Chapter 1 – Dreaded Discovery.

As one exited the building, another character immediately entered it. Unlike the featureless attacker that had spirited away Jessie Wheatear, this Mobian was almost immediately recognisable. Having parked his airbike and checked the address, Nack the Weasel looked around the lobby of the apartment complex and gave an approving nod.

To a casual observer, Nack represented something of an enigma; his age could have ranged from between early twenties to late thirties, but his wiry, whipcord build was typical of his species. His single, overlong fang gave his appearance a somewhat fierce aspect, something he had a great deal of interest in propagating. He was a hard Mobian who'd had more than his fair share of scraps in the past, but had generally walked away from them in better shape than his opponents.

For tonight though, none of that mattered. As far as he was concerned, he was here to catch up with an old friend and toast some old times. He'd come across her name in a telephone directory by sheer serendipity and, on a hunch, had rung the number. The two had talked until Nack's cell phone had run out of credit, though Jessie had invited him to her apartment for the night, on a purely friend basis, she had explained. Despite himself, the weasel smiled; he remembered Jess from his time in the guild and she was always someone you wanted as a friend rather than an enemy. Casually holding his travelling pack in one hand, he approached the reception desk, noting that the squirrel who serviced it was female, young and good-looking.

"Yes sir, may I help you?" The weasel slapped on an affable smile, despite his loathing of the word sir.

"Yeah, can ya tell me the number of the room Jessie Wheatear's stayin' in, please" he added, remembering manners in the nick of time. The squirrel frowned a little,

"Sorry sir, we aren't supposed to give our client's room numbers away". Nack swore under his breath; he aught to have expected this. He decided to resort to a charm offensive, smiling as sweetly as possible with his single fang,

"Aww, c'mon", he peered at the squirrel's name badge, keeping a straight face as he caught a peek of her bust, "Michelle-love, I haven't seen Jess for nearly seven years. Don't keep me waitin' for another coupla minutes". He looked pleadingly and smiled inside as she began to wilt.

"Well, it's against regulations…"

"Please", he said in a perfectly calculated tone, "I swear, if she don't want ta see me, I'll be straight back down here 'fore ya can say 'go fer ya gun'". He swept his battered hat off his head and held it over his heart. Michelle looked at the weasel crooked before capitulating with an almost imperceptible nod and flicking through a register on her left. Nack waited patiently as she looked back at him,

"Number 407, fifth floor. Lifts to your left, stairs to your right".

"Thanks love", he decided to sugar the pill a little, "had this job long?" She looked a little stunned by this question, choking a reply of,

"A, About six months". Nack tapped the desk he was leaning on,

"I'll be back in three years, and when I'm back, I expect you to be manager of this establishment" the weasel intoned with a tone of supreme sincerity. The receptionist stared at him, trying to see any hint of a smile, any suggestion of a joke, but Nack held his face straight with ease of long practice. He nodded and headed for the stairs; when he was up a floor and a half, he allowed himself a snigger. Typical people, so easy to tie in knots.

His good mood lasted until crested the fifth set of stairs, when he stopped dead and narrowed his eyes. The back of his neck had begun to itch and for as long as he could remember, that had meant trouble. Nack hadn't done as well as he had without trusting his gut instinct and at the minute it was saying 'Houston, we have a big problem'. He went from idle to ready in seconds, eyes slitted dangerously as he sidled along the corridor towards Jessie's apartment. He couldn't hear anything and there was no-one around that he could see, but he didn't relax until he was up against the door of the apartment. He quickly checked left and right, assuring himself the corridor was empty, before pushing his ear to the door.

There was no sound, and that was unnatural. In a habitable room with one occupant, there should have been some noise, any noise. In his subconscious, Nack went from ready to dangerous. Taking another check, he began to disable the keypad on the door. He cursed; computers and gadgets were never his strong point, he'd always been a shooter or a fighter, but thankfully the lock clicked as he shorted it out. It'd be traceable, but to hell with that; if a friend was in trouble, property damage wasn't an issue. He breathed, checked the corridor a final time and gently pushed the door open.

Rule number one of hostile situations; never poke your head round the door. Nack had learned that lesson the hard way; he'd have a bald scar on his cranium until the day he died from a billy club. Instead, the weasel removed his hat and cautiously pushed it through the crack in the door, mimicking the movement of a head with his hand. When nothing happened, he pushed the door open a little further and quickly slid inside the darkened room.

Letting his eyes adjust, the weasel silently slid the door shut behind him, slowly clenching and unclenching his fist to ease the tension in his body slightly. When he assured himself there was no movement, he quietly crept along the wall. Typical designers; the light switch was at the far end of the room. Nack made it to the corner before deciding on a low whisper,

"Jess?" he hissed into the darkness before wetting his lips and trying again, "Jess? If this is a joke, you're going out a window. Jess?" Nothing. Things just went from 'bad' to 'worse'. The weasel slid along the wall again, reaching out for the light switch. Turning his head away and closing his eyes to avoid blindness, he flipped the switch.

The light wasn't as bright as he feared; he avoided being dazzled. A second told him all he needed to know; Jess had been here recently and hadn't been gone long. His eyes roved around, noting the bathroom door was wide open and a cold draft was coming from somewhere. He was about to follow the draft when his eyes fell on the table. Approaching it, his eyebrows raised. It had, at one stage, been a picture of the whole gang together, just before the split, but someone had done a number on it. The heads had been neatly cut out by a sharp blade, leaving only two complete figures in the picture. One of which was, he noticed, himself. Who would…?

The breath caught in his throat as a sudden, sick wave of fear lurched from the pit of his stomach. The fur all over his body rose as goose bumps forced themselves to the surface of his skin. For the first time since he could remember, Nack prayed to any God that would listen that his suspicion, his greatest fear, was unfounded, that this was just a twisted coincidence. As he realised a second piece of paper was under the photo, he knew he wouldn't be that lucky, but he had to know, had to be sure. He moved his hand – his hand was trembling. He stared at it agog; he'd always prided himself on his steady hands, but here they trembled like leaves. Forcing his hand to still, he reached forwards slowly and with all the care of a pathologist moving a recently deceased murder victim, moved the photo aside to reveal the second sheet of paper.

The mark! Despite all his years as a rough and tumble mercenary, the mere sight of that mark, and everything it represented, shook Nack to the core of his soul. As the full sight of the mark, etched indelibly in black marker pen, burned into his mind, Nack let out a low moan. Memories; hideous, foul memories tumbled out from a dark, dank corner of his mind, a part of himself he'd sworn died a long time ago. They threatened to overwhelm him as tears pricked at his eyes, remembering every gristly detail of what that single, simple sketch represented. On unsteady legs, he lurched towards the bathroom and headed towards the toilet, the knowledge making him physically sick.

He retched, the scent of his vomit clouting him on the nose like a malodorous perfume as he flushed. His mind raced; seven years, seven damned years, since he thought he'd buried that demon, now this. Shaking, he slowly washed his mouth out, realising the draft was coming from under the bedroom door. An open window; he was long gone by now. He returned to the lounge, steeling himself to verify his awful thoughts. Yes, it was the same, the same mark that had been left at too many crime scenes for him to count, almost all of them involving some form of violence and intimidation. Taking deep breaths, he tried to centre himself and recount the facts.

There was no body, no blood and no sign of a struggle that he could see – that meant Jess may well be alive. Second, the mark proved that an extremely dangerous individual was now loose in Station Square and if the photo was right, he was right at the top of the hit list. He scanned the photo again, recognising the only other member in the photo and cursed – he now only had a single friend against this new threat. He had to get away from here and get into contact with this person. He didn't like it, but he had few options and even less time. Nack decided to take the photo and the mark as evidence, folding them neatly and slipping them into a pocket in his leather jacket. He forced himself into a composed state and walked calmly out the door, forcing and wedging it shut to delay detection of the fused lock. Nack walked casually down the hallway – it took all his control not to break into a headlong sprint.

As Nack crossed the lobby of the apartments, mind still in turmoil, he couldn't have known he was being watched. The shot was inch-perfect and caused the weasel to jump a foot in the air,

"Pow!" When he was sure he was no longer under threat of an imminent coronary, Nack turned to see Michelle pointing a 'finger-gun' at him, smiling broadly,

"Guess you lost your gun, pardner" she quipped, holstering an imaginary six-shooter. With an act of willpower that would have shamed the most holy of believers, Nack resisted the urge to vault the desk and pistol-whip the receptionist to death with her own finger-gun and instead settled for a disdainful sneer. As he marched out the lobby, he mentally reduced his estimate of three years to two; the girl was annoying enough to make it big quickly.

Having exited the building, Nack threw his leg over the seat of his airbike and gunned the engine. The weasel shook his head and took a deep, drawing breath, trying to remember everything he could about the Mobian behind the mark. That can of worms was particularly foul and he rapidly gave up; he needed a place to think. Weaving in and out of the traffic, Nack pulled up outside a particularly run-down local dive, grimly noting that the original name of 'Pit Stop' had been changed by a local graffiti artist – it now read 'PitS Top'. He knew which name was more appropriate the second the door creaked open. The endearing scent of stale sweat and tobacco smoke lodged in both nostrils as he sauntered across to the ramshackle desk. The bell was chipped and cracked and the resultant noise it made only encouraged a tirade of swearing that impressed even the veteran bounty hunter.

"Yeah, watcha want?" The bulldog drew deeply on his latest cigarette, lazily blowing smoke rings as Nack narrowed his eyes,

"I want a room, private". The bulldog turned towards the weasel, five foot six of solid muscle and flab with really bad B.O. and its loose, flapping cheeks creasing into a sneer.

"No hope, we're fully booked, 'less you wanna…" he trailed off as Nack casually produced a twenty from his jacket pocket. He doubted it was there for more than a second before it was snatched up, the bulldog moving with more speed than usual for a Mobian of his size, "oh, jus' remembered, someone was jus' movin' out. Bear wimme a sec." Nack nodded, watching as the proprietor of the Pit Stop slouched out from behind the desk and moved slowly up the stairs. The weasel knew what was going to happen, but he also knew that money talked and he had enough of it to be in with a shout. Sure enough, there was a bellow from upstairs and a few seconds later, a ragged looking skunk shot out the front door carrying a very recently packed suitcase. Nack waited patiently as the owner reappeared, now grinning in an inane manner,

"This way sir, I'll show ya to yer room". Nack hefted his travelling pack, wrinkling his nose as the bulldog turned away. Man, that guy had bad breath issues.

Home sweet home the weasel thought bitterly as the door slammed shut behind him. In just half an hour, his world had turned violently upside down and in another half hour, he was going to turn someone else's world the same way. The room was as bad as he'd expected, but at least the sheets had been changed recently. It still stank of cigarettes and booze, so the weasel opened a window to let in a little fresh air. He now had a little breathing space, in more ways than one. It was getting on for ten and he briefly debated whether to leave the call for now, but swiftly decided the sooner she knew, the better prepared she'd be. It didn't pay to wait with something like this. According to the news, his contact had an apartment in Station Square. It was a long shot, but if he could find the number there was a chance he'd be able to talk and warn the potential victim before it was too late.

Miracle of miracles, the hostel did actually own a Station Square telephone directory, allowing Nack to quickly discover the number he needed. Nack flipped his phone open, thankful that he'd remembered to put credit on the damn thing since his call to Jess earlier in the day. He dialled and put the phone to his ear.

Done. Back and fully functional. The target was still unconscious but breathing steadily. Surgery was routine and flawless. There were two targets remaining. They would soon be neutralised and revenge formalised.

The alarms' dreaded tone shatter the tranquillity of the bedroom, eliciting a long suffering groan from the covers of the four poster bed. A slender arm crept out from the warmth of the blanket and slammed down on the alarm with a satisfying amount of force. Stupid alarm, it was still ringing. With a second groan, a figure pushed itself upright and shrugged the comforting cocoon of the luxurious blanket. Amy Rose forced her eyes open and glowered at the offending clock. That's weird, the hedgehog was mildly confused, it's only ten o'clock. The alarm. Her eyes shot open with a burst of adrenaline; it wasn't the alarm that was ringing, it was the phone!

With a speed to rival her idol, hero and future husband (in her own mind anyway), Amy vaulted over the sofa and avoided the living room assault course to scramble to the phone. She swiftly snatched up the received and barked an urgent hello. She was a little disconcerted at the reply though,

"Is that you Rouge?" She picked her words carefully, not recognising the deep, hoarse voice or the accent,

"Umm, no, this is Amy Rose, who's this?" In another part of the city, a purple weasel swore under his breath before answering,

"Hi, Amy, do you know Rouge the Bat by any chance?" The weasel was getting desperate and hissed in triumph as the girl on the other end answered questioningly,

"Umm, yeah this is her number. She's not in at the minute. Who's this?" She asked for a second time, a little ticked that he hadn't answered her question yet.

"Listen kid, me name's not important. What is important is that I get in touch with Rouge" Nack was smart enough not to let his name onto a kid, "this is urgent". Please don't go stubborn on me he pleaded silently. Unfortunately, he had the misfortune to be addressing the personification of stubbornness herself. Amy scowled down the phone,

"Okay, Rouge is on holiday. She won't be back for about a week. I can take a message if you…"

"No, I need to talk to her", the voice was tinged with desperation, "did she leave a contact number or something? It's vital I talk to her – it's a business matter". That caught the pink hedgehog's attention, she knew enough about Rouge to know her business was mostly important. She decided on a compromise,

"Yeah, she left a number. I'll tell you it if I get your name first". Nack scowled but had no choice; she was holding all the cards and he needed that number.

"Alright kid, my name's Nack the Weasel. I doubt you'll have heard of me, but I know Rouge. Can I get that number now?" he asked snappily.

"Okay, okay, geez" Amy quickly came upon the pad of paper where Rouge had scribbled her contact number, "sure, got a pen ready?" Nack fished out a pencil of his hat band and noted the number quickly,

"Thanks babe; gotta go, see ya". He quickly hung up and dialled again.

Amy set the receiver down, still not sure if she'd done the right thing. The name Nack was echoing in her head and she felt a little disturbed by it. It was like she should have known the name but couldn't quite put her finger on it. She mulled it over in her mind for a few minutes before yawning and heading for the bedroom again. As she drew the covers to her neck, she resolved to ask Sonic in the morning, or maybe Tails if she saw him first. She smiled slightly; babe, that was something she could get used to being called. Maybe she could convince Sonic about it…