boards as if to paint it. His pain is overwhelming, washing over Marcus as he stares weary-eyed at his dying kin.

And then the screaming stops.

Marcus feels it too unreal, as if he'd awaken to the end of a nightmare any moment now, but that moment never comes, made all the more clear as he feels his brother's hand lay gently over his.

Raeger's panting dies out – perhaps numbing himself from the pain – as he lies back and stares into the sky, head tilting ever so slightly in his brother's direction. "Marcus," he manages between still ragged breaths. "Marcus," he repeats again, trying to dispel the frantic darting of his brother's gaze, halting finally at the easing expression of his brother. "Look, I ain't… ngh… I ain't gonna make it. No time fer' a… tourniquet."

Marcus wants to argue that there is perhaps still some chance he could save him, but his pragmatism squashes any such feeble hope. But even though his mind is wholly accepting of the situation, there is still that lingering sense of suspended disbelief. How could things have gone so terribly?

Raeger tries to wiggle his feet but he can barely feel his waist anymore either, and his hands don't even dare to find out where the rest of him ends. Marcus himself stays his hand, leaning over his brother as he struggles to find some miracle where there will be none.

"Marcus… I… guh…! I can't… I can't let Marshal… see me like this." He twists his head, rolling the back of it against some uneven boards just to get his body to feel some sensation, even furling and unfurling his fingers in a frail attempt to clench a fist. "Just… let it end, brother." He tries to put on a strong face for Marcus but the pain in his eyes is obvious, far more prominent on him than a weak, tiny smile.

"Just snuff the lights out…" He's getting lightheaded, drifting in and out of consciousness. "Tell…"

"Rae?" Marcus manages as his mouth remains agape.

"Tell Marshal…" Raeger almost passes out as he struggles to speak, gasping and wheezing. "Tell him I died… a hero…"

Raeger's body goes still. Whether or not he's still alive, Marcus is too lost to tell, but it's a pointless detail. One that doesn't change what needs to be done.

Something in Marcus snaps then, his face going numb with some overwhelming sensation, losing his sense of control as he stands over his brother's body and moves away to take his shotgun and load it with a single buckshot. He feels as if his body is moving on its own, like he is a passenger who will soon witness the unspeakable.

But then his fingers twitch as they rap against the barrel, reminding him that he is still in control… that his body is still his own. Making whatever follows, entirely on him.

He isn't sure if his brother is unconscious or not, but he knows that suspending his torment on the off chance that he wakes up would be a fate worse than death.

He leans down one more time and whispers in his brother ear. "Rae…" he says with a stifled choke, bleeding his sorrow out for only a moment before steeling himself, "tell Ma and Pa I miss 'em…"

And so, with a raised barrel pressing against his brother's forehead, he shuts his eyes after he deludes himself into thinking that the crest of Raeger's lips is a smile, burning the memory of it behind his lids as he finds the strength to finally pull the trigger.

~͟͟~̨̡͜͡~̡̀͞ǫ̛̀0̷̷͟͠Ơ̸̶̕͠0̸̴̧̨͢ǫ̶̛~̴͡~҉̶̷̢͠~͠

Marcus watches the fire dance before him, burning the still mess that is what remains of his brother beneath the snug wrappings of the tent's cotton fabric. He poured all he could to burn it quick, all the gasoline from the RV and its spares as well as some potassium nitrate he found, a bottle of it that is only half full, likely used to clear stumps that blocked the elusive road the father used to get here. Beneath the body itself is a large grill cage meant to hold the body and beneath that is a clay pot meant to catch his brother's ashes.

These items, however, all tell the story of a vacation a loving family intended to have. Perhaps bogged by some erstwhile stress or simply to bond with the family again, the father carved through a forest to a clearing he stumbled upon in his youth when he first laid that pike in the ground to mark it in his personal history. Quaint and faraway, there is that sense that all they wanted was to escape the city… only to fall into the maw of some derelict fanatic.

His eyes are drawn to the cultist bundled by the fire, lulled still in unconsciousness as the cool breeze of the late afternoon air brushes through his fur, the last dainty caress he'll ever feel from the On High. Beset along his cheek is the same curious gash, untreated and perhaps starting to pus, but he couldn't care less for God's witless, self-righteous mistakes, the same godless maniacs who thought his Lord had asked them to kill hundreds of thousands of innocents on the ludicrous idea that they were heretics or "witches". Marcus cannot stand for their kind, cannot bare to look at them with anything other than disdain.

And perhaps he might have pondered by what overwhelming and otherworldly force had driven this one man to murder a family and force the father to commit suicide… but then he realizes that the man's only true injury aside from the shrapnel buried in his leg is only the gash… and the stag was covered in blood. His eyes trace the treeline as he watches the gaps fade into stagnant darkness, squinting at the shadows with caution with his shotgun clutched in his fist. "He wasn't alone," he thinks. "More in the forest somewhere…" More madmen, lunatics who delude themselves into thinking that their crusade is righteous.

But then he reclines into the seat, relaxing as his grip loosens. "But they're dead or gone… they'd have come for me or the goat by now…" The father had harmed or killed enough to be covered in blood. So the rest are either dead, or running off into the distance in a panic, cowering before nature's mercy as forces beyond their control will most assuredly decide their fates. "Like him." His eyes then turn to the cultist again, who blinks as he comes to.

Marcus rises from his seat and takes the wife's monoblock chair, dragging it along the dirt audibly before slapping into the earth behind the man, making his dreary eyes flinch.

"What…" the goat mutters, the rest of his sentence falling into obscurity.

He quickly hoists the man into the seat, letting him get his bearings as he orients his senses with the upright world.

Again he mumbles something incoherent, drowned in the slur of his returning clarity, his mind still a haze from recent events. He remembers running off into the forest, leaving his brothers behind as a mad stag charges after him, the wound in his cheek a vivid reminder of his defenselessness. He remembers running through the forest to escape… then he remembers running back to escape something else…

He screams as the pain in his leg returns, the shrapnel digging into his flesh still prodding through his meat as he moves the injured limb. His eyes draw upward as he winces, blinking at the familiar, terrifying visage now sitting across from the dancing flame between them.

Marcus's expression flickers between a sickness coiling in his stomach and an acute sense of awe… There's something in the air, actually. An allure for something he can't quite place. He thinks at first that it's the smell of autumn, but… no, it's somethin' else.

He inhales sharply, a scent he can't quite place, his mind suddenly a haze as some otherworldly whisper is carried in the wind.

"Wh-what did you say?" the goat asks suddenly, drawing him out of his stupor. Apparently Marcus had mumbled something in his trance.

He shakes his head, turning his attention at the man before him, tilting his head at the terrified goat to thoroughly register his reaction to him.

Across the fire, it is difficult to see Marcus's expression, so the goat squints at him, blinking at the embers flitting about them.

"You see that over there, burnin' in the pyre?" Marcus asks, his voice even, but a touch bothered.

The cultist's eyes are drawn to the white form sitting in the flame, stuck in a fetal position, the silhouette of a man melting then turning to ash underneath.

"That's my brother," Marcus continues. "He's dead now, cause o' you and your… cult."

The goat isn't about to pretend that he doesn't know who he is. And for a moment he thinks he can send him a strong front, but he shrinks almost immediately at the idea of being attacked again. So he instead decides to reason with him, to plead for his life somehow. "We didn't do that to him," he says.

"You didn't need to. Fact is, what you and your lot have gone and done to this family has caused a ripple that has done somethin' unspeakable to mine. And for what? Cause they got themselves kids before they got married? They surely would have done so eventually."

The goat's voice turns baleful at the thought, forgetting himself as he hisses. "It's sacrilege!" he manages through the pain. "Utterly unforgivable, regardless of the circumstances. Those who died today are "

Marcus stands then, making his way around as he takes the father's chair with him, plotting into the dirt before him. "And you think what you did in response to that was just?" His tone is inquisitive, not accusatory, surprising the goat, making him ever more weary.

He finds Marcus's now stoic mien, ghosting over clenched fists rolling into his palms, and he can sense anger in them, a fury ready to exact what was taken from him. "I-I'm sorry… I didn't mean to imply that your brother-"

"Oh, I ain't mad," Marcus adds quickly, his expression ringing true despite the pensive gesturing in his fists. "I've made peace with it. My brother's dead and there's nuthin' I could do about it. All I can do is come to accept it."

Marcus's expression falters and it sends a chill down the man's spine as the cracks behind his put-upon expression unveils a semblance of something… terrifying. And it doesn't make sense to him because if it wasn't fury that drove him to shoot, interrogate, and bind him, then what was the reason? What is stoicism supposed to be there for?

The goat's voice is ragged from the pain, but he is enduring, numbing him long enough to speak. "Then what... what do you want with me?" The unknown makes him fearful as he meets the pig's steady gaze waft easily before him, leveled and stern, as if he is numb to the torment writhing before him.

Marcus's head tilts again, perhaps curious, then his eyes soften as the tension in his body falls away. "I wanted to look you in the eye, just t'… see if you've got any remorse in ya'. But frankly all I see is fear an'… desperation." Marcus is easy in his tone, more matter-of-factly than anything else, and it confuses him cause it feels inconsistent. "None o' that I wanted to see. Cause it's not important. Doesn't tell me nuthin'. Well… nuthin' I could use."

"Wha-? U-use for what?"

Marcus shrugs. "T' see if I should hand you over to the authorities… or handle things myself. But you're scared, outta your gourd, and I can't rightly tell if you were an innocuous recruit in over your head or… purposely involved."

The goat can only respond with silence. Handle things himself? What does he mean by that? And the thought is driven through him, hammered like a nail… because the pig has no qualms with shooting him, and doesn't even care to suture the wounds. He could die right here, right now from the disease off his injuries alone and it's likely he wouldn't care. On top of that, the shotgun resting on one of the smaller chairs reminds him that he is armed and would not hesitate to fire.

Marcus sighs, drawing his attention back to him. "Since I can't rightly decide what the best course o' action is, I'll just leave it up to you. I can't trust what you say, so I'll trust what you'll do." Marcus stands up, eying him down before producing his hunting knife, which briefly scares him as he leans over him, only to find that Marcus has cut the bindings over his wrists. And then his legs. "See, I'm going into the RV to look for a wireless phone then call the police with it. And the way I see it, if you're innocent enough, you'll stay right here and be taken in without so much as a struggle. You'll strike a deal with the police to expose the rest o' your cult to reduce your sentence. You'll still get time, but you'll be doin' the world a favor."

The pig leans over his seat then, hands firmly on the arm rests, his presence filling the air, suffocating it till it is wrought with his breath. And his eyes point menacingly at him, forcing his attention firmly on them, commanding him to be still, to listen. "The alternative, however, is that when I'm in there lookin' for a phone, you book it, runnin' fer' the hills. And part o' me hopes ya' do. Cause it's been a while since I've had a good hunt."

Marcus pushes off the seat and makes for the RV.

The goat still feels his breath, can still feel those eyes burning a hole through him. He considers that he shouldn't incur his wrath, to stay still and accept the consequences.

But can he really betray his brothers and sisters? He doesn't want to go to jail, and he might hang for what he and his people have done to this family. Or maybe he won't take the deal, maybe he'll stay in jail for his full sentence? Surely he could endure a few years, can't he?

The crackling flame retakes his gaze, and the corpse lying beneath the cotton reminds him that he is instrumental in the death of the pig's brother somehow… And perhaps the mercy he's offering is a lie.

The door to the RV shuts and he sees his opportunity present itself.

He scans the treeline as he steadily hoists himself up, adjusting himself to the injured leg. The forest is closest passed the RV, and he can use it as cover when the pig makes it out the door. He just has to break the treeline and zigzag through the woods. He can lose him.

With a huff, he stands on his injured leg, steadies his breathing, then bolts off, sprinting with a limp, pushing with all the strength he has left.

When he passes the RV, he can hear the phone beeping. He tries to be as quiet as possible without slowing down, running on the tips of his hooves as he hops along what little grass there is in this clearing.

Marcus himself watches through a window in the rear of the RV just over the bed, his face blank save for the slight upward crest of his lip that quickly vanishes. He pushes the window open as he takes his brother's shotgun off the pillows.

Quickly he slips out and lands quietly, raising his weapon. And then, with a moment of held breath, he fires.

The goat falls as his other leg is shot through… but it isn't shrapnel from a buckshot.

He can feel it for a moment before his leg goes completely numb, incapable of responding to him, a dead limb. There's a hole in it, just one, and it's clear that it's gone all the way through. His bleeding is getting out of hand now, it's a wonder he's still alive at this point. But he tries to keep going, dragging himself through the dirt.

Marcus approaches, spotting the hole in the goat's leg and in the dirt where his slug shot landed. A shame he had to use it, it's his only one, but it served its purpose.

He hoists the goat over his shoulder, setting his brother's gun down by the RV as he eyes the fire. The flame is dying, the great bout of flame waning against the wind, bustling through the forest and into the clearing.

He deposits him in the same seat as before. He's a mess, more so than before. Gasping, wheezing, bleeding enough to pass out, without medical treatment he'd die in a few hours.

And his eyes look up at Marcus, desperation in them so vivid that it practically bleeds off of him. But then his gaze drifts along the dirt then onto the fire, then nowhere in particular, clarity vanishing as his brain struggles to process the sheer amount of pain he's in.

Marcus lightly slaps his cheek a few times, drawing his attention back into reality. When their eyes meet, Marcus's head tilts one way then the other, gauging his senses as their eyes track that back and forth. "I lied to ya' earlier," he says, looming over the goat like some grim herald. "I am mad, quite furious actually. But there's no point in yellin' at ya'. It's just noise and… well I've always believed that actions speak louder than words. And I hope these actions are screamin'."

Fear, again, the goat knows it so well now that Marcus can't quite articulate if there's ever been a different expression on his face. So Marcus grabs him by the cheeks with one hand, projecting his control, eyes pointed and demanding. "After what you took from me, it's clear you and your lot are undeservin' of a quick death. So I need ya' t' die slow and painful like. I wanna see it hurt as ya' burn. alive. All just so you keep the fire burnin', all so you can do one good service to the world 'fore you pass. So I ask ya' t' sing fer' me, at the top o' your lungs till your throat goes dry from meltin' in the heat."

Then Marcus remembers what other face the goat's managed to make before… one of hubris, defiance. "I'll be steadfast…" he says, spitting blood at his face, "…I'll not give you the satisfaction."

Marcus leans in as one arm snakes behind the goat as he takes his limp arms behind him. With a firm grip over his wrists, he whispers in his ear. "Then allow me to give ya' a little incentive on that regard." Marcus immediately pulls up his arms, severing the tendons at their base. The goat screams as the pain is accompanied by the mute flop of his arms falling lifelessly at his sides.

Dying, motorless, and with a mind so filled with the shock of his wounds, the goat feels madness overcome, sparked by adrenaline that fuels his useless body.

Marcus then takes the chair in his hands and – with a quick shove – tosses the man into the fire. He tries to squirm but his body doesn't respond.

Marcus tries to feel something but his body won't move, lost in a trance like state as the burning flesh calls upon that same distinct aroma, that mysterious allure he can't quite place is suddenly coming to light…

He realizes that he hasn't eaten in a long while, and the sun has already set. With his mind in a haze, the scent becomes stronger, whispering to him through the hunger coiling through his empty stomach.

The screaming from the goat has long since stopped, but the body is still feeding the fire.

The leg with the single hole through it is burning quickly as it sags off the side… but some instinct, desperate and broken, has him reaching out for it.

With ease, he rips out the limb off from the hole that's already through it, and with the cooked meat dangling lazily off his grasp, he can't help but feel the need to quench that roaring hunger.

Thumping in his ear.

Beating in his chest.

Gnawing at his skin.

~o~~~~o~

"…he was found approximately fifteen hours later, staring down at a bloody dock. The file says he was… covered in blood, and in complete shock, 'essentially catatonic' was the general consensus of his condition." An paces the floor before Gizelle as she reads through the file, flopping to the floor. She crosses her legs as she eyes up the gazelle sitting at the sofa.

Gizelle mulls over the detail, tapping her pencil against her lip as she eyes down her notes, unblinking like a contemplative owl. "Go on," she says.

An obliges with a sigh, some hesitation coiling in her throat, tiny flashes of distant memories distracting her for a moment too long, but if Gizelle caught it, then she deigns to not mention it. "They took him to the Roaming Meadows Asylum which almost immediately discharged him-"

"-Because they ruled that he was fit enough to stay at home," Gizelle finishes for her, eyes alighting to some revelation. She thinks of the second victim, and considers that Marcus's connection to him is far too convenient to ignore. "You think… you think that's where the second victim died?"

"Fuck if I know," An shrugs nonchalantly, "I just hope the old man gave him a hard time." There is grit in her tone, almost bitter as it escapes her lips, a token of a woman with some heft boring down on her.

An's tired eyes rise to find Gizelle staring at her, her notes on the side as her attention shifts completely to her. But then she realizes that she's staring, making her look away embarrassed.

An doesn't like making Gizelle uncomfortable. At least not like this.

She doesn't know what to do as she fidgets in place, biting her lip. "Can we… can we stop for a minute? I… need to get something off my chest," An says with a hesitance so unlike her.

Gizelle is surprised she even managed to get her to open up. "W-what's wrong?" She silently curses herself for stuttering.

An pushes herself up, pushing away her anxieties to speak, running her fingers through the fur on her head. "It's just… I'm a little overwhelmed by all this."

Gizelle raises a brow. "An, it's been almost a year since."

She almost doesn't respond. "That's just how bad it is." She doesn't like admitting to vulnerabilities but her mouth runs a mile-a-minute, outpacing even her sensibilities. "Zel, I loved Marcus. Everyone at the Hunting Club did. And to think that that man, the one we all looked up to, was a serial killer? It's just… it's fucking nuts." She gasps, a lone tear drowning in her fur, dampening it just the tiniest.

An curses under her breath, shaking her head as she buries her sorrow with a sigh. "I don't expect you, or anyone else outside of the Broncs to really understand, and – I fucking swear – you're all better off that way, but for us the wound is either still fresh in our minds or… never meant to heal." The dejection carving sullen shapes along her cheeks gains weight as it dangles her heart by a thread, furthering her torment. She isn't at tears yet, but the hard lines along her face tell of a bottled fury that tries to mask all the pain underneath.

Gizelle quickly comes to her side in an embrace. "Hey, hey, come back to me. You'll be alright…"

An shakes her head, trying to resolve herself, but the flurry of emotions and heated, boiling hate fill her veins so fast that it could mist the tears running down her cheeks… but they don't belong to her.

An gently pushes Gizelle back, finding a few tears trailing down her cheeks. "Zel?"

"I'm sorry. I know this is putting a lot of pressure on you… I knew that revisiting this with you of all people is probably a little uncalled for but—"

An drops her forehead against Gizelle's, silencing her. "Hey, I'm the one who asked to get involved. I'm sorry about the way I acted back there. I just… I wish I could forget how much he meant to me, but that doesn't mean I should get so worked up over it."

With a hefty sigh, An quells the fire in her heart and hands Gizelle a handkerchief to wipe her stray tears. "Now, c'mon, we've got work to do."

"You sure you want to continue? We could take a break."

An sighs, a tiny smile on her lips. "Calvary will be needing me by the end of the week. So we need to finish this up in the few days I'm still available…" She laughs quietly to herself. "Plus he's having dinner with the staff tonight and I'm taking you with me whether you like it or not."

Zel scoffs playfully. "If Terry's there, I'd much rather not." Gizelle lets her hair fall over her face to hide her. "Besides, I… I still have work to do." She looks up at An through her golden locks and finds her raised brow and knowing smile. "You're not giving me much of a choice now, aren't you?"

She nods once before getting up, extending a hand out to her before hoisting her up. "So what's next?"

"Oh, um… the next victim."

An walks over to the coffee table then leafing through the papers. She quickly finds the tiny case file, only a page long, and huffs. "Henry Avery was last seen leaving his home on August 6th 2005, at approximately one PM according to his wife." An reads through it, scanning through the paper as Gizelle retakes her seat at the sofa. "It says here that she said he usually went out on the weekend to see an old friend's grave out in the forest. He usually came home before dinner but she figured that he probably just stayed a while longer." She looks up from her paper, a dejected sigh escaping her lips. "She ended up calling police come midnight, but by then his trail had gone cold and no one could find anything."

They roll the bitter idea over for a moment, trying to force away the image of Lutessa Avery fearing for her husband. The woman is stoic, with skin just as thick as her husband's… but it is mettle earned from losing her husband.

"So we know that Henry and Marcus were old friends," Gizelle says, "and since Marcus was confined to his home, Henry might have gone to see him."

"You sure Marcus didn't just find him in the forest?" An reasons, drawing from the same conclusion much of the ZPD had defaulted to.

Gizelle shakes her head. "It wouldn't have been convenient enough," Gizelle disagrees, running off her theory. She feels as if Henry was basically given to him on a silver platter, an opportunity to test how well he could get away with murder. According to Lutessa, Marshal was even out of the house preparing for his school's performance at the Autumn Festival.

The pair of them alone creates a scenario too good to ignore.

An mulls over the evidence put forth but isn't quite all caught up with Gizelle's sense of logic. "So, to you, Raeger was an accident that rendered him inert but Henry was a matter of convenience? Why not rule that out as an accident too?"

Gizelle would have liked to say she hesitated, but the certainty when asked about this… she knows it would have upset An to know that she has no doubt in her mind about her assumptions about Marcus. But she presses, eyes steely and without falter. "Cause it creates the kind of person we need to show them… the man who became a monster. Because whatever Marcus experienced in that forest, he felt he could emulate it. That's the major difference between Raeger and Henry. Raeger's death stirred the idea of Carrion… but Henry made him real."

~͏́͜~̸̨̕~̷̧͘҉̶ǫ̷̀0͘҉͘҉O҉͏͟͠0̶͢ǫ̴̛̀̕~́͟͞~̴̴́͟͝~͏̴̛͜͟

It is to be a private meeting.

Henry had gone to the swamp on the very night Marcus was picked up. What he found was astonishing to say the least.

His position as an undercover investigator was intended to keep an eye on the comings and goings of the conmen who've begun scoping the place out for their operations… he didn't actually think he'd have to investigate a murder.

What he found is… troubling. But he wants to gauge Marcus's reaction first before he brings it to the Sheriff's department in the morning. He thinks he has a pretty good idea of what happened but one can never be too careful.

Henry stalks the alleyways and roads less traveled inside of Stable Village. He knows its streets well, having been born and raised here – missing it everyday when he had to sleep on a makeshift cot in a bullet-ridden tent. Now the hustle and bustle of life in a farmer's town feels like a different world from that hell. It's familiar, comforting, casting a veil over the nightmares that linger beneath his lids.

Once upon a time he called this place his playground, where every nook and cranny served to shroud him in his juvenile bliss, filled with hiding spots and secret stashes. Even then he was resourceful, pulling out candy bars and half empty mint cans seemingly out of thin air for the sustained awe of his bewildered friends. In this neighborhood he was king… and it stayed that way until the day he enlisted in the army.

He remembers those somber nights before being shipped off to the Midwest, sitting out in the alleys behind the houses, smoking circular puffs into the air that vanish in the looming twilight that bleeds into the night. And there he'd meet the young Marcus Hector – the most pragmatic little pig he'd ever had the pleasure of knowing – for what he thought would be the last time.

"I'd tell ya' t' stop smokin' but you'll need all the relaxation you can get, what with where you're goin'," young Marcus once told him, sitting beside the ragged man as he blows his smoke respectfully in the other direction.

"You gonna miss me, kid?" he replied after a sullen chuckle.

He remembers how the little pig pouted, the fear in his eyes hidden beneath his elsewhere gaze. "Just don't make us miss you forever."

He chuckled, both then and now, as that promise echoes back to him. He wanted to think it was some juvenile hope that drove him through that war, that child-like mysticism that just wanted a happy ending, ignorant of the cruel, cruel world. But perhaps that was exactly what he needed… perhaps that is exactly what he needs.

The back alleys behind this block of homes were once meant for a park, but that was part of the town's city development plan which ultimately never panned out. Now it's just a wide courtyard of ill-advised parking and basketball courts that make it ill-advised.

His footfalls press over the untended grass along its edges, muffling his footsteps. He's trying to be quiet but he knows it's unnecessary. The neighborhood is mostly empty today, the Autumn Festival doing much to occupy the town up in the market. It's the very reason why he had taken this singular opportunity to sneak out of the house.

He doesn't normally like misleading his wife. He did tell her he was going out to see an old friend… he just didn't specify which one.

Still, after he gets his bearings with Marcus and talks to Detective Taepur, he'll most certainly have to tell his wife where he's been.

It isn't long until he gets to the edge of the neighborhood, up against the border wall between it and the rest of the town. But cut along this very wall is a duplicitous bakery that is actually home just behind the kitchen.

And there lies the Hectors' backdoor, tucked neatly adjacent to the wall, hidden behind the outcropping of the rest of the building, and passed a bush and a short brick wall in their own backyard.

He hops onto the wall with ease, sitting at the top as his eyes lingering along the backyard for a moment. He remembers coming here often, frequenting visits with his little friend and his folks, but those days have long since been gone, distant memories that vanish in blurry haze of a life he can bare task to countenance. It would have been saddening but it isn't. Nowadays those memories are instead replaced with new ones, where his little friend has a family of his own… those are fresher, right here and right now.

He'll make sure he gets to keep making those memories.

He hops down and does a silent nod in the direction of a nearby apple tree, the sight of the little grave nestled in an assortment of flowers does his heart good to see that none of the Hectors have forgotten Karvina.

But as he approaches the door, his foot catches onto the handle of a laid down shovel. There's also two pairs of gloves, a long crowbar meant for pulling large rocks, and a few other things, all in a haphazard pile. It seems that Marshal has preemptively prepared the supplies for Raeger's burial. But there won't be a body to bury.

He pushes passed it instead, thoughts forced elsewhere as he takes out a key and unlocks the door.

The bakery is flush in darkness, locked up for the week it seems until Marcus can pull himself together.

The haunting shadows are an augury sign of a life that could be, of an empty house and its ghosts. Old souls stricken by loss, rotting away at the looming dissonance of a home that is not so much broken as it is… incomplete.

He treks onward, no longer bothering to muffle his footsteps. In the confines of these walls, he knows he is neither seen nor heard. He knows the schedules of the visiting doctor and his nurses, and the police have already advised against visitors so Marcus can rest in the silence of his own home.

He enters the living room and prepares to ascend the staircase but a familiar sight lingers in his periphery. He furthers into the room along the carpeted floor to stand before Karvina's grand piano. It is meticulously polished, the whole of its ebony frame glistening despite the low light, smooth to the touch over its maple surface. He opens the fallboard to let his fingers run over the ivory keys, his digits gliding weightlessly over them as he is tempted to press them. They aren't perfect though, the yellowish edges of each key are telltale signs of its use and sheer age, but it adds to the character.

A chuckle rises from his lips as he sits there on the bench, bemused at the idea that the old instrument is almost as old as he is. But the mysticism vanishes a moment later when he hears rustling upstairs.

He closes the fallboard, turning away from the memories of little Karvina trying to teach him how to play the piano. He still doesn't know how – he never really tried to – but it all served to amuse him at the idea that he frustrated her to no end by repeatedly goofing off every time she managed to sit him at the bench.

He pushes away, gone and up the stairs as the familiar atmosphere drowns in the dread haunting the back of his mind.

Marcus's door opens as Henry walks in, spotting the pig seated by the window, staring into nothing. The pig doesn't even acknowledge him even as the door clicks shut.

"I've come to see you. I hope you don't mind, I used the spare key you gave me," Henry says, approaching him from the side. But then he finds Marcus's faraway gaze… and horror etched deeply into his eyes. Marcus is clearly spooked, eyes wide as if still staring at the spate of blood that was once half his brother laid out on the dock.

Henry can only imagine what he'd seen… and that alone is terrifying.

He remembers Raeger as Marcus's rowdier and far less mature elder brother. Loud, obnoxious, and would continue to be as such well into his adulthood, he was the very picture of brazen youth, and Henry loved him for it. His was a fiery spirit who loved his family dearly, brimming with energy and always ready with a quip, he was a hit around the neighborhood, much to the envy of his brother in their formative years.

It was also really hard to hate a man who was as irritating as he was clever, but all the Hectors are smart.

But now all of that is gone, leaving Marcus behind as a husk who can only glimpse the once vivid memories, blurring beneath the traumatizing horror still fresh in his mind.

Henry takes a seat at the bed behind him. He sighs, hoping for a response but knowing full well that he won't get one. "I'll skip right to the chase then… I know what happened in the swamp – in the clearing."

Marcus stirs then, which worries Henry. Because if Marcus seems guilty, he'll have to call Taepur and have him brought in, if he's not… then he'll do what he can to give this family justice. But it's hard to judge his reactions from this angle, what with Marcus's back to him.

He gets up and leans himself against the wall, and he is shocked – and a little relieved – to find that Marcus's eyes dart about in some silent panic. He seems to be recollecting something, and it pains Henry to keep pushing but he needs to lay everything out.

"The rafts are missing and… I found the buckshot casings by the dock. I know you fought off a gator to save your brother but I can tell it was too late." He almost looks away from Marcus, clearly uncomfortable with his own conclusion. "Some of the shrapnel's on the dock's end – that's where you shot the gator off Raeger, am I right?" Still no new response, but he takes comfort, at least, at the idea that it isn't getting worse.

"But there's shrapnel midway of the dock too, where all that blood starts…" he continues, the words quivering at his lip as he leans in, "…that was for Raeger, I'm guessing." A gasp from Marcus, covering his mouth as he chokes back something. "A mercy killing, to put your brother out of his misery."

He could send a team to retrieve the dead gator at the bottom of the lake. He's certain that if they manage to find Raeger's legs somewhere inside of it, then that can help to clear Marcus of any potential charges. But there's still more that needs to be addressed.

"I know about the clearing too."

Another stir, eyes darting about for only a moment before settling back at the window, locked onto the rays of light, as drawn to it as he was with the flickering flame that turned his brother to ash.

"There wasn't much left of that goat. But I can guess he was used to keep the fire going?" Henry's words are cautious, suddenly terrified as he perchances the abyss Marcus has walked into. What he'd done… such harrowing sights, either witnessed or acted upon by his own hands. These are the coiling tendrils of what is certain madness. Looming, lurking at the back of his mind like a phantom limb… but it is more than that. Because much like the torment of war's witness, it is omnipresent – not a stain, but a scar.

"The family," he continues, "all shot square in the head, perhaps by the goat. I'm guessing he was the father of that family with adopted children. Some dispute with the mother that ultimately had him killing them off? I can tell you punished him accordingly for it, though. One less scumbag in the world." Henry leans in, trying once more to make eye contact with Marcus. "But what I don't get is how that ended up with you and Raeger at the docks." He gives him a stern look, betraying the fear still locked in his quivering fingers, telling himself that his old friend wasn't somehow a murderer inspired by another murderer.

Because the theory prattling about in his head is that he enjoyed the murder and then promptly had his brother eaten by gators so he can mask it as a mercy killing. But it has holes and doesn't make all that much sense but he doesn't have all the details in the brief time he was there.

But that's why he's here. He wants to hear Marcus's side of the story, he wants him to clear his own name.

But there's still no response, and he's afraid he's only made Marcus's condition worse, what with the continuous instances of brief panic.

He pushes off the wall, watching Marcus bury his face in his hands. There are no tears, only horror mixed in with that pale, broken expression.

"I'm sorry… I shouldn't have come here." He makes his way towards the door, the echo of his footsteps sounding like a snare drum luring Marcus back into the present, his breathing steadying as he realizes that he's back home.

Henry reaches for the doorknob, but he turns about at the sound of Marcus's chair scraping against the floor. He's pushed the chair back, mind still wandering elsewhere but he's shaking it, as if rejecting something. "Rae… died a hero," he whispers.

"A hero?"

"Father was a stag… Found his family murdered by some despicable cult." His eyes fall to his hands as they slowly open then close, trying to grasp at something that he cannot take hold of, like ash slipping through his fingers. "Stag couldn't take it… killed 'imself in the middle o' the lake…" His eyes turn skyward, breathing heavily now as he gasps once, shaking his head again as he ventures to fathom what he's lost. "Rae went after 'im… didn't end well… didn't make it…"

Marcus grits his teeth, anger alighting in his core. "Ah' killed that man… made him regret what he'd wrought." But immediately the anger fades away, eyes softening as his vivid pain washes over him and into the room. "Wasn't enough…" The way his eyes shut tell Henry that he wants to scream but can't. "Wasn't enough t' save 'im…"

Henry kneels at his side, looking up at him as he takes his arm, squeezing it. Finally, Marcus meets his gaze. "Why'd He take 'im, Henry?"

The badger would have perhaps used something generic and expectant but he knows Marcus can take an honest answer. "People come and go, it's just the natural order of things, but the best we can do is… make the most of it. We have to. We live on carrying their spirit. In spite of our loss, we have also gained. We make sure that never is there a death in our lives that is in vain."

Marcus turns away, breath steadying, relaxing finally in his seat.

Henry smiles at him, but all Marcus can do is look at him once more, but it's enough. "I'll let the police know what you've told me," Henry says. "We'll put this case to bed then give Rae a proper goodbye."

He stands, perhaps taller than when he came. Marcus is responding finally, a feat considering the reports from the medical staff. He'll recover… we'll just keep being there for him. "I'll come by again tomorrow."

He pulls away, considering that his wife should be expecting him sometime soon already. He doesn't know how long he's been out, but he isn't about to take his chances. He walks passed the bed then —Henry falls to the bed in a muffled thud, a hunting knife stabbed clean into his left temple.

Marcus stands over him, scanning the splatter on his sheets and nodding slowly when he finds that it is only on the sheets. A professional, clean kill, just like with the gators.

He takes the badger's legs that hang off the side of the bed then places them on top. He then draws the knife slowly from his skull, wiping it on the sheets before looking down at the body.

Choice cuts. Burn the sheets. Doctor coming in two hours. His mind works a mile-a-minute, considering his actions only briefly before he gets to cutting, blade falling onto the old badger's shoulder. Lutessa doesn't know he's here… They'll look for him in the forest.

With his sheer strength, he severs the limb right down to the bone, but his muscles are already aching from his overall fatigue and malnutrition. But he ignores it, favoring the thoughts that cling to his addled mind like parasites, eating away at his sense of reason and his grasp on reality.

"Never is there a death that is in vain…"

~~~o0O0o~~~

"Typer, it's me, Creed."

"A fine day to you too, Sheriff. What can I do for ya?"

"Sorry to wake you so early but I need your help. The ZPD are coming to assist in the case but I need to brief the deputies. Can you bring them up to speed in my stead?"

"Hm… Alright. But send them to Savory."

"Typer, Catfrani is closer to everywhere else…"

"Yeah, but Savory has Marcus. If you're bringing the city's best into this mess, they first need to know what it's done to us."

"…Very well. I'll have them called presently."

Sam and Bogo can practically smell a case at the first whiff, and the article on the late Henry Avery – war vet and loving husband, vanishes without a trace following a gruesome death – rang far too many alarms for them to ignore. It only really takes a third disappearance to set them off, but they're usually gone by the first.

However, Bronc Town is a strange issue that warrants more political caution… because they don't have jurisdiction. Zootopia is a city state, and to intrude on a developing area like the fresh county of Bronc Town can get iffy, especially since it hasn't yet turned into a self-sustaining city that can separate from the rest of the South. Mostly filled with farming fields to feed its people, the collective South is the most readily equipped to turn into city states themselves, which is usually a point of pride among them.

But as they speed into town and spot the Welcome sign that brazenly announces their township permanence in marble of all things, it seems like this place isn't fixing to get independent at all. And to them that speaks volumes about the place already, a place that has no need to hide behind the fact that it doesn't have industrial might or that it only has one hotel. A place where New Years is spent at home with the family, and where not a single club can be found. It's a place that is as much country as it's going to get.

"Creed's old friend wants to meet us at a bakery," Sam says staring contemplatively at the treeline hugging the main road into the Broncs.

Bogo tilts his lip, readjusting the ill-fitting glasses planted haphazardly on his snout. "Isn't that where the first victim's brother lives?" he asks as he twitches.

"Yup."

Bogo's displeasure twists his lip but only does so much to quell his irritation. "Why would he want to meet us there? We'd be compromising a potential suspect!"

"Fuck if I know, but they have to have a good reason for it." Her own grumbling subsides as she breathes a sigh, giving Creed and his friend the benefit of the doubt, even if it does go against their instincts. She stares at him, catching his sideways glance with a look of reluctant acceptance that tells him that he'll have to surrender to it as well. "This is Detective Quagmire Taepur we're talking about, Bo. And Creed trusts him. We have to hear him out."

"I'm not saying we shouldn't," he says, "but that doesn't mean I can't like where any of this is going."

The town proper flushes through the windows, where sidewalks and storefronts still hold enough trees in such a frequency that they never forget that the whole town is in the center of a larger forest. They pass by the townsfolk and their unwavering smiles as they greet them through their open windows, and the pair of them can't help but feel a little uncomfortable at the sight.

"This is weird," Sam says as she flashes an uncomfortable smile at an old badger and her kids. "They're weird." She turns to him as she frantically rolls up her window. "Close your window! Make it stop!"

Bogo's already in the process of it, breathing thankfully for the tint they hide behind.

Despite that, the greetings never end. A clean city squad car is certainly a fresh sight in these parts. Perhaps they should've just taken their own vehicles but they're doubtful that would have changed much. Any city car, it seems, might have caught their attention.

Their car pulls passed the City Hall, spotting Mayor Anita Greycastle with her husband Glenwell. As if reading Sam and Bogo's minds, they only give them a small smile and nod, a determined look to them that explains that they understand the weight of their task… and how uncomfortable their citizens are making them.

They also nod back, quickly remembering that they're behind tint.

Soon they're upon the aforementioned bakery, the wholesome place looking far more inviting than they'd imagined. Inside they can even see Marcus Hector toiling away at some dough, humming to himself as his son bobs about in the background, decorating a cake.

"You could almost think nothing terrible happened to them," Bogo says, mimicking Sam's thoughts.

"I'd almost say suspicious but this whole town is kinda weird so far."

They push passed the door, hearing Marcus's quick greeting. "Welcome, friends! I'd like to get t' ya but I'm a little occupied. Please take a seat and I'll be right with ya'."

They do so, moving over to the booth where they spot the beaten fedora nestled atop the friendly grin of an ocelot. "Glad you two made it. I'd almost thought you two might not have come."

"Frankly speaking," Bogo begins as they take their seats across from him, "this goes against our instincts."

"As it should," he replies easily, surprising them. "Normally this would be ill-advised but this town is different from the outset of most places. So it requires a slightly different kind of touch." They're surprised long enough to shake his hand when he extends it. "Taepur, but I'm sure you already know who I am."

"We've heard great things," Sam compliments, easing what middling tension there might have been.

Taepur chuckles to himself. "Heh. Stories from Orca I presume? Nah, those days I was in my prime. I'm hardly that man anymore." He sits up, emphasizing his age as he realigns his spine. "Age has caught up to me. Which is why I've settled here. Bronc Town is the kind place people like me look out for… somewhere quiet, surrounded by friends and loved ones and… Well, that's kind of why I needed you to come here."

"You're smart, and with two o' ya…" he continues. "A damn sight smarter than I ever was. But you see, that analytical part of you isn't going to solve this case on its own."

Bogo raises a brow. "It's done us well in the past…" he says, trying not to insult the man with his tone.

Taepur shakes head. They're young still, however talented they might be. But there are cases like these that just sit in the gray, where the bad guy isn't some generic asshole who needs to be put down. No, whoever they're going to arrest is going to be a friend of the town, and the backlash of that discovery up to its approach needs to be handled with care.

He sighs, pouring the mirth from his lungs as the meager smile he once had vanishes. "You two have to understand something. The reason why we don't have suspects is because no one in town really fits the bill. To know who this kidnapper is, you have to figure out what is likely an insane, unforeseeable motive."

He reaches for a flask at his hip, chugging down the alcohol as the two sit in attentive silence, waiting for the rest. He doesn't meet their gaze as he settles the silver tin on the table. "People here are scared because they're looking at their friends and family with fear… cause when nobody looks like a murderer, then everyone does."

"You're telling us that everyone's friends here?" Sam asks, almost incredulously. Surely he can't be speaking literally. "I know it's a small town but-"

"No…" he interrupts, meeting their gaze, "everyone's family. In this town, it's almost not an exaggeration that everyone knows everyone. And only almost. It's a small enough town. I can even genuinely attest to having shared a drink with everyone who legally can and… some legally shouldn't," he laughs, it dying the moment it exits his lips. "And to think that any one of them is this… kidnapper? It doesn't make sense to anyone not even me. I moved here because I knew that no one here could do anything so terrible. It's clear I was wrong but… in a place like this, how could anyone expect something like this to happen?"

"It could still be an outsider," Bogo says in an attempt to placate the clearly haunted man.

"Yeah, that hasn't been fully disproven yet," Sam adds.

"Hopeful speculation," Taepur says dejectedly. "And in my experience, that usually means you're looking in the wrong direction. If we don't expect the worst, then we'll never be prepared for it." He doesn't want to worry them, but he's doing just that with all this negativity. So he sighs and fixes them a smile, pumping a fist to the strength still lingering in his old, aching chest. "I'm sorry, I don't mean to concern you both. But it's important you get a handle of the nuance this case has."

"I'm not sure I follow, though," Bogo says. "Empathy is important, certainly, and we're well experienced in that regard, but I still don't see how it's going to solve the case."

Taepur leans over to the side and eyes Marcus from across the room, patting his son on the head, leaving bits of dough on him, then apologizing to his messy son before sending him off to bathe. It's a happy sight, one he nearly ruined.

"See that man over there?" he tells them. "When he finally came to, he didn't even have time to mourn, and the man has already lost two of the most important people in his life. And he was already dealing with his wife's passing just a few months ago. When he went out hunting to clear his head, we thought he was finally going to recover from his initial loss. Then this happened. Now all the kin he has left is his son." He fixes them with a stern gaze, breaching the sorrow still looming in his tilted lip. "But up until his alibi was cleared by the medical staff who tended to him, he was the most likely suspect. And if he were any less durable a man, and if he were any less loved by this town, the accusation might have destroyed him… and, consequently, this town."

The pair gives him confused looks, still trying to catch up with the way this quirky little town works. Surely he can't be serious… can't he? An entire town's stability can't depend on one man!

"This town has pillars," he continues, "and he's one of them. It holds together through tough times, be it war or an outbreak on the crops, and now – apparently – a serial kidnapping and potential murder because of these people. And were any of them to break, if we are ever to put too much pressure on them, this town will fall apart. If the Autumn Festival wasn't coming up, these people would have had nothing to distract them."

It makes sense, they suppose. A nearly crimeless town would need something to bolster it in case things get tough. Maybe one day they'll stop jumping at shadows and endure the looming presence of a kidnapper, but today it seems that they're just starting out. But the mayor and her secretary certainly seem like they already know, perhaps already preparing to aid their own people as best they can.

A quick glance at the jolly pig tells them a great many things. That he is enduring the loss, that the smile he wears is cracked and unreal, but is there nonetheless. If Taepur had already accused him, then he certainly took it well enough to come out like this. But there are the faintest hints of dark circles about his eyes, a man too tired to be awake or simply cried himself to sleep, but he's here, putting on the best face that people won't look twice at, cause it would only take a second look to see that he's trying hard not to mourn.

But a bitter part of them reluctantly pulls back, taking one last crack for their instincts' sake. "How sure are you that it isn't him?" Sam asks.

"He never left this house since his brother was murdered. And now we have two missing, also presumed dead."

The detective explains Marcus's alibi is that he was out hunting with his brother and they found the rafts mysteriously inflated by the dock. Marcus decided to follow the trail of a blue jay that likely belonged to someone, perhaps a strange new addition to the Whitewood aviary, leaving his brother behind. When the trail went cold, he went back, only to find Raeger chasing a stag who had taken one of the rafts whilst he had taken the other one to go after him. The gators were swarming the stag, so Raeger needed to go and save him. Raeger managed to hold them off long enough for the stag to cross the lake… and then he jumped into the water to be eaten. Since it was much too late for him, Raeger went back to the dock but the gators managed to get his ores so he chanced the current but the gators got aggressive somehow.

They attacked the raft and he was out of ammo, forcing Raeger to dive in as close to the dock as he could. He got close enough to grab onto Marcus's weapon but a gator managed to get his legs. Marcus shot the gator, but only to find that his brother was already half eaten.

Unwilling to lose one of his kin, he managed a tourniquet then headed off to make a call at the phone by the dock but he found that the line was dead. When he emerged from the shack, he found that his brother had vanished, leaving only the blood and a streak of it sliding off the side of the dock.

Taepur's personal findings on the dock confirm this, as the streak he'd found was consistent with someone pushing then kicking Raeger's body off the side of the dock.

Perhaps they might have not been connected, perhaps the tragedy that befell Marcus Hector might have been an unfortunate yet unrelated incident. But the string of disappearances that followed speak of a grave certainty. That if a place that calls everyone 'friend' suddenly has a kidnapper, then anyone and everyone is a suspect, and with a list that long, far more will be gone by the time they catch the culprit.

~o~~~~o~

"So it was doomed from the start?" Judy asks, an almost startled look to her as she looks up at her chief who is leaning on their office's doorframe

"The detective's heart was in the right place," Bogo replies, hefting an age old sigh that's much too long overdue, "and I have no doubt that Marcus would have eluded us still, even if we were looking in the right direction. The man was clever, careful, but above all… he was kind." They wince at that, the idea that the man's charm had so easily worked on all of them is a testament to his enduring charade. "He tricked us all into looking the other way, just because he began as an unlikely suspect. And to think he began by throwing us off by killing his own brother…"

Judy turns to meet Nick's gaze as he sits on their conjoined desks. He gives her the same worried apologetic look she's giving him, lips twisting before the buffalo.

"He didn't kill his brother," Nick says calmly, leveling with Bogo in a manner that is almost unlike him, "to us it looks like the gators ate him and we believe that his death acted as a catalyst. Carrion needed to start somewhere, and grief to mask what horrors he'd seen is just the kind of scenario that fits."

"We all know he… eats people," Judy says with as much discomfort as everyone's feeling but not trying not to show it. "When they found him, he was shaking but wasn't starving. He'd been lost in there for hours… We don't know what happened in that forest, but he must've gotten desperate about what he should be eating. And afterwards, it seems like he got curious about what other people taste like." It's all speculation, she'll admit, but it's the same kind of guess work that has given them a killer to put behind bars, an end to the malefaction that still looms over that town, permeating in the horizon like a plague they've carried home.

Nick shakes his head, the hint of a scowl lingering at his shut lips. "Everyone afterwards was an opportunity he used to further that curiosity."

Sam pokes her head through the door over Bogo's shoulder, having heard the conversation on the way to him. "So you're telling us that he didn't kill him but he ate what was left?"

"I wouldn't go that far," Judy explains. "The report says that he mentioned that there was a stag who was in the area. It would have been suspicious if the forest nearby wasn't so popular a place. He could have just been a lost hiker they'd met who may have inadvertently cause Raeger's death, and the idea that even if that man was only remotely involved in it still might have spurned Marcus to do what he did."

Sam and Bogo hum in agreement. An opportunist sounds like the kind of person Marcus would be. He's a businessman on top of… everything else (as hard as it is to see in a kindly baker). And him doing what he likes is made all the easier when he understands all his victims personally, down to their habits that might accrue an opportunity like a smoke break by a bar or a weak bladder whilst hiking.

"Well, we won't keep you," Sam tells them as she pulls Bogo by the arm, taking him off the doorframe "me and your boss are gonna go to the shooting range. Drinks are on me tonight when I show this sour bovine I'm still the better shot!" Her teasing does little to faze the buffalo, shaking his head as he rolls his eyes to mask the amusement he feels as she lets out a little laugh.

"I'll expect the full report next week," Bogo manages with a smile.

Nick and Judy exchange a confused glance. "Chief," Judy begins, "we can have it done by morning."

Bogo's smile falters, but the side of his lip crests upward in a half smile, a glimpse of his concern leaking through. "Look, you two have been through a lot to get to this point. Your perspective will be invaluable in giving us these last few insights but… you have to take it slow. You're back in Zootopia and you're safe. You should consider taking some time off as well, get your bearings so you can put this case behind you." He doesn't give them time to respond, closing the door behind him as Sam mirrors his expression as they walk off.

Nick doesn't know what to do with himself at this point. Bogo's concern is well appreciated but it's also… weird. And the silliness of it gives him a brief respite, a moment of quiet comfort that makes him forget that his pistol still slung into his holster that sits at his seat not a few feet away.

Judy takes the advice to heart, wanting no more than to get this over and done with quick, but a few more breaks in between could help.

She hops onto the desk to join him, filing through the papers so they can work out what to add to the original report in their system. The names they read over pass by in a blur. All they have is some connection to Marcus, some of which can only be taken as such with some clever guesswork, but they ultimately don't add very much.

Minutes pass and Nick thinks a coffee break is in order, at least to break the pattern of tedium that he's afraid he'll pass out for, even if only for comedic purposes. "It'll only be thirty minutes, Judes."

"You can always just bring it in here," she replies, not even looking up from her work. "I'm okay with the monotony for as long as we get this done early."

"Judy," he breathes sternly, causing her to look up at him, "it's over. We don't have to work non-stop anymore."

"I know, I just…" Her deep lavender gaze is still lost in the amalgam of thoughts running a mile-a-minute in her head, refusing to tear away from her work while there is still work to be done. But then he leans towards her, pressing his forehead to hers as he takes her hands and pulls away the papers so he can slip his fingers between hers. An excuse dares to breach her lips but it is caught in her throat, lies she would never tell because he would see passed them, because he asks her not to.

His own gaze matches hers, pulling her from her thoughts as he breathes dejectedly.

The man before her asks only for her honesty, and asks her not to hide behind anything she might dare put up for anyone else. Such things would never even work on him, he'd practically written the book on lying through your teeth, but it's more than that. He understands her, levels with her, knows those fears and shares them because he'll take her pain and take her as she is. He can shoulder that sorrow and that grief, as he will do the same with her, unloading his overbearing torment, because she asks him to.

And his eyes ask that she remember that. That they are equals in this friendship, that the ground they walk on is equally rough and jagged, their backs equally burdened. Because she is not some fairytale princess who needs to be saved from some daunting malevolence. And he is not some wayward prince she'd stricken pride from and shown the beauty of the world to.

He more than asks her to get coffee so she can tear herself away from work, he asks it so he doesn't have to do it alone.

Then, a brief thought passes over them both, daring to rid them of their fears for a moment long enough to smile genuinely at. She manages a grin that confuses him, only to be further confused when she pecks his lips, causing him to reel.

He pulls away from her and she hops off the desk, a file in her hand. "I'll meet you halfway, Slick. We'll look over this file together, and we'll have more than coffee. Take an hour's break then get back to it."

He chuckles, landing at her side as he takes the file to look it over. "I guess it's as good an offer as I'm gonna get." He takes her waist then drags her to his side, sighing at the open profile in his hand. "Alexander Wolfgang… didn't think we'd ever get his full story." …on account of him being dead, he doesn't say. Cause it's a terrible joke and it's every indication that he isn't yet back on his feet.

~͏́͜~̸̨̕~̷̧͘҉̶ǫ̷̀0͘҉͘҉O҉͏͟͠0̶͢ǫ̴̛̀̕~́͟͞~̴̴́͟͝~

Doubt. It is both bane and boon, the foil in which sordid lies reach no fruition, and where which great truths are shrouded in obscurity. To discern the two, one requires doubt. But t' find the truth I needed, I could not look to my quarry. I needed someone outside of our boundaries, one close enough for me t' capture, to understand, to take without bein' noticed, but also one outside enough to be everythin' this town isn't. Someone who could face what I had felt – that deep, underlyin' torment and that… incorrigible hunger, someone who is everythin' I'm not. And if that person so different from me feels the same way, does the same, to surrender as I had… then I'd have discerned whether or not the philosophy I tell myself everyday is an inescapable truth, or a lie I use to mask what horrors I'd done.

~Marcus Hector, in a private conversation with Doctor Orson who tended to the victim before his suicide

~̶~̵̵͘͝~̡҉̛̀͏o̧͏͠0͏̛͢͟͡O̢̧͟0̵͞͝͝ơ̵~҉̢~̷̕~͟͝

Alexander Wolfgang awakens from a deep slumber. He first thinks that he, perhaps, has awoken from a nightmare, but as he tries to move his wrists, only to find that they are cuffed and bound to a metal chair does he realize that he has instead awoken into one yet again.

It's been like this for a few days now. Or has it been weeks? Maybe months? He isn't quite sure anymore. His starvation and the looming crest of madness has done much to skew his sense of time. There is little sound in the room he's in aside from the deafening tick of a wall clock. It's there in his periphery, the click of its gears thrumming in his temples in a painfully monotone symphony. He does his best to ignore it.

It reads a time, he can't tell what, but even if he could, he would have no way of knowing if it's in the morning or the evening. Because there are no windows in this room save for the one before him that only leads to another, similarly windowless room.

The ceiling and floor are toned equivocally in black, like an abyss beneath his curled toes or gaping it's darkness up above. But, oh, how he wishes it would consume him, to swallow him whole in that endless darkness so he need not see what lies in that other room.

But he looks anyway, eyes forced to watch the innocuous sight before him as his head is tied to the backrest of the seat, stationary and unable to turn. A young pig plods about in the next room, having conversations with himself and his toys, ruminating on little pointless things he no longer has the faculties to decipher.

He blinks, remembering the darkness beneath his lids, but to escape to it again will only invite slumber, and he cannot sleep again, lest he awaken hours later, with even fewer time and an even weaker body to attempt escape with. And his wrists are already bloody from trying to struggle out of the cold steel cuffs behind him, with his forehead thoroughly scraped of fur accompanied by an uncomfortable rash beneath that leather cloth around his head.

He licks his dry lips. He is hungry, dangerously so, and the need for it has already become painful to bear. "It's easier to just give in," comes the droll voice whispering in the air, the same haunting sound that has loomed over him each time he could bring himself some clarity.

"It's the natural order of things, intrinsic to your kind, the evolutionary demand for your razor sharp teeth. There is no shame in wanting it." The voice is not demanding, it is soothing, familiar even, but not alike to anyone he knows. The accent is distinctly American, but is as accentless as they come, with no quirks to the voice or the manner it is spoken. It almost comes off as fictitious to him, as if ripped from generic television or the dialogue of a featureless book character.

But that indistinct tone is alluring in the way that it feels like he might have conjured it, as if his encroaching madness had fabricated it to soothe his addled sensibilities and ache still rolling in his stomach.

"Hrk!" he grunts from the pain, words having failed him long ago.

He twists his head in place in an attempt to pull away from the voice that continues to speak, relegating its spoken words into a dull murmur in his mind. But he feels his mind slipping, thoughts now a fearful mumble of desperate inquiries to make sense of the world he inhabits and the voice that whispers damning thoughts.

But when he had first awoken here, his thoughts were of some investigative, quizzical nature.

He'd wondered after the child, if he was related to his captor in some way, or is perhaps just another prisoner like him, but is otherwise willing. Father, guardian, brother, teacher, all sorts of designations that grant him no clarity if he cannot see the voices face. The only hint he has is padding that lines the next room's walls, clearly meant to protect the child from harming himself, a clear sign of care. But now he can't even bring himself to ruminate after him outside of potentially being his one true means of escape.

He'd wondered after the voice as well, picked apart every fragment dialogue he could remember before spat back at it with insults when he was able. But it never regarded him then, had never, would never, answer his questions. Anything he'd spoken would go unheard, and the voice would speak unerringly and without halt until it was done speaking and never before. And he'd assumed it was a recording of some sort, but the voice is clear and there is no static from a device. So what is this voice then? Is it even real? Has he gone completely mad?

He'd also wondered about the scent rather briefly, but it is only of the child across from him. There is no hint of anything else in the air passed his own festering from his wounded wrists. It had almost been enough to make him think no one else is in the room, but only almost.

His gut wrenches then, coiling hunger demanding satiation again. Perhaps he is also thirsty, but the thought never occurs to him.

Again his eyes find the child as he licks his lips.

"To succumb is not surrender," the voice says, "it is merely embracing who you really are."

His breathing becomes haggard and tears begin to form. The pain in his gut only grows and the words spurning him on only further the war raging in his mind. He feels reality slipping, his sensibilities failing, all of him coming into collapse as his body feels like it's also losing oxygen.

The idea lingers, presses him on, asking that he try. But his stomach and its subsequent ache is far less gentle, demanding him to abandon his morals and ease his continued suffering.

But to end his hunger is to feed, and there is only one meal on the menu… and it's still alive.

He feels vulnerable, weak, giving in to the swirling demons whispering in the errant wind, poisoning his mind as clarity begins to leave him.

And then, like every other time, he is suddenly and without warning, plunged into the dark as he is blindfolded.

He no longer hears the voice, only the faint sound of a door creaking open.

He tries not to pay it mind, but he knows it is coming, the sound of tiny footsteps over the floor, echoing in the small room. Something is then slipped into the front of his mouth, some triangular object he tries not to open his jaw for, but it pushes its way in.

The object trapped between his teeth tastes of some thick plastic but is much too strong to penetrate with his fangs. It pulls his jaw up as wide as he physically can, and he can feel his breath trapped behind it.

He hears the child mumble something passed a gag of some sort. Something is in the child's mouth, rendering him unable to speak coherently.

Then the object in his mouth is quickly pulled away, replaced by the soft tender flesh of some young babe. It feels like the child's plump neck, the Adam's apple resting downward at his tongue confirming it.

The child mumbles something again, vibrating the throat clenched in his teeth.

He can feel him breathing, feels the life still radiating off of this innocent little piglet, youth still bright in his eyes as he's imagined him…

But then the stifling pain in his gut wrenches again, and his teeth squeeze too hard.

The child screams beneath his muzzle, and he can already feel the blood oozing off the flesh and sinking into his throat.

Oh god, I've hurt him!

Tears fight their way through his covered lids, as he panics. The kid is in pain and will likely bleed to death in his mouth. He needs to end it quickly, snuff the life out so he doesn't need to suffer. So with an abhorrence still lingering at his clenched fists, he bites down as hard as he can, snapping the soft bone beneath.

And yet a darker, more sinister part of him delights in finally being given a meal… and so he begins to cut away at the flesh with his teeth, telling himself that he's already dead and that there has to be some way that this is okay.

But as his tongue pulls in a chunk of the chipped meat down his throat, a sated gulp escapes him, weeping at the atrocity he has just and is continuing to commit, but filling his belly nonetheless.

He knows it's wrong. He knows it's terrible. He knows it goes against everything he's ever stood for. But he needs to tell himself it's okay somehow, he needs to stop himself from plunging into this despair and his utter and complete disgust of himself.

So he surrenders to those words that whisper still, perhaps permeated by his own mind and nowhere else. That it is only the natural order of things.

~̷̧́͡͝~̨̀̕͟͡~̸̛́o͝0̷̡̧͜O҉̸̶͝0͏̡͟͡o̕~̡̀~̴̀̕̕͠~̨͞͞

As the wolf gnaws at the disembodied head of some piglet from town, Marcus is left breathless at the sight of some great relief.

This… this is the validation he'd been looking for! That if driven, truly driven up the wall, they would all eventually surrender to their true nature, that the natural order of things he has given himself to is as true to Alex as it is to him.

He is elated, settling some great relief out of his tense muscles, and he even manages a smile.

But then his ears catch wind of sobbing, the kind he realizes aren't Wolfgang's.

He turns to see his startled son, rubbing tears out of his eyes but never daring to remove the cloth from his mouth. He knows his father wanted to keep him quiet with it but he couldn't help but yelp passed the cloth when the wolf engorged the meat. Though the sight of torn flesh is not a sight he isn't used to, he still can't help but feel stricken at the idea that he almost failed his father.

Marcus recognizes this and cradles his son. If anything, the yelp might have worked in their favor. He wishes he could've told him he did well, but he cannot dare speak.

He is thankful that Alex cannot pick apart his own sobbing from Marshal's, but would not allow himself to take any more chances. He gestures for Marshal to leave the room, patting him on the head.

Alex would be unable to make sense of who is entering and exiting the door. But now the mind games are over, and what he manages to discover would matter little.

He walks up to the neck stump and slips a cyanide pill down the throat towards the base. He may not be able to eat the whole thing, but he'll most certainly get far enough to swallow the capsule before the corpse inevitably falls from his mouth.

Marcus then quietly wanders towards the rear end of the room, waiting for Alex to again pass out so he can clean the room.

Barely an hour passes when Alex finally falls asleep. With a full belly and an intense amount of emotional exhaustion, Marcus knew that he would once more retreat behind his lids.

He cleans the remainder of the head. He bags it before taking a jar filled with a rotting stomach off the tiny table behind the chair, the jar's vile scent masking his own so Alex could not sense anything else. But Marcus does wonder why the man never seemed appalled at the invasive smell. Perhaps he had mistaken it for something else?

He stuffs it inside a potato sack lined with plastic underneath with a zip lock mouth. It won't draw too much attention. When in town and out of his car, anyone who asks why he has a sack of potatoes, they will only be met with a casual "why not".

A tactile glance spans across the room, Marcus considering his next few actions with aught but crucial and meticulous consideration, because the next few hours that pass are important… because of the cyanide.

The thick cellulose layer over the capsule will dissolve in a few days' time and he's going to feel some discomfort for it but he'll likely not place the feeling as anything significant over everything else he's going to go through. However, Marcus cannot guarantee his own success on the pill's delayed reaction nor the chance that it might simply pass through the system instead of staying inside.

Killing him would be easier, sure, but it doesn't fit with his plans. He's willing to take this chance, even if it is foolish and ill-advised, but he needs to see how people react to this madness, and how Alex will choose to live his life after this ordeal.

He digs into his pocket for his pliers, finding the key to his hideout first which he sets on the table. When he finds the pliers, he quickly snaps one of the links in Alex's cuffs.

Then he hears a rattling passed the door. He also hears Alex stirring, but he pays it little mind when Marshal comes bursting through, panicked and afraid. For a moment Marshal hesitates, but then he shakes his head then scurries to his father who leans down to hear him whisper.

"People are coming, Pa." When they began, he had asked his son to be wary of anyone who might interrupt their time here and to alert him immediately if he'd seen anyone. His son asked no questions on the matter, but it's clear that the uncertainty has left his son with much discomfort. He doesn't know what is right or wrong anymore, and the vivid fear in Marshal's eyes tells him that the unknown only furthers his apprehension.

He pats him on the head and tells him to head for their secret passage and he'll find him by the van. Marshal only nods as Marcus hands him a key to the van, kept in his breast pocket, before he runs off.

Marcus turns, and heads for the table to grab his hideout key, only to find that they have vanished. Were he given more time, he'd have figured out where they had gone, but his time is limited.

Damn it all.

Marcus runs out the door, slamming it behind him for good measure so he can startle Alex awake and draw the intruder's attention.

He emerges into the dark of the warehouse and spots a set of lights by the main entrance. They move cautiously, peering into the dark. He knows who they are, officers Sam and Bogo both.

He does not fear them, however. Their lights give off their position and he can most certainly avoid them, even if one of them can see in the dark.

His movements are careful as he slides behind the tall shelving, slipping out of their sight without nary a sound they can hear.

They're not well enough into the warehouse to even find the rooms they were in, much less himself in the dark a ways away from it. He sneaks towards another crate, inching ever closer to the gap in the wall he can slip through.

His muscles tense, but only to keep himself still. For he is a creature so sure of himself that he will escape that any mild fear of being caught is lost to him.

Then – as if on cue – Alex opens the door slowly, terrified eyes piercing the dark.

"Hey!" Sam shouts at him, making the wolf flinch.

Alex doesn't know any better, doesn't know that the voices behind the blinding lights up ahead are actually his salvation, so he mistakes them for a threat, like the disembodied voice that has haunted him. So he runs off into the dark, fighting for his night vision to adjust in time to escape his "captors".

Sam and Bogo think it might be Carrion, running off into the dark. So they too give chase, fumbling in the dark as they do. And the commotion that causes gives Marcus all the incentive he needs to escape, slipping away into the sudden rain of that cold night.

He eludes them, running passed several warehouses towards his van. In the distance behind him, within the misty blur of the rain, he can see the flashing lights of the police, and perceives even the shapes that move over them, recognizing the officers.

It only takes a moment for him to come up with an estimate of the arrivals. Only a handful, a small enough number to elude with his vehicle so he doesn't need to hide it and run, which would not be ideal. He'd already lost his keys, he isn't about to lose his van too on the off chance they might find it here.

He plunges into the rain, slightly fearful for only his son's health in this weather and nothing else.

He finds Marshal already inside the van's passenger seat, drying himself with a rag that he hands to his father. Marcus takes it and stuffs it into the sack along with his pliers. He'll burn it all when they get home.

Marcus finds the keys already in the ignition, and he is thankful of how clever his son is.

In the next moment, they are gone, disappearing in the haze of a coming storm.

~~~o0O0o~~~

Bogo slams his fist onto the desk, scattering papers with abandon as he clutches his forehead. Frustration pours out of his tense form, body quaking as his fingers curl tensely. For weeks he's managed to keep his cool, but the loss of an entire gerbil family becomes itself a hefty blow.

He looks up at the whiteboard, a calendar jotted down on it showcasing names and deaths. And each one is a failure, a countenance to their inability to catch Carrion, a demon who runs rampant still, taking another or more every single day, and in the full month they've been here, they've come no closer to catching him.

The briefing room he's in is thankfully empty and relatively soundproof, so his frustrations are meted on the furniture without interruption. A preferable scenario, as he wouldn't want to worry the deputies, but the loneliness only adds to the weight, bearing down a burden already monumental.

Sam comes into the room with the intention to dole out her own frustrations, only to find that Bogo has already begun.

She closes the door behind her quietly, but the click of the lock in the isolated room is enough to draw his attention.

Their eyes meet with a startled look about them, but they aren't really looking at each other. As if for the first in a long time, they finally take a good look at themselves, mirrored in the other in the pale light peeking out of the windows.

They're in shambles, a right mess of themselves lingering in the hard lines drawn across their features, painting their exhaustion and grief in broad strokes.

So when Sam approaches him with a put-upon smile – knocking her forehead to his – she sighs deeply asks him as she would ask herself… if he wanted to go get some coffee.

Wordlessly he follows her out of the room, a stoicism on their faces the moment they breach the door, and would continue in the car, even when they are alone.

He's driving now, as he usually would, eyes locked onto the road with some unbridled focus. But she can tell by the way he intentionally slows down that his mind is elsewhere. And if her hands were lost in some similar busywork, then perhaps she might have acclimated the same mien.

She looks over to him in the hopes of distracting herself, but all she finds is more grief for herself. She sees him tightening his grip on the wheel, and she dares to speak but bites her tongue. Because between them is a show of strength they both hide behind, that their stoicism is put up to bolster the other in the illusion that at least one of them is handling it. But it means that neither of them are willing to surrender that impression of stability, for fear of what lies behind it.

And what would they surrender it for? Just to open up their feelings? If that achieves nothing, pushes them no further, then they would have broken their middling control of their sanity for less than nothing.

But she wants it. And unbeknownst to her, he wants it too.

She feels like she's losing him in a fog. Despite sharing the same pain, she feels further away from him than they've ever been… and since they used to hate each other, that's saying a lot. Because he's distant and won't even crack a joke, so cold and lost on the job that torments them both that she isn't quite sure if he knows she feels it too.

When they reach Catfrani, they sit there in the car for a moment.

She can hear his bated breathing settle beneath the thick roving mass that is his chest, rising and falling with heated breath that coils out of his uneven core. And when he settles, he looks up at her.

She almost gasps, causing her cheeks to darken in embarrassment, but he doesn't pay it any mind, if he'd caught it at all. Instead he smiles at her, weak but genuine, a desperate plea to save him from himself. The one she casts his way is similar, asking the same for herself.

It is a moment of clarity, some comfort that breaks away from the strong front they put out. But the moment is ephemeral, and as they enter the diner to get some coffee, they laugh and talk as if nothing is wrong.

That is what seals their fate, dooms them to pull further and further away from each other. Because as the days go by, and all they do is pretend, even when alone together. And it tears them apart.

It would take them years to realize that it was never Carrion that broke that partnership. It was themselves, locked behind that hubris. Fearful of their own weakness, hiding it behind some errant stricture of pride, which – in all its irony – would become the very thing that undermines them.

~͡~̧~̷̵̢͡͏o͝͝0́͢҉͢O͟0̸̕͝ǫ̡͟҉͏~̡͜͠~̴̵̛̕~̴͘͢͡

Rumor. Somewhere in it – usually on the tail end – is a shred o' truth. Sometimes it's the jealousy or malice by the one who made it, other times it's the singular detail blown out of proportion to create the lie. It's these that one most observant tends t' filter out. But then there are those that don't have those kind of holes… the kind of rumors that one such as myself could benefit from. And with the manner o' my work, I can peruse them promptly. Without detection. With all the subtlety of the truth at the tail end of a rumor.

~Marcus Hector in his autobiography: "The Wrong Truth" whose first and only draft was promptly destroyed when Marcus realized that it could teach people how to get away with murder

~̷̧́͡͝~̨̀̕͟͡~̸̛́o͝0̷̡̧͜O҉̸̶͝0͏̡͟͡o̕~̡̀~̴̀̕̕͠~̨͞͞

Deputies Hamish and Lana are partners on the force and… rumored lovers. And since one is a hyena and the other an ocelot, neither of their respective parents like that idea very much. Especially since it promises no grandchildren.

On top of ongoing investigations of a serial kidnapping, one would think that the public would pay it little mind. But this is a town that revels in distraction when things get tough, and heated gossip serves as welcome respite nonetheless.

But perhaps the rumor holds no merit, but Marcus pays particular attention to it anyway. It holds promise after all, an opportunity waiting to happen.

He begins by first keeping in mind their station wagon's license plate. So as he goes out to make deliveries each day, he keeps an eye out around noon for them.

It is easy to follow someone when they have a prospective pattern. And with them, figuring one out is not difficult.

Lunch break for the deputies provides them with an hour to themselves, an hour where they can choose to spend it away from the rumor mill, to get away and bask in their love in secret. And of course they would spend every single day to abuse that fact.

It doesn't take long for him to notice that they leave the station for that break, and so he plots out a course for where they go off to. Following them would draw too much attention, however, prevailing him with the subtle approach instead.

He makes his rounds doing deliveries, rearranging his pathing so he can come to particular places along the deputies' supposed route to their hideaway. And it takes him three days to find it.

He makes a delivery at City Hall. Meeting with Mayor Anita with a pie and some dinner rolls in her office before coming back downstairs to spot Marty Amello, a sales consultant. They greet each other with a promise of coffee at his bakery. A quiet grin passing through Marcus's lips as he walks away, because he'd discovered Marty's new jogging route just yesterday and would take him coming morning. He would also be the one to report his sudden disappearance with that promise of coffee irretrievably broken.

Out on the road, by that time as he hops into his van, and spots Hamish and Lana's station wagon driving west before taking the next right up north. The glance he makes their way last only a second or so before he drives off himself.

The next day he makes a delivery to the Banana District in the west, meeting a kindly old deer who is still very much worried about her neighbor: Alexander Wolfgang. For a moment he feels some shame for instigating her concern, but he pushes the feeling aside.

He leaves her rather swiftly as he patiently eyes the road for a minute before driving off. Their relative consistency allows him to catch up with them without having to look like he's waiting. So when a minute passes and he's already begun driving, they pass him by and continue north towards Stable Village, but not into it.

He doesn't know where they go from there but it doesn't matter. He'll try again tomorrow.

And come that next day, he's at the east end of town amongst the warehouses, making a delivery to Church Cancri, a raccoon architect who's trying to tear down one of the empty structures so he can build a house for his family as a surprise.

However, when he arrives, he finds that Church's family has discovered his little project and Church's wife and budding daughter express their concerns about becoming social pariahs stuck in the barely occupied region of the town.

Church tells them about the sheer scale of a home with such a large lot, and that maybe they might make the area more enticing for other people to maybe come live in it again. But then the daughter meekly explains that she's afraid of the teenagers who live in the empty apartment building just outside of the warehouse area and his wife then backs their daughter up by telling Church that living in such an isolated area would be dangerous with a serial killer in town.

The raccoon knows they're right, but he's already worked so hard on building them a new home that the idea of just abandoning it frustrates him, despite its potential ramifications. They explain that they're okay with losing the money, but he's the one who handles all their finances and he doesn't think either of them understand the complications this will cause if they don't push through, so it hits another nerve and he can't control his mouth when he erupts and says things he doesn't mean.

And when he does, Marcus decides to leave their order with the construction team who are awkwardly shuffling about on the side.

"I hate to see 'em like this," Gil, one of the construction workers says, the fat of his ursine belly rolling onto his lap as he sits on a crate.

"Try not t' worry too much," Marcus comforts, laughing quietly, "they're all love, that family. Just give 'em a day and they'll be right as rain come the mornin'." He hands the man a bag of the assorted breads he's promised to bring, hefting the weight in both his hands. "Let 'em know they can pay me back anytime. Let 'em sort out their issues first."

Gil nods happily, some of the men coming together at the smell of freshly baked goods alone. "You're all heart, Marcus. I'll see you around."

Marcus nods in return. "Now I've got to run. Need t' make one last delivery before headin' home." He leaves the scene and drives off, but he doesn't make it to the end of the warehouses. He instead drives silently to another warehouse down the line, waiting patiently and remaining out of sight.

The area is rather vast and he'd noticed that this particular spot, just a few buildings away, is littered with cigarettes. And since Church is a smoker, he figured this'd be the place he'd go to after his argument.

Church comes as expected, discarding a cigarette into a pile, but before he can light a second one, he spots Marcus waiting for him.

"Oh, Marcus," comes the raccoon's scratchy voice. He looks about, seeing if there's anyone else there, like one of his workers. "How'd you know I'd be here?"

Marcus only points at his pile of discarded, half-smoked butts, which he should really get to cleaning.

"Oh," Church says affirmatively. Then he adopts a somber expression, leaning against the wall. "I suppose you wanted to get paid?"

Marcus shakes his head, his expression sodden but sagely. "That's not why I'm here. You had yourself a little spat there and I figured that since your wife has the only car and you need more than a minute to breathe and collect yourself, I figured I'd take you home to your family after my delivery. You'll have about an hour to think things over that way instead of havin' to drive home with that scary look on your face."

"My face isn't scary…"

Marcus sighs, shaking his head. "It is to your daughter, and it'll worry your wife. They raise good points, the both of 'em, but so did you. And I know 'em, they'll cave just to make you smile again, even if it might not be in their best interest to do so."

This causes Church to snap at him. "So you think I should just give this all up!?" But then he takes a good look at Marcus who is none too pleased with his reaction. He quickly retracts, eyes doing all the apologizing that is necessary.

"I'm not sayin' you're wrong," Marcus continues, "and I'm not sayin' your family is either. But ya'll need to talk this out like a family and sort it out that way. A move like this – whether done or abandoned – should be based on more than just a moment's frayed emotions."

"You're… you're right." He looks at his cig which, he promptly tosses onto the closed trash bin. "I'll need a breather, yeah."

Marcus gives him a small smile as he pats him on the shoulder. "C'mon, we can talk on the way. Maybe you can tell me how you intend to be less annoyin' too since I'm doin' ya' a favor."

Church laughs at him. "You sure you're willing to put up with me? I'm not sure you'll survive my puns, and I'm not itching to crash and die today."

"You come up with another lamb pun and I'll happily put us both out of our misery fast enough t' never regret anythin'."

The raccoon hops into the passenger seat, but Marcus doesn't go for the driver's seat just yet. He opens the van's side door and hops in. "Hey, Church, mind helpin' me move some o' these trays?"

The man happily obliges, coming out of his seat and crawling into the van beside him. Marcus points to a spot where some shelving is lining the wall. Marcus grabs some empty trays still covered in powdered sugar which he instructs would need to be stacked on the shelves.

Church takes the first set as Marcus continues to gather trays. Church finds that there is little room for the next set on all the easy to reach shelves. So he reaches to stack them on the top but comes with no success. Instead, he climbs up just a little higher and distractedly reaches back for the next tray set only to find Marcus grab his arm.

A blade swiftly meets his temple.

Church falls back into Marcus's arm as he deposits him onto some of the wax plastics strewn about the floor. He wraps the man in them before pulling out some large cling wrap hidden inside of a built-in toolkit. Marcus then slowly pulls out the hunting knife out of his skull, letting the backed up blood pour inward into the closed plastic before he wraps the raccoon fully.

Then he drives off and exits the area, a sigh of relief pouring out of him. He'd been planning this catch for a week already, making sure that the Fyfly kids offhandedly hear about the new house so they can gossip it to Church's daughter. It would only have been a matter of time before they'd show up here, and he'd made sure to deliver them an express order ahead of time the minute he hears that the man's wife and daughter would be coming.

He drives briskly as to not have the bound body bounce about back there, but he could always attribute the noise to some loose trays anyway, were any to ask.

But perhaps even having a body in the back is dangerous, but some risks have to be taken. Besides, he won't be out for long anyway.

Right now it's half passed noon, and it's likely that Hamish and Lana are already at their hideout. But Marcus has a hunch where they'll be, and he's willing to take another day scoping them out if he's wrong.

He normally isn't.

There is a dirt road into the forest that crests into a hill north of town. It isn't a very pretty spot and much of the sight is blocked by the trees, but it leads to nowhere but back out of the forest, so it serves itself well as a quiet place for two clandestine lovers to hideaway in.

All Marcus does is skim the north end of town on his way out, and when he sees the dirt road, all he takes note of is the tire pattern which belongs to their station wagon. Now equipped with all the certainty he needs, he heads home to prepare tonight's dinner.

The next day he gets one of his regular orders, an express delivery to one Carmela Dixon, who is happily spending her old age in her cottage in the northwest. The parking lot clearing that end of the collective cottages is as far as any. And just like the rest of the parking clearings in town nestled for the cottages, the path to any of the homes is a ways away on a beaten dirt path.

Marcus could always say he got lost on the way, but he'll make his delivery on time. He knows a shortcut down a steep hill that he used to slide down as a kid. That's actually why he knows Carmela so well. He'd gotten a few scrapes here and the old koala would happily bandage him in exchange for his company.

But the man has another agenda, one he'll clear rather quickly. Because off the dirt paths is an incline up a hill, the same hill Hamish and Lana will be stopping at.

He approaches the treeline that hugs the road, quickly spotting the station wagon parked inside. He observes them from a distance, obscured by thick autumn bark.

They're having a conversation, one that should have been serious but neither of them can keep straight faces. Lana, the ocelot, then gives her boyfriend a pair of bedroom eyes. The hyena then laughs as she reaches for his pants, and he makes his excuses, still laughing.

She pouts, but only playfully as her boyfriend scrambles out the door, quickly undoing the belt of his pants on his way down the hill.

Marcus approaches carefully from behind as Hamish pees on a tree. When he's done, he pulls up his underwear and is about to button his trousers before zipping, but Marcus won't let him go much further.

On this slope, he hides beside a large rock with a flat top. He takes slow steps to stand in front of the stone, then bolts off it in one push of his legs. A swift kick behind the knee causes the taller hyena to yelp and kneel, when he does so his head falls on level with Marcus's chest. Then, quickly, he grabs the canine's head before giving it a quick snap.

He falls with a dull thud onto the autumn leaves, as lifeless as they are.

"Hame? You trip in your own piss or something?" Lana calls from a distance, the hint of amusement in her voice.

He could have gagged him to muffle the cry but he knows Hamish is accident prone, and that Lana thinks it's hilarious.

Abusing that fact will work in his favor, doing just so as he drags Hamish to the rear of the tree he'd used. He props him up in a sitting position behind it, making sure to hide his hand on his stomach so the rear angle almost looks like he's covering his mouth to stifle his laughter. He then pulls out some wire to tie his legs, taking the rest of the slack trail behind him as he moves away from the body.

The pair of them clearly aren't very cautious, so she's still keeping her guard down. But as he approaches the vehicle once more, he watches her carefully, seeing that the long silence and lack of response from her boyfriend is starting to worry her.

She shakes her head, thinking it's some stupid prank. She almost reaches for the phone to call for backup as was advised by the ZPD, but she hesitates.

Marcus knows she wouldn't make the call if there's any chance of uncertainty. She wants to preserve the fact that her relationship with a hyena of all things is kept a secret and being asked about some hideaway spot where they go to spend some alone together won't bode well for that. And she certainly can't trust the rumor mill in a small town to stay away from her folks.

Shame, he knows she feels it. Marcus understands that it will keep her from making the safest decision. A sympathetic part of him thinks it quite cruel that her own parent's close-mindedness has ultimately put their daughter in harm's way.

And she will not survive the encounter that decision has brewed.

She comes out of the vehicle – a fatal mistake – peering into the forest for Hamish. "This isn't funny!" she calls out, her voice quivering in her throat.

She eyes down the hill and spots Hamish leaning against a tree, and with his arm up, probably trying to smother his own uncontrollable laughter. Her relief is vivid then, letting herself sport a coy smile.

Marcus anticipates her reaction, readying the wire in his hand.

"Hame, come on out," she calls out.

He then tugs the wire to shift his body inward behind the tree. To Lana it looks like he's shuffling away to hide himself further.

She only shakes her head as she approaches the tree, situating herself behind the rock platform, getting ready to pounce him. And in this time, Marcus aligns himself with the top of the same rock platform as he gets on it.

He needs to use the elevation since Lana is so much taller, and the same trick won't work on her. So he crouches and streamlines his body before pushing forward. He slides along the top of the stone, his legs spread out before quickly clasping around Lana's waist, holding her in place.

"Hey!" she complains for barely a second as the rest of Marcus's body slides up. His arms then close around her neck, snapping it.

His legs let go of her, letting her fall. His legs dangle over the stone as he looks down at them for a moment, admiring the successful hunt.

He gets up and walks off towards the station wagon. He slips on a glove as he opens the door and takes the key. He'll drop off the car tomorrow night as a message to the station, and he'll take a deputy with him then too as another victim.

Promptly he locks the door, walking towards the bodies which he'll stuff into his van.

The rest of the delivery goes as planned, and Marcus considers just how long he could leave a prime specimen like Carmela alive. He also briefly wonders what koala tastes like.

~~̴͘͟~͠o0̴͟O͢0͝o~̷́~~̶͟

We had spent so much time thinking Carrion was nothing but a deranged madman, a serial killer with little remorse, wild and cunning like the monster in all those urban legends. But it is when we looked away from that ideology – taking a sympathetic step in the other direction – that we found the truth of Carrion's identity. We were all but prepared to lose a friend and face that sodden cunning, to see him surrender gracefully like the pained and tortured man we thought we'd see hiding behind the murders… but instead we were met with that same apathetic creature we realized that couldn't be the Carrion he was supposed to be. He was nervous during our conversation, for whatever reason, we didn't know. But it's clear to us now that Marcus's façade as the very monster we were after, sadistic and unrelenting, was all an act… So there lies even more unanswered questions: Why was the real Marcus hiding? And what for?

~Judy Hopps, in what she had supposed would be her final report on the Bronc Town Abductions

~́~̕̕͝~̢́o0Ò̸̧0̨o͝~̵̀~~

It is nearing the end of November, and Marcus sees that his work finds no end to soothe his hunger. Already he has sixty-eight of some veritable palate he has tried and already the variety is wearing thin. However, it does seem like trying two different species at once offers the kind of diversity he's looking for. But as he sits there on his dining table for dinner, he dreads the kind of work that having to regularly take more than one each time will bring.

He also considers perhaps not making it a daily occurrence. Eating an entire hippo for dinner might have seemed gluttonous, but he can't leave any meat behind that isn't infected somehow and he'd rather not store any away now that he's out of a large freezer. Besides, he can't leave any to waste, that would only do his prey a disservice.

He shakes his head, maybe he should get a new freezer. It'll set his earnings back a bit since he's already spent so much turning his basement into his hideout. He wouldn't want to put his family in debt. It'd draw too much attention and his son wouldn't like that very much either.

A rustling from upstairs surprises him, his son's groaning filling the air as he slinks his way down the staircase.

"Marshal?" he calls out, waiting for him to come into view.

He finds the piglet clutching his own stomach, a deeply set unease coiling through him. "I don't feel so good, Pa."

Quickly he joins his son's side in the center of the living room, a million different things running through his head as he checks his temperature. "What happened, son?"

"I think I – Hrk!" he huffs, not quite able to let his voice out, so Marcus carries him to the dining table, seating him. "Sorry, Pa," he says with some difficulty, "I got hungry last night and took some of the meat raw. I thought it'd be okay but…"

Marcus has half a mind to smack his son for that, but that's a step he's never going to take. Taking his son to task is something one spares only with words, so he sits his son down and warns him of the danger of eating raw meat. Pigs may be a strong sort, but they've long since evolved incapable of engorging raw meat with such abandon. Even eating the bone is favorable over that.

Marshal then feels he needs to tackle the problem with traditional methods, as a show of personal strength, which is to endure it until it goes away. Marcus indulges him and watches him toss about until he's better in the next half hour.

Satisfied with his health, Marcus sits across from him. "It's the weekend, boy, why aren't you out with your friends?"

"I don't think they understand me anymore," he responds neutrally, almost empirically, "and I figured that if everyone besides Audrey thinks I'm strange, then it might have the wrong people asking questions here at home."

Marcus blinks at his son, not quite sure what to make of it. He's surrendered the social needs any child should have in order to preserve his father's continuing hunger. But what's worse is that he seems totally fine with it!

But it makes sense. Marcus was raised to see the town as family, that the relations are more than just blood, but Marshal had been raised differently, being taught to love his immediate family, even as it dwindles away. And in the last gasp of that philosophy turning only to one, Marshal recognizes the fact that the last of his kin is standing here in the room with him…

And so, Marshal would surrender anything for his father.

It dawns on Marcus then as he stands with quaking hands. His son is stripped of his innocence despite the innocuous look on his face. His youth, gone in the wind as he attempts to bear the burden of his father on his shoulders, enduring the sight of unspeakable horrors until he has grown numb to them.

He has accepted all the facets of his remaining family, because he was taught to see all that they do as virtue. And the things he's witnessed… does he now think that they're okay?

No… they are okay, aren't they? It's the natural order of things, it's what nature intended of them. If they weren't capable of doing it in the past, then why breed them with such capabilities?

Why gift him with such an intellect that he'd never be able to use outside of a middling business venture in a town without business rivals? Why gift him with broad shoulders and a strong back – and the insatiable need to fortify them – without having to lift no more than a sack of flour?

Then he feels a sudden tug on his sleeve, pulling him out of his own mind as he stares dumbfounded down at his son.

"Can I try cutting the meat next time, Pa?" The question shocks Marcus more than it normally would.

He'd only ever ask that unless he intends to follow in his father's footsteps. And this life, living just off the razor's edge, a mere flick away from being caught by the police, lurking in the shadows, staring at people like choice cuts of meat… is that really the life he'd envisioned for Marshal?

He knows it isn't. Neither Karvina nor Raeger would have approved in the slightest. They wanted so much more for Marshal… and Marcus – left behind as the only remaining role model at his son's side – has deeply corrupted him, perhaps robbed him of normality.

So readily does he come to tears as he collapses to his knees, cradling his son. The heavy grief for his brother's death and then his wife's comes back in a fervent flood, burning through as his heart tightens, his world vanishing beneath his shut lids, leaving only the sensation of his son in his arms with him. And Marshal sobs too, even if he doesn't know why.

It is then that the hunger subsides, following his tears, and the cold calculating visage is lost to naught but a distant memory. And the man beneath emerges, a wide smile carrying over his pain, pushing over the sobbing mess he's made of his own face.

He puts a hand on his son's head. "I'm sorry, Marshal, I think I've forgotten ya' for a while…"

Marshal shakes his head, wiping away tears as he looks at his father in confusion. "No you haven't, Pa. I was always here and you'd paid attention to me."

And of course he doesn't understand that, but he takes comfort in that idea. Because it means he can still save him, that the shred of innocence he's seeing is something he can hold on to. That there is still some way he can grow to be better than him… that he doesn't have to be his father. That he can be better.

As if waking up from a long nightmare, Marcus feels the part of him that is Carrion finally die. And the once insatiable hunger comes now as a foreign thought, as alien as being anything but a mammal.

And when the next day comes and no one disappears, there is some sense of familiarity washing over the town, an estranged sensation of that curse vanishing. However wary it may have become, the town seems content in simply trying to forget that Carrion even existed.

Though the damage is already done, in the very least Marshal can grow up never having to lead that kind of life ever again.