WARNING: This chapter contains references to blood and gore, dismemberment, and implicit sexualized violence. Please read with caution.


At nightfall, George, Ralph, and Furrball arrive at the Acme Underground Railway Station, donned in trench coats and wide-brimmed hats. Ralph raises the lapels on his coat to better hide his face from passersby. He always knew he was small for a wolf, but wearing something of Wile's hits home just how delicate his build is. Or how pungent the coyote's scent is. I really gotta buy him a better shampoo, he makes a mental note to himself.

George sniffs the air. "You smell that?" he asks. Another sniff, and his nose wrinkles in disgust. "Damn, it's like something died nearby."

Following the Basset's cue, Ralph and Furrball take a whiff. Intermingled with the scents of the commuting Sapients is a putrid stench akin to rotting flesh. "I know that smell anywhere," Ralph mutters as he follows the trail.

Past the hub and into the obscured outer rims of the station, they spot the odor's source, a tall, hooded figure, turning into a dark corner hidden from the general population. George takes the lead as they enter the darkness. The hallway is pitch black and cramped, forcing them to step cautiously and grope at the walls for security. Soon, they find a line of small lanterns, hung above a series of stony spiral steps. Down they descend, deeper into the earth, the walls becoming more rugged and dirt-covered along the way. The path ends at a steel door. George knocks at the metal surface, and a thin slit opens, revealing a pair of nostrils amidst small, fleshy tentacles.

"How many?" a deep, ominous voice from behind the door demands.

"Party of three, here to be free," George responds.

The voice laughs, and the tentacled nostrils disappear from sight. Then the door opens, blinding George and Ralph with bright, warm light.

When they emerge from the darkness, they find themselves standing before a massive, lively underground civilization. The surface of the border has the rocky texture of subterranean earth, lit by hanging lanterns, and above is sleek metal–where the Railway's central hub would be. The civilization itself is a bazaar of all sorts of establishments, from simple tented booths to full stone buildings, combining into what one could only describe as a more compact and eclectic version of Acme City itself.

The doorman, a Star-nosed mole, sniffs Ralph and Furrball as they pass by. "You don't smell familiar. Are you new here?"

Ralph, unnerved by the pseudo-eldritch mammal standing near him, stammers, "Y–Yes, I am. Is something wrong?"

The mole, after a pause, smiles. "No, nothing at all. Welcome to Acme Underground. Please, enjoy your stay."

George steps in. "Xoth, have you smelled someone else passing by before us? One that reeks of death? We got business with him."

"Yes, I know of one who calls himself 'Anubis'. He's a regular visitor to these parts. I believe he mentioned going to The Dungeon."

Tipping his hat, George thanks the mole and leads his companions into the town square. "I dunno what your relationship is with that stranger," he says grimly, "but if he's down here, there's a big chance he's up to no good. Just stick to your job and keep your noses out of trouble."

Ralph wants to ask so many questions, but the intimidating atmosphere prevents him from doing such. He traces a cross in the air and splits off with Furrball. Just stick to the job, and everything will be fine.

Trekking down the sinful streets of Acme Underground, Furrball and Ralph interrogate the listed vendors one by one. Unfortunately, most of them have their lips zipped, chained to confidentiality agreements between them and their suppliers. As they are about to consider giving up, they encounter one seller willing to share some information.

"Yes, I was trading with Don Henery's crew," says one vendor, an unlicensed snake doctor. "When the Don described this one medicine he imported from the Nile Delta, I knew I had to have it!" The snake stretches his tail under the counter and retrieves a small vial of inky black liquid. "Tears of Isis, a legendary panacea made using a lost recipe from the Library of Alexandria… or so the rumor goes. But the story doesn't matter. What matters is its effect. In one sip, all wounds and diseases will rapidly heal, and the user will be brimming with newfound vitality like none seen before."

"Sounds too good to be true," Ralph retorts.

"Maybe, maybe not. All I care about is the wealth I gain from its sale. Alas, since the Don's passing, my supply has gone down drastically, and the demand is at an all-time high. So what do you say to… three million per dram?"

"Three million? Is it really that rare?"

"This product was made using very rare and valuable materials. Even within its home country, Tears of Isis is a luxury reserved to only the richest and noblest."

Ralph thanks the doctor, and he and Furrball head down the road, increasingly clustered with unsavory Sapients. Pushed and smushed by the crowd, the red wolf is separated from his feline comrade. Before he can find his way back to him, someone grabs his arm and pulls him out of the stampede into a nearby alleyway. A recognizable rancid scent catches Ralph's attention, and he turns to face his captor. "Herman?"

The stranger pulls back his hood, revealing Herman's face. "Ralph?" he says, puzzled. He smells Ralph's coat, then laughs. "You really had me there. I thought you were Wile E. for a good minute. So what led you to this city of the damned?"

"I'm looking for information." He shows him the list. "What do you know about the organ trades down here?"

Herman skims the list. "You have my interest. I can share information, save you a bit of time scouring this hellscape. I'll even tell you what I know about the Tears of Isis. However…" He pins the red wolf against the wall, pressed against him. "There's one thing I want from you."

Ralph gulps. "Name your price," he demands, putting up his boldest front.

The tall wolf leans in, one hand brushing against Ralph's waist. "You see, I have specific urges that need to be satisfied, and you're the only one I can trust to do it." His hand slides lower as he whispers, "Will you join me in a venture into the dark side?"

His heart pounds and his muscles tense up. While Ralph gave up his virginity years ago, he still desires to save his body for Wile E., to remain true to his fidelity for his mate. On the other hand, this could be his only opportunity to gather information not only on the organ thefts, but on Herman's true nature as an immortal deity.

"No matter what happens… I'll do anything to get the job done."


With Herman's guidance, Ralph finds himself standing before a strangely quaint building, one which resembles a typical medieval-style inn. Above the door, a sign with the word "Dungeon" hangs. Entering inside, he notices the minimalist wood-structured lobby. The front desk, occupied by a stout mole, sits between a stairway leading to the second floor and an ominous-looking door leading to God-knows-where.

The mole sniffs the air and grins. "My, my, if it isn't Anubis. Welcome back, good sir! It's been a while, hasn't it?"

"Things have been quite busy for me, Mr. Mole," Herman answers casually. "Between all the parties and funerals, I've got my hands full as a mortician. Not that I'm complaining, of course."

He and the mole have a laugh together before proceeding to the point. "I smell a new escort with you. Young, lupine, a bit of an odd smell mixed in with the leather on him." Ralph, embarrassed, tightens his grip on his coat in an attempt to conceal himself. "I do pity the pup for being down in these lowly parts. Please go easy on him, sire."

"No need to worry, old pal. I'm taking the submissive role tonight. Same equipment, though."

The mole's small mouth makes an "O" shape. "Trying something new, I see. Well, then. Wait one minute while I have someone prepare your room." The mole hops off his stool and waddles over to the door, opening it ajar and disappearing behind it.

A heavy, uncomfortable feeling swells in Ralph's gut. While he is used to rough sex and seeing men in leather harnesses, he never once participated in full-blown BDSM. He won't deny having had thoughts of sadomasochism and submission, when he was offered the chance to engage, he relented. Despite being raised by an easygoing priest and living a life full of hedonism and sin, he still can't completely shake off the Good Christian Boy side of him. The door opens, and he follows Herman down the hidden stairway behind it, praying for the deed to be done and over with quickly.


The basement of The Dungeon resembles, well, a dungeon. A dark, dank stone hallway lined with numbered doors muffling screams of either pleasure or pain or both. Mr. Mole unlocks the door with "12" etched into it, chipperly encouraging them to "enjoy yourselves", whatever that entails. Ralph, reluctant to jump into the fray, peeks inside.

The room is cold and stony like the hallway, but made more welcoming by the hanging lanterns emitting warm light. To one side is a full-size bed, the frame designed with a lever mechanism to allow for it to incline vertically. A short distance beside it, a pair of shackles are mounted to the wall, making the red wolf wonder if this facility was a genuine dungeon at one point in history. On the opposite end, lined across the wall, various BDSM equipment hang on hooks. Whips, handcuffs, spreader bars, vibrators… Wait, is that a taser? And knives? And an axe? Ralph swallows the nerves building up in his throat. Something tells him that this is no normal BDSM chamber.

In the time it takes for Ralph to take in the sights, Herman has already stripped himself naked. All across his body, faint scars mar his slender physique, partially hidden beneath his golden fur coat. One scar in particular catches Ralph's eye: a pale line circling across the lower part of his neck. Herman, catching on to the younger wolf's gazing, brushes his fingertips against the neck scar. "Oh, are you curious about these scars? Cus they all have wonderful stories to tell! Like this one I got while fighting against a Celtic hunter-warrior in Ireland. You probably haven't heard of him, but he's a national hero over there. Though it is rather strange how warped his stories have gotten–everyone seems to think he's human!"

Ralph's ears perk up. Not so much for Herman all but admitting to his immortality, but for having knowledge of the hidden Sapient history lost to time. Perhaps there is more to learn from him than a simple case lead.

"Odd, you don't seem all that surprised. Did Wile E. tell you about me? Shame my intentions to shock you are foiled, but I suppose it does spare me from the tedious explanations. Help me in those shackles, will you, boy?"

Doing as requested, the red wolf says, "There's so much I want to ask you about, I don't even know where to begin."

"We have the whole night to ourselves, so feel free to ask me anything and everything."

He strips off his coat and starts unbuttoning his shirt. "This is a bit embarrassing to admit, but I'm not used to this whole dom-sub thing. So how should I start all this…?"

Herman raises a brow. "I hate to break it to you, but I have no interest in copulation. There is only one thing that can bring life to this undead soul, and it's the experience of 'death'. The more painful, the better. So don't hold back, boy!"

Experiencing death, I can't imagine how that would be pleasant. Pain, on the other hand… Eyeing the scar-filled body, Ralph walks over and picks up a cutlass. "If you're truly immortal, why do you have so many scars?"

"Ah, well, that I don't have much of an explanation for. My self-healing abilities are top notch, but if I'm too slow or sloppy in putting myself back together, the cells have to register and reattach the old parts and things get a bit screwed up along the way. Indestructibility is such a fickle thing."

"So even if I cut you to pieces, so long as you're reassembled, we can walk out here as if nothing happened, right?"

"Blood will be spilt, yes, but if we clean up well enough, it'd be like committing the perfect crime."

Ralph traces the curve of the blade, entranced by its elegant shape and remarkable sharpness. Faced with an opportunity like this, he cannot help but smile. "How about we make an exchange? You answer my questions, and I'll cut off a piece of you." He brushes the tip of the cutlass across Herman's neck. "Do we have a deal?"

Herman's eyes glimmer like light amber beneath the lantern's light, and his lips curl into a twisted grin. "Ask away, boy."

"Good answer." He raises the blade. "Let's start with the basics. What do you know of the local organ trade?"


Red. Dark red. Round red cells floating in a sea of red so dark it looks more like wine than blood.

Pepé releases his attention from the microscope and turns to the rack of vials, filled with varying shades of red and labeled by taxonomic rank and species. Vulpes vulpes, Gallus domesticus, Felis silvestris, Canis lupus… He looks at the vial which he emptied earlier for inspection: Mephitis mephitis–Le Pew, Pepé. While Wile E. was out collecting the other samples, Pepé opted to use himself as a test subject. Skunks in general are uncommon in this city, and finding one willing–or unwilling–to have their blood taken is like finding a needle in a haystack. In addition, due to the unusual circumstances surrounding his past self's actions, there is an opportunity to look into the long-term effects of Illudium usage.

One thing he notes in his observations is how the samples of the Sapient subjects differ in appearance to their non-Sapient counterparts. Their blood is generally darker, some subjects more than others, and among the darkest of the bunch, cells both white and red appear to shimmer like stardust. Despite these anomalies, the blood cells still behave like normal blood cells do–at least for the moment.

Pepé removes the petri dish with his blood to the side and turns to another sample, one which he had been curious about since receiving the sample. From the rack, he pulls out a vial filled with a liquid mass of deep wine red similar to his own sample. One labeled "C. l. persistus–Coyote, Wile E.".

Until now, he never had a chance to notice the coyote bleeding, if he ever did in his presence. However, he had noticed how quickly Wile E. healed from his injuries compared to his lupine comrade. Initially he chalked it up as having a natural endurance built up from years of roughing it in the southwestern deserts, but as he analyzes his makeup on a cellular level, he is left with more questions than answers. The sample size of subjects is much too small to confirm, yet his intuition is telling him that he may be close to a breakthrough.

Theory A, he writes in his notebook, the coyote is simply born different, with anomalous blood that allows him to heal from most injuries at an above-average rate. He taps his pen against his chin, then adds, Theory B, he was injected with a dose of Illudium at a young age, or possibly while he was still in the womb. Considering his father's close affiliations with ACME, it's possible that–

A chime from his smartphone halts his train of thought. He picks it up and checks the caller ID. "Sylvie? What are you doing, calling this late at night?"

Sylvester's voice answers, "I'm waiting for Furrball to come back. Thought I'd check up on you in the meantime. Did you find anything from those samples yet?"

"Possibly, though I'll have to do more research to confirm." He pauses to inspect the theories he just wrote, crossing out the unfinished sentence.

"Are we all set for Junior's tutoring session tomorrow?"

"You know I can never turn down le chaton. I'll have the study materials prepared by then."

"Perfect! I'll see you tomorrow then." More sentimentally, Sylv says, "Bonne nuit, Pepé."

"Bonne nuit, Sylvester." He hangs up the phone, then turns back to glance at Coyote's sample. Under the warm lamp's light, the blood shimmers like stars amidst a deep red sky. It reminds him of a quote he vaguely recalls reading somewhere…

"Man is a microcosm, or a little world, because he is an extract from all the stars and planets of the whole firmament, the earth, and the elements; and so he is their quintessence."

"Paracelsus," the name slips from his lips in a soft whisper. The alchemist, the physician, the genius, the heretic. Paracelsus, a human born in the Renaissance era, shared much in common with this present-day skunk–eerily so. Past, present, and future. Henri and Pepé. Whatever name he goes by, every action, thought, and belief up to this moment make up his microcosm. Separating himself from his past would do nothing to benefit him. He must accept his shadow, combine its elements with those of his consciousness, distill the impurities within his soul and rebuild himself into a newer, more enlightened being.

He shall become quintessence.


Black. Dark, inky black. Black liquid that, under the warm lantern lights, sparkles like the night sky.

Ralph drops the black-stained cutlass and kneels to inspect it.

The black liquid pours from Herman's gaping wounds and bleeding stumps onto the floor. Lying elsewhere, his disembodied head cackles maniacally. "Bravo! Mo cheol thú! I gotta give it to ya, you did a fine job here. Clean cuts, filthy mess, I love it!" More deviously, he adds, "You're a brave one, Ralph. Anyone else would have freaked out after the first slice."

Rubbing the blood between his fingers, he mutters, "So this is 'Tears of Isis'…"

"Our blood contains a high concentration of Illudium, and as immortal beings, our supply is nigh limitless. Horus is up to his old tricks again, I see."

"With ACME's science and technology, extracting Illudium would be a piece of cake for them."

"You're better off relaying that info to your buddies instead of wasting your time repeating it to me. Now, do me a favor and reattach my arms and hands. I can handle the rest."

Ralph rushes over to do so, each limb taking a moment to fully settle in. Witnessing the clean cut he made not long ago gradually closing itself up, leaving no mark of his actions, a nervous swelling forms in his gut. "Y'know, there's still one question you never really answered."

Herman leans over to reattach his legs. "And what is that?"

"What's with your obsession with death? Why put yourself through all this, knowing that you can never die?"

The taller wolf falls silent for a moment, pausing mid-action. When he starts up again, he confesses, "Truth is, I've long since forgotten the why. Penance, perhaps? Or maybe envy for what I cannot have? Or more accurately…" He picks up his head and screws it back on. "…because death is all that I am. When someone hears 'Anubis', all they see is someone who embalms corpses and judges souls. I have no other talents to my name, and my powers are but mere parlor tricks compared to what my brethren can do. Once the ancient civilizations fell and gave way to the modern age, people stopped revering death and started to fear it. When I traveled to the British Isles, those who spotted me called me many names–Black Dog, Barghest, Padfoot, Church Grim, Moddey Dhoo. No matter the name, the meaning is all the same: a dog of death and misfortune, an omen of their demise."

"So eventually, you started to play the villain," Ralph cuts in.

Herman's ears perk up. "You've been through this performance before, haven't you?"

Nonchalant, he answers, "More than a few times, and still am. Though now some make the mistake of calling me a hero."

A smile forms across Anubis' muzzle. "As have I. You'd be amazed how much people's perceptions of an individual changes throughout centuries. But there is one crucial difference between you and I."

"Aside from the obvious?"

"More important than that." He puts one hand on Ralph's shoulder. "You still have your humanity. I lost mine a long time ago–assuming I ever had it to begin with."

"You helped Wiles out when he needed it most. I think you have more than you give yourself credit for."

He flinches and removes his hand. "You misunderstand, boy. I was merely guiding a lost soul. That's all I can do."

"And you did a damn fine job of that. Now…" He looks down at the pool of inky blood brushing against his toes. "…let's figure out how to clean up this mess."


AUTHOR'S NOTE

Hello! It really has been a while, hasn't it? I don't recall if I ever managed to upload a chapter in March, but better late than never, I suppose. There are many reasons behind the delay, including writer's block (being overwhelmed by the increasing complexity of the plot, along with having doubts about the course the story's taken as well as my overall writing ability), job hunting shenanigans, and emotional roller coasters in general. But despite the difficulties I had in getting back into writing, this chapter did flow out pretty easily, with very few cullings to perform.

I actually had many ideas for how to approach the conversation in the final scene and even considered extending it, but the chapter was running pretty long as is, so I decided to cut it short. On the topic of the "torture porn" scenario, while the story is already dark in its current state, I felt like describing the torture in detail would have taken it too far for the intended T rating. (Not to mention it would have dragged out or likewise become redundant in short time.) What I wanted to add but wasn't able to was Ralph recognizing Herman's death fetish as an addiction and trying to discuss it with him via personal anecdote. Perhaps in due time I'll get around to writing that anecdote, but for now I think what has been brought up works well enough.

I'll confess that, despite having notes for the outcome of this current arc, I have little idea of what to write next. Once I go over said notes, I might be able to come up with something more concrete. Until that happens, that's all for now, folks!

7/6/2022 UPDATE: I altered a bit of Herman's dialogue in the last scene, when he talks of his post-Ancient Egypt experiences. It doesn't affect the meaning or flow of the conversation, but it's blatant enough to warrant noting.