Rufinius Varius Frisk
My fingers close around the eel, right behind its narrow head. Its body slithers and writhes as I draw it from the bucket, a cord of pure muscle and taut connective tissue. Fools who do not know better think I am some pampered fop with velvet paws and a pristine jacket. Let them think so, and underestimate me to their detriment. The rare few who have seen me like this: paws and apron stained with blood, scooping a pile of sweetly bitter eel guts into a basin with the blade of a knife, know my true nature.
The door to the parlor swings open, and the Prodigal drags in a fat, sweaty red fox. His paws are bound behind his back, the gag stuffed into his muzzle has been fixed with a black cord. The white noise earbuds protrude from his head and the black mask is tight over his eyes.
I sniff in disdain. Marcus Asner is a true icon of all that is wrong with society these days. A tod pampered and self-spoiled on the conveniences of the modern era, with all the potential of his mind driven towards obsessive trivialities that grow ever more omnipresent with each year. There is not an ounce of true wit or cunning in him, no spine whatsoever. I momentarily consider ordering the Prodigal to simply slit his throat and be done with it, but my innate frugality outweighs my disgust.
After all, despite his uselessness in so many other regards he does have talents matched by few, if the rumors can be trusted. I am many things, but I am not wasteful.
"Unbind him," I command, and the Prodigal removes the gag, unties Asner's wrists, pulls out the earbuds and finally lifts the mask.
Asner blinks, rubbing his eyes and whimpering as he kneels.
"Wh- where am I? Wh- whatever it is you guys think I did I didn't do it, all right?!"
His eyes bulge when he sees the eel wriggling in my grip.
"You are Marcus Asner. Freelance engineer. Hacker. Expert in anything to do with computers and electronics."
"W-well... reverse-engineering and re-jigging software is more my forte but..."
In one smooth motion I casually slit the eel at the neck, partially severing its head. It writhes and thrashes, and I turn it over to wring its blood into a flask.
Marcus squeals in horror and presses his legs together. Disgusting.
"I suggest you stay calm, Mr. Asner," the Prodigal says coldly. "You wouldn't want to soil yourself in front of the Prince."
"P-Prince?"
"I have a job for you," I say calmly, and I drive the awl through the eel's skull, pinning it to the board. Gripping it by the end of the tail I insert the knife into its belly, slashing along the length of its body. Even now it still twitches and squirms beneath my paw. Opening its body up like a book I reveal is glossy insides. Its viscera are pink as a summer rose, and dark red like wine.
Asner turns a noticeable shade of green.
"Prodigal. The PawPad, if you please."
"Of course, my Prince," he says with a bow. He'd held it tucked under his arm, but now he flicks through it to open up the source code.
"I have been led to believe that you enjoy a challenge, Mr. Asner. Tell me, have you ever considered tinkering with ZIA systems?"
With a flick of my knife I sever the eel's spinal cord. One sweep of the blade, and the spine lifts free from the fillet. Once I hack off the head I place the slab of meat alongside all the rest. The chef will deal with them from here.
"I- I've always fantasized about it. I mean, they're the ZIA, right? But it's such a long shot that- holy moly."
His eyes nearly pop out of his skull as he sees what's on the PawPad. Scrolling through it his mouth is working, muttering code to himself as he reads.
"Is this- it's... really...?" he goggles in wonder.
"Do you think you can create a Trojan Horse for this system?" I ask calmly as I sweep the viscera into a basin. These will be pickled later until they form a pungent, slimy substance. Shiokara, as they call it in Japan. An acquired taste to be sure, but for older mammals whose olfactory senses are beginning to fade it can be quite stimulating.
"I... I suppose. But this is so sudden! I mean, I don't even know who you people are, or-"
"You will not be paid for asking questions. Two hundred thousand in cash. That is my only offer. Though I will allow you the option to say no."
I've already gripped another fresh eel, and I open its neck just as quickly. A spurt of thick, black blood crawls down its pale belly.
"Wh-when do you need this done?" Asner says with a mild squeak.
"Two weeks," I say as I begin to gut and fillet this eel as well. "No later."
"All right then, I'll just need to get back to my place and..."
"Your equipment will be brought to you," I say coolly.
"But-"
"I do not care about your wall scrolls or pornography collection or gaming paraphernalia. You will focus the entirety of your being on this task I've set. Is that clear?"
"Y-yes!" Asner squeaks.
"Good. Milo. Oliver. Show this tod to his cell," I command. The two panthers peel themselves from the wall and drag the terrified fox out of the room.
For a long time the Prodigal stares at me as I continue my work. It Is good to feel fresh blood on my paws again. Though my strength is failing me with each passing year and the aches in my joints grow sharper, I do enjoy putting myself through some physical labor on occasion. Especially with a task as thoroughly satisfying as cleaning fish.
"That was... unusually brusque, my Prince," he says carefully.
"Was it?" I ask, as I pull the spine from the eel.
He is correct, of course. Courtesy costs us so little, yet it can buy so much. It isn't often that I lose my patience for it, even on a toad like Marcus Asner.
"If... if this is about the attempt on Lionheart's life..." he begins, "I can prepare a plan to reach him. Give me two days my Prince, and I will deliver the Mayor's head on a platter..."
"You think I am upset," I say with an unshakable calm. "Quite the contrary. You should know better by now, Jacob. Lionheart's death was never my true goal."
His eyes widen, and he looks away as if mulling over the situation. He comes to the realization quickly enough.
We are at a marked disadvantage here in the City. The ZIA's eyes are everywhere, and their operatives outnumber my Praetors five to one. Though much less competent, the ZPD present yet another danger. The City is protected by a mesh of their protocols and procedures, their Agents and Officers.
A machine that runs so smoothly, with so many moving parts, is a formidable thing indeed. But I am an architect of chaos... throw a wrench into the gears, and it ultimately breaks down, or at least stutters long enough for my plans to blossom.
How many Agents have been redirected to protect the Mayor? How many are now investigating his background, straining the trust between Seraphine and Lionheart? I've had a number of more subtle threats made against the members of the City Council as well... how many more resources will be redirected to protecting them, now that the ZIA believes I mean to conquer this worthless City?
"Things are falling into place," I murmur. "We grow ever closer to Doug Schaffer, while the ZIA continues to lag behind. If I have been short with Asner, it is because other, greater things are coming to fruition. I will have Sebastian smooth things over with the tod. That is what he is here for, after all."
"You... called me by my name," Jacob murmurs, his eyes wide with wonder. "For the first time in twenty years."
"My plans proceed smoothly, and our family line shall continue," I say with a rare smile, though I still focus on my work. I slice though the neck of yet another eel, drain its blood, and with the same smooth efficiency as I've possessed in doing this for the past fifty years, I draw the knife down its squirming belly and expose its guts.
"With things going so well..." I say as I scoop out the entrails, "I am in a forgiving mood today."
.
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Nick Wilde
I really have to thank Finnick. He really came through for me.
When I'd passed him the note after that nighttime picnic with Judy I knew he'd keep his trap shut. Aside from the funny look he'd given me for a split-second at the unusually thick wad of cash I'd passed him there'd been no real tells. Judy might've suspected something, but she might've just as easily passed it off as another weird fox habit. Though I gotta say, if she did notice and was graceful enough to not bring it up I'd really feel guilty over how much she was trusting me.
As the note had mentioned he hadn't contacted me afterward. He hadn't asked any questions. Which of course meant that I had no clue whether he followed my instructions until now. But there it is, right where I'd asked him to leave 'em: two fox-sized motorcycle helmets, lined with a triple-layer of aluminum foil on the outside.
Yeah, I know the old cliché of tinfoil hats meaning you're crazy, but believe it or not this shit works. I'd tried it a long time ago at the suggestion of a honey badger pal of mine, and wrapped my cell phone in a single layer of it. Completely blocked all reception. Now granted she was worried about mind control rays instead of two-way radio bugs that'd been implanted deep in my ear canals, so I hope the same principle works.
With a nervous sigh, I slip the helmet on.
For few seconds I just stand here in the middle of the tunnel, three city blocks from the sewer grate right next to my apartment. The tunnel and the flowing water overhead might be enough to block reception already, but I wasn't about to take any chances.
"Check, check. Mic check," I say quietly. No response.
"Mic check," I say a little more firmly now. "Hey Twilight Cathedral, can you read me?"
Silence on the other end. Oh god I hope that's a good thing.
Just then I hear the shuffle of footsteps from an adjacent tunnel. Pressing myself flat against the bricks and trying my best to hide beside a pipe I peek over to the side to see...
Dad.
He's wearing a dark green suit jacket and matching trousers, along with a black tie. His paws are folded behind his back, and he has such a dignified, stately posture. It's the look of a mammal who's made a habit of putting on the best face possible for the rest of the world, all too aware that he'd be judged by his species.
I breathe a sigh of relief and point at the other foil-lined helmet. Picking pockets had been one of the first skills I learned when I got into hustling. It was a simple matter for me to slip the note into his pocket earlier this evening, once we finished our training and he was giving me a hug and a pat on the back for improving.
Dad glances at me and the foil-lined helmet I'm wearing, then he looks to the one that rests on the ground. Then back at me again. To his credit he doesn't laugh, though the corners of his mouth twitch into an amused half-smile. He humors me though, and picks up the helmet and puts it on.
"Very clever," he says with a nod. "If the monitors notice that the reception from your earpieces cut out, they'll likely chalk it up to the tunnel."
"Hope you have as good a cover story for yourself," I sigh in relief. Part of me... a small part, really, feels kinda giddy over the fact that this worked and Dad confirmed it. Now that no one's reading or recording my conversations with Dad, I can speak freely. "We are safe though, right?"
"Your grandfather doesn't monitor me the way he does you," he says, much more relaxed now that we can speak safely. "I have the autonomy to move on my own through the city, whenever I wish. And yes, Nick. We're safe. A week ago you'd have a Praetor tailing you topside," Dad points up, indicating the street level, "Of course now that things are in motion our operatives are more useful elsewhere."
"Great," I say, breathing a sigh of relief. "Look Dad, whatever Rufinius is doing, we've gotta stop him. I'm trying to do everything I can to keep it together here but... but it's sick, dad. I almost puked halfway through the auction."
"I had to help your grandfather manage three others much like it this past week," Dad sighs, muzzle wrinkling in distaste. I know I need his help for this, but deep down I'm fuming. How could he just stand by and watch as mammals are put on the auction block? How could he have done it these past twenty years? "And in two months there'll be another series of 'em. We're very successful in Japan."
"And in between?" I say in a low growl.
"The more mid-quality bunnies are rented out. And those who've aged out of the role will return to the Farms and work in the catnip fields to their dying day."
I think back to the bunnies I've come to know. Bonnie and Stu. Cory, Stacey, Dixie, Clover and Buster. All part of Judy's litter. What if one of them had been forced to wear one of those skimpy loincloths and go up on the auction block, while wealthy assholes bid on them like they were looking to buy a prize hen?
And then there were the younger ones: the little tykes who'd invited me to play rounds of soccer and Fur Fighter on their Preystation. I have to push the image aside then, I can't bear to think what Rufinius would do to bunnies at that age.
"This has to stop, Dad..." I insist. "It's wrong. It's sick! Even if you don't care about the rabbits-"
"Of course I care!" he protests.
"-it's getting to be even bigger than that! One of my friends was almost killed last night!"
"I'm well aware of that, Nick."
"Please, Dad. Please help me stop this."
"Going against Rufinius will be dangerous," he sighs, "Hell, if he even finds out we're having this conversation someone is going to die. And remember, it won't be your life you'll be risking."
"I know, Dad... but if Judy knew what was happening she'd want me to do something." That dumb bunny. Someone who'd mouthed off to Mr. Big to save a missing otter wouldn't think twice about putting her life on the line here. And if I just stood by and she ever found out... she'd kill me.
"Good. You'll need that determination if you want to survive this," he nods as if this little mutiny was his plan all along. "I think it might be possible. Just remember we can't meet like this too often. And when we step out of this tunnel, these conversations never happened."
I nod.
"So what's your plan?"
"Ha! You think I have a plan?" I say incredulously. "Most I've ever done is wing it based on what I know.
"Well, that's the Frisk in you."
"I'm not a Frisk, dad," I say with a scowl. "I'm a Wilde. Now look, do you have any idea why Gramps put a hit out on Lionheart?"
"He didn't," Dad says with a shrug. "The whole thing was staged to look like a hit. In reality it was about putting the ZIA and ZPD into a panic, and to erode trust between the two factions. Are you aware that Lionheart is related to one of the First Families?"
My eyes widen. He'd mentioned that during one of our other nighttime meets, an orientation into the history of the Frisks and Zootopia's underground.
"Blood kin to the Leonis Pride." Dad's muzzle twists into a snarl. "Absolute savages. They used to be charming and charismatic, some of the world's best orators and politicians stretching back to ancient Rome. But behind the scenes they were even worse than the Vulpes Sanguinis in many ways. I've got nothing against Lionheart personally, but after this the ZIA must've uncovered his lineage. Rufinius hoped it'd put some strain on him and Director Seraphine's relationship."
"I think you might be underestimating how well we work together," I say, crossing my arms. Yes, I realize the irony in me defending the task force.
"Regardless," Dad says with a wave of his paw, "Several Praetors put themselves in view of some of the City Council members too. In fact, at least a dozen Sanguine Shadow roses have been sent out to them."
"Sanguine Shadow?"
"Black roses," Dad explains, "With blood-red fringes along the petals, one of the first varieties your grandfather bred. Rufinius has often had assassins leave them as a calling card to those he kills or plans to kill, or sent out as a reminder that those individuals are on dangerous ground with him."
I nod. I remember the rosebushes he had growing in that one room.
So that was it then. These vague and not-so-vague threats on the City Council had forced the ZIA and the ZPD to expend a ton of resources into protecting them. There were rumors of the arguments officers had overheard from Chief Bogo's office, with Agent Stripes pushing back hard against the ZPD's shift in focus to put protective details on major government centers and officials. I'd lurked outside his office a bit myself, as Stripes began to shout that "HE" didn't think that way, that "HE" was just trying to distract us from something else. There was no ambiguity as to who Stripes meant.
"They're falling for it, aren't they?" Dad says, tilting his head. "Director Seraphine and Chief Bogo... they're operating under the assumption that Rufinius is dead. That someone younger is in charge. They think that these threats and the assassination attempt are just the undisciplined actions of a greenpaw trying to consolidate power."
"Yeah..." I sigh. Cheese and crackers, did Rufinius seriously anticipate they'd come to that conclusion?
Dad lets out an annoyed huff. "Well I certainly hope they don't think I'm the one in charge. Undisciplined my ass..."
"So..." I begin, turning the facts over in my head. "If Rufinius means for all this to be a distraction, something big is going to happen, isn't it?"
"Yes, Nick. Unfortunately he keeps his plans close to himself..."
"I've already figured it out," I interrupt, "And I've already done what I could to alert the ZIA."
Dad's eyes narrow. "I certainly hope you know what you're doing."
"HA! Honestly, at this point I'm just trying to come to terms with the fact that by the end of all this someone is going to skin me alive!" Though whether it'll be Rufinius Frisk or Jack Savage, who can say?
I'd meant it as a joke, bleak as it was, but Dad's eyes harden into steel. "That won't happen, Nick. I will not allow it."
He steps forward then, reaching up and cupping the front of my muzzle, the only part that pokes out from the motorcycle helmet. His paw is warm, and while it smells of fox it doesn't smell of him. He doesn't have the scent I remember from childhood... earthy and sweet, like honeysuckle. "Everything I've done these past twenty years, I've done to protect you and your mother. And I'll still protect you now."
"Yeah, I know, Dad," I say as I place a paw on his shoulder, "You implied as much in your letter."
Dad nods in affirmation, but there's something in his eye... a glint that almost feels like I'd just said something unfamiliar. What does that mean, I wonder? Did he forget what he wrote in that letter?
Or was he just not the one who sent it in the first place?
.
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Jack Savage
My paw trembles as I reach for my mug of coffee. I've had so many pots of it these past two days that my heart's gotta be pumping pure Colombian Dark Roast by now. Skye had to remind me to eat earlier, but even after a zucchini pesto sandwich from the deli my mouth still tastes like pure smoke from all the java I'd been downing.
It wasn't just the panic over possible assassination attempts against the central government of Zootopia. It was also all the work we'd had to do to cover it up. It was hard enough trying to keep the attack on Lionheart on the DL, but the fact that Danny was one of the beloved backup dancers for Gazelle had been the knife that'd torn through the paper shield we'd tried to erect. Though ZNN knew something was going on, we'd been able to keep most of the details hidden by hunting down everyone involved in the chain of emergency response and insisting they keep their damn muzzles shut. We've even had to pull some strings with the executives at ZNN and Hooves News.
Then of course I'd had to go to Bogo and Seraphine, demanding and pleading in turn for them to not move any of my resources to all the investigation and monitoring and protection details that had to be done. This wasn't Rufinius' style, I'd told them. This has got to be a bluff, a way to distract us from his real plans. But my arguments had fallen on deaf ears. Bogo had written me off as paranoid. Seraphine had insisted I needed to work on what we knew rather than what we suspected.
Even worse, just as I was returning to my office at the ZPD I saw that black wolf, Dr. Conall, sniffing after me like he was trying to get a fix on my mental state. He'd been lurking around the ZPD more than usual lately, and I'd seen him talking to Agents and Officers alike, each one a member of my task force.
And just when I'd thought things couldn't get any worse, I'd forgotten that I'd wanted Adrienne to provide a quick report on what she'd found monitoring Wilde's work station.
"His internet search history is just filled with this crap," she says, going down the list. "'Hot bunny twinks.' 'Buck-toothed bunny boys.' 'Lurid luscious lagomorphs.' 'Carrot stuffing.' 'Long-eared bondage.' 'Cornholing cottontails.' 'Julie Hopper in the Foxes' Den...'"
"I hear that one's getting popular."
I shoot Lenny a hard glare, before I realize it's Miles who'd said it, still tapping that carton of cigarettes against the table. He gives a derisive snort when he notices my momentary confusion. I rub the bridge of my nose, trying to clear my head. Crap I think I only got twenty minutes of sleep last night...
"Adrienne, could you please get to the point..."
"Oh no, Adie. Do go on..." Skye says with her smarmy vulpine grin. After this she'll happily massage my stress away and cuddle me to sleep, but she'll never turn down an opportunity to mess with me, just a little.
"Well it goes on like this for a while," Adrienne sniffs. "It's a major IT issue. We should really probably contact HR..."
The thought of leaping across the table and wringing the stoat's scrawny little neck flicks through my mind. We've gotten shortpawed because of the plague of black roses that'd been delivered. If not for that I would've assigned a first-year cadet to comb through the data instead of Adrienne. Someone who could actually focus on what was relevant. One of the most dangerous terrorist organizations in Zootopia's history is planning something big, something that isn't a wave of murders against government officials, and she thinks I'm worried about Nick Wilde's fraternization?
"Well, at least we know Wilde's an idiot," Miles says, mouth twisting. I'm this close to telling him to just pop a cig already if he's going to be twitchy about it. "The guy has a woeful disregard for possible electronic monitoring. Even if we hadn't bugged his computer the ZPD's IT department would've logged his workstation's browser history."
"Well the second set of red flags is that he's been doing a lot of searches about gun stores," Adrienne says. "Any idea what that means?"
"Gun stores?" I murmur. My heart skips a beat.
Lenny's brow wrinkles. "That's unusual. He should be able to requisition whatever firearms he needs from the ZPD."
"No, no... that's not it..." I murmur. I'm trying to puzzle it out, but I'm just too damn exhausted to think...
"What exactly is it about these gun stores that he's been looking up?" Miles asks. He finally taps out a cigarette and tucks it behind his ear.
"Not the actual weapons," she says. "Mostly looking at the list of recent background checks they ran for new firearm purchases..."
"Background checks..." I murmur.
It hits me then, like a flash of lighting out of a clear blue sky. It comes so quickly that it almost slips into the fog of exhaustion, but I grasp at the thought, dragging it back and refusing to let go.
"Adrienne, how many of those background checks are of sheep?" I sit up, ears perked and alert now.
Skye blinks. "Oh... OH!"
Lenny shakes his head, "Can someone please fill me in?"
Miles sits up at attention as well. He's realized it as quickly as I had. "Think about it from Doug's point of view. You're the big kingpin of the Blue market. You hear about the warehouse fire on the news and that one of your former partners and current competitors was just murdered. Burned alive. If you're Doug, you're gonna think you're in danger, and best guess is that it was your other partner Woolter who did it, to try to corner the market on Blue."
"And Woolter's going to think the same thing," Skye says, eyes widening. "He's going to think that Doug killed Jesse's crew, and that Doug's going to be coming after him next. Rufinius ordered Jesse killed to set off a gang war."
"Precisely," Miles nods. "The ZIA has the benefit of knowing that it's the Vulpes Sanguinis, but if you're Doug you don't know any of that. All you know is that a sheep is dead and you might be next."
"So what do you do when you're in that situation?" I add, "You start arming yourself to the teeth. You buy as many weapons as you can. Doug's going to be preparing for an attack by Woolter, Woolter's going to be preparing for an attack by Doug.
"In the meantime, they're both playing straight into Rufinius' paws. First, by killing Jesse you've driven Doug and Woolter into hiding, making it harder for the ZIA to find them. Second, since Rufinius knows that Jesse and Woolter will be buying weapons, he knows precisely what trail of breadcrumbs the Vulpes Sanguinis should follow. And finally, since Nick Wilde has access to the ZPD's resources, you acquire him and get him to help find the sheep before we do."
I shake my head, growling. "Not only that, but by planting that Sanguine Shadow Rufinius put us into a panic. He knew the ZIA would switch gears and start trying to get into the brain of a Frisk rather than figuring out what the sheep will be doing. He didn't need to drop that rose, but in doing so he was throwing up a smokescreen to distract us from the sheep."
I'm so pissed at myself. All it'd taken was one warehouse fire and one goddamn flower to start this chain reaction. Rufinius had always believed that a truly clever fox didn't need to lie in order to deceive, and he'd done just that with this mindfuck. Hell, he'd done so again just now, with the assassination attempt against Lionheart and the backhanded threats against the City Council. With Seraphine and Bogo deciding to play defense, this task force's resources had been drained to a trickle.
Fuck. FUCK!
"I'll cross-check his searches of those gun stores for sheep right now!" Adrienne squeaks, pinning her eyes to her laptop and typing frantically.
"I doubt it'd do any good," Miles grunts. "If I were a fugitive drug-dealing sheep I wouldn't be going to a legit gun dealership to arm myself for a gang war, especially if they're going to run background checks through the ZPD. I'd be going to the black market. Wilde was probably just trying to cover his bases looking into legit sources."
"And Wilde has a head start on us," I fume. "He knows every criminal in the City. Every lowlife, every gangster. He even had ties with the mob before they fled Zootopia. He'll know where Doug and Woolter would be going to buy weapons on the black market."
I hop out of my chair and grab my jacket. "I need to interrogate the mammals we've detained. Pull up a list of every jailhouse snitch the ZPD has, we have to-"
Just then Skye catches me by the shoulder.
"No, Jack. You're exhausted," Skye says in that no-nonsense tone of hers. She pulls it out so rarely, that it really leaves an impression on you when she finally does. "If you keep pushing yourself you're going to drop dead of a coronary."
"We'll handle this," Miles adds. "You need to take care of yourself, Jack."
I sigh. I really hate to admit it, but they're right. I'm barely able to pull two strings of thought together.
Skye pulls a bottle out of her pocket. "Here. Melatonin. Take two and curl up on your office couch for the night."
"How long have you been carrying these?" I say, looking at the bottle.
"For as long as I've worked with you," Skye smiles. "Here, I'll walk you to your office."
There isn't anything amorous behind the sentiment. She's not going to drop and give me a blow to help me sleep better or anything. Skye just wants to make sure I get my rest instead of running off to Highwatch on my own.
Once we arrive at my office I plop onto the big couch without even flicking the light on. The thing was made for medium-sized mammals, mostly wolves, but that just means I can spread out more comfortably. I'd brought a little memory foam pillow with me too, knowing I might need to take the occasional nap at the precinct.
I down the pills with a shot of bourbon from the flask I'd left on the end table. The tingling burn crawls down my throat, and a faint giddy warmth blooms in my head. My brain is still buzzing from all the caffeine I'd downed throughout the day, but that shouldn't matter too much when the melatonin kicks in.
I sit up a little when I feel Skye's claws undoing my belt.
"Uh, you... really should get to talking with those prisoners..." I say with a yawn. Honestly, there's no way I'd be able to perform.
"Don't flatter yourself," Skye chuckles. "I'm just making you more comfortable."
And sure enough she just pulls the belt from the loops ringing the waistline of my pants, leaving me to settle in. I can't believe how much that alone has helped me loosen up around my middle.
"Sleep well, Jack," Skye murmurs, planting a kiss on my forehead. As usual, the tip of her tongue flicks out and licks me there. I wearily scrub at the wet patch she leaves.
"Skye?" I say, yawning. It'll be a while before the pills actually have any effect, but two days of exhaustion are catching up on me finally.
"Yes, Jack?"
"I love you..." I murmur into my pillow.
Soon enough, I fall asleep.