余波

Aftermath

James McCloud, along with Scott, Peppy, Pigma and several others, had come to a bar on the Yomai-yor freeport station, over Katina. The station itself was a trade and transport hub, one of several that orbited Katina below, similar to many populated worlds of Lylat. The bars, as wells as other amenities of such orbital stations, were mainly places of respite for the weary spacer. They were places where a captain and crew could step off their ship, stretch their legs, catch up with old colleagues over drinks, and maybe make some new colleagues in the process. Today though, this old spacer bar was to serve a far more solemn purpose, because it was a favorite of the deceased mercenary captain, Malcolm Aries.

Many acquaintances of the old ram had been invited here today, for an informal memorial to him of sorts. Most of the present company were older spacer types, mercenaries, privateer captains, and a handful of others. All of them were quiet and somber, which created a rare and eerie atmosphere for a usually bustling spacer bar. So many people gathered in one place, and so quiet. James wasn't exactly sure what to make of it when patrons first looked at the young fox and his cohorts, with the tired, glassy-eyed gazes of much older, and more weathered men, as well as a number of equally hardened women. James could almost feel the weight of the judgments they passed on him as he passed by.

In all this, it turned out that Captain Otto Jäger was one of the guests present, who quickly spotted James and the others. The otter privateer brought the group through the crowd, to an empty table near the bar. Once James and the others had settled, the fox got a good look around, and saw what was on the bar itself.

Sitting on the bar was a small holographic display, projecting an image of Malcolm. The stocky old ram looked very jolly in this image, wearing that confident smile of his, arms folded across his broad barrel chest. In another moment, the bartender set a large glass mug full of a frothing amber beer next to the image. No one picked it up, and in a moment, James realized that the drink was meant for the late Captain Aries.

Someone among the guests stood up, someone James didn't recognize. He was a taller, swaggering bovine with a drink in hand. "First off, I'd like to thank y'all for making it here, to this lonely little dive a few dozen kilometers over Katina, all to pay our homage and respects to a dear old bastard of ours." the bull began, speaking with a great deal of bluster and gesticulation, "It's the kind of crap fate that so verymany in our line of work meet, to come to an untimely end on the job, but it's a fate we know full well is likely. I mean, come on, let's face it people: it's not like we have cushy office jobs or something."

This got a few chuckles from the crowd, and a general murmur of agreement.

The swaggering bull took a swig of his drink, and began again, "Now, at least old Mal went down fighting like a man, never choosing to back down if he could help it. The best part at the end of his story though: when he couldn't go on, the job he was working still got finished by those he was with." the speaker found James, and everyone with him, and looked directly at the younger fox, "We honor those brave fellas here today, just as we honor Mal, for picking up the baton he dropped and bringing it to the finish line for him. Heck, they even went and got the son-of-a-bitch who offed Mal!"

A hearty round of cheers rose up through the bar, as well as many raised drinks in salute. They were cheering for James, and for Peppy, Pigma and Scott. They weren't there, they didn't know the details. Maybe they just wanted to feel like Malcolm's death was vindicated, that his passing wasn't totally pointless.

"You'll be sorely missed old pal," the bovine speaker began again, once the cheers faded, "but we know you wouldn't want us grieving and sobbing all over the place on account of you. You'd want us to pick our weepy sorry asses up, and go right on living. But, that being said, I hope you you can pardon us having a little get-together, share a few drinks, a few stories, and maybe a few laughs at your expense. The jokes are all in good taste, I swear."

There were a few half-hearted laughs at that, and maybe even a poorly concealed sob. It wasn't clear from who though, not with so many gathered...

"Well, I've said my piece, put in a good word for you and everything, you stubborn old bone-head. Figure it's time we go ahead and make the toast official..." the bull raised his half-finished drink, "Arm your glasses everyone!"

There was a brief scramble amongst the gathered crowd. They raised their drinks, or empty glasses in some cases, or at least did their best to play along with it.

When everyone was reasonably prepared, the speaker proceeded, declaring, "To Mal! And to all our absent comrades!"

"A good man!" someone piped up.

"I think I still owe the smug bastard money!" another chimed in.

"Fine son of a gun if ever there was one!"

"I'll drink to that!" the last outburst brought a round of hearty cheers, then all those gathered in the bar took a long swig of their drinks.

"We'll keep your memory flying, even if you aren't." the bull said with grave tone of finality, as he set his empty mug on the bar, and soon drifted back into the crowd.

Through all this, even with so many praising Malcolm Aries, Scott Aberdeen was conspicuously quiet. He simply sat there across from James, made no eye contact with those around him, and sometimes took a sip or two from a small glass of whiskey in front of him.

"Scott?" Peppy said, gently nudging the dark terrier, "Aren't you gonna say something?"

"What's there to say?" Scott replied with a shrug, and downed the last of his whiskey.

With his glass empty, the terrier stood up from the table and shuffled toward the bar, likely for another drink. No sooner than had Scott left, someone sidled by, and sat in his place across from James. It was the same hulking bovine who'd made the speech earlier. The bull took one more look at Scott before turning his attention to James and the others at the table, "Scott has my sympathies, but I doubt he's in a mood to receive them. He needs space think, and some time."

"Did you want something?" James asked, sizing up the sudden newcomer. He must've known Malcolm Aries a while, and had at least some respect among his generation of mercenaries. He seemed amiable enough though.

"Well, thing is, I wasn't just buttering up to you fellas in my little speech there on account of being polite." the bull began as he looked around the table, at the much younger fox, swine and hare he shared company with, "The old-timer mercs, like myself and Mal, are getting spread awful thin these days. We get old, we retire, move on to other things or, we find our lives put to an untimely close by the work. In any case, our numbers dwindle, and that creates a demand-supply dynamic that's always looking for fresh meat."

"Forgive me if that sounds like stating the obvious, considering the mercenary workforce turnover includes a sizable KIA bodycount." James replied, maybe a little more harshly than he intended, but there was some drink in him, muddling the thinking, "So I have to ask: what exactly is your point?"

"Well ain't you just a little razor-tongued canine?" the bull chortled, "Thing is, with all this demand for fresh meat on the mercenary market, we get a ton of cheap cuts. Maybe you've seen 'em: all them young, self-centered, braggart glory-hounds, who strut around with their macho, wannabe-badass bullshit." he took a moment to let off a disgusted huff, then returned his attention to James, "Point is, your actions have proved to me –to us all– that you're not one of these useless young-gun types. You folks can actually get the job done, and you'll be a welcome sight if you decide you wanna go freelance."

"Thanks for the vote of confidence, I'll keep that in mind." the fox remembered Owen Phoenix's words from earlier. It's true he'd need a new source of work, though he'd never gone freelance before.

"Don't mention it, kid." the bull waved him off, relaxing, "So, how exactly did you and Malcolm meet?"

"Believe it or not, the old ram locked me in his brig for a few days."

"That so?" the bovine asked with great interest, "What'cha do to earn that kind of special treatment?"

"It was part of a ploy, trying and make another prisoner open up and talk."

"Ha! sounds like crafty ol' Mal alright. He was always a heck of a lot more clever than he let on..."

\

/

Serge Noire made his round through the dining floor of the restaurant, content, but careful how he showed it, careful and precise as always. It was a busy evening tonight, as it ought to be on a weekend evening. The staff were all hard at work, and the customers were satisfied as far as he could tell. As he went through, Serge made sure not to impede his wait-staff on his way to one specific customer...

Chandra had already informed Serge that the two Cooneys were here. They'd reserved a private booth using cover identities, but were otherwise deliberate in ensuring the staff knew it was them. Chandra and some of the other staff were anxious, possibly even worried, but not Serge. He expected the Cooneys would confront him sooner or later, and he was prepared to meet them.

In a few moments' time, Noire had navigated the throngs of his busy restaurant, and approached the private booth. Both Richard and Rachelle Cooney were there, looking over the menu, and looking quite pleased to be there. The man in a tasteful but otherwise ordinary tuxedo, and the woman had donned a most elegant turquoise evening dress; a far cry from slinking infiltrator who broke into the restaurant before. If Serge didn't know any better, he might've assumed they were simply another couple, enjoying an evening at his restaurant.

"Welcome back, Miss Cooney." Serge complimented as he neared their table, "I must say, the fine attire you sport now suits you far better than the rags I first saw you wearing."

"Thank you." Rachelle responded in a tone of utmost politeness.

"Care to join us, Serge?" Rick offered, with a suspiciously sly look about him, "We've been expecting you."

"Hm." Noire uttered with a raised eyebrow.

A moment later, a waiter approached the Cooney's table with a bottle of sparkling wine, and three glasses. The waiter stopped dead in his tracks when he saw Serge at the table, looking very confused, and unsure of what he should be doing. The waiter was one of the newer staff members, still learning his 'unofficial' skills, but he knew enough to reasonably assume that this was more than a mere couple of guests he was serving.

After a few seconds, Serge showed a little smile and answered, "How could I refuse such a generous invitation?" he took a seat in the booth across from the two raccoons, and motioned to the nervous waiter to serve the drinks as he was supposed to.

When Everyone had a full glass of sparkling wine in front of them, and the waiter had departed, Rick lifted his glass in salute to Noire, "I've got to hand it to you, Serge, that was one impressive stunt you pulled."

"Hm?"

"Oh don't be so modest." Rachelle said to Serge with a warm, knowing smile, "It was absolutely genius, how you deftly maneuvered Lylat Central Intelligence into doing the dirty work for you: the dirty work of eliminating Haran."

"See, we traced the contact who tipped us off about the Amity attack." Rick explained, "Seems he's one of yours."

"And let's not forget your clever play for the endgame, when you handed the Cerberus vessel over to Garmir, after we got your hands on the ship again." Rachelle complimented, almost in mock-praise it seemed, "I mean, you must have known Garmir had a bloodthirsty vendetta against Haran for going rogue like he. Maybe he even tried to get you to intervene for him."

"But you're a respectable man now: you had no business intervening in as overtly a method as your old friend Garmir wanted." Rick posited, taking a sip of the wine, "So you throw the desperate old pirate a bone, get his old ship back for him, and suddenly he feels like he can take on the gods. Granted, he did give Haran a damn good run for his money, even though I didn't plan for it."

"Like we were saying: a fine job, Serge." Rachelle complimented, raising her glass to the dark canid across from her.

"Still, there are some questions." Rick's expression and tone became a little more grim, directed at Serge. He was still coy, still a little playful, but he had and intent, scrutinizing look about him.

Keeping his cool, Serge lifted his own glass, and took a sip of the wine, "You seem to have all the answers already."

"True, we know what happened." Rachelle agreed.

"The real question we want to ask, is why?" Rick corrected.

"Hm?"

"Let's be frank, Serge: you've got a good setup here." Rachelle began, "If one of your more prominent former pupils suddenly goes rogue, it's not like it can be traced back to you, not if you don't want it to be. For all intents and purposes, you didn't need to spend the time, energy and resources getting your hands dirty to clean this up."

"So, why bother getting Lylat Central Intelligence involved at all?" Rick asked.

And for once in a very, very long time, Serge smiled. It wasn't a very prominent smile, but neither of the Cooneys, nor much anybody else really, had seen the quiet aged canid express any emotion beyond a raised eyebrow, or cold decisive anger. Something as simple as a smile, even as subtle as his was, seemed utterly alien on his face.

The dark, slick-furred canid took another mall sip of of wine, and finally responded to the question, "You've seen what Haran was capable of, you've seen how dangerous he can be. Is that not motivation enough?"

"So you felt threatened by him?" Rick questioned, unsatisfied, almost impatient in his tone, "You did it to save your own skin, to protect your reputation? Or was it out of a sudden concern for the public good?"

"What harm is it if multiple motivations are aligned?" Asked in return, leaning back in a relaxed posture, "I believed you could get the job done, and so it is done. What more do you need?"

"Be that as it may, there other questions we're curious about." Rachelle replied.

Rachelle and her brother –in contrast to Serge's leisurely, laid back demeanor– were beginning to lean forward, tense, on the edge of their seats. Their coy jocularity from earlier had all but evaporated, and in its place was a direct determination.

"One such question." Rick began, "If you wanted us to take care of this Haran problem, why you didn't tell us more about the situation? Why keep us in the dark about the details, like that we were up against a psychotic Cerinian? Why did you withhold so much information that might have helped us, that might have saved more lives?"

"Because the methods I used have saved more lives." Serge answered, matching the stony glare that Rick was giving him.

"Care to elaborate?" Rachelle asked.

Serge downed all the wine left in his glass, and refilled it, before finally speaking, "The Cerinian people, and the full extent of their capabilities, are very much mired in rumor, conjecture, and mystery. If I had divulged the full extent of what I knew, would you –or rather, the analysts at your agency– have truly believed it? Do you honestly believe your agency would have treated my information as anything but unreliable and unbelievable hearsay? For all they would know, it could have been a trap, and my contact would have been marked as a threat. Furthermore, you needed to experience the threat you faced firsthand in order to truly appreciate it, so you would be all the more driven to confront it, and neutralize it, as you have done. Bravo."

"Perhaps there's a more informative question: why did this become a problem in the first place?" Rick asked, "Why would you decide train a Cerinian at all when, by your own admission, they are such mysterious enigmas?"

For a long time, Serge said absolutely nothing. He simply sat back, his keen eyes bouncing back and forth between the prying, almost accusing glares of the two raccoons that sat across from him. After this time, he finally let out a small sigh, and answered, "I was curious."

"Curious?" Rachelle repeated, cocking her head a little to the side.

"As I have said, Cerinians are still very mysterious, as is the power they can command." Serge began, "I wanted to learn more about them: how their abilities work, how they think, feel, and how best to deal with them should one or more of them become a threat. However, I will concede that I was ill-prepared to manage a Cerinian, especially one as... mentally unstable as Haran turned out to be. My curiosity got the better of me, and I made a mistake..."

"I certainly hope you realize, Serge, the full extent of the consequences wrought by this mistake." Rick's voice carried an icy chill cold as death, and eyes sharp a daggers, "An archaeological expedition sent to Titania, the crew and passengers aboard the Sojurn, the casualties of the attack on the Amity, including–"

"Do not think to patronize me, boy." Serge cut him off suddenly, and leveled a very special breed of anger at the raccoon. It was a rage so cool, so sharp, so precise that if it were made material, it could probably split atoms, "Many of my finest students have also died at Haran's hand, or worse. I know full well the consequences of my mistake. You may not approve of my methods, but I can say with confidence that I have done everything in my power to set this mistake right."

Without missing a beat, Serge reached into a pocket and retrieved a palm-sized computer tablet. While he went to work, eyes focused down on the small touchscreen, the aged canid continued conversation.

"I will never be able to fully compensate you, or anyone else, for the losses incurred. The Cerberus crew I understand were of especially great value to your agency, and Lylat is worse off not to have them. Insufficient as it is though, I nonetheless offer you this..."

Serge set the palm-sized tablet on table, and a holographic display was enabled. It showed a projection of the white wolf Rick knew as 'Wiley', along with a display of information. It was a complete dossier,

"This is my complete file on Makita." Serge explained, "It contains his personal history, family, known associates, aliases, biometric parameters; everything you need to track him down and find him."

"What exactly do you expect us to do with him?" Rachelle asked, shaking her head, "He's a broken man."

"I expect that you can do much good with him." Serge answered, as he picked up the tablet and removed a small memory card from a port in its side, which he offered to the two raccoons, "He may be broken, but I believe you two are in a far better position than anyone else to rebuild him, and put him to use."

\

/

The quiet hum and rumble of machines rolled through the background, interrupted only by the steady plunking of footsteps against the metal floor panels. The footsteps belonged to a nervous wolf, walking through the lonely corridor. The black sweatshirt he wore contrasted in sharp opposition against his pale white fur. He passed door after yet another identical door through the corridor, searching for only one in particular.

Sargasso Station's living quarters were much like the rest of the secluded space station. Freshly installed wall panels standing right alongside ones that have suffered a long time before. So it was the same with everything else; constantly broken and constantly mended again, toughened the same way broken bones heal stronger than they were before. People were safe in Sargasso's arms, for they were the life-hardened and time-tamed arms of a weary grandfather. It didn't look like much on the surface, but Sargasso endures, and there's a comfort to be found in such stubborn persistence.

The wolf stopped, outside one of the simple cabin doors that were so similar to so many others, and he hesitated. He checked the number beside the door again to be certain it was the right one, glanced up and down the hallway to make sure he was alone. What if no one was there? Maybe this wasn't such a good idea after all. There's still time to turn back and call it off–

No, he's put this off way too long already...

He could've pressed the door's buzzer, but didn't. Instead, Wiley reached out his hand and knocked it against the door. The dull ringing resonating through the corridor, and another set of muffled footsteps plunked behind the door, getting louder.

Wiley glanced up, and spotted the small camera just above the doorway that'd reveal who he was to the cabin's occupant. And though there was an intercom, it stayed tensely silent. The wolf's breath came in quick and shallow despite his best attempts to control it, and his heart beat against his chest like an anxious drumroll. Maybe she wouldn't even answer the door–

The door slid open, and Carmen O'Donnell stood on the other side, waiting. It was her, but not quite as Wiley remembered. Her silver-gray fur was unkempt and matted in some places, her clothes were clean but somewhat worn-out. The lupine woman was weary with life, but in otherwise good health, holding on by some defiant vitality that Wiley could only wish he had more of himself.

"You..." Carmen uttered, sounding surprised, enraged and confused all at once.

Wiley went blank. He knew he should've said something, done something, or at least felt something; but he didn't know what at the moment. The flustered white wolf just stood there, at a loss...

In a sudden flash of anger, Carmen's hand bolted through the air forming a fist, and slammed into Wiley's left eye.

"Gah!..." the wolf yelped. The sudden blow caught him off his guard, sending him staggering back a few steps as he clutched his injured eye, "What the hell did you do that for?!"

"Shhh!" Carmen cut him off, "The baby's sleeping..."

"Baby?" the wolf asked, his voice lowered to an astonished whisper, "You have a baby here?"

She wasn't looking at Wiley, but at the hand she ht him with as she clutched in with her other. She'd hit the miserable wolf with such force that she'd injured her hand in the process. It wasn't clear what Carmen O'Donnell was thinking, but for a few painfully long seconds, the two of them simply stood in quite opposition to each other. Both were hurt, and neither sure what they should do next...

"You're gonna want something for that eye." Carmen glanced up to her former lover, and experimentally flexed her aching fingers, "Maybe you'd better just come on inside." She turned and walked back into her apartment-like living quarters, with Wiley following close behind.

The space wasn't especially large, just a simple living area with a kitchenette shoved into one corner and a door –probably to a bedroom suite– tucked in another corner. Carmen continued through into that door, leaving her unexpected guest alone in the spartan front room...

Mostly alone.

There was a modern, high end mesh-sided infant bed off to one side of the room. The modular rig came complete with a built-in changing table, locking wheels for easy mobility, and mobile of spacecraft models dangling over it. All of it should've cost more than Carmen could afford on her seemingly shoestring budget, but there it was anyway. Wiley approached the crib, both curious and apprehensive of what he might find inside. What he found was a tiny silver-gray wolf pup, so peacefully asleep, in spite of the worse than unfavorable conditions surrounding him.

Carmen O'Donnell soon returned from the bedroom suite with a pair of cryotherapeutic 'cold-packs', one of which she offered to Wiley, "Here, put this on your eye."

The pale wolf took the cold-pack and did as instructed. The liquid-filled pouch was already ice cold as he held it up against his bruised eye socket, numbing the bitter pain underneath it.

"This is your pup?" Wiley asked, to which Carmen answered with just a simple nod, looking down, "So, who's the father?"

For some time, Carmen simply didn't respond at all. She just kept looking down, at her sleeping infant child. After several uncomfortably tense moments, Carmen finally looked up, looked Wiley square in the eye, giving him the answer to his question: he was the father.

"It's me?" the pale wolf blurted as he came under a sudden wash of panic, "I'm his– When did– Why– I'm not–"

"This is our son, Mak." Carmen confirmed quietly, "His name is Wolf."

Wiley, or Mak as Carmen called him, started breathing rapidly, and not small breaths either. The wolf was practically hyperventilating, visibly shaky in his movements as he clasped his hand to his forehead, and staggered around in a tight circle.

"Are you feeling okay?" Carmen asked, seeing Mak like this.

"Fine!" he lied as he spun around to face his once lover, his eyes wide and terrified as dinner plates, "I mean... I'm a dad, and you're a mom! How did you– Why didn't I find out about– When did you know about this?"

"I tried to find you, Mak!" she snapped back, "I tried to get in contact with you, but you somehow just fell completely off the map! You didn't answer my calls, didn't get any of my messages."

"I was... kinda busy." the wolf sheepishly admitted.

"It was your 'work', wasn't it?" Carmen accused, knowing better, "The work you never talk about."

"Yeah... work."

"Why did you come back at all?" she asked, with a strong underpinning of bitterness to her words and demeanor.

"I... uh..." Mak was at a loss, only able to gape back at Carmen O'Donnell, and stumble over himself trying to come up with the words, "God, I'm not even sure anymore."

A small cry from the baby crib interrupted everything. The tiny silver-gray wolf pup had woken up, and was making his presence known in the only way he could. Mak flinched at the sound of the pup, his son, but remained as baffled as ever. Carmen on the other hand responded immediately to her child.

She bent down and carefully lifted the infant Wolf in her arms, offering up some quiet words of comfort. The tiny pup quieted down a little as he clumsily graspedg at his mother, and looked up to her. Mak realized that the pup's eyes looked almost exactly like his: that odd, rare violet color.

With her baby somewhat calmed down in her arms, Carmen turned to her guest with a sigh, "Well, as long as you're here, you may as well make yourself useful."

"What do I do?"

"He's hungry." she answered, "There's some milk in the refrigerator. Get a bottle and warm it up."

Mak went to the small kitchenette and did as instructed. He did find a few full baby bottles among the other items, and removed one.

"You can't stay here, not on a places as rough as Sargasso, not with a kid..." With the bottle in-hand, Mak looked to Carmen with a somewhat quizzical expression, "How do you want this warmed up?"

"Just tun it under some hot water from the tap." she instructed, pointing out the kitchen sink, and continued the discussion, "It's not a permanent plan for sure, but Sargasso's treating us alright for now, since I have a job here that let's me support Wolf."

Mak held the bottle under the faucet, and started the flow of hot water. "Maybe the kid will be okay for now, while you can have him protected and watched over, but what happens when he gets older? What'll you do when he can run around on his own and get himself into trouble? You've seen the crowd that comes to this station, there's no way you'll be able to keep him safe here for much longer."

"When I get there, I'll figure something out." Carmen said, as she gently bounced Wolf in her arms.

When the bottle felt about warmed up, Mak switched off the tap and brought the bottle to Carmen, "Maybe I could... you know..." he offered the baby bottle, "Give you a hand with all this?"

She accepted the bottle, and held it to her infant son, who immediately snatched it and began suckling from the rubber teat. All the while, Carmen simply looked back at Mak, who had that confused, desperate look on his face. Still it was a face she had long given up on...

"I'm not really sure you can help, even if I wanted you to." she finally managed to say, bracing herself for his protests.

"What? But I–" the pale wolf started fumbling around again, pacing and gesticulating, and tripping over the words as he tried to form them, "I can be here for you Carmen, I really mean it. You don't have to go through this alone anymore."

"How could you possibly help me?" Carmen asked as she stubbornly held her ground, clinging her feeding son tighter against her chest, "I haven't seen or heard from you in over a year: a year! And now you show up on my doorstep like nothing happened, and somehow think you deserve something. Well have I got news for you: shit has in-fact happened, Mak. I moved on. I moved into a goddamn space station just so I could make enough money to support all this. Where were you when I needed you most? How do I know you won't disappear on me again?"

"I can change!" Mak's breath came is spastic gasps, "Goddamn it Carmen I can change; give me the chance, and I'll prove it to you. I won't disappear anymore. I'll stay here, with you, and the baby, and we can do the family thing–"

"But you haven't changed a bit." Carmen forced, shaking her head, "After all that time away, after so much has happened with me, I look at you now, and I still see the same mysterious enigma of a man that I used to be infatuated with. It just won't work." The troubled lupine woman turned away and headed for Wolf's crib, on the other side of her quarters.

"You gotta believe me Carmen, I don't want that shit life anymore..." Mak pursued her, pleading, grasping for anything, "You're the only thing I got left that's any good, and I don't wanna loose you."

With her back to the white wolf and her face hidden, Carmen set her son down in his crib to rest. The lupine infant was content to be oblivious to the surrounding tension, and happily sucked on his bottle, "I'm sorry Mak, but you can't help me."

"Don't do this." he extended his hand, reaching out to Carmen, and placed his shaking hand on her shoulder, "I need you."

"No..." she cringed at Mak's touch, recoiling as if his hand were a hot iron. She still kept her face hidden, standing over her son as a loyal guardian, "You've already shown you don't need me, and I know that I don't need you anymore either."

"Carmen please, I–" she whipped around to face Mak, abruptly revealing a face ravaged by inner conflicts, barely holding in tears. There was anger, fear, anxiety, and despair all vying for dominance, but none coming out on top. "...I love you."

Their gazes locked; a connecting line which spanned between the lupine pair with enough tension on it to play music by, or simply snap.

Another fist formed in Carmen O'Donnell's hand and she pulled it back for another blow, but sh hesitated. She saw a flash of utter terror appear in Mak's eyes, but not from the punch itself. He was looking directly at Carmen, and seeing his last hope disappear.

Seeing this, Carmen stayed her hand, and slowly lowered it to her side, "If you really do love me, if you really mean what you say, then please, stay away from me and my son." her words were painful, both to herself, and to Mak, "There's no room in my life for you, not when you're like this."

"You don't mean that."

Carmen reached out, and pushed back against him, steadily leading the white wolf backward toward the outer door, "I'm going to be okay, you don't have to worry about me."

"Don't give up on me Carmen..." Mak wasn't resisting, or arguing, or outwardly protesting at all. He let himself be pushed away, "I'll make things right, I swear... I'll come back for you and our pup... I'm gonna get you two outta this dive, and we'll have a life together..."

Almost accidentally, a tear escaped her wavering eye and ran down her face. Through a grimace of pure pain, Carmen O'Donnell forced the words out of her mouth and into the air for Mak to hear, "It's time for you to go."

She gave him one last nudge beyond the boundary of her living quarter's doorway. And with the push of a button on the wall panel, the sliding door slammed shut between them.

\

/

The Uncia family, as well as invited guests, were all in a state of mourning.

Chakori Uncia came from a prominent, well-established Fortunan family, which meant there were very large, and very elaborate funeral rites. They were highly symbolic in their nature, evocative of an old spirituality that used to govern so many people's lives on Fortuna.

In the old beliefs of Fortuna, death wasn't seen as an end, but as merely a turning point in the endless journey of the spirit. The spirit would eventually find its way back into this world, to be reincarnated anew in a birth, and continue its journey. Life was cyclical this way: the body returned to the world to provide for new life, so it followed for the old Fortunans to believe that the spirit would do the same, and one day return to live again. It was vastly different than most of the other religious beliefs, like the most prominent: the Church of Lyla, which preached an afterlife in a paradise. There were variations and diversions everywhere, but it largely followed a similar model. In any case, it didn't matter as much in these days.

So it was at the funeral ceremony held for the recently deceased Chakori Uncia, on Fortuna, in her home city of Jhelut. A procession had already gone through the city, from the lavish Uncia family estate, to the crematorium as was the custom for wealthy Fortunan families. There was a hearse, and a long trail of mourners, Similar to Cornerian practices. Traditional Fortunan practice for the mourners was to wear white, but outside influences had crept in, and many others wore black. It was a muddled river of black and white through the streets, with old Fortunan customs and dress mingling with modern foreign fashions and sensibilities.

The Uncia family, as well as Scott, Pigma, James and several others he didn't recognize, had gathered at the crematorium was where the ceremony proper took place. It was much like a temple, decorated with the exotic flare that was expected of traditional Fortunan spiritual symbolism, but carried a somber feel appropriate for a funereal venue.

Vixy Reinard had come to the funeral as well. James had gotten in contact with Vixy after the shock of the operation had worn down. He wanted to reconnect, felt a desire to pursue this lead with Vixy, if only because she was one of a very, very tiny handful of good things at the moment. It wasn't Jame's idea to bring her to Chakori's funeral though. When he told Vixy where he was going, what he was doing, she insisted on accompanying him there. Chakori had left quite an impression on Vixy during and after the attack on the Amity, so the vixen felt obligated to pay her respects to the leopardess, and she simply wouldn't take 'no' for an answer. It was hardly Jame's idea of a proper date, but considering how their 'first date' went, it was at least a step in the right direction.

The fox and vixen stood together side-by-side, in the midst of a crowd of somber onlookers at the crematorium. James was in a black suit he'd rented, and likewise was Vixy clothed in a modest black dress next to him. Scott was there too, his dark fur nearly vanishing into the black of his own suit.

Chakori's body occupied the center of the temple-like crematorium, with a white veil draped over her. Surrounding her were a number of people who James guessed were Chakori's immediate family. There were about three or four generations of ash-gray leopards represented in the group: some small children who barely knew what was going on, several deeply saddened young men and women, a handful of stony middle-aged felines, and a few venerable individuals who'd gone through this many times it seemed.

One of the younger gray leopards was pacing around Chakori's veiled body, reading aloud from a scroll in some archaic Fortunan dialect James couldn't recognize. He'd be one of Chakori's brothers, as it was customary for the eldest brother to perform the rites at the funeral of an unmarried woman. At least, that's what James had been told.

Most of the gathered Uncia family were very quiet, very somber, very respectful for the occasion. One of the middle aged women though, Chakori's mother by the looks of her, kept shooting absolutely scathing glares at Scott every time she could. James suspected there might have been some bad blood there, between Chakori's mother and Scott, but it wasn't his business. The fox kept to himself, observing the rites and paying his respects as everyone else was, with Vixy's hand holding his at their sides.

Some minutes passed, and the ceremony continued much as it had. There was some activity though from the Uncia family. Chakori's mother, to the concern of the other gray felines, and seemingly against the protests of her husband, stepped away from the group and approached Scott Aberdeen with outrage in her eyes.

"The ceremony is for family and close friends." the older leopardess said to Scott as dryly as she could, "I respectfully request that you leave."

"I have every reason to be here." the terrier replied quietly, trying not to look directly back at her, "Chakori and I worked together for well over fifteen years."

"That makes you a coworker, a colleague, not a friend of the family." Chakori's mother insisted, growing more agitated, "Please leave."

"I'm staying..." Scott looked straight into the older leopardess's eyes, "I have been more a of a friend to Chakori than anyone else in this room, far more so than you ever were."

"How dare you!" the older feline woman snapped, fueled by her boiling outrage.

Another figure came up alongside her: a man of the same species and breed; her husband, "What is the matter, dear?" he asked.

"This Cornerian mongrel is one of those dreadful mercenaries that our Chakori fell in with." she informed the newcomer, indignation dripping off her every word, "He has no right to observe her last rites. He is the reason she's dead!"

That last phrase stung Scott, cut him very, very deep. All the terrier could do was look down, and try to hide his eyes. She was more right about what she said than she could possibly know.

"Rashmi please, do not blame this one." the older leopard said, gently held his wife by her shoulders as he tried to calm her, "Chakori always had a defiant, rebellious streak."

"And you indulged it, Prakash!" Rashmi spat, directing her fury toward her husband now.

"The tighter we tried to control her, the more fiercely she fought to break free. Surely you remember that." Prakash responded, growing firmer in his tone, "She would only resent us even more if we kept her here."

"But at least she would still live!" she insisted, fighting back her near hysterical tears.

"This is not the time or place, Rashmi." the ash gray leopard insisted to his wife in a cool, firm voice, then tuned to Scott, "My sincerest apologies–"

"Don't bother." the terrier grumbled, avoiding eye-contact, "I'll go."

Just as Scott turned away to leave though, Vixy stepped forward to the troubled feline couple. The dark terrier stopped then, if only to see what happened.

James saw the vixen doing this, and reached out to her, "Vixy, what are you–"

She brushed his arm away, interrupting him, "I know what I'm doing."

The two locked eyes for a moment, not in itself something new between them, but this time was different. This time, James saw in her fierce green eyes a sheer determination like he'd never seen from her before. Trusting her with whatever she had, James nodded, and observed as Vixy acted.

The vixen went right up to the tense couple, and politely made herself known to them, "Excuse me."

"I do not believe we've met." Prakash said, eyeing the newcomer with a curious, assessing look.

"I'm Vixy Reinard." she introduced, "I was a passenger aboard the Amity when it came under attack."

"My sympathies." the older leopard said, offering a small bow to Vixy, "I am glad for your safety, though I wish I could express it under happier circumstances."

"I have your daughter to thank for my safety, actually." she said in an encouraging tone.

While it may not have lifted the couple's spirits, this unexpected interjection from Vixy Reinard managed to release some of their tension, as they waited attentively to hear more of what she had to say.

"I only knew Chakori for a few days, but she's a hero in my book." the young vixen continued, "She and her teammates came to the rescue of the Amity when we were attacked, and led us all to safety aboard their own ship. I don't think I or my fellow passengers would have made it if not for your daughter acting as bravely as she had. I owe her... everything, really."

"That's very kind of you to say." Rashmi said, giving a small thanking smile to Vixy.

"You see? Our Chakori lived her life in service to others." Prakash said, raising his voice in praise, "Today, let us honor her bravery and selflessness, and thank her for the happiness she has brought to so many because of it."

"I hope..." the older leopardess said quietly, looking at James and Vixy, "that the spirit of charity and courage that our daughter held, shall live on with you."

"We will live by her example, I promise." James replied with a solemn sincerity.

"It's the very least we can do." Vixy agreed.

"Thank you." Rashmi said, with as much gratitude as could be expected in her grim circumstances.

Chakori's parents left the two, and resumed their part in the funeral ceremony. As grim and as grave as it was, being after all, a funeral, James felt so much of the dreariness of it all just wash off. He could feel himself and Vixy standing much closer together now, leaning into each other for support.

James McCloud meant what he said about living by Chakori's example. He'd find a way, or several. Considering the opportunities that'd been cropping up, there were plenty of avenues through which to pursue such a life. In any case, he had a feeling he might share much of it with the lady he had his arm around now.

Author Notes:

I finally, put out another chapter for this story! My gosh it has been way too long. Got at least one more chapter to go to wrap up this volume, then we can move on to other adventures, other tales of daring do!

So yeah, this is one of the first instances, so far, of me recycling some old material. Keen old-time readers of mine may remember the scene with Carmen O'Donnell, Wolf's mother, and that it's pretty similar here to how it was, with some editing of course.

Edit: after some consideration, I decided to remove an excess portion of text. looking at it, it didn't serve much purpose to the scene itself, so I followed my usual mantra of "keep only what's necessary in the scene" and had it removed. Also, many thanks to K.S. Reynard for reminding me of that.

Oh, and speaking of; I'd be very happy to hear from you about anything else about this chapter and/or story as well. It's really you folks, you readers and writers of reviews, that help keep me motivated to keep this story going.

Until next time, take care, and keep out of too much trouble!
chaos_Leader