WARNING: This chapter contains descriptions of violence (dismemberment) and gore, which may be triggering for some readers. Please read with caution.


That same night, in the border between Quarters North and West, a lone Silkie chicken stumbles down the street. Her senses jumbled and hazy, she turns into an alleyway. Behind her, she can hear a song.

"Alouette, gentille Alouette…"

The hen knocks over a nearby trash can, but she keeps going blindly. She hits a brick wall, her head throbbing from the impact. Vainly, she presses herself against the wall, hoping her taloned feet and feathered hands can find some crack or protrusion to exploit. Her body growing numb, she collapses on the ground. As her vision starts to dim, she takes one last, fleeting glance at her pursuer, axe in hand.

"Alouette, je te plumerai."

The blade cuts through the flesh of the neck, hitting the spine. The killer swings it again… and again… and again…

"Je te plumerai la tête… Je te plumerai la tête…"

Once the hen is decapitated, the killer drops the axe and takes out a box and surgical knife from their shoulder bag. The knife glimmers in the dim backlight, and they flash a grin as it slowly cuts into the hen's flesh.

"Et le bec, et le cou, et les ailes…"


"Wile E…"

The voice, barely audible, rings in Wile's ear. He slowly opens his eyes. Around him is a large hotel room of luxurious modern design, with golden yellow walls, black carpet, and a large window displaying the rising sun over the cityscape. The bed he was resting on is soft and plush, with fluffy white pillows to match. He turns to the source of the voice, and sitting beside him… is Ralph.

"Wiles, you're awake!" Ralph whoops in delight, wrapping his arms around the coyote. One short cuddle later, he says, "Wyatt called and told me you ran into some trouble in the cemetery. You should have called me before you went and nearly killed yourself."

Feeling guilty, Wile mutters, "I didn't want to interrupt your other job–"

"The job could wait!" He cups Wile's face in his hands and they lock eyes. "Your well-being will always be my top priority. We are a team, you and me. Don't you ever forget that." Wile's cheeks burn up, and his tail unconsciously starts wagging. Ralph suddenly breaks away. "But seriously, what the hell happened? Look at you!"

The coyote looks down at his arms and torso, noticing that he's wrapped up in bandages. Nervously, he explains, "This is going to sound crazy, but Mr. Blakesley from the funeral parlor? He might actually be an immortal guardian of the dead."

Ralph's eyes widen, then he bursts out laughing. "You're kidding, right? Y'all can't be telling me that Humble Herman is a literal god!"

"If I was joking, I wouldn't be wrapped up like a mummy," Wile says bluntly. He gives a short summary of his past history with Anubis, up to and including his recent fight against him. "I should have brought it up with you sooner, but the truth sounds so absurd I never could find a situation that seemed appropriate."

Ralph listens intently, then starts scratching the back of his head. "It's a lot to take in, but I think I get it. And y'know, this Herman-slash-Anubis situation reminds me of a similar incident I went through. It happened fifteen years ago when I ran away from home. I set out to look for the dog village, but got lost in the woods. That's when I saw him: my guardian angel. He made an arrow out of nothing and blew off some trees to clear a path for me."

Wile's ears perk up. "You met another being like Anubis?"

"Not sure. It could have been a dream, for all I know. I do remember some details, though. He was a wolf in a white mask, and he was huge–well, huge to a runt like me. He had this strong, yet benevolent air about him, and his scent was… Huh. Come to think of it, I don't remember what he smelled like. As a matter of fact, his general presence felt like–"

A finger snapping sound silences the red wolf. Ralph feels a brief gust of wind brush against his fur, then yelps when the nearest pillow suddenly explodes into a shower of snow white feathers. This draws his attention to the bedroom door, where, standing beside it, is Wyatt. "Maybe that would jog your memory," he says with a knowing smile.

Something in Ralph's brain starts to click. "Mister Angel?"

"The one and only."

His eyes well up, and his tail starts wagging in tandem with his beating heart. "I can't believe it. It really is you!" He leaps off the bed and runs over to hug him.

Taken aback by this sudden embrace, Wyatt tries to play it cool. "I did say we'd meet again, didn't I?" He breaks away, ruffling his hair. "You grew quite a bit, kid. Seems like yesterday when you were barely past my knee."

As the two wolves engage in their lighthearted conversation, Wile watches on, feeling an awkward twinge inside his chest. These two have something going on between them, something intimate that he's missing out on. Though unjustified, this acknowledgement doesn't sit right with him. Just like with Sam. He knows there is a word for it, but it keeps escaping his grasp.

"But enough talk," Wyatt says, pointing a thumb at the door. "Duane and the cat are waiting for us."


Everyone gathers together in the living room, a spacious area consisting of round shapes and a yin-yang theme. The black-and-white couch and armchairs curve around the circular coffee table, situated before a wall with a flat-screen television installed above an electric hearth. Wall-sized windows stretch from one corner to the other, creating a mural of the outside world through its glass surface.

Duane sets the laptop on the table and flips open the screen for all to see. "That SD card from the rooster's grave contains archives of Don Henery's criminal activities from the last decade up until August. Every last import, export, and interpersonal exchange was logged into these files. But that's not the most interesting part." He opens one of the files, an activity log consisting of trades between two parties: "Henery Hawk" and "ACME Corp". "Don's been doing business for ACME, smuggling Illudium into the city from Alexandria."

"So ACME's got their fingers in the criminal underground, too," Wile observes in awe.

"They have the clout; they can get away with this sort of thing," Ralph adds. "Look, there's even a sign-off from a third party. That's probably the trader from Alexandria."

Wyatt, curious, leans in to read the file. Where the third party's name is logged, he spots the name "Wedjat"–a name commonly associated with the divine eyes of Ra and Horus. He scowls. "Of course that damn bird would pull a stunt like this. With ACME kissing up to Aset, Heru wouldn't hesitate to sell out Egypt for a leg up. He's done it before, and he'll do it again."

Furrball meows, and Duane side-eyes him. "Calm down, I was getting into that!" He turns the laptop towards himself and opens up a different set of files. "Furrball found some trade logs between Don and various vendors from the Acme Underground. Among the usual contraband, they've been selling organs and a product called 'Tears of Isis'."

"Hold on," Wile interjects. "Acme Underground? Like the subway station?" Furrball nods.

"I heard a rumor about a secret black market that's nearly as big as Acme City itself," Ralph says. "That must be what kitty's looking for." Furrball points at him and meows excitedly.

"Coincidence or not, the name gives us a possible lead." Wile shoots straight up. "Let's go find that black mark–" A sharp pain spreads throughout his body, causing him to recoil back into his seat.

"You aren't going anywhere. I'll find the black market and get to the bottom of this!" He stands up confidently. "What's the mission, kitty?"

Furrball points at the names listed on the logs, with Duane translating. "You need to find the sellers and interrogate them about that 'Tears of Isis' stuff." Another meow. "And something about some recent murders connected to the organ trade."

"Duane, write Wolf and Furrball a list of those sellers and send them out," Wyatt orders the small wolf. He looks to Wile E. "I'll take care of the coyote."


At daybreak, the streets of West Quarter are littered with police cars and news vans in light of recent events. Gathered around the crime scene, Deputy Sheepdog stands watch as the forensics team examines the body. Sophia Silk, a twenty-two-year-old waitress from Miss Prissy's Coop, was beheaded and cut open, her torso emptied of its internal organs. Sam, discomforted by the gruesome sight, shifts his focus to diverting the journalists' attention away from the scene.

"Forensics is bringing the body in for further investigation," Sam tells Caren Cockatiel, "but our current impression is she was another victim of the growing black market trade. We're sharpening our security measures to ensure everyone's safety, but we'll need help from everyone in Acme City to catch the responsible parties. To the townsfolk out there: watch out for suspicious behavior, close up shop early if possible, and stay away from deserted or dangerous areas."

"That's great advice, Deputy," Caren remarks. "Back to you, Barr–"

CLICK!

Sylvester turns off the television and walks over to the stairs. "Junior, are you ready yet?" he yells.

Junior appears at the top step, dressed and carrying his red backpack over one shoulder. "Ready, Dad!" He hops down the stairs and is about to rush out the door when Sylvester cuts him off.

"Hold on there, bucko!" He grabs the keys from the key holder. "I'll be driving you to school today." In an attempt to sugarcoat things, he stumbles out a half-truth. "There's been an accident, and the buses are running late due to traffic."

Junior raises his brow skeptically. "This is about those recent murders, isn't it?"

Sylvester stammers, "Wha–? How did you know about that?"

"Dad, it's all over social media," the kitten answers bluntly. "Everyone knows about the Repo Man murders going on lately."

He blinks. "Repo Man?"

"It's what some of the kids at school are calling the killer. The victim owes a debt to the black market, and the Repo Man comes and repossesses their organs. So the rumor goes."

Grimacing at the notion, he says hurriedly, "Don't be silly! Those are nothing but silly playground rumors. Now, let's get moving, go, go, go!" He pushes Junior to the driveway, then unlocks the car and puts him into the passenger seat.

Junior buckles his seatbelt, then looks at his dad fumbling to turn on the car. "Dad, you've been acting funny. Is there something I should know about?"

"It's nothing urgent. Just work stuff." He turns the key one more time, and the engine roars to life. "I'll call Miss Prissy and have her drive you to Egghead's after school."

As they drive off, Sylvester's mind is occupied by all kinds of things: Furrball's risky mission, Wile E.'s critical condition, Pepé's difficult request, the enigmatic nature of the black market, and the organ-robbing killer on the loose. He already lost one part of his local cat network to the Repo Man, losing anyone else would put a dent on his credibility as a leading figure. TC, if you were here, what would you do?


Over in Acme Looniversity, the school bell rings, cuing the flood of incoming students that the day has begun. Sylvester Jr. enters the classroom, plopping his backpack next to his seat. As he rummages through the bag, his eyes catch a glimpse of something–or rather, someone–different.

Sitting in the back corner nearest to the window is a young striped skunk. Dressed in a lace-trimmed black blouse that blends into his fur, he looks overdressed for a typical school day. But what grabs Junior's attention the most are his facial features. His large golden eyes are framed in dark circles, and his messy bangs are swept downward, partially covering part of his face. All those differences aside, the young buck looks like the spitting image of Pepé Le Pew.

The resemblance is strong. Do all skunks look like him? Junior, while pondering, takes one last look at the stranger. In that brief instance, two golden eyes stare back.

Flustered, the kitten returns to grabbing his school supplies. To his fortune, Egghead enters and sits to his left, distracting him from the new classmate's gaze.

More students start filing in, and the homeroom teacher, a cow named Ms. Cud, lets out a loud "Moo!" to indicate the start of class. "Everyone, before we begin, I would like to introduce you all to our newest student. La Moufette, if you would please."

Hesitant, the skunk stands up and starts speaking. "Bonjour. My name is Charles La Moufette. I recently moved here from Québec, and, um…" He glimpses at Junior, a subconscious smile creeping across his face. "I hope we can be friends."

At Ms. Cud's cue, the rest of the class say with forced enthusiasm, "Bonjour, Charles."

The next half hour is quiet, save for the scratchy noises of pencil lead on paper and the occasional murmuring from classmates. In a room filled with Sapients of all kinds, it's expected for more than a few to have exceptionally sharp hearing, making the spread of gossip impossible. Yet gossip they still do.

"That Charles kid is kind of creepy."

"He probably cuts himself."

"What a weirdo."

"He looks like he would kill someone if he could."

"Damn skunk better not stink up the place."

While Junior knows the insults are not directed towards him, he cannot help but feel a swell of pity and sympathy. These kids hardly know Charles for more than a minute, and they're already making judgments. Cowards, all of them!

When the bell rings, indicating the end of homeroom, Junior makes his decision. Lagging behind the rest of the crowd, he catches up to the skunk in the hallway. "Hey, um, sorry you had to deal with all that. The kids here can be real jerks sometimes!"

Charles, smiling weakly, says, "Don't be sorry, chaton. I'm used to it."

"Being used to something doesn't make it any better. If any one of them tries to pick on you, I'll run over and… and I'll claw their eyes out!"

He laughs. "I would not mind that, but I don't think the teachers will allow it." Gazing intently, he remarks, "Your eyes look very unique. I like them."

Junior lunges back, flustered. While his eyes, lime green with a ring of purple surrounding the pupil, have attracted all kinds of reactions, he never saw them as anything but strange. "Tha-thanks, I guess. Y-your eyes are interesting, too. My name is Sylvester, by the way. Junior! Sylvester Jr."

"Enchanté, Sylvester," Charles says back, his French accent adding an elegance to the cat's name. "So, where are you off to?"

"I got math with Mr. Fox next. You?"

Taking his schedule out, he answers, "Math with Monsieur Fox."

"Cool! We can walk there together." He skims through Charles' schedule. "Looks like we share the same science and English classes, too. And during lunch, I can introduce you to my best friends."

Charles looks perplexed. "Best… friends?"

"Wait, have you never had any friends?" The buck shakes his head. "Well, today's your lucky day, cus after today, you'll have three great ones!"

His gilded eyes sparkle, on the verge of tears. "Friends…" Swiftly, he clasps Junior's hand. "Lead the way, mon ami!"


Over in North Quarter, Ralph treks over to the residential outskirts, an area he rarely passes by these days outside of business. The buildings are hardly in the best condition, though compared to what he's seen of West Quarter's more impoverished neighborhoods, they still have a sturdiness about them. At the northernmost end of the street, past the edges of urban civilization, is the vast forest which surrounds the city. This ground view of the outer horizon is how he remembers where to go when all other options have run out.

Turning into Forest Lane, he finds his destination: a small, wooden cabin cramped between two brick titans. The cabin is built like a doghouse, simple but practical in design, and unlike the surrounding houses has a sizable, if barren, front yard. Ralph approaches the front door and rings the doorbell.

The door opens, revealing a plump and scruffy Basset hound. The hound, upon seeing the wolf, is surprised, then ecstatic. "Ralph, buddy, it's been ages, hasn't it? Come on in!"

Ralph follows him inside, where the bedroom, kitchen, and living room are all in one open space and arranged accordingly. The bed and couch are worn out, with stuffing sticking out of holes in the cushions. The kitchen consists solely of a fridge, stove, and small pantry. The living room table is littered with beer cans and cigarette butts.

As Ralph takes a spot on the couch, the dog rifles through the fridge for drinks. "Sorry 'bout the mess," he says. "I wasn't expecting visitors today."

"You wouldn't have cleaned up even if you were," Ralph mocks him.

He lets out a gruff laugh. "Guess some things never change." He offers a beer, which the wolf declines, and he pops one open. "I heard word that you're some hot shot hitman or something. So what brought you here, of all places?" He adds with a seductive tone, "You lookin' to hook up with me again?"

"Absolutely not, George!" Ralph snaps. "I got a new boyfriend, anyway, so I can't fuck around like you do."

"Your new boyfriend, is he that coyote bloke you work with?"

"Yeah. Unfortunately, he's out of commission right now, and I need someone to help me with a case."

"That someone being me," George remarks, cracking a roguish grin.

He unfolds a hand-written list of sellers from his pocket and shows it to the hound. "A friend and I are trying to find the hidden black market, and you know your way around the criminal underworld. So what do you know about it?"

"I might know how to get there. Question is, are you willing to face what you might find there?"

Ralph takes a second to ruminate before answering. "I don't have any other choice. Sam wants this organ theft case closed before any more murders happen. No matter what happens down there, I'll do anything to get the job done."

George raises a brow. "Order from the deputy, huh? Well, I can't ignore a friend in need." He gets up and grabs a ratty trench coat hanging from a hook by the door. "I suggest you find a good disguise. Everyone in the Underground knows about you and your partner, and some won't hesitate to shank ya the first chance they get."


The final bell of the school day rings, and the students flock out of the building. Charles follows Sylvester Jr. and his friends, Poppy Pig and Egghead Jr. to the sidewalk. As they wait for their rides, he listens in on their spirited conversation.

"Let's drop by Egghead's over the weekend," Poppy chimes in with an idea. "Eggy's got all the latest consoles and a whole bunch of cool games. We can have a gaming party! You can come, too, Charlie."

Caught off-guard, Charles meekly replies, "Really? I'll have to ask ma tante, but that sounds like fun. I never played any video games before. Is it difficult?"

To this, Junior reassures him. "Well, some games are harder than others, but gaming gets easier the more you play."

"Yeah, we can help out if you need it!" Poppy adds. "Egghead's a pro with all kinds of games, and I can recommend some easy games to start out with."

Hearing this, Charles smiles meekly. "Merci beaucoup, mes amis."

They continue to chat about this and that until Miss Prissy's car stops by to pick them up. Charles waves as the car disappears from his sight, then sighs sadly. I wish I could join them. Shoulders slumped, he enters the incoming bus.

Several stops later, the bus stops at the northernmost part of the quarter, where the buildings and streetlights are in various states of disrepair. Charles steps out alone, looking back at the yellow vehicle as it travels down the road. Couldn't it drop me off at a more impressionable spot?, he asks himself begrudgingly.

Charles walks down the block with the pothole-infested street and crumbling sidewalks. A nearby trashcan tips over with a loud clatter, startling him. The street is thankfully scarce of troublemakers, though an occasional passerby would snatch a glance. And why wouldn't they? Skunks aren't the most common type of Sapient in this city, based on what he's observed in his short time here. That alone stands out more than the lacy, well-worn outfit draped over his disheveled self.

Finally, he reaches his home, a run-down single-story house that was made affordable due to its condition and the unsavory rumors surrounding it. He twists the rusty knob and enters the house. Amidst the cracked floorboards and dust-covered furniture, boxes containing what few possessions he and his aunt, Anne, own are strewn about. Stepping around the boxes and pieces of the crumbling ceiling, he heads to the living room area, where his aunt is in the process of sweeping off dirt from the floor.

"Welcome back, dear," Anne greets him as he enters. "How was your first day at school?"

Recalling the cruel whispers of the children in his class, he hesitates. But then his thoughts shift to Sylvester Jr. and his kindness, and the pain goes away, replaced by a warm, fuzzy sensation in his chest. "Better than I expected. I met a new friend today."

The sweetness in her voice shifts, her tone more cautious. "Oh? What is this friend of yours like?"

"He's nice and playful and outgoing, and smart, too. Just thinking about him sends my heart aflutter!"

"He sounds very nice. And do you love him?"

Charles stops to think. The warm feeling intensifies as the question sinks in. "I… I think so."

She puts down the broom and approaches him. "Charlie, remember what I told you about falling in love?"

"'If you love someone, you must be willing to do anything for them,' right?"

The doe smiles, though her hollow pink eyes suggest otherwise. "Yes, that is true. But you remember the last time you fell in love right? We wouldn't want a repeat of that incident, would you?"

The warmness in his heart is dampened by a cold chill running through him. "N… Non! I said it won't happen again. My spray won't… I'll keep it under control this time, je te promets!"

"Good, now, go to your room and study. And don't forget to take your sleeping medication before you go to bed."

"Will do. But, um, I want to ask you something. Can I go visit my friend's house this weekend? We're going to play games and watch movies together. Je peux, s'il te plaît?"

"Sorry, but I'm going to be busy with work and you still have to unpack your things. But you can come over another time."

With a frown, he says, "D'accord. I'll let him know next time we meet."

She ruffles his hair, whispering gently, "That's a good boy."


AUTHOR'S NOTE

Hey, hey, hey! Third upload this month, let's GOOOOO!

I think this is the longest chapter so far–if not, it's certainly up there. This part of the story is quite complicated due to all the concurrent subplots, so the length is somewhat inevitable. I'm taking steps towards trying to keep things as organized and readable as possible, but I expect to stumble along the way. Thanks to everyone who's had the patience to read this far. I hope you'll continue to read future chapters of W&C, however long it gets.

This "organ theft" arc is strongly inspired by Repo! The Genetic Opera–well, the soundtrack, anyway. I really enjoy the music and I found the story surrounding it intriguing, so it's inevitable that some of that inspiration would creep into this fic somehow. That said, it's obviously not a 1:1 reimagining, so you're not at risk of getting spoiled for Repo! if you haven't seen it yet. On a separate note, the Acme Underground (both the subway and the black market) takes inspiration from one of my favorite novels, Neverwhere by Neil Gaiman. I basically took the idea of a secret underground bazaar/city with some nominal connection to railways and applied it here, albeit in a less whimsical manner. I plan on writing about the Underground in more detail in the next chapter, give or take, so look forward to that.

2/26/2022 UPDATE: I bumped down the hotel scenes and made the murder scene the new introduction. This is to smooth out the timeline a bit more, particularly for the following chapter.

5/24/2022 UPDATE: A minor edit, but I changed the first name of the Silkie hen victim to prevent any confusion with other similarly-named characters.