A/N: This story will be 15 chapters long. All kinds of criticism (or encouragement :) ) will be very helpful, and thus very appreciated. Big thanks to Nail Strafer for his pre-publication opinion, to Ixode, Jaslazul and apocope for their betaing, and to everyone on the foxhole for welcoming my dumb ass amongst their equally dumb asses! It's wonderful how welcoming this fandom is!

Chapter 1: Welcome aboard, Fox

Footsteps!

Panther interrupted his careful examination of the living room, dimly illuminated by a faint colourful moonbeam, and focused on the rustle coming from outside. Yes. Distinct footsteps disrupting the layer of snow stood out from the breeze sweeping along the house's outer walls. James McCloud, the fox hero of Corneria, finally came home, oblivious to his baneful fate, like a moth fluttering towards a candle.

He's probably exhausted from the long trudge. I bet he's rejoicing at the warmth of his home, Panther thought, the cruel irony amusing him. He grabbed the blaster from the coffee table and swung it left and right with his wrist. What a shame.

A rusty wooden gate slammed. A gate James would never cross again. Panther's heartbeat increased. He stood up from the armchair and stomped around in the living room, resisting the urge to peek through the fogging on the window, lest the fox would spot the intruder. No. He should make a good impression. He collapsed back on the armchair, prepared his blaster, and waited.

His first time. And what a first time it was. James McCloud himself. Failure wasn't an option.

As the steps went closer and louder, Panther reviewed his plan for the upcoming confrontation. He had rehearsed it, sort of. Worst-case scenario, Pigma could intervene, but that wouldn't be necessary. This glory would be his, he knew it. He switched on the recording device hanging to his belt, for they'd need proof of the contract's fulfilment. The door opened. He held his breath.

James stomped on the parquet, removing the unwelcome snow from his pants, the feet's thuds resonating in the entire house. He freed his shoulder and feet from his coat and boots, before waddling across the hallway and towards the living room.

Three.

Two.

One.

The two yellow eyes floating in the darkness stunned James on his feet. He let out a sudden and loud scream, for Panther's greatest delight. The cat often forgot the reaction his feline eyes provoked. As the fox's own eyes accustomed themselves to the ambient obscurity, the shadowy figure came into view, whose black fur blended almost perfectly with the dark background. Soon enough, he discerned the young feline, slouched in an armchair, aiming a blaster right at him.

"Good evening, mister McCloud." He smirked. The tip of his weapon motioned towards the sofa across the room. "You must be done in. Why don't you put those legs to rest?"

The now shaking canine pinned back his ears when he spotted, on his left, another figure standing in the shadow: a pig. Panther envisioned with ease James' revulsion upon his partner. His hollow eyes and flabby mouth upon which no smile ever thrived could make the most fragile of the animals disgorge his most recent repast.

"Whatever you think of doing, don't." Panther turned a tad more authoritative. A couple of slow and menacing steps from the swine, who maintained his gaze riveted on James, endorsed his partner's implicit injunction. The pig had no fangs or claws, yet he was far more dangerous than most carnivores. The fox headed to the sofa across the jungle cat, struggling to stop his limbs from trembling. After he sat down, the pig took a stand behind him, as silent as he hitherto was. Not even a grumble escaped his throat.

"Who are you?" James asked.

"By the gods, I almost forgot about basic courtesy!" Panther replied, crossing his legs, the sarcasm blatant in his voice. This wasn't his house, yet they were in his territory. "Please, forgive my manners. I am Panther. And the big guy behind you, that's Pigma."

Panther waited for the canine to ask the much-awaited question. The suspense wouldn't be long. The fox plunged his eyes into the black cat's as to decipher his most intimate thoughts.

"Are you here for me?" His voice was barely a whisper.

Panther nodded. As his grin grew, James' ears drooped further. A quiet coldness wrapped the room, as though the feline's blunt answer opened the windows and invited winter in. "I thought about messing with you up to this revelation—I have colleagues who proceed as such—but honestly, I don't enjoy it."

"C… Colleagues?!" James turned to the pig behind him, still staring at him in silence, and back at Panther, a hint of withheld panic flickering in his eyes. "I thought Corneria and Venom agreed not to employ bounty hunters!"

"Officially, they did."

The steadfast grin on the panther's face seemed as implacable as destiny. Desperation exhorted James to pull all the strings within reach. "Please, you don't have to do this."

"Oh, you're right. I guess I'll just say goodbye and leave." He paused and swept his eyes around the living room, gloating over the feeling of control and power waving through him. Each of his movements was smooth and calculated. His paw touched upon the recording device hanging to his belt to ensure it was on. "Do people really expect this reaction?"

James sighed. "So what are you waiting for?" His voice went more piercing, daring. "What's the point of this show?"

"Most of us would have shot you in the back outside, mister McCloud." Panther looked back at the fox. "But I didn't, because I hold you in high esteem. You are an honourable and unrivalled warrior. Your fortitude is second to none. You don't deserve to die like a cheap fugitive."

He leaned forwards and put on the coffee table a small transparent vial. "Quick and painless. Others weren't as lucky."

James' eyes narrowed on his soon-to-be killer, and a scowl revealed two white rows of teeth. He snarled, "Are you kidding me?"

The unexpected resistance cleaved the black cat's veneer of confidence. Upon the sudden attack, his body tensed and his grin disappeared. "Er… What?"

"Are you freaking kidding me?!" James kicked the table, tossing its content on Panther's side, and tried to stand up, before a bulky hand, powerful enough to mash coconuts, clasped his clavicle and pinned him back against the upholstery. A firmer grip would have crushed the bone beneath.

But it wouldn't stop James, as brave in death as he was in life. "You come into my house, threaten a disarmed man, offer him to kill himself, and you dare to boast about honour and respect?!"

Panther's ajar maw and wide eyes betrayed his stupefaction. He attempted to think of an appropriate comeback, in vain.

"I won't die as a coward," the fox continued. "Don't count on me to do the dirty job in your stead. You want honour? Bravery? Then show me how brave you are, and soil your paws!"

Panther almost forgot he was the armed one, clueless as he was about the appropriate course of action to take. None of his imaginary scenarios involved resistance, for James was supposed to be docile. He was to accept his fate and take the poison with no fuss. In an attempt to save face, he grabbed the vial on the floor. "J-Just take it! What's the good of making this more difficult?"

But the train of events had already veered off track. James kicked the noxious drink away, and locked his eyes onto the feline's. Panther tried to recompose himself, but the fox knew he won. Even though it wouldn't save him, it would be his last victory before his terminal breath.

"Fine." The feline stood up, his stance displaying only a pale imitation of his now gone aplomb. "Have it your way."

Go on, Panther, if the others can do it, so can you. Just aim at him and pull the trigger, he thought to himself, not as assured as he hoped to be. He enhanced his grip on his blaster and raised a hesitant paw. The weapon's tip trembled as he inhaled and averted his gaze.

"Look at me, young man."

Panther would never know why he obeyed. Upon eye contact, the dead man's tenacity melted what remained of his confidence. His breath in light spurts, the trigger seemed excessively ponderous to him. He looked up. Pigma glared at him, the mockery and disappointment under the dreary and inexpressive face as sweltering as a Titanian desert.

James sneered. "A hit man's job is all fun and game until the hard part comes, ain't that right?"

"Just fuckin' shoot, Panther," said a deep, hoarse voice behind the fox.

"I will! I just need…" He trailed off. He scowled and tightened his grasp even further, as if the more dogged he appeared, the easier the task would become. But to send one to the Promised Land is a hard labour when one has yet spilled no blood. His padded fingers ached under the strength of his own muscles, and the shaking of the blaster only gained amplitude. It couldn't be that hard! His long-awaited reward was just a flex of his index away! He only had to apply a hint of pressure, and it would go off. He bit the inside of his cheek, focused all he could, and…

Pigma joined Panther's side, seized the gun from his paws, and with a swift movement indicative of his well-tried expertise, shot James in the chest without even looking.

Panther jumped at the bang. Although no threat loomed over him, he kept his eyes on the steaming hole in the fox's upper body, as though he expected some sort of maleficent spirit to spring from the corpse. James still sat on the sofa, as peaceful as a village church at noon, his head rested on his shoulder. The jungle cat caught his breath and recalled about his partner's humiliating assistance. He looked down in submission, under the burning sensation of Pigma's scornful judgement.

"You're a joke, Panther." The swine looked down on him in condescension. "A pathetic walkin', meowin' joke."

"I was about to do it! I just needed more time!" He tried to seize the blaster back, but Pigma stowed it in his own holster.

"The time to do what? Tremble and whine? 'Cause that's all I saw you doing!" His imposing body towered over the ashamed feline. He let the silence settle on purpose to ensure Panther grasped the magnitude of his laughable silliness. The black cat recoiled and buried his protestations and self-esteem.

Pigma carried on. "The thing is, the speech you made wasn't terrible. I'd even say it was quite good… If you actually had the guts to carry through your fuckin' job! But now it's just plain ridiculous."

His black ears lowered, and Panther's muzzle pointed downwards. He swallowed a lump in his throat. "I-I won't fail next time."

"Without me. You'll ask Leon for another partner. I don't have the time to deal with wannabes who joined Sargasso because they think it's cool." He shoved Panther with his elbow. The black cat failed to maintain his balance, and the panicking sensation of weightlessness accompanied him till his back met the ground with a loud thwack. "But can't stomach a little action."

Pigma exited the room, leaving Panther the time and the luxury to reconsider his life choices. He rested on the floor and gazed at the patterned ceiling, scattering his life's key moments on the chinks zigzagging in the timber, seeking for a meaning, a direction. Memories displayed before his eyes. Memories of his reticence to pledge allegiance to anyone, of the excitement upon the rumours about Sargasso, a community ruled by and for pariahs. He reminisced of the thrill when he listened to the call of freedom and stole a Wolfen from the Venomian army, to search and find this mysterious space station concealed inside the Meteo Belt, alleged last bastion of liberty within the Lylat System.

Of course, the hidden paradise didn't live up to the promises.

Pigma, and others alike, were the ones who thrived. Even though Panther expected to stumble across the worst of the vermin of Lylat, nothing could prepare him for the infamy and brutality he encountered daily. His attempts at making himself invisible shielded him not from theft and violence. On the other hand, he mastered the use of his claws, and quite fiercely, judging from the blood soaking his opponents' faces. Better than nothing. Often, he found himself longing for the death of all of those bastards. After all, who would mourn them?

He stood up, and his gaze fell back on the dead fox. Had it not been for the chest's cavity, one could have sworn James had fallen into a restful slumber. Panther could have shown them. He could have demonstrated his courage and loyalty, and shown everybody at Sargasso he too could be a dreadful mercenary. He could have been the one and only to have killed James McCloud. And yet, the corpse testified to his failure. How pitiful of you, James' empty eyes seemed to say. Do you expect them to respect you after such a poor performance? You'll never hold a candle to them, you're too weak for that. They'll laugh at you, just like everyone else.

The sound of two jerrycans falling on the ground dragged him out of his gloomy ruminations.

"Is taking care of the second floor in your wheelhouse?" Pigma asked. "Or still too harsh for the little kitty cat?"

Panther hissed between his fangs. "Eat shit."

The pig's fist landed on the feline's cheek with the momentum of a locomotive launched at full speed, hurling him aside. His paw reached to the armchair to avoid a second fall. As stunned as if the sky fell on his head, he rubbed his unresponsive jaw, and his tongue scoured his mouth to ascertain the integrity of all teeth. Despite the force of the blow, he knew Pigma was being gentle. When Pigma hits you, it's not just to hurt you, but rather to make you realise how much he could if he wanted to.

"Your only warning, boy," the swine said in a tone as threatening as the statement itself.

Panther's kept his eyes low, whilst his partner grabbed a container and proceeded with their last task, leaving the jungle cat alone with the weight of his revived shame. The feline's slow steps took him upstairs, carrying the burden of his defeat and a jerrycan full of gasoline. He dared not to look at James, lest the ghost would taunt him once more.

He removed the plug and snaked between the furnishings and along the hallways, pouring on his path a trail of the flammable liquid. Soon enough, an unmistakable scent filled the air. The baleful vapours would ignite, the two mercenaries would vanish into the night, and the official record would mention a fire whose cause would forever be unknown. James McCloud would be mourned, Sargasso would be paid, Venom would have officially kept its promise, and life would go on.

Simply put, business as usual for the people of Sargasso.

Wait, what was that?

Panther froze, stretched his ears, and tried to ignore the thumps of his own heart and Pigma's footsteps below. A faint breeze akin to the wind whispering through a tiny pipe. Tenuous, but perceptible. A breath? Someone else occupied the house?

He sneaked towards the weak noise, his pads feather-light against the floor, which grew in intensity as he approached, before he reached a closed door. A muffled whine caressed his ears. He stopped his arms from quivering, held his breath, and opened.

The jerrycan fell from his paw.

Panther strived to contain a sudden outburst of distress upon the white cradle. The breathing stood out from the quiet backdrop, along with another whimper. No. Of all the possibilities, anything but this. Each step further increased his heartbeat, as he dreaded the moment he would venture a peep inside the crib. He prayed to the gods, or whatever omnipotent spirits protecting this world, to change the course of events, to make the crib and its content disappear, to teleport him far away from here. But no miracle answered his prayers. He failed to control his irregular breath as a disarming furball came into view.

A kit.

A supine amber kit, too young to walk or talk, swaddled in a multicoloured blanket.

The jungle cat squinted, hoping he was under the sway of some wicked illusion. When he opened them back, reality hit him with even more implacability than his partner's punch. The awake kit maintained gaze, and Panther drowned in his green eyes, full of innocence and curiosity, paralysed. Not a sign of mistrust or animosity.

He heard a lot of those presumptuous speeches about the blurry frontier between good and evil, along with similar nonsensical poppycocks the unrighteous love to excuse himself with. Panther himself never vindicated perfect knowledge about morality. He wouldn't oppose lying or stealing.

But taking the life of a newborn? Not in a thousand years.

As though the kit guessed his mulling, his lips parted in what resembled a smile, after which he babbled incomprehensible words. Panther's dream of freedom and adventure seemed already so childish to him. All he could see now were hundreds of roads, all leading towards an inescapable pit of darkness. The persistent smell of gasoline recalled him of the fate awaiting both of them.

"Oh no… Oh no no no…" he muttered.

"Something's wrong?"

A confused and panicked glance met Pigma upon his arrival in the bedroom. Panther's mouth opened as to speak, but no words came out. Crestfallen, he brought his gaze back on the kit before the swine followed suit. The latter shared none of his partner's dismay.

"What's the matter?" he reiterated.

Panther gestured a trembling paw at the cradle. "L-Look…"

"Yeah, I'm not blind, so what? You didn't know he had a son?"

The feline remained silent as his mind gave thousands of contradictory indications. Pigma let him the chance to speak up, before rolling his eyes and sighing in lassitude.

"Alright, I got this." He whipped out the blaster and took the safety off.

The familiar click unleashed into Panther the adrenaline he needed to overcome his catalepsy. He jumped at the massive pig and pushed him away, before taking a firm stand between him and the kit. The determination the black stern face displayed would have impressed even Pigma in dissimilar circumstances.

"What the fuck, Panther!"

"Pigma, it's just a baby!"

He raised a single eyebrow. "Because killin' an adult is okay?"

The jungle cat's gaze swept the room, hoping to catch in the air anything that could drag him out of this seemingly inextricable soup. "Maybe… Maybe we can leave him outside before lighting the fire?"

Pigma sniggered and shook his head in consternation. "How retarded are you? If the authorities find the child, they'll know the fire is no accident."

"Then… What about dropping him at an orphanage?"

"Sure! The very night an allegedly accidental fire killed James McCloud and his son, a fox kit is mysteriously found outta nowhere. Totally not suspicious!"

A shadow of defeat darkened the feline's eyes, but he was bent on forestalling the spill of more blood. He stood firm, impassive, aware of the fact that should the swine commit himself to the fateful toil, he could subdue Panther without even utilising his left hand.

"Trust me, I know how you feel," Pigma continued, opting for diplomacy in the stead of mere force. "We all went through these kinds of moment, don't go thinkin' I enjoy any of it. But to have the case settled as an accident, the kid needs to die. That's unfortunate, but that's how things are. Now out of my way before I get mad."

From Pigma's perspective, there was no room for discussion. It would only be a matter of time till the young feline would accept the inevitable, for the future seemed carved in stone, regardless of the black cat's decision. He expected him to concede, but should he refuse to, a swing of his hand would change his mind, and if not… Well, accidents were common in the profession.

He did not foresee, however, Panther leaning over the cradle and bringing the wrapped up kit against his chest.

When the feline turned back, the half-awake fox's oversized pointy ears scratching his chin, he was met with an astound and open-mouthed swine bug-eyeing at him. Pigma scrutinised Panther's expression, gauging whether he was bantering or not, and his stalwart look pointed towards the latter.

He shook his head. "You can't be serious."

"You leave me no choice."

All vestiges of Pigma's appreciation for Panther wore off. He balled his fists and stepped towards the jungle cat, striving to defer the recourse to violence, yet not disinclined to its usage.

To the pig's great surprise, Panther didn't flinch the slightest. "I've made up my mind, Pigma."

"You think you're doing him a favour? Panther, Sargasso is no place for children! What kind of future are you givin' him? Let him die here. At least he'll get to stay with his family!"

Pigma took another step, yet Panther stood firm, valiant. His right paw let go of the kit, and five razor-sharp claws emerged from the fingers, ready to cut through the pink flesh.

"How do you think Leon will react?" Pigma grumbled.

"I'll deal with Leon."

"Yeah, sure. More like, Leon will deal with you."

As Pigma was about to progress further, a hint of hesitation popped into his mind. His gaze went from the kit, struggling to stay amongst the awakened, to the feline, showing his teeth and throwing a murderous glance at him. He let out a heavy irate sigh and rubbed his forehead.

"You know what? So be it. I could smash both of your skulls hands down, but all things considered, I can't wait for your upcomin' discussion with Leon." He slackened his shoulders and put himself aside, beckoning Panther to clear off. "If you're afraid of me, just wait till you see the boss when he's angry."

Panther mobilised all his energy to hide his bottled up terror as he walked past his partner, leaving it to him to finalise their job. When he estimated the range long enough, he allowed his respiration to catch up with his frantic heart. A smothered cry of relief and victory escaped his lips, as the invigorating and rapid intake of air cleared his mind of his past failures and re-inflated his self-esteem. He won. He stood up against Pigma and emerged victorious. His congeners' ineluctable mockery mattered little to him. They would never share this accomplishment.

He simmered down, the soothing heat of the furball in his arms helping the process. He lay him down to put on his coat, before taking him back. The kit balanced between slumber and wakefulness, the never-ending agitation hindering his departure into Morpheus' arms. As Panther headed outside, his glimpse caught James' body, still serene.

See, mister McCloud? Was that brave enough for you?

This time, the ghost remained silent.

All ready to go, he was about to vacate the premises, his left arm holding the kit, his right paw on the doorknob, when a subtle bump on his thigh caught his attention. He recalled about the recording device, and about one detail in particular.

Whoops, forgot to turn that off, he thought before flicking a switch on the device and opening the door.

No sooner had the door leaf spun on its hinges, the harsh winter breeze invaded the entrance hallway. The kit stirred and whimpered in his blanket, begging for aegis. Panther hastened to open his coat and sheltered the cub in its warm bosom and the fox dug his claws in the feline's chest and reposed his head against his throat, drawing on the comforting presence of his devoted protector. Safely bundled up, he drifted into dormancy.

The wind howled in the distance. As Panther toiled against the current alongside the trail James left a few minutes ago, he pressed against him the warm furball jammed between his body and his coat, hoping to provide the orphan with the strength and comfort he would need to face his sombre future. At each step, his confidence and his pride grew, along with the commitment to defend the fox through thick and thin.

He turned to the house and saw Pigma emerging and tossing a match. The kit wriggled in his fitful sleep. Panther cupped the head and scratched the ochre fur atop with his thumb, before murmuring to his ear, "It's okay, little guy. You're safe with me."

He took a deep breath and contemplated the nascent flames.

The soft humming of the engines resonated inside the ship, drifting through space with the elegance of a manta ray. Corneria was already a far-off blue dot in the sky, the colour being the only detail allowing an observer to distinguish the planet from the thousands of stars studded on the dark cosmic background. Chilling on the observation deck, Panther and the kit enjoyed the warmth of the spacecraft. The jungle cat deemed wise to avoid Pigma, lest the swine would come back on his decision on a whim. With the awake fox still slumped in his arms, he admired the view.

Now and then, an asteroid would cross their field of vision, eliciting a loud and cheerful exaltation of wonder from the fox. His wide eyes perpetually scoured the stars, and his ears swivelled around at each rustle of the ship, as he marvelled at almost every object passing across. Panther cupped his fluffy cheek and in response the fox nudged his head against the paw and closed his eye, his face adorning a heart-warming smile. The cat was about to break the touch when the kit clutched the black furred arm to prolong the embrace.

No words disturbed the silence, for none of them could make himself understood anyway. They merely waited, and gazed. Panther began the sketch of the path to come, of what kind of upbringing the fox would receive, of how he could ensure his safety amid the scum of Lylat, of how he would conceal the dark secret regarding his true father.

And most importantly, how he would pull through Leon's fury. For sure, plentiful daunting challenges awaited him, but he would find a way. He always had.

Then, interrupting his thoughts, she came into view.

She had many names. Some were laudatory, such as the Hidden Oasis, or TNBSS (That Nice Big Space Station); others not so much, like the Celestial Landfill or the Ugly Stepmother. But her true name was on all lips, and as many speculations concerning her nature as there were animals in Lylat bounced between chatty mouths and curious ears. Few were lucky enough to find her through the right contacts. Many would spend their entire life ransacking the system in her search and breathe their last empty-handed, for her location was the most well-guarded secret in the galaxy. A vestige of a bygone epoch, recycled into a refuge for all the outcasts of Lylat.

Sargasso.

Originally designed to assist the conquest of Lylat beyond the Meteo Belt during the First Colonisation Era, her abandonment would have turned her into a useless derelict, had it not been for a handful of reckless pirates who saw in her a golden opportunity alike none other. Her built-in defence system and generous dwelling-space made her the perfect (if not only) candidate for a base located outside all forms of jurisdiction. A metallic haven where free trade and opulence would blossom like nowhere else (at least, that's how they marketed the venture). Should you be an unfortunate soul who vilified the wrong person at the wrong time or an unscrupulous bandit looking for a lay-by to stretch your legs, Sargasso would never leave you on her doorstep. You find her, you inhabit her.

In theory.

From the distance, Panther saw a small hatch open, from which three inanimate bodies slowly emerged. Three unfortunate souls who failed to prove themselves useful. Or who pissed off Leon on the wrong day. The floating corpses send a shiver down Panther's spine, thanking the gods for his flying and fighting skills. His talent protected him from such a fate, but it wouldn't protect the fox in his arms. If he failed to come up with something, a fourth body would escape this hatch.

Indeed, to aver that Sargasso's welcoming reputation and reality didn't marry well was a euphemism.

Upon glimpsing at his off-putting new home, the kit lost his smile and cowered against Panther, keeping a wary pair of eyes riveted on the shapeless warty structure. In spite of the feline appeasing him by stroking the back of his head, his limbs retained their stiffness.

"Trust me, little guy, it's even uglier inside," Panther said, as he already dreaded the reunion with the loathsome smell of filth and perpetually recycled air floating between the metallic walls.

He worried too, but not for similar reasons. A potentially gory encounter with the big boss pointed the tip of its nose, and his options were scanty. As the spacecraft approached the hatch, he felt hopelessness growing in his guts, yet refused to consider forsaking the child. Two space fighters flew past them and got ahead inside the hangar, under the feline's anxious gaze. He narrowed his eyes on them, and suddenly…

It hit him. Of course… Why hadn't he realised sooner? He grew a beam from ear to ear and refrained his feet from stomping. Indubitably crazy and risky, but… Yes. It could work. No… Even better. It would work. It would definitely work.

The black cat sniggered. He knew exactly how to confront Leon.

"Tell me you're jesting."

On the station's upper deck, an unusual scene unfolded under dozens of inquisitive pairs of eyes. A handful of sightseers had dropped their respective tasks and gathered on the deck normally reserved for the station's pilots, of which Panther was part, to witness the once-in-a-lifetime event. Similar to Cornerian tourists, they formed a circle and gawked at the panther and the chameleon facing each other in the middle.

"Caroso, tell me you're jesting," repeated Leon.

Before him stood his interlocutor, his arms around a fox cub leaned against his torso. The orange head peeked above his shoulder and reciprocated a curious gawk at the surrounding audience, whilst his black-furred guardian maintained eye contact with the reptile, his apprehension and anxiety seething under his placid expression. One wrong word, and his boss would make him bite the dust. He walked not on eggshells, but on baby heads. With ice skates.

Leon Powalski may not seem like a dreadful felon, but to let his apparent politeness and genteel manners fool you would be unwise. One cannot read into Leon. Any inspection of his almost robot-like gait and imperturbable countenance, no matter how careful, would reveal none of his cruelty and ruthlessness. Plentiful fierce adventurers ended up praying for their mothers after falling in the chameleon's clutches, for his knowledge on how to make the strongest of the men suffer and cry was remarkably extensive, and the wailing of his victims still haunted some souls on Sargasso.

With that being said, an attentive eye could occasionally discern subtle changes of colour on the reptile's skin, which sometimes left its standard green hue to lean towards variations of brown or grey. Many conjectures were born in an attempt to link those shifts to the chameleon's attitude, to no avail so far.

"Powalski, I—"

A loud stomp cut him off.

"I shall not brook unwanted justifications," his sharp tone cut through the air. With his two protruding eyes moving independently, he focused on both the jungle cat and the fox. "I'll grant you two options, and two options only. You can either admit this is some asinine antic of yours and I expel the runt in the vacuum, or stand your ground, in which case an injudicious panther will escort him. It's up to you."

Panther heard the faint and obnoxious laugh of Pigma behind him.

"I can take care of him," Panther said. "No one will notice him. He'll be as good as invisible."

"Promise me all the gold in Lylat, here lies not the issue!" Leon's higher tone was a bad omen. "He'll consume food. Water. Oxygen. We can't afford the drainage of our meagre resources by a dead weight."

He took a measured step forwards and crossed his arms. "Two options, Caroso."

Panther closed his eyes and inhaled, praying for his mouth not to stammer. Here came the moment of truth. If he had bet wrong, it was too late to back off.

"I'll take the third." Upon Leon's cocked eyebrow, he pursued, "The kit is staying on board with me."

A giggle agitated the crowd. The reptile forced a chuckle. "You think you're in a position to bargain?"

"I do." While maintaining his eyes on Leon, he threw at the audience, "I want everyone to witness my words: I swear on the gods, if Powalski does anything to this kit, I'll pack my shit and go."

"Oh, please. You esteem yourself indispensable?"

"Precisely."

The throng exploded in laughter, along with Leon, whose quivering shoulders betrayed the hilarity. Undaunted, Panther stuck out his chest and turned to face the crowd.

'They'll laugh at you, just like everyone else.' We'll see about that, mister McCloud.

"I don't expect any of you to understand. You guys have no talents. No skills. Nothing that would make you stand out from the cesspool you're basking in. You're so used to your pathetic reflection in the mirror, you came to convince yourself everyone was just as unworthy as you. I don't judge. Enjoy your pitiable condition as cannon fodder, but don't even think of putting me in the same basket.

"Think about this, if you have enough functioning brain cells left: why have pilots such as me the highest pay from Powalski? Why are we entitled to tap into freshly arrived supplies before any of you? Why do we occupy the biggest and most well-equipped deck of the station? Simple: unlike you miserable bastards, we're worth something."

Silence settled, and he looked down on the group, his chin up in pride. Rare were those who dared to return his piercing look, no arrogant smirk was in view. The deafening muteness of the crowd was the sweetest music ever to reach his ears. Even the kit, still in his arms, seemed impressed.

"In case of attack, whether by other pirates or the Cornerian army, we're the only ones qualified to defend this station. I'm sure some of you can steer a cargo ship in approximately the right direction, but when it comes to fighting, there are only a dozen of us capable of handling the threat, whilst all of you will be cowering in your pit, praying for our success. Powalski perfectly knows this, and that's why he makes sure we don't want to quit. He knows the extra expense is worth the insurance, so to speak.

"He also knows that this kit's departure isn't worth mine. And he's no man to make irrational decisions. Maybe I'm dispensable, but he still wouldn't take that bet over such a trifling matter."

The jungle cat refrained from smiling (for one ought not to tempt fate) and turned back to Leon. "I'll take the third option."

Something odd occurred. Imperceptible at first, the alteration on the chameleon's complexion became more evident as seconds passed. The green adopted darker shades, which in return dragged the overall hue towards brown. Worried and curious whispers swarmed amongst the audience, as Leon's skin eventually embraced a vivid red, a colour so far unseen. He stood as still as a statue, yet Panther, from the short distance, saw his hand clutching his arm to the bleeding point, and the flickering corner of his lips. As some of the bystanders panicked, oblivious to the whys and wherefores, Panther figured precisely the transformation's cause.

He freaking nailed it.

Leon grumbled through gritted teeth, "Your father conceived you with piss."

The audience gasped, for nobody ever heard the big boss of Sargasso swear. The offence slid past Panther without perturbing him, as ineffective as a paper hammer, the exaltation of this victory shielding him from all possible kinds of insult. Now that the fatidic moment was part of the past, he allowed his heart and breath to unwind. Leon showed him his back and walked a few steps away, rubbing his chin.

"Here's the third option." Leon faced Panther once again. As he spoke, his skin gradually recovered his primordial colour. "Every commodity he consumes, you'll pay. Every item he breaks, you'll fix. Every damage he causes, you'll reimburse, even if it requires selling your kidney, or his."

"We have a d—"

"And, henceforth, I'll permanently withhold half your remuneration."

Panther stopped in his tracks, grasping the chameleon's acumen when figuring out how not to end on a defeat. Upon his hesitation, Leon grew a toothy grin. The deal would lead the feline nearby a lot of troubles, but as stated, his options were scanty. He and the kit escaped death, that was the primary objective, and spitting in the soup would be ill-advised. He pressed the cub against him.

"We have a deal," he replied, eager to put an end to the discussion.

It seemed Leon held similar aspirations. He nodded, and without any warning, yelled at the crowd, "Don't you have momentous matters to attend to? Scatter, peasants!"

Panther made his way towards his quarters through the dispersing flock, as the fox lolled on his chest. He contained himself not to explode in exultation after such a triumph, for he felt in his veins the strength to dislodge the heaviest of the planets from their orbits. From now on, no peril, no matter how insurmountable it would appear, would be impossible for him to overcome. The wings on his back and clouds under his feet carried him up to his door, at which point he entered and the familiar scent of his own home welcomed him.

His quarters were not one to attract the covetous eye of a king, but it belonged to him, and to him only. His privilege as a pilot. As his gaze swept through the unadorned walls and the sparse furnishings, he let out a relieved sigh and gently nudged the fox, as to transmit him the relief and the satisfaction burning within him.

He picked the kit with his two paws and brought him to his face. "Have you seen this? Have you seen their faces? They won't forget that anytime soon, I'll tell you that!"

The fox giggled in return, his guardian's ecstasy rubbing off on him. However, the rapture lived short. A gentle stir from the kit reminded Panther of… a detail. A detail insignificant in appearance, but solely in appearance. A detail that he hitherto ignored, despite its colossal implications. A detail that should have made him sweat buckets. Pigma, Leon, the crowd… Those were frivolous appetisers in comparison to the real upcoming hardship.

He had a child to raise. By himself.

"Oh shit…"

His smile wore off, and the burden of the world fell back on his shoulders, taking his breath away. He narrowly obviated the fox's fall, for his arms went suddenly weaker. Feeling his legs trembling, he headed to his bed and sat on the edge, before seating the kid on his left knee. Sensing his distress, the fox tilted his head and aimed at him his wide eyes.

"Oh shit..."

Engrossed as he was by the confrontations with his fellow pirates, the burden of raising a child completely slipped out of his mind. It never occurred to him it should have been his chief concern. His recent victory seemed to pale and negligible already, as a crippling pang of hopelessness seized his being. He looked at the kit. The kit he doomed to an entire life within those cheerless walls. "Was Pigma right? Should I have let stay you with your family?"

He plunged his yellow eyes into the green ones. Therein, he saw the dark future the kit was entitled to. The sinister rails he placed him on. The permanent absence of natural light. Of friends and family. The infamy he would face. The suffering he will endure. All because of Panther. All because of his longing to play the white knight in a world of thugs. He clenched his eyes and buried his head on his right paw. "I'm sorry, little guy. I'm sorry for the life I condemned you to."

No further words passed his quivering lips, lest his state would tell upon the kit. As the latter kept his curious eyes on him, Panther sank deeper in his mournful thoughts, blaming himself for all the woes that would befall the poor fox. A grim atmosphere emerged in the bedroom, only disturbed by the feline's unsteady breathing.

A wet tongue, running from his chin up to his eyes, dragged Panther out of his dark reflections. He hadn't felt the kit crawling his way, grabbing his shoulder for support, and drawing his snout up to the black furred face. When he opened his eyes, a cheerful beam radiated in front of him, before the fox buried his muzzle on his neck. Paralysed at first, he returned the gesture, drawing comfort from the appeasing mutual embrace. A gleam of hope illuminated his murky mind, casting the shadows away.

"Th… Thanks, little guy. It actually helped. A lot."

After they broke the hug, the kit gave a frustrated whine, as if he was expecting Panther to fulfil his part of an unspoken contract.

"Alright, alright, I got it. Come here." He stuck out his tongue and licked the amber cheek, and a hearty chortle shook the kit's frail body. Panther smiled and pointed at his tongue. "Yup, felines have a much rougher tongue. See?"

When their gazes intersected again, Panther perceived a spark of hope. It was faint, but present, ready to lead the way towards, if the gods would allow it, a bright future. He discarded his worries and took a refreshing breath, for self-pity was unproductive.

"You know what? I can do this. Plenty of parents are dumbasses, so it shouldn't be rocket science. First things first, let's quit that little guy thing, you deserve a proper name. What should I call you?"

The kit twitched his oversized ears and tilted his head, attentive to every word and gesture of his, although he was too young to comprehend any of these.

"Well, some think it's a dull tradition, but… I am a panther, and my name is Panther, so… Fox? What do you think?"

The orange-furred head tilted the other way, and a grin briefly unveiled his tiny teeth.

"Fox it is, then!" He ran his fingers through the fur atop the head, whereupon the kit tried to nibble the paw. "Welcome aboard, Fox."

They continued their game until Fox yawned with his high-pitched voice. "Yup, I think it's time too. Come on," Panther muttered.

Holding the kit with his left arms, the black cat fumbled through his wardrobes and laid on the floor a thick blanket above a bunch of pillows, whereon he placed the fox with all the delicacy in the world. He looked upon Fox dozing off on his makeshift bed and rubbed his face. The same daunting challenges still overhung the road ahead, but at least, he felt prepared to face them.

"I'm sorry for bringing you here, Fox, but I will make it up to you. You will have the childhood you deserve. I don't know how, amongst those scumbags, but I will find a way. The gods are my witnesses, I swear it: I will find a way."

He walked at the window, and his gaze wandered off in the immensity of space. "I always have."