Intro: Oookay, this one is going to be bad. I can feel it. As plotless and pointless as the first chapter. Okay, okay, okay...
Absolutely nothing...
Look at you, you worthless piece of crap. You don't deserve to live in such great a solar system. You don't even have a decent job. You don't even have enough money to buy a chunk of bread for breakfast. How pitiful and sad... If you ask me, you should throw yourself into the sea and die. You had two chances to die already. Fox gave them to you. You deserve to die. You should've taken his generous and honourable offer while you had the chance...
"SHUT UP!" Wolf screamed, jolting up in his bed. Moaning his displeasure at his horrid nightmares, he tried to prop his body up with a paw, but somehow, when he leaned on his left one, it sunk right into the mattress. Growling, Wolf pulled at it. A sharp, dislodged spring inside the mattress caught on his hide and ripped a long gash on his arm as he pulled it out. Wolf swore badly and rolled out of bed.
Bright sunlight streamed through the cracked and dirt-and-oil-filmed glass of his window. It lit up the apartment, everything from its uneven, stained carpeting to Wolf's rotting wood cabinet near his bed. That was about it. It didn't even have a kitchen sink, let alone a refrigerator or a shower. All it had was one bathroom sink, some cracked, grey drywall, a mirror, a dirty toilet, and what Wolf owned, which was not much. Not much at all. At least it was sunny that day. Usually it was as dark, gloomy, and evil as Wolf's temper, with dark thunder clouds, hail, floods, and acid rain. Wolf absolutely despised the place, but what choice did he have?
He staggered into the bathroom, holding his bleeding arm. He didn't dare rinse the wound with the water; who knows what unsanitary, microscopic creatures lived in there? Wolf let his arm drip while he ripped off a piece of toilet paper (the only thing that was remotely white and clean in his apartment, ironically) and tried to tie it to his arm. It didn't work as well as he had hoped, but it stopped the bleeding. A bit.
With a puffy, swollen eye, Wolf got himself dressed for work. His work clothes were probably the only other set of clothing he had, and they were smelly and blue, although they were looked more green from the stains. They reeked of rancid filth, rotting carcasses, the spit and sweat of Wolf himself, and God knows what else. At least the clothes were free and the job paid. A bit.
Wolf had to walk to work every day, and it was usually a cold and wet kind of task, but the weather was kind on Zoness for a day, and Wolf almost enjoyed his walk. Almost. There were too many gangsters giving him the evil eye, too many cars rolling into the mud and splashing him, and too many smokers puffing smoke into his eyes. Wether they did it on purpose or not, Wolf couldn't tell.
The wrecked and wretched streets were fourteen times as bad as a few downtown metropolises in Corneria that Wolf had been to, and that was saying something. Imagine a place with rickety apartments without doors to close out burglars, filthy brats who had snot running down their faces, and gutters filled with trash and droppings of every kind of living creature. Now imagine that place fourteen times worse.
It wasn't a long walk to the dump, but it wasn't quick. Usually, Wolf got hold up by a few mobsters wanting some petty dimes. Wolf didn't even have a penny. Of course, they never believed him when he said that, so they beat him up anyway. Wolf could've killed them if they came in twos, or even threes at a time, but that lead gangster always had a least a dozen cronies with him every day. So every day, Wolf got beaten by thirteen bullies, and every day, they failed the recognize him, even though they were the same guys who had beaten Wolf up every living day for the past six months. They weren't very bright.
Nose bloodied and eye black, Wolf walked the rest of the way to the dump, where he worked. He was the guy who tore open bags of trash and then sorted them, into recyclable and non-recyclable. It was the only job he could get, and he was the only guy on the block smart enough to know that a glass bottle could be recycled. He got five cents for every bottle he threw into the bin, but even though he worked there ten hours a day, it never added up to much. Scowling at the smell, like he did every day, Wolf waltzed into the metal-linked gate to greet his boss, a weasel. Figures. Nole was behind a booth, as usual, conducting people who had lost their stuff by accident and wanted it back; that was Nole's job. His job description was to tell those urchins to get their butts out of city property before he got out the shotgun. The fat, old, mean weasel did the job just fine.
"Hem," Nole coughed, spitting a ball of mucus on the ground before facing Wolf, "Hey, kid. You know what to do." He sniffed. "Hey, you smell funny today, kid." Wolf almost laughed at the irony. Almost.
Without a word to Nole, Wolf got to work. Rip, rummage, sort, throw. Rip, rummage, sort, throw. Repeat. Rip, rummage, sort, throw...
It went on for ten hours. After his shift, and after his bin was heaping full, Wolf carried it to Nole, who counted the bottles and gave him the money.
"Hem," Nole coughed, spitting a ball of mucus on the ground before facing Wolf, yet again, "Okay..." And he counted. Nole was smart. All weasels were. You know, sly, quick-witted tricksters. But Nole couldn't count very well. Wolf had to help him on 4, 13, 23, 32 to 37, and a lot more numbers. After he was done (it took him ten minutes to count three hundred bottles), he handed over Wolf's pay. Fifteen bucks. Just enough to buy him a package of ham for supper and some cereal for a few breakfasts. A bit happier, Wolf pocketed the change and walked quickly toward the store to buy some food.
It was nighttime, and Wolf couldn't see very well, with the loss of depth with one eye and blurry focus with the other (strangely enough, Wolf needed glasses), so it was natural for him to bump into a cat at night. She meowed in apology and kept going the other way. Wolf shook his head. Pity. That cat looked smart enough and pretty enough to get a job as a secretary or a clerk at a high office in Corneria. Too bad.
When Wolf got to the store, he fished around in his pockets for the money. There wasn't any. Surprised, he checked every pocket he had, and again for holes. There wasn't any. Now enraged, he realized what had happened. That cat had pickpocketed him! Not a rare occurrence; it was the fourth time it happened to Wolf, but he was mad anyway.
Sulking, he went back to his apartment on the third floor and flopped down into bed without changing his clothes and without anything to eat. He noticed something on his shirt as the moonlight poured into his room. It was a hair. Probably from the cat. A pink hair. Wolf threw it off him and went to sleep.
Indecent... Dishonourable pig... You are nothing... You are worse than the pickpocket... You deserved to die... You deserved to be killed... You deserved you have your body thrown about in that cockpit when Fox shot you down... You did not deserve a second chance... You are an evil... You are moronic... You need to be hanged for the horrible things you did... You are nothing...
Nothing...