Hey there! Thanks for sticking with me for this unexpectedly long wait between chapters. I didn't mean it to go on this long, I swear!

Anyways, if you need to (veteran readers especially) I highly recommend maybe skimming through the last chapter or two to refresh your memory of them. If you're a new reader just jumping in, then welcome! And I hope you took a break or two, so not to be too exhausted from the marathon-reading.

That's enough from me. There's a chapter that needs reading!

He could feel it now.

The cut along his chest and stomach was getting worse under the strain of combat. His clothes were ripping away more where the knife had cut, showing more of his wound, the wound that kept on bleeding out. With each breath James took in, another stream of blood left him. It wasn't an immediately vital wound, at least for now. If he didn't get it treated though, it would worsen, and become a real hazard.

But he couldn't treat the wound, not now, not while the more immediate threat of Chakori was still there.

James McCloud kept up with the ashen leopardess as well as he could. He redirected her knife blows away, but she kept coming at him with more attacks: a kick, a punch, a knee, an elbow. Still, he dodged, evaded, counterattacked. None of his strikes found no purchase though: Chakori evaded and counterattacked each time, forcing the fox back on the defensive. As Jame's strength ebbed away, his reflexes slowed, and she became faster than him, stronger than him, more precise than him...

He was outmatched, but he wouldn't let that stop him. He had to keep on fighting–

James took a heavy blow to his chest: a blazing-quick kick, sending him reeling backward, off balance. Chakori rushed at him, then ducked low as she executed some kind of sliding sweep kick. She caught the fox at his ankle as he staggered, and completely eliminated what little balance he had left. In another instant, James collapsed to the ground with a heavy thump.

No sooner than McCloud had landed, Chakori was upon him again. She came down with a knee, meant to crush Jame's stomach in, but he managed to wedge the knee strike aside with a quick wrench of his arm. Chakori simply came again, slashing at the fox's face with her knife. He intercepted the strike with a knife-slash of his own, slicing at her wrist. The blade cut into her, slicing something important –a tendon perhaps – and she couldn't keep a grip on her knife anymore.

Chakori's forward-deflected knife clattered to the ground next to them, but she wasn't stopped. Instead, she simply used the same momentum, and smashed her bleeding forearm against Jame's throat.

"Errhkf–" James let out a sputtering cough at the sudden and painful spike of pressure. When the reflexes tried to take another breath though, no air could get in. No air, no breath, no oxygen, no energy... No living.

The fox swung his knife up at Chakori in a desperate strike, but he found his weapon hand had been pinned down by one of Chakori's feet. He struggled to free his hand, but try as he might, he simply didn't have the strength or leverage to wedge himself free from the bind.

Jame's eyes widened in a sudden panic, and all he saw looking back was the blank, emotionless stare from what Chakori Uncia had become. It was such a hopeless look in her eyes, one that had submitted, had given up, had accepted how useless life had become. James could almost relate now; in a matter of seconds, he'd black out from lack of oxygen, lack of blood-flow to his head–

No! he couldn't give up not now! There had to be a way out, there always is... Sidearm! Of course! He still had his handgun tucked in the holster on his thigh... his right thigh. Jame's right hand was pinned down, and couldn't reach. Chakori was on top of him, pinning him down, so his left hand couldn't reach either...

James formed his free left hand into a fist, and struck at the leopardess. It was useless: his strength was waning fast, and he couldn't generate enough force to so much as touch Chakori, let alone subdue her. Still, the fox felt around with his free left hand for something, anything at all that might help. There had to be something–

The tips of his fingers brushed up against something hard. It was made of metal, with a few smaller bits... It was a blaster! It must've been the one Scott dropped earlier! There was still hope! In one final effort, James clawed and grasped at the blaster with all the strength and sheer will he could still muster. He felt his hand close around the weapon's grip, willed all the strength he had left to lift the hefty handgun off the ground and–

The blaster was gone, torn from Jame's feeble grip, or maybe it fell. Point was, there was no longer any weapon in his hand, nor the strength to even use one if there was. All that was left was that blank, ghastly feline face staring down at him, watching him as his eyes began to fail...

The fox's vision faded away, and his thoughts slowed... until they stopped.

There was nothing now.

\

深淵の縁で

At the Edge of the Abyss
Part II

/

Nothing.

That was it: nothing.

It was a calm nothing, a tranquil nothing, a relaxing, restful nothing. It could be meditated to, succumbed to.

Awaken.

The nothing was disturbed, like someone had thrown a stone into a pool pf calm water–

Awaken!

The nothing stirred. Something rose out of the churning depths, distorting and obliterating this sacred stillness, shattering the mirror for reflection.

"David!" the voice sounded so desperate, pleading for dear life "David Aberdeen, I know you're in there! Open the door, please! I need your help!"

The desperate voice was followed by a frantic pounding, at the door.

He was sitting at a table, a dining room table. There was a plate of his mother's food in front of him: a simple meal, but it held many memories...

This was a memory.

There were others at the table with him: canid man and woman, both terrier types... his parents.

His father stood up from the table, and started toward the front door. He had a weary, worried look to him. He'd seen that look on his face so many times...

"David," his mother implored, "don't–"

"I'll handle it, Agnes." his father interrupted quietly, giving her a slow, affirming nod.

Scott felt unsure. Who was this guy at the door? Why was he so desperate? Why did it make his mother so afraid, and his father so weary? Mom wasn't watching, she was trying very hard to distract herself from the coming scene, and just stared at the food in front of her. All Scott cold do was watch the front door, watch his father, and what would happen when he opened the door.

The front door slid open, and another jumped inside and shut the door behind him. He was a taller black and brown terrier canid, or schnauzer. The wire-furred types were all common enough to the Gaedel region of Corneria, but that's not what what stood out. He wore military style camouflage pattern trousers, with sturdy boots and a simple black top, like one of those GLA fighters Scott had seen here and there.

"What are you doing here, Liam?" Scott's father asked, "What have you stepped your boots into this time?"

The newcomer looked worried, tense, constantly looking around, listening. He took his breaths in deep heaving gasps, like he'd been running as fast as he could for a while. Was he running away from something?

"It's nothing." Liam insisted in a breathless, exhausted voice, "I just need a place here to crash for a bit."

"You seem a bit more desperate than mere 'nothing'." David observed as he crossed his arms across his chest, not fooled by the other's blatant lie, "You've got the Loyalists buggering after you, don't you?"

"It's not that bad, really." Liam tried to assure.

All David gave in response was a sigh, a shake of his weary head, and a reprimand, "I told you this is how it'd be, Liam. I warned you."

"All I need is to lay up here for the night, and I'll be gone afterward, that's it–"

"I can't get involved in this... bloody revolt of yours!" the older terrier snapped back, making a wide gesture to Scott and Agnes at the dinner table, "I have my family to look after!"

"But I'm your friend! I'm practically family as it is!" a desperate pleading took over Liam's voice and face, begging his old friend not to let him down, to put up with him one more time, "I'm not asking you to get involved, David. I just want to spend a quiet, pleasant evening here, that's it."

Scott could only watch as their discussion came to an impasse, as Liam, one of the hardened rebel fighters, pleaded desperately with his own father, a simple family man. It kind of looked a little pathetic to the teenage terrier: Liam looking to his father with such desperation, such fear, while David responded with a cold look, almost indifferent in his stony glare. Dad wouldn't leave him out in the cold, would he? That's not his way...

After a few moments leaving Liam hanging, David Aberdeen stepped away from the front door, a resigned look on his dark features. He stopped, and dropped his shoulders down with a sigh, "Fine." he conceded in a huff, "One night, Liam –one night only– and then you leave."

The newcomer's face lit up, so relieved at hearing this, and rushed to David's side, "Thank you David–"

Liam's gratitude was cut short though, by stern words from David, "You're going downstairs into the cellar for the night, out of sight."

The older terrier pointed out a small, unassuming door on the other side of the kitchen, and Liam started for it immediately, "Not a problem–"

David grabbed Liam's shoulder as he passed, stopping him, "And you will stay absolutely silent. Understand?" his words bore a hard edged tone of warning, and his brow pinched over his eyes in a piercing glare. He'd used this tone with Scott before: stern words of warning to his son if he suspected mischief might be afoot.

Liam nodded, understanding exactly what David wanted. When the older terrier finally released him, he proceeded straight downstairs into the house's cellar. His footsteps were awfully quiet too, almost silent, even though he was wearing those military style boots... how did he have such a quiet step?

Scott's dad walked slowly back to the dinner table. His eyes were downcast, and he was rubbing his forehead, like he'd just been hit with a terrible headache.

"You can't be serious about keeping him here, David." mom protested as she stood up, "He'll be nothing but trouble for us."

"I may not approve of Liam's choices, but he's still a friend, and he is still our guest." David insisted in a low voice. He took an empty plat and went about loading it up with a serving of the food from the table, "I will not have the hospitality of this house tarnished, especially not toward a friend in need."

"But at the expense of our safety?!" Agnes demanded.

David didn't respond right away. He simply handed the plate laden with the family's dinner to Scott, to whom he instructed, "Be a good lad and bring this down for Liam."

The teenage terrier nodded as he accepted the plate, and left the table, heading toward the cellar. Scott heard mom and dad start arguing as he stepped further away. Mom was worried for the family, and demanded that Liam leave, while dad wearily insisted he knew what he was doing. Most of their arguments were something like that, and Scott had just come to accept their heated exchanges like the wind and rain. It always happened, and it always passed.

In any case, Scott was a little grateful he didn't need to be awkwardly caught in the middle of mom and dad's argument, that he was given a task away from them while they got their disagreements out of their systems. However, the teenage Scott was also curious about this Liam guy. The young terrier had a few vague images of someone he's seen a few times that looked like him, but nothing really solid, and nobody who seemed like one of the GLA fighters.

Scott entered the cellar, descending the familiar staircase down. It became colder down here, very quickly. The light was already on, revealing a wider space, packed with a variety of items in storage. There was some long-term food storage just at the base of the stairs, some long-forgotten boxes, along with a few bits of neglected furniture. Scott found Liam on one such languishing chair.

The brown-and-black terrier, or schnauzer, leaned forward on the edge of his seat, fidgeting with his empty hands. He bolted upright when Scott came down, almost like he flinched at an expected enemy. He relaxed though when he saw that it was only Scott, with a plate of the family's dinner in his hand.

"We sent you down some supper." Scott said dryly as he handed the plate to Liam.

"Thanks..." the other said, accepting the food. He glanced up at Scott, looking him over for a few moment, and let out an amused chuckle. "I remember when you weren't more than a wee pup in your ma's arms. You've grown up pretty well it looks, even got your dad's stubborn scowl."

"Yeah, everyone says that." Scott drawled back, rolling his eyes. It was an incredibly obvious observation; anyone who's known Scott and his family tended to say things like that.

"Sorry, didn't mean anything by it..." That was probably true. It seemed like Liam was just trying to relieve his restless tension with a little small-talk. After looking at the food in his hands a couple moments though, his tone became much more somber and grave, "David didn't have to do this, you know."

"Why not?" Scott asked.

"It's really not my place to spring a heap of troubles on your father the way I have." Liam explained, "It puts everyone here at risk, and you deserve better than that. By all rights, you shouldn't have to put up with my recklessness, and I doubt Sean would approve of me doing this either."

"My dad's doing this because your a friend to him, and because you're a guest of our home." the young terrier tried to assure. He wasn't so much interested in his dad's reasons, but rather in Liam's reasons: why he came here at all, what he does for the GLA and why.

"Yeah, I know. I was counting on that deep-caring stubbornness of David's when I came here." he pointed downward, indicating the house. Liam took a moment, looking around, thinking about something, and further explained, "Your dad doesn't want me doing this, you know –going out there to fight for our due justice– doesn't want to see me hurt. After I've eaten his food and rested under his roof a few hours, I expect he'll come down here, and to convince me to quit fighting for the GLA again. So even though he knows the risks, he put me up for the night anyways. He'll feel that I owe him, and I really do, but..." he hung his head, and let out a tired sigh, "I have to do this, I have to fight."

Liam still looked uneasy here, in this house, with Scott watching him. He looked like he'd be uneasy doing anything though, that he wouldn't be truly comfortable doing much of anything. For a while, it seemed like he wouldn't even eat the food that was given him, that he'd just stare at it uncomfortably all evening.

"Why do you have to fight, exactly?" Scott finally asked.

Liam looked up at Scott, and gave the young terrier a curious, scrutinizing look. He didn't have an answer right away, no immediate response. The question seemed to make him even more uncomfortable and uncertain than he'd been before...

Liam looked away from Scott for a moment, then back again. He had his answer, "It's because–"

* Thunk *

It came from upstairs. The front door?

"They're here." Liam said quickly. He wasn't tense anymore, but active, determined, in motion. He got up, leaving the plate of food where he sat before.

"Who?" Scott asked, suddenly concerned.

"The damned Loyalists." Liam spat out, with a bitter venomous sting to his words.

"You don't know that."

"Maybe, but I'd prefer be paranoid and wrong, rather than optimistic and dead." Liam drew a blaster and prepped it easily, on reflex, like someone who'd been rigorously trained.

"What're you going to–"

"Here. Take this and go back upstairs." he handed Scott a box of... flour, it turned out to be when he looked down at it. "And act natural." Liam instructed.

Scott was confused, worried, and even a little scared... a lot scared.

"Go!" Liam ordered.

And the young, nearly trembling terrier did so, up the stairs back toward the kitchen.

As he went further up, he could hear someone speaking, someone he hadn't heard before, "We're on the lookout for a very dangerous man: Liam Korvyn." Someone was looking for Liam! Were these the Loyalists? What were they doing? His parents weren't hurt, were they? "We received a tip that he might be in the area, so we've been going door-to-door, making sure everyone is alright, asking if anyone's seen him around."

"I assure you, I would never allow such dangerous people into my home." David insisted, adamant in his words.

"I don't recall us asking if Mr. Korvyn was here..." another new voice responded, with a certain tone of insidious curiosity.

"I haven't anything for you: no information, no clues to the whereabouts of this... Liam fellow." dad sounded a little more on-edge now, a little less certain,

"So you won't mind if we hang around here for a bit then, will you?" the first unknown speaker asked, "We've been on our search for hours, and could do with a short rest."

He remembered Liam's instructions: go back upstairs, act natural... Scott reached for the door, went to open it... he couldn't. He was too afraid: afraid of what the others might do. But why would they be afraid? For all the know, Scott could've gone down to the cellar to get the box of flour he was holding. This would work. He'd be okay. No need to panic...

Scott opened the door, and saw two strangers standing in the kitchen, each in khaki trench-coats and a white armband on their left arm. They both flinched when the cellar door opened–

"There!"

"It's an ambush!"

They both reached into their coats and quickly armed themselves with a blaster each, took aim at the terrified young terrier, and–

"Scott! NO!"

* Blam! *

That was David's voice, his dad's...

* Thunp *

A limp form landed right in front of Scott, at his feet: a person... it was...

"Dad?" he said, in a feeble, quivering voice.

He wasn't moving. He just laid there. Staring back up at the ceiling with that blank, horrified expression... There were holes in his chest: two deep, dark smoldering ones. Then Scott smelled the charred odor of burnt flesh slam his senses, along with the realization. His dad was dead...

Dead. Gone. Passed on. Just like that, in an instant...

He crumpled down there, right over his father's still-warm body, and broke. 'Broken' was the only way he remembered it. He realized he would never hear his father's assured voice again, that he'd never be on the receiving end of his well-intention scoldings anymore, that he'd never have his comforting words of encouragement to help him through...The pain that struck Scott, the agony he endured, the merciless torrent of raw emotional distress could only have been summed up as 'broken'.

There were vague images of a confrontation immediately afterward, of a fierce fight, of Liam supposedly being a 'hero' then, but Scott wasn't apart of it. He'd just been broken then, completely and utterly broken.

You, Shall, Awaken!

\

/

Cassandra was completely exhausted when she lost the link, when she was subjected to Scott's greatest, most deeply buried pain. It took its toll, digging up the painful secrets people bury deep within themselves, and then feeling what they feel as they reenact it. Scott's internal turmoil obliterated Cassandra's mental focus entirely, but hopefully it would also obliterate Haran's smothering hold on him, and jar him from that horrid puppet-state.

She was aboard Cooney's shuttle, and had fallen face-down on the small spacecraft's floor. She felt weak, tired, barely aware of her surroundings... she heard heavy footsteps rush toward her, and a strong, worried voice.

"Are you alright?" That was Ashk'habat. His large reptilian form had knelt down beside her, and was helping her up.

"I have done... what I can." It took a lot of effort for Cassandra to get those words out, far more than she'd expected–

* Boom! *

The aging Cerinian flinched at hearing that muffled sound. It sounded a bit like a great storm had overcome the sky, but the sounds were not thunder, nor lightning, nor the ripping of the wind.

"What is that sound?" she asked.

"There is a battle outside." Ashk'habat informed as he helped Cassandra to a a better place to rest, "Two space cruisers overhead: one that you arrived in, and another that arrived later."

\

/

* Blam! *

A blaster shot, very nearby. That was the first thing James McCloud heard, but it felt like his hearing had been stifled, like he had a pair of earplugs in...

He found he could breathe now, and took in a huge gasping lungful of air. His throat still hurt a lot though, and that breath he took ended up as a fit of rough coughs. It wracked his wounded body, which he could feel now: many bruises, possibly a few cracked ribs, and very sore overall. His vision was gradually returning too, but all he could see for a few moments was the same hazy gray he'd seen before as he stared straight upward.

Someone grabbed the fox's hand in a firm grip, and pulled him upright. It was a much darker figure, but Jame's head was still swimming, and his vision was still coming into focus... It was Scott!

James immediately felt relieved, seeing his comrade again, and felt his spirits rise... A moment later he remembered the eyes, the ghastly blank look Scott had, and that he'd tried to kill James mere minutes earlier... but, no. Scott didn't have the eyes anymore, nor was his expression blank–

There was something at the fox's side, or rather, someone: a gray furred leopardess... it was Chakori. James was fighting her, while she was under that glowy-eyed influence. She'd pinned him down during their fight, being that much better a fighter than James, and that's when he blacked out.

Chakori wasn't moving, and the smell: burnt flesh. James turned her limp form over, and found a large blackened and smoking hole blasted through the side of her head. She was dead.

The still recovering fox turned back to Scott, and found the the terrier had the blaster in his hand, but his hand was trembling. His stance was weak, hunched over, defeated. In place of the fiery rage he once had, or the blank nothing from earlier, Scott now looked completely destroyed, drained of everything he had left.

"Scott?" James asked, looking back and forth between him and Chakori, "Did you–"

All Scott gave in response was to look up at James, silently, through worn out eyes.

"You're alright!" another shouted: the white wolf, while he rushed up alongside Scott. He looked a little worse for wear, with a nasty bruise on his eye, but otherwise seemed to be in pretty good shape for the moment, if a little surprised. "He broke free from me all of a sudden, gave this lump..." the wolf pointed out his eye, "I heard the shot, and just thought–" he stopped when saw Chakori's body, slumped forward, and an understanding quickly dawned on him.

Scott had broken free from whatever hold he was under, broke away from the wolf in their scuffle, and shot Chakori dead after James had blacked out. And the blaster James almost had –the one ripped from his failing grip– that was Scott too. Now though, the dark terrier was in no shape to do much of anything. Gunning down Chakori, his own trusted teammate, must have been devastating to him, but he did it anyway, and saved Jame's life, again...

The fox stepped forward, face-to-face with Scott, and asked, "Are you going to be okay?"

He just looked at James, silently. Now that they were much closer together, he could see that Scott was barely holding it together, that his once fiery eyes were holding back tears. In a quavering, defeated voice, Scott finally managed to speak, "I'm sorry–"

* BOOM *

A deafening explosion tore through the entire space, rattling James to his bones. In the distance, the explosion's source, a gigantic spear of energy tore down from above into the misty gray-whiteness. It was a shot from capital-scale plasma cannon, James realized, but how? What was that kind of firepower doing in this bizarre dream-like place, on the other side of that portal no less?

The shaking and quaking kept on going, growing even more unstable. The area where the shot tore through underwent some changes too. It was darkening there, like the plasma cannon had cut a deep wound in this place, and it was bleeding somehow: bleeding a blood of darkness, of crumbling... something.

* CRACK! *

As if the unstable ground beneath James couldn't toss and turn enough, everything lurched again, knocking James and everyone off their feet at that titanic crack, a sound of crumbling boulders, or of sundered mountains. Then another sound: that of metal, a hideous screeching, groaning, and pounding that overpowered all other sensations. What the hell could be making such noise?

The answer came a few moments later, when a large and very battered starship crashed through the dark 'breach' above. It only made an even greater cacophony of broken stone and buckling metal as it emerged from the breach entirely, and dropped. The ship left an eerie silence in its wake as it fell, which it seemed to do so slowly from this distance, with echoes still bouncing through the space...

Then the broken starship hit the ground, letting out another thunderous crack as its hull buckled from the impact of the crash, and the structure crumpled upon itself. After a few more moments, everything finally settled. The ground stopped shaking, and the sounds of screaming metal and shattering stone was replaced by a tense, weary silence. The hole where the ship came in from, the black breach, seemed to be expanding, slowly though.

On a closer inspection, the ship was none other than Cerberus...

"What is that ship doing here?" James asked to no one in particular, eyes widened in not-quite-dumbstruck amazement. "How did it even get here at all? I though Cerberus was impounded, or decommissioned, or something!"

"Serge..." the wolf said quietly as he stared at the wrecked ship, an uneasy foreboding coming over him.

"What are you talking about? Who's Serge?" James asked. This wolf knew something, and he had to get as much info as he could right now.

"He... acquired Cerberus not too long ago." the pale wolf explained, "I was training under him before I got caught up all this... and he taught Harrow too."

So, Serge was some kind of black-market mercenary trainer. On top of that, he also taught that Cerinian creep a few things. This was just getting more and more convoluted. Between the shock of Cerberus crashing in and sudden confusion as to the reasons, James couldn't help but become a little frustrated, and even a little angry, "What the hell is he doing here then?!"

"I don't know!" the wolf spat back, nearly matching Jame's bitter tone, "This kind of crashing through shit isn't like Serge at all. He's never this cazy-reckless."

"Is he going to be a threat to us?" the fox asked.

"I don't know!" Wiley repeated bitterly, rubbing his forehead, trying to come up with some plausible reasons, "I mean, I guess Serge could be holding a grudge, for when Harrow walked out on him, and took a lot of his other trainees with him... me included."

"To hell with all this!" James cursed, "If you don't know what's up, then we'd better head over there and find out!" the fox said, pointing out the wreckage of Cerberus

"What about Scott?"

True, the wolf had a point. What about Scott?

The terrier had been silent all this time, made no mention, when Cerberus came crashing through, even though he was one of the crew for it. When James looked around a bit, he found Scott kneeling down next to Chakori's body, silent, solemn.

When he heard the White wolf's question, Scott only barely glanced up, saying quietly, "I'll be fine."

James stepped forward, very concerned, worried, "But–"

"Just... go on without me..." the terrier told them, standing up.

"I'm not leaving you, Scott!" the younger fox insisted, nearly shouting at his face, "I came all the way out here, followed you into this crazy place, and stuck my neck out for you, Scott,to save you from your own–"

Scott shot an arm out, clasped James on the shoulder, and looked him square in the eye, "And you've done just that, lad. You've done just that." the depth of pain in his voice was something else entirely. James hadn't ever seen him so broken down before, so beaten, so at a loss, "I... I couldn't stop him... I tried, and it cost me, more than I'd ever thought I'd have to pay... and it almost cost you..."

Scott couldn't contain it any longer, and the tears welling up in his eyes finally broke out, "Oh bollocks!..." he cursed, and hastily wiped his eyes, "Can you... forgive a stubborn, hot-headed fool... for dragging you into this mess?"

"You don't have to apologize, Scott." James said shaking his head slowly, "I made the decision to come after you on my own; it's just what I do." he finished with a little shrug, maybe to ease the tension of the moment.

"Rick is here, and we came with a plan to deal with Harrow." Wiley mentioned, "If you still want to help–"

"No. You'd best get to your plan as you've planned it..." Scott commanded, taking up one last shred of his courage in saying these words, "I don't know what old Cerberus is doing here, but ye can't count on it being anything good. I... won't be much use to ye there anyway, so please... leave me be, and let me have my time..."

At this, Scott broke away, and knelt back down next to Chakori's body. He muttered something under his breath, laid the leopardess's hands over her chest, and closed her eyes... He was mourning, and in more pain than even he could bear. After a few moments, James figured that the terrier had a point. After all, who was he to force someone –in such a broken state no less– to face that pain all over again?

In the end, James acknowledged Scott with a knowing nod, and scooped up the assault rifle he'd discarded earlier in the fight against Chakori. After a quick check, and finding no fault in the weapon, he set out through the misty gray emptiness toward the broken wreckage of Cerberus. All the while, the dark breach overhead, the gaping hole that the ship ripped into this place, kept growing, and spreading. Looming like some empty ominous omen...

\

/

Harrow, stood at the top of one of the broken structures in this ethereal place, staring wide-eyed and slack-jawed at the mess made by the sudden intrusion of the Cerberus ship.

The vessel somehow had enough firepower to 'upset' the barrier, which normally separated this place of power from the outside, and made itself able to 'pass through', but it was hardly a clean-cut process though. Like a bullet crashing through a pane of glass, Cerberus had left irreparable 'cracks' or 'fissures' in the barrier, centered around the swiftly darkening area where the ship entered. These unstable fissures were spreading, and it wouldn't be long until the barrier won't handle it anymore, when it would shatter completely.

No longer contained, the power here would surely dissipate, and be lost for good. Exactly how it would happen though –whether it would cause devastating damage or, kill everyone here, or simply dissipate quietly, or however– was a mystery to Harrow.

As if Cerberus crashing through into this place out of no where wasn't bad enough, Harrow also found that the little soldier Scott managed to break free of the thrall state. Then he killed Chakori, his own long-time comrade and crewmate, which had been completely impossible for him to do before. The Cerinian couldn't help but believe there was some other interference at work there, since there was no way Scott would've been able to break the thrall state on his own...

Nevertheless, this allowed both Makita and McCloud to act freely, to support Cooney...

Cooney...

Cerberus crashing had interrupted the link, when Harrow was sharing the apocalyptic vision of Cerinia with the raccoon. At that point, Cooney had vanished, ceased to be, as if the person Harrow was interacting with was merely an elaborate illusion... But, that couldn't possibly be the case. Those were real thoughts Harrow felt inside the raccoon's mind; he would've been able to pick up on the mental processes if it had been a mere concocted fake...

Too much happened, too fast, and he had trouble keeping track of it all.

The Cerinian took a stabilizing breath, and let it out slowly, working to calm his mind. He closed his eyes, and felt out for the mental-presence of those who were here. Harrow's capacity and precision with the gift would be amplified here in this place of power, but there was a problem. The breach in the barrier was causing a lot of interference, hampering the Cerinian's ability to focus, and get any sort of clear image.

With all of this, Harrow found himself in a state precariously close to utter panic...

There was no need to panic: he still had the upper hand, still had the advantage. He hadn't exhausted himself in combat as had McCloud and Makita had, and the little soldier Scott was far too broken down from slaying Chakori to be any immediate threat. All there was to be concerned about was Cooney, and whatever threat Cerberus had brought with it, if any... something to investigate.

With that thought, Harrow dropped down easily from the broken structure of white stone, and set out across the hazy, mist-covered ground toward the wreckage of Cerberus. The others would likely go there as well, drawn by their curiosity to the sudden appearance of this starship. Whatever was there, Harrow would find a way to work the situation to his advantage...

All was quiet as the Cerinian walked through, toward Cerberus. The broken vessel looked so out-of-place here, in this ancient temple of an age long past. It utterly dwarfed all of the crumbling white structures in this place, commanded all attention of the area.

He grew nearer to the wreck of Cerberus, and the ominous blackened 'breach' overhead. A low crackling hum began to permeate the area. It wasn't clear if it emanated from Cerberus, or from the black wound overhead, but the powerful grumble was rattling Harrow to his bones, penetrating ever aspect of his being...

"HARAN!"

He flinched at hearing his old name being roared with such fury. The voice belonged to the one called Garmir, that selfish old pirate, but Harrow hadn't ever heard Garmir in this state, overcome with such a furious rage. How could he have taken control of Cerberus? He wasn't working with Cooney, was he? The raccoon didn't have any plans in his mind that involved Garmir... Harrow reached out, sensing for the mental-presence of Garmir. Even with power interference –which worsened near the breach– it'd be easy to locate such potent rage. Try as he might though, the Cerinian found nothing...

"I knew you'd be here, you insolent, self-righteous little whelp!"

Harrow reached under the sweater and drew his staff from the harness on his back, making it ready as he took an active stance. What was Garmir planing?

"Did you think I would forget your betrayal, Haran?" Garmir's bloodthirsty voice asked with a low, sarcastic chuckle, "Did you think your antics and tricks would make me fear you?"

From the depths of the broken starship wreckage, six hovering attack drones emerged. The drones bristled with a varied array of weaponry, and hummed like the buzzing of angry hornets. They all bolted straight toward where Harrow stood, laying down a torrent of blaster-fire...

This would be simple.

Harrow reacted by engaging the staff's barrier shield which protected him from the blaster shots at the expense of movement. He wouldn't need to move though, not with what he had in mind. The Cerinian emptied his mind, in order to better focus this special technique. He deadened his mind even further, looking past the thought-presence his kind could detect, and focused on the more base energies. He could now sense and detect the energies that powered the machines –the electrical battery components– and also the much weaker and far more complex computer processes that controlled the drones.

It took many long months, some time ago, for Harrow to intuit and become familiar the varying coding languages of the machines; the specific patterns of so many tiny electrical pulses, each pattern corresponding to a set of orders and information. Disrupting these tiny pulses was at once easier, and far more difficult to alter than a living mind. A mind was physically weaker than the rigid structures of the machines, being electrical pulses of far less power, but a mind was far more adaptable, able to act and react to intrusion far more intuitively. A computing system on the other hand would not question or wonder about any changes made to it: it was inanimate, a machine. However, generating enough power to actually alter these rigidly structured patterns took its toll, requiring great concentration...

Luckily Harrow didn't plan on making any subtle alterations to the programing –something even more dauntingly complicated– and merely intended to disable the drones. Much like throwing a wrench into a complex system of cogwheels, disrupting the computing processes was as simple as miscoding a few key components...

Bypass in-programed processor load restrictions, flood the system with a 'garbage' signal –overloading the central processor– until the microscopic components of the processors melt from the sheer heat buildup. With no working processor, the machine would no longer function.

The process taxed Harrow greatly, forced his mind to focus singularly on this task, forcing so much of his powers into these machines, but it proved effective. One by one, the drones faltered, stopped firing, and clattered uselessly to the ground all around the stationary figure–

Then Harrow heard something else: a great roar and scream of small-scale thrusters, closing in quickly. He broke off from his task and opened his eyes, and saw a squat figure in a suit of power-armor plummeting down on top of him. The barrier shield wouldn't hold against that much brute force, and there were only moments to react.

The Cerinian dropped the shield and lept out of the way. With a ground-trembling thud, the armored figure landed where Harrow had been an instant earlier. The drones were deployed merely as a distraction, something to occupy his mind while the power-armored fighter took advantage of the situation...

The armored fighter pointed a fist where Harrow stood, and he quickly realized what he was going to do.

Harrow only barely got the barrier shield up again, as a jet of fire shot from the flamethrower built into the power-armor, and whipped around the Cerinian and the ethereal shell encasing him. The armored fighter merely kept the flame torrent going, and walked steadily toward Harrow, closing the distance between them. If Harrow didn't move, and fast, the armored fighter would simply close in and pummel him at melee distance, or something worse. Yet if Harrow did move, he'd be burnt to a crisp by the flames in an instant. He had to come up with something, his opponent was looming closer and closer now...

As quickly as he could do it, Harrow released the barrier shield and sprayed the ice blaster, aiming specifically at the flamethrower nozzle. Fire engulfed the Cerinian, burning him straight to the chest, as the icy blast he made wasn't enough to stop the fire entirely. Then the flames stopped in an instant; the ice-blast had put out the flamethrower's pilot light, and the shock of the cold had caused another portion of the flamethrower to malfunction. Fire would no longer be a threat here, but that didn't mean the fight was won: far from it, in fact.

Harrow lept quickly away from the hulking armored fighter, away from the immediate threat of his melee range. He found that the black hooded sweater he'd been wearing was now burnt to tatters, as some of the shredded and charred cloth got in his face when he moved. The Cerinian quickly tore the ruined sweater off and tossed it away, revealing a tight-fitting gray sleeveless t-shirt underneath, as well as the harness where he stored the staff when it wasn't in use.

In this time, the power-armored fighter attempted to get the built-in flamethrower to work again, but quickly gave up and switched to other means. He didn't switch to a firearm –possibly knowing of the staff's barrier-shield– and instead produced a pair of blades that swung out from the armor at the forearms, and advanced toward the Cerinian.

With a scream of a thruster burst, the armored fighter was upon Harrow almost in an instant, far more quickly than the bulky metal carapace initially would seem capable of. Harrow lept and spun out of the way to avoid being skewered on one of the blades coming for him. The thruster-burst from the armor wasn't as blindingly quick as Scott's phantom module, but unlike with Scott, getting past the powered armor would be very difficult for the staff alone, and the heat of battle wouldn't give Harrow enough time or focus to try disrupting the armor's systems directly–

* clank *

A small cylinder clattered at the Cerinian's feet, and hissed as a misty yellowish cloud billowed out from it: a gas canister! It was filled with a simple tear gas by the smell of it, which meant twenty seconds before he'd feel the effects. The solution was simple: just knock the canister away to minimize exposure. The only problem with that solution was the armored brute, who came at Harrow yet again.

The Cerinian did his best to hold his own in the combat, but that was far easier said than done, since the powered armor gave his opponent far too much raw strength in his blows to simply block or parry. Even with the power he'd built up here in this place, which made his muscles and reflexes act far beyond their natural limits, Harrow simply did not have the strength in his body to oppose the motorized servos and joints of the armor. He'd just have to evade the blows instead, and get away from the tear gas before it took effect, which was easily done for now.

As Harrow retreated, the armored fighter kept up, constantly charging at the blue furred vulpine, watching through the expressionless visor on his helmet. Harrow couldn't keep retreating forever though–

* clank *

As if to drive this peril home, another gas canister landed clattering at the Cerinian's feet, and spewed another cloud of the yellowish tear gas all around him. Already, Harrow began to feel his eyes itching, and his throat burning... He'd have to neutralize this metal-encased juggernaut, fast, and find the source of these damn gas canisters...

Harrow dodged the next lunging blow from the armored fighter, and activated the staff's booster jump. In a blazing blue flash, the staff carried its wielder up into the air about twenty feet. At the apex of the boosted jump, just as Harrow was slowing down, he gave a twirling flourish of the staff, and pointed the base of the staff straight down at his armored opponent.

The staff gave another blue flash, and suddenly became incredibly heavy in Harrow's hands, drawn toward the ground by a powerful and irresistible force. In an instant, staff and wielder plummeted straight down, until the base of the staff struck the floor, right in front of the power-armored fighter. The staff blasted a massive shock wave into the ground, making it quake and tremble. The blast staggered the armored fighter, knocked him off-balance: an opening!

Harrow leapt up at his power-armored opponent with as much strength and speed he could muster, and twisted his body into a flying dropkick aimed straight at the fighter's head. With a satisfying thunk, both of the Cerinian's feet slammed right into the helmet, whiplashing the fighter's head back even further. Already off-balance, the power armor clad figure lost his footing entirely, and toppled backward to the ground with a heavy clonk!

The force of delivering the dropkick launched Harrow away from his opponent, but in less than a second he was upon the helplessly splayed figure. Before the armored fighter could recover from his dazed state, Harrow blasted him with all the ice he could project from the staff, aiming especially at the armor's joints. In a few more moments, the frozen joints immobilized the fighter, trapping him helplessly inside the very armor that was supposed to make him 'invincible'–

The Cerinian was suddenly wracked by a fit of chest-ripping coughs, and when he blinked, a flood a tears escaped his burning eyes. It was the dam tear gas! The effects were really starting to get to him now! He struggled to keep his balance as his body screamed to his mind in agony from the gas. He had to remain focused, had to remain in control!

Then Harrow heard the roar of... No!

He jumped away to one side as quickly as he could, and as far as he could. It didn't matter where!

* BOOM! *

An dangerously close explosion jarred and jostled Harrow hard, knocking him even further from where he'd just dodged, and tumbling to the ground. It all made his ears ring like a damn bell, on top of the wretched debilitating effects of the tear gas. The Cerinian pushed himself back onto his feet, all while another round of coughs escaped his dried-out throat, and his exhausted lungs tried to bring in more air. Harrow opened his still screaming eyes, and looked back where he'd jumped from– where the power-armored fighter was sprawled out on the ground– where the explosion happened...

The armor now looked nothing at all like armor. It had been ripped, torn, punched inward and scorched black by an enormous force: an explosive force. The smoking hole was made by a high-explosive missile; the very same missile that Harrow had only barely dodged seconds ago. The armored fighter was motionless, and the smoking hole reeked of burnt flesh, which the Cerinian could easily smell even with the tear gas plugging up his nose. He was dead.

Nearing a panic, Harrow quickly sensed around as best he could, and scanned the area with his painfully protesting eyes as well, to find the source of that missile...

His gaze fell upon a figure near the wreckage of Cerberus. He was a tall tall black-and-white canid, sporting a set of body armor, and holding a portable missile launcher, into which he was just finishing loading a fresh missile... It was Garmir! He must've lobbed those gas grenades as well! With the missile loaded and ready, Garmir hoisted the launcher onto his shoulder, took aim, and fired. The missile leapt from its tube, and steered itself straight toward Harrow. He thought he heard Garmir's maniacal laughter over the missile's thruster, but maybe that was simply imagination at work.

In a desperate haste, the Cerinian planted the base of his staff into the ground and activated the barrier-shield. The screaming of the missile grew with each tiny moment, until–

* BOOM! *

Harrow felt such a blow, like he'd been struck by a careening boulder. He was blown backward several feet, and landed clumsily on his back before sliding a few more feet. That's when he felt so many bruised areas, so many strained joints, and some sharp pains that hopefully weren't broken ribs. Why had the explosion knocked him away so badly? The barrier-shield should've protected him, but it didn't... The Cerinian hazarded a closer inspection of the staff, and what he saw sent a shock of terror through him.

The head of the staff had broken off entirely, and was laying on the ground by his side. The missile's explosive power somehow overwhelmed the barrier-shield, and destroyed the staff in the process. He had no weapon now, no means of defense or attack...

Harrow struggled to his feet, but only managed to get up to a kneeling position by the time he saw Garmir bearing down on him. The tall black-and-white canid had discarded the missile launcher, and now had a blaster handgun ready in his hand as he strode forward to the defeated Cerinian. There was a barely contained rage to Garmir: a vengeful fury that Harrow could sense with no effort, could see in his wide maniacal eyes, bloodthirsty snarl, and could hear it in his malevolent, merciless voice.

"You, Haran, are a pitiful, naive fool to have ever thought this would end any other way." Garmir growled as he raised his handgun to blast Harrow straight in the head.

No. Harrow wasn't done yet. There was still one thing left he could do. He'd just need to concentrate, right now, and harness all of the power from this place that he could. With any luck, he could make the mental preparations while Garmir still gleefully relished in his 'victory'. The blue furred Cerinian dropped his head low, appearing to 'accept' defeat, and–

* Blam! *

That was a blaster shot, but it came too soon... Also, Harrow wasn't dead. A dull thump soon confirmed that a body had hit the ground. Harrow looked up and, to his astonishment, saw it was Garmir... But how? There was no one else here who could've–

"Wow..." a familiar, mocking voice said, "I see you like making friends everywhere you go."

Standing over Garmir's dead body was that same raccoon who'd 'vanished' before: Cooney, "You!"

\

/

Richard Cooney stood over the furious yet depleted Cerinian, who glared back at him with some combination of astonishment and irritation. He kept his compact handgun ready, and maintained as controlled an appearance as he could.

Getting the drop on Garmir was easy, with him so focused on taking down Harrow. Rick watched the battle from a distance as he approached the wreck of Cerberus, careful to edge around the combatants' main area of focus. He would've expected Harrow to sense him approach, but then again, he was just as distracted as Garmir was in his fight, if not more.

"I believe a 'thank you' is in order." Rick said as he stepped around Garmir's limp body.

"What for?" Harrow asked in a tired, wheezing voice.

"Because unlike Garmir, I'm actually going to give you a chance, but one chance only: give up."

"I have seen the future, and have been gifted with the ancient power stored here: a power I can use to save my people." The Cerinian insisted, "I cannot fail them, not with what's coming."

"You've already failed your people, Haran, when they saw it fit to exile you, and I'm beginning to see why...

"Instead of allowing Cassandra to help you when you arrived in Lylat, you spurned her away. Even then, you could have lived a more ordinary life, try to make the best of things. Instead, you went in with Serge's lot, and used your talents for more selfish means. That by itself might not have been so bad, if you'd stuck with some of the more 'honorable' outlaws. Instead, you made the wrong friends when you teamed up with Garmir's ruthless crew. You came here, to this 'place of power', where you saw the 'vision' and gained access to this 'power', and turned against Garmir. Granted, it wasn't necessarily a bad idea to get away from him, but when you broke from Garmir, you became no better than him: a ruthless outlaw pirate.

"You've made nothing but the wrong decisions, Haran. Just this once, make the right decision." At this, Rick extended his hand to the beaten Cerinian. Harrow may have deserved death for his actions, deserved all the pain and suffering that could be rendered to him, but Rick's mission from Director Hawking was clear: capture Harrow.

"And what then?" Harrow asked bitterly as he glared up at the raccoon, "Would I submit, and let your laws destroy me?"

"I'm not the law." Rick insisted, "I exist outside of the law."

"Then your personal vengeances, or your vaunted mission." the Cerinian dismissed, "You won't simply forgive me, not for the things I've done. I will forever owe you and your ilk some form of compensation. You would use the threat of law or other retribution as a leash to control me, and I would become indentured as a slave to your whims."

"That's awfully cynical of you–"

"Cynical or not, it is the truth!" Harrow spat back, "Only the strongest, most 'dangerous' ones –the ones who control the retribution they parcel out– command any respect in this filthy world of yours, and are able to freely do what they must do. I became dangerous, learned of your ways, so I would not be impeded when it came time to act." He dropped his head down again, weak, or upset, or resigned...

"Garmir beat you, you were going to die, so I guess that means you just aren't 'dangerous' enough to handle the life you've chosen as 'Harrow'..." Rick reached out again, and put a hand on the troubled Cerinian's shoulder, "It's time to choose a different life, Haran, and put all this to rest. Come with me–"

Harrow grabbed Rick's wrist, and wrenched it away from his shoulder. When he looked up at Rick, his eyes shined blue, and the rest of his face was twisted in a fierce snarl, "You... will not bar me from my Destiny!"

Rick felt Harrow enter his mind then, forcing his way into his thoughts, into everything, including the muscles of his limbs. Harrow was trying to root him in place, taking control of his body's motor functions, and possibly more. He was reaching for the broken end of his staff weapon, and would take advantage of this forcibly induced paralysis to land a killing blow to Rick. As he did this, Harrow showed only this enraged snarl, while his shining eyes beamed their light straight into Rick's own eyes...

It wasn't over yet.

The Cerinian mental link was a two-way street: when a Cerinian enters the mind of another, his own mind becomes intertwined with whoever he links to. A strong enough mind, and one who is aware of how the link functions, can potentially reverse this process on the initiator. That's one of the things Cassandra mentioned during their time. Harrow's own mental prowess was awfully strong though, and getting any kind of control might prove difficult ...

Rick felt around Harrow's thoughts, feeling his intentions, his immediate plans. First things first though, he'd do to Harrow what he did to Rick. Locking the Cerinian's motor functions was relatively simple, in concept at least. What ended up happening between them was that the muscles for each of their limbs received conflicting orders. 'Flex!' versus 'Don't flex!', with the result being both Rick and Harrow just stood there, twitching, spasming. For such a tense moment, it probably didn't look too impressive on the outside.

Giving orders to limbs was a fairly simple process, like commanding one's own limbs, only it was someone else. Using the link to damage organs or stop other body processes was much harder though. One can't tell one's own heart to stop beating, or hold ones breath for too long before reflex forced a breath, and it was similarly impossible to do the same through the Cerinian mental link... or so it should have been.

Rick felt something violent in his stomach, threatening to heave, and contort his body against his will. Harrow was triggering his body's reflexes! No matter what he did, Rick had to maintain his focus, had to maintain his hold on Harrow's own limb functions. Already though, with the sheer scramble in his mind induced by the forced nausea, Rick could feel his hold slipping, and Harrow was taking advantage...

"You think... you can stop me?!" Harrow growled, "You are nothing!"

The Cerinian had gained enough control to speak, and if he kept it up, might gain even more. He had more reserves of the 'power' he'd used, and Rick could feel him gathering up more of it. It was a process of which he was wholly unfamiliar, with Harrow acting in some kind of symbiosis with another entity, which allowed the Cerinian to channel his will into others, and also much more... 'Spirit' is what Harrow had called that power earlier mentioned earlier, and the description matched...

It was becoming difficult to differentiate between Rick and Harrow now. Their minds had become intertwined with one another. Rick could feel the pain from Harrow's injuries just as easily as he could feel the nausea Harrow had induced. They could feel each other's thoughts –Rick's desperation, Harrow's determination– they were one-and-the-same.

Then there was a pain.

He felt someone stab him in the back, and twist the blade, causing another agonized pang from the wound. The blade was removed, and he felt his blood burst from the wound: it was fatal, a major artery had been severed, and there was no patching it up, not here... No! He couldn't die like this! There was still much to do!

Yet even then, his thoughts were slowing, his hearing went quiet, and his vision began fading to darkness. He felt his limbs give out under their weakness, barely, and soon that too was gone.

And there was nothing.

Author Notes:

Yeah, sorry I left this at a cliffhanger guys (and gals). Also, very sorry for taking so damn long to write/publish this chapter. There was a lot of stuff going on at the time, like college finals, working on Red Dust, work, but really, those would all just be excuses. I did have the mother of all writer's blocks though, but I've finally cracked it after all this time.

There's going to be about two or three chapters left in this volume of Star Fox: Legacy. Just need to wrap up the last of this plot, and have a little bit of resolving material to finish this arc before moving ahead. We're in the home stretch now! (yay)

As always, your feedback is most welcome, and I look forward to having it.

Take care!