Dots of static bloom in patterns across the interface as if they were naturally a part of this world.

A voice speaks off camera in a frequency that could never be fully understood.

The pig drifting in and out of focus, our understanding, our world.

Pigma is laughing.
He puts his cigar out and keeps laughing.

"You think this unit would exist without me?" Pigma asks the ghost, floating around behind the camera.
Outside of your field of vision.
The responding voice tired, crackling, and unintelligible.

"...uckin' show you … ality"


wolfen
a story by cornwallace
chapter two: dragout


It isn't the moment he hits the ground.
The moment that drags him back to reality is less like the snap of fingers and more like the tying of a ribbon into a bow.

When Wolf can see the bloody pool under him thicken through the scope, into a deep red reflection of the flickering lights of the diner.
That's when he snaps back into reality. That's when he quietly packs his sniper rifle and makes his way down the fire escape.
Quickly, but quietly. The structure rattling around him with the same urgency which he walks. But not waking a soul.

He thinks of the turbulence in his wolfen as he gets further down. How it felt when the smaller asteroids pelted against his shields.
He thinks of the lasers, the bombs, tearing through his shields and rocking him to his core.
He thinks of how it felt when the atmosphere of a planet tore him from being a broken, drifting mess in space down to a flaming piece of garbage polluting the atmosphere.

And he always thinks of his little buddy. The little guy that was on a different team, and he never wanted to go too hard on him.

Zack Pouches watches his wallet smack the lip of the dumpster and bounce off into the street while the gravity of the situation he's in truly consumes him.
His watch falls right in. He starts shrieking.

Grimb holds him by his ankles. Steady, against the railing, even when he starts thrashing. Gromm kicks him in the head to help him reorient himself.
It works.

Panther, his arms crossed, already impatient. He approaches.
"How about we don't waste each other's time," he says.

"I don't FUCKING know what to tell you, man!" Zack exclaims, waving his hands wildly. Trying to reclaim any sense of control he can on the whole situation. "I'll tell you anything, please, you don't need to do this-"

"I'm not starting an interrogation," Panther says, flatly. "I just wanted you to understand you were dying before I made it happen."

The possum goes silent and still. His jacket tangling his arms and torso as if his complacency provoked it.
"This isn't fai-" he starts, before Grimb drops him.

Zack Pouches had wondered whether he'd fall more like his wallet or his watch. Turns out he was more like his wallet, as the top of his skull cracked hard against the open mouth of the dumpster and gravity dragged him into the street.
Twitching and convulsing. His body refusing to let go of life as death snatched it from his worthless grasp anyway.

Panther shakes his head as he watches a pool of blood collect under the dying possum's twitching and writhing form.
"Shame," he says, turning his back on the affair. "He missed the dumpster. Someone will have to go down there and collect him."
He begins walking away. "One of you, clean that filth from my alley."

The tigers follow him back into the building. Past his office and to the elevator.
Panther presses the first button and they follow him into the ground. The basement level nightclub he runs.

Grimb leaves his company through the peasant's entrance. Gromm follows him to the bar.

"Grimb?" Panther asks, looking back at him. The big cat shakes his head. "Gromm," Panther asks before looking away. The big cat nods his head. "Scram," he says.

The tiger leaves and Panther orders a double tequila, neat. Techno spilling from the ceiling, reverberating off the very floor they stand on. The bartender notices him from across the bar, topping off a beer and setting it in front of a patron. He makes his way towards him to take his order, the order he already gave.

"What can I get for you?" the bartender asks.

"Double tequila, neat," Panther repeats himself, louder, more annoyed.

The flashing lights cutting through the fog. Panther lights a cigarette. The dancing shadows twitching, contorting in his peripherals.
A tumbler sat down before him. He drains it and wipes his whiskers with the fabric of the coat on his forearm.

Beckoning the bartender back over to him with two fingers on his left hand, he conceals the empty tumbler in his right.
Taking a drag off his cigarette before plucking it gingerly from his lips with his newly freed hand. The bar pulsates, the walls breathing around him.

When the bartender approaches he smashes the glass into his head and straightens his tie.

Shards of glass erupting from the cup as it rips open the tender flesh on his forehead, matting his fur and drags him down to the floor behind the bar.
Nobody seems to notice. He steps behind the bar and over the employee bleeding out on the ground. Grabbing a glass, he fills it with his preferred tequila and knocks it back before tossing it casually into the rinsing trough.
Splashing dirty, soapy water onto the discarded bartender's face. And some on his slacks, and his shoes.

Panther is disgusted.
"Top shelf, next time," he mutters to the insubordinate. He may not understand now, but he will in time. Or he will be disposed of.

He leaves the bar in search of better endeavors, as a familiar face captivates his attention from across the dance floor. Flashing itself in brief, obscured intervals between the bodies. Under the harsh filter of the lights.

Wolf O'Donnell.
His glower unwavering.


"Why do you want to join Star Wolf?" the disembodied voice asks quietly. Monotone.

"There are few avenues which could benefit from my natural skill set," the cat purrs, examining his nails. Fingers curled over his palms. Extending as his paw towards him, offering. "I figured if the pay was appropriate, this could be a… mutually beneficial arrangement."

"And what might that natural skill set bring to the table?"

"Well, I've never been inadequate at killing those that need to be killed, but let's just say my passion is thievery."

"We're mercs, not robbers," the disembodied voice sighs. "What makes you think we'd be interested?"

"Let's cut to the chase, shall we? You and I are both aware ever since Andross was neutralized, there's been, shall we say, a scarcity in opportunities for the infamous Star Wolf."

"We get along fine."

"Ah, yes," Panther smiles, a noise escaping him caught somewhere between a laugh and a hum. "You've struggled through worse times, I am certain. But what I can offer is less of a passive approach to acquiring your income."

"Go on."

"With my connections and my experience in thievery, we could expand this operation from simple mercenary work into an enterprise. I've seen the shape of this vessel. Supplies are scarce, soldiers are hungry, and morale is low. You could wait for the next independently wealthy monarch to drag you out of this rut you're in or… you could consider a more proactive approach. The choice is yours."


Panther plucks the cigarette from his lips as he sits across the table from his old acquaintance. Smoke jetting from his nostrils and mouth as he licks his lips.
He looks Wolf dead in the eye, waiting for him to speak. He doesn't.
Just stares.

"You disgrace my business by showing your face around here, Wolf," Panther says curtly, pointing at him. "We are no longer affiliated."

"We need to talk," Wolf says, cutting to the chase. He doesn't even seem to blink. "Preferably somewhere private."

"What could you possibly have to say that would be worth my ti-"

"Andrew and Pigma are dead," Wolf says, looking away from him for the first time. Draining the bourbon his tumbler. Scanning the environment. Assessing threats. "Someone is gunning for old Star Wolf members."

"Okay, just how do you know this?"

Wolf narrows his eyes at him. "Andrew and Pigma are dead."

"Yes," Panther sighs. "How do you know they're dead?"

"If you think I lost even half the resources I brought to the team after being cut, you are mistaken. If you think I don't pay closer attention to things that concern me since the schism, you are insane."

"Fair point," Panther says, whiskers twitching. Thinking. His eye-line mirroring Wolf's. Scanning. Assessing the threats. "Follow me to my office," he says abruptly, standing from the booth.

Wolf follows him at a steady pace through the dancing crowd. Red and blue lights flashing harshly against the thrashing silhouettes. Beyond the bar, there is a doorway. The only thing barring entrance is a velvet rope latched to either side of the frame.

Panther casually unlatches the left hook and gestures Wolf through. He walks just far enough in to be out of the way. To turn around and keep his eye on Panther as he latches the hook back onto the frame and straightens his tie.

Panther made sure his nervous tics always had a secondary purpose – that way, he never had to admit to himself that they were nervous tics. Straightening his tie, smoothing out the fur on his head and face.
Grooming himself. To the untrained eye, it looked casual, professional. Smooth.
But Wolf could sense his heart rate quickening every time he did it.

Panther presses a button on the panel next to the private elevator. They wait for the lift to find them in what Wolf understands as a muted silence, despite the loud booming of industrial music pouring over the unruly mob of shadows behind them.
Vibrations spreading through the floors and walls. Every second takes its sweet time as if recalculated by reality to hold itself back.

The door opens and he places his hand on the frame, telling the sensor that someone is there and not to close. With his free hand, he once again gestures Wolf forward. Into the elevator. Wolf steps in and turns around, Panther follows suit. He pushes a button on the panel and the glow highlights a silhouetted number. Three.
He straightens his tie once again and smooths out the fur on his face and head.

The elevator doors close, and Panther isn't shy about digging the .22 caliber pistol out of the breast of his coat and double checking to see if it's loaded.
It is.

Wolf watches carefully through his peripheral as Panther tucks the gun back into his coat.
The music fading. Thumping bass replaced with adrenaline and hearts beating.

The elevators open to a dark hallway. The showmanship of the first floor was not forgotten on the third.
Minimalist postmodern décor. Reds and blacks, and lighting you have to strain to see through.
Wolf feels the claws on his thumb scratch at the ones on his fingers.
Digging past and into his flesh. Causing him to spot blood into his thumb's grey fur.

The office door opens. It's all a show. Every piece of decoration in this place isn't what Panther is, it's what he wants you to see.
Wolf feels a bit ill as they're both standing there in his open office. He shakes it off and makes his way over to the bar.

"Drink?" Wolf offers.

"Tequila, in the decanter," Panther says, flatly. "If you want bourbon, you'll have to fish it out of one of those bottles."

He pours himself a whiskey first, and then grabs the decanter. He knocks the drink back.
Behind him, Wolf can hear the subtle scratching of fur against fabric.

Wolf grabs the tequila decanter and hurls it behind him, across the room. Just as the gun is cocked and pointed, a disruption occurs as the gun fires off into his office wall.

Panther drops the gun and stumbles backwards. His right hand covering his face with his left hand akimbo.
Wolf advances, and instead of picking up the gun, he picks up the decanter. Panther flicks open his switchblade, and when Wolf looks up, he takes the blade deep into the ribs.

He falls back, and so does Panther. But while Panther scrambles towards his gun, Wolf descends upon him with the decanter.
One sickening crack into the middle of his skull and his nose spurts blood all over Wolf's shoddy brown coat.

Bringing it down again, harder this time, he finally sees Panther as desperate as his actions say.
Wolf's knee on Panther's sternum, he brings the bottle down once again, hard on his face. His skull reshaping, his skin tearing from blunt force trauma.
He tries his best to keep his composure, but Wolf brings the glass to his face once again. Gurgling in protest, he ejects his blood onto Wolf's face and clothes.

It's not until Panther's skull has cracked wide open that Wolf tosses aside the bloody decanter and huffs his way off the dead person's body.

Wolf stands up and staggers backwards into the bar. He pulls the knife out of his ribs and coughs up blood. He flicks the blade back into the handle and pockets it.
Stepping over the corpse and towards the door, he opens it. Stumbling down the hallway and to the door to the fire escape balcony.

He looks down and sees a dead body in a dumpster looking back up at him.
Wolf sucks in a bloody lungful of air as the rain continues to fall.