WARNING: This chapter dips a bit into the discussion of mental illness, including but not limited to: psychosis, depression, trauma, and suicidal ideations. Please read with caution and take care of yourself.
Returning aboveground, George offers to let Ralph and Furrball. stay for the night. Furrball, not entirely comfortable with the idea of sleeping among dogs, parts ways with them instead. Both alone in the old shack, Ralph and George have a couple of drinks before going to bed.
Lying awake on the couch, thoughts surge in Ralph's mind, incapable of slowing down to rest. George, noticing his discomposure, breaks the silence. "You've been pretty quiet since we left the Underground. Did something happen down there?"
Thrown off-guard, Ralph hesitates before answering. "I ran into Anubis."
"I thought you smelled a bit funny," he says snidely.
"He said he had info on the business trades in the Underground, including the Tears of Isis. But in exchange, I had to do him some… favors."
George's sleepy expression contorts into one of worry. "You didn't… You can't be that desperate–"
"It's nothing like that, thank God. But I can't say it was pleasant, either. He took me to this place called The Dungeon, and the basement looked like some kind of medieval torture chamber. Then I saw the weapons on the wall and knew exactly what it's for."
"The Dungeon… I've never been there myself, but the rumors I heard are pretty gruesome. Anyone who gets invited there often doesn't return."
"It's a den for bloodthirsty deviants. For villains like me." He lets out a shameful laugh. "When he and I were making our exchange, I learned a lot about him, things he tried to hide from the world above. And the more he spoke… the more it felt like staring at my own reflection. A reflection of a broken dog, one pushed into violence and madness in an attempt to hide his own insecurities."
The Basset hound doesn't respond right away, silently choosing his words with care. "Ralph… Sorry for breaking up with you."
Confused, Ralph sits up and turns towards him. "The hell…? George, that was two years ago. I'm over it by now."
"I know. Still, since that night, I felt like if I said something different, if I considered how you would've felt, you wouldn't have ended up in such a dark spot."
Two years ago. The time Ralph calls his darkest moment, an inky black stain on his already muddied excuse of a life. The incident in question is but a hazy blur now, but from how Sam described it during the aftermath, it was harrowing. He was sent to a psych ward, prescribed medications, and attended multiple therapy sessions, yet the memory was never made clearer. "There's no point in mulling over the past. Moving forward is all we can do. Besides, I think we're both happier this way." With a sentimental smile, he adds, "Even if things didn't work out between us, I'm grateful to have you as a friend."
Smiling back, George utters, "Same here, buddy."
Daylight shines through the bedroom window, brushing upon the tawny wolf's fur as he squirms out of his slumbering state. As he gets up, he senses an emptiness beside him. It takes him but a second to recall what–or rather, who–is missing.
The bedroom door slams open and he rushes into the living room. "Boss, Wile's gone missing! He's–"
"Relax, Duey." On the couch, Wyatt sits casually, coffee mug in hand. "The kid said he's feeling better, so I called a taxi to ride him home." He takes a sip.
Duane glowers. "It's hardly been a day. There's no way he could have recovered that quickly."
"I checked his injuries before he left. His wounds closed up fast, and he said his chest doesn't hurt as badly as before." His look hardens. "But you're right, he healed a bit too quickly. Whatever Wile E. is, he's no normal Sapient."
"You think he's one of us?"
Wyatt shakes his head. "His backstory doesn't line up. More likely, he's a genetic anomaly. I've only witnessed it once or twice, but it's a likely possibility. But that's not what concerns me. That prototype of his… If anyone else was handed a weapon that heavy, they wouldn't be able to wield it so easily."
Hearing his boss describe the coyote and his theory, pieces start to connect in Duane's head and he grins smugly. "You like him cus he reminds you of Set, don't you?"
Flustered, Wyatt nearly spills his coffee. "Wha–? Of course not! Sure, they have some surface level traits in common, but they're completely different individuals at the end of the day." His brows crease as he turns towards the window. "But it's true that I worry about him. I'd rather he not suffer the same fate, for his mate's sake."
The small wolf plops down next to him. "I don't think you need to worry much. Coyote may be a mortal, but there's one thing that sets him apart from my old man."
"What's that?"
Glancing past Wyatt's shoulder at the shining sun, Duane answers, "Naiveté."
After the taxi drops him off, Wile treks to the second floor of the apartment building. He stands before the door numbered "203" and sighs in relief. It's great to be home. Entering the apartment, he announces his return.
Silence.
"Ralph? Pepé?" He passes by the barren living room into the kitchen. Sitting at the table is Pepé, staring down at a ragged old journal, opened to a page full of incomprehensible notes. Wile considers approaching him directly, but the moment seems too private to interfere. He tiptoes away from the table, but his elbow hits a stray mug on the counter.
The mug shatters with a loud crash, shaking Pepé out of his trance. "Oh, Wiley, welcome back!" He slams the journal shut. "Pardon, I'm a bit fatigued this morning."
Wile scatters to grab the broom and dustpan. "You have been juggling quite a lot lately," he comments while sweeping up the ceramic shards. "Maybe you should take a break."
"T'inquiète pas, it's not about work. I just have a lot on my mind."
He dumps the mess into the trash. "You want to talk about it? It'll take off some of the pressure."
"I'd rather not. It's–"
Pepé's statement is cut off by the grumble of Wile's stomach. "Shit, I should've grabbed breakfast on the way back."
With a soft chuckle, the skunk says, "Let's continue this conversation over coffee and donuts. My treat."
A quick trip to the café later, they arrive in Freling Park, a humble spot of vibrant greenery surrounded by cold stone and steel. At this time, the park's population is sparse, making it easy for the two to find a bench far from potential eavesdroppers. Separated by only a paper bag filled with hoop-shaped pastries, the two spend a moment in silence, taking in the crisp autumn breeze and tranquil scenery. The skunk sips his chai latte, then breaks the quiet between them to vent his troubled thoughts.
"When I was reading through that journal, I learned many things about Illudium, about Sapients, about myself. But that book is cursed, cursed with the memories of Henri La Moufette!" Pepé swirls the cup while he thinks of the next thing to say. "I was around your age when Bugs hired me. He dragged me out of a dark underworld and gave me a chance to step into the light. The Illudium research project was the greatest opportunity for any scientist, and he entrusted it to me, a back-alley doctor of ill reputation. I should have been satisfied with just that, yet I wanted more. The one thing I craved the most, that I could not understand or feel… was love."
This takes Wile by surprise. Pepé, who he knew as a friendly, lovable skunk who binges soap operas and shares his compassion to anyone in need, was once a lonely and aloof creature similar to himself. He acknowledged that they share some common ground, but he never realized until now just how much. "Did you ever find it?"
"I did, at least for a bit. But I was selfish and let my desires take over. I defiled my wife and broke her spirit, I sacrificed countless subjects in the name of science, I seduced comrades to their demise, and I let my newborn son fall into the hands of a psychopath." His voice lowers to a whisper as he adds, "All this time, I've deluded myself into believing I could never hurt anyone, but all this time, I've had blood on my hands." The cup slips from his small, trembling hands, and his vision blurs from the tears in his eyes. "I was such a fool, thinking I could forget everything. Now that I remember, I can no longer hide from my sins." The skunk, normally calm and composed, breaks down in front of his friend.
Wile, unsure how to approach the situation, keeps to himself until he quiets down. "Maybe it's for the best," he finally says. "Whether we meant it or not, we've all done crappy things in the past. For fifteen years, I had this hole in my memory that I couldn't clear up. One second, I was staring down at Dad's corpse, the next, I was covered in his blood. I never connected the dots until I was explicitly told about it. Even in the dog-eat-dog environment where I lived, I can't forgive myself for what I did."
With a tender smile, he resumes. "Still, it wasn't entirely meaningless. I was able to live another day, and everything that happened since led me here. Despite my regrettable actions, I push on because that's what Mom and Dad would have wanted. If Dad was here now, I think he'd be proud of how far I've come."
Pepé, nonplussed by his canine friend's words, responds sheepishly, "Wile E. Coyote, you are something else. What I would give to have such naiveté. Though when you put it that way, it makes me feel hopeful. My foolish past self gave me the chance to start over, and my life now has never been better. If there is one thing I regret most, however, it's that I had to forget it all to get to this point." Determined, he concludes, "That shall be the last regret I'll make."
A single ceiling lamp hangs over a table, cutting the stark blackness with a bright circle of light. On one side of the table, Deputy Sheepdog sets up the recorder and case files. He sits down and presses the record button. "Do you realize why you're here, Mr. Blakesley?" he asks gruffly.
Across from the deputy, Herman Blakesley is seated–or more precisely, restrained. As per his own request, the officers cuffed him from behind and tied him to the chair with rope; Sam gave his approval under the pretense of preventing any potential lupine schemes. "Ralph told you everything, I take it?" he asks back with a sly grin.
"Yes." When Ralph called him earlier that day, he slipped in hints as to Herman's true nature, but deliberately omitted details. Sam pressed further, and the information he got was hard to believe. If the wolf sitting before him is truly an immortal god of death, this leaves him to question his own faith, among other things. More urgently, he can be a potential danger to the city's populace if left unchecked. "I was told you were at the Underground last night. Care to explain?"
Herman's gaze shifts away briefly. "Mr. Sheepdog, do you know about the Negative Confessions?"
Quizzical, he plays along. "No. Tell me."
"They're listed in The Book of Coming Forth By Day and all its variants. When a soul is sent forth to be judged and their heart weighed against the feather of Ma'at, they must confess to the gods the sins which they did not commit in life and prove that they are worthy of admission into the Duat. Think of them as a predecessor to the Ten Commandments. Often I fantasize about the day when I would be able to stand in the great judgment hall before Wesir and profess my worth. Alas, the number of confessions I would make could be counted with one hand."
"Are you confessing to being a criminal?"
"I'm confessing to being a broken man. You can interpret my words however you like, but this I will say with utmost honesty: I have not and will never do anything to disrespect the deceased."
"You never answered my question. What were you doing in the Underground last night?"
"In due time, my friend. But I demand something in return."
Sam lets out a low growl. "Name your price."
"Penance. For many years, I craved that which I cannot attain, and my envy and despair drove me into madness. The scars I inflicted on myself are numerous, and I enjoyed every last one of them. I cannot die according to my wishes, but I feel no desire to live." His voice cracking, Herman whimpers, "I beg of you… Please save me."
Deputy Sheepdog's stone-faced expression, half-covered by his lengthy ginger hair, softens to one of pity. Though the context of the situation is different, the more this conversation drags out, the more he is reminded of that incident from two years ago.
It was a quiet moonlit night when he got the call from the police radio.
"Sheepdog, we hunted down Gabby Goat's dealers to a warehouse in South Quarter. But there's just one problem."
He picked up the walkie-talkie. "What's the problem, Shepherd?"
"Somebody already got to them before us. Target's a wolf wielding a knife and behaving erratically. He's asking for you specifically. Be careful, sir."
Sam tensed up. He always feared something like this would happen when he and Ralph moved to the city, but never expected that day to arrive so soon. "Stay back. I'm on my way."
The drive to South Quarter's warehouse district had him pushing the pedal harder than he ever had in his life. The police car skidded to a halt beside the targeted location, and Sam stepped out. Officer Shepherd pointed to the entrance. He ran inside, then stopped, shocked at the sight before him.
Ralph stood in the middle of a blood-covered floor, surrounded by the slain bodies of goats and rams. He had a wild look in his eyes and he flashed a crooked grin upon seeing the sheepdog enter. "Morning, Sam! Unfortunately, you're a bit late for your shift, and in your absence, I captured the whole flock." He thrust the short blade in Sam's direction. "Come and catch me, old pal!"
Enraged, Sam tackled and pinned down the red wolf, removing the knife from his hands during the process. He considered giving him a good beating like back in the farmland, but relented. Any opportunity to indulge Ralph's nostalgic fantasies would only encourage him. Instead, he swiftly cuffed him and dragged him into the vehicle.
By the time they reached the station, Ralph was over the peak of his manic phase, albeit still not all there mentally. From what Sam could gather in the interrogation, he went to Gabby's dealers after a painfully bad breakup, and while in a drug- and heartbreak-induced frenzy, he slaughtered them all specifically in an attempt at getting his old comrade's attention. In a move considered controversial amongst his coworkers, Sam chose not to convict Ralph, instead sending him to the hospital and psych unit to detox. "Wolf needs to be rehabilitated, not imprisoned," he justified himself.
Shepherd, skeptical, replied, "Sheepdog, you keep showing mercy to wolves like him, and they'll eat you alive."
Sam turned to him and smiled. "If it means doing the right thing, I'm willing to make that sacrifice."
Sam inspects the African wolf again. Stripped of his glasses and donning a black hoodie and distressed jeans, he looks more like a haggard street youth than the refined adult he met in the morgue. Perhaps the Underground is more than a dwelling of deviant activity; it's a place where he can express a side to him that's suppressed by his day job. At least, that's what Sam speculates based on his limited information.
Speaking more sympathetically, he says, "Answer my questions, and I'll get you the help you need."
AUTHOR'S NOTE
Hello again! It's been a short while, but I am back with another entry of this (melo)dramatic arc. As with the last couple of chapters, I had some difficulty trying to balance the various subplots and character arcs going on, but with a bit of help from my sis and my trusty story notes journal, I was able to cobble up a few scenes into something that, at the very least, felt thematically cohesive to some degree.
The theme I had in mind this time is "coming to terms with past sins", and it's one that resonates with me on a personal level. We all have things we regret, and boy do I have many. I have a bad habit of venting at the wrong time to the wrong people, metaphorically putting my foot in my mouth, blowing up due to frustrations with my poor communication skills, etc etc. As a result of all the culminating consequences, I've become a severely anxious, paranoid, and depressed individual who's just as scared of myself as I am of everyone and everything else, if not moreso. And while I won't go into details regarding certain aspects of my personal life, I will confess that I've left traces of my own personal feelings and experiences in the actions and dialogue of the characters within this story, direct and indirect. The tl;dr version of what I'm trying to say is that this fanfic project has been, in a sense, a coping mechanism for myself.
With all that depressing talk out of the way, I want to cap off on a more positive note by thanking everyone who's read this far into the story and endured all of its ups and downs (emotional and storytelling-wise). I know the plot's rather crazy and messy, but I'm grateful to those who manage to find enjoyment in it one way or another. I'm also grateful to those who find my original/fanmade characters just as engaging as the canon ones featured here; writing for them has proven to be cathartic and fun, as they've provided me with an outlet for both my creativity and my Egyptian mythology hyperfixation. A lot of stuff has been going on in my life, and working on this has given me a sense of stability amidst the chaos. So once again, I thank all of my readers for sticking with me through the thick and thin.
