"Worse than Judas?" What does that mean?

Tonight, Sally shared Amy's room, until more suitable accommodations could be furnished. She had just donned a set of clothes identical to the one Amy wore, and was on her way downstairs when she heard the faucet running. She'd also seen that the light was off in the bathroom. Thinking Amy had accidentally left the faucet running, she'd opened the door to shut it off, when the light flicked back on. She'd seen the young fox standing in front of the sink, eyes blank, a pistol raised to his head.

"Stay where you are," her father said.

The sight had stopped her cold. Her mouth had opened to scream, but her throat wouldn't obey. She'd stood like that, frozen with horror, even as the pistol left his temple and the light went out. For a moment, she'd thought he actually did pull the trigger. But upon seeing shivering him in the light, kneeling, mumbling, desperately clutching his tails in front of him like a set of pillows, whatever had frozen her in place had passed. Then she'd acted.

The light came on, and she saw the rawness of his sky blue eyes, the tears streaming down his cheeks, the hot dribble of snot hanging from his nose. Sally felt a sudden urge to embrace him, but stopped herself. That would have to wait until she made sure he was safe. Was this what Chu saw? Was this why he spared me? The young fox's breath, sour with vomit and dark beer, told her what was wrong, what had prompted his gesture of final despair. He's drunk.

A part of her relaxed: her father had been stone sober when he decided to...to do it. So was I. But such despair brought on by drink, that much Vanilla had prepared her to deal with. The first thing to do, Vanilla had taught her, was to protect the drunkard from himself long enough for him to sober up. I can do that. God give me wisdom, and strength to do it.

Her grip was still tight on his lapels when she said to him with quiet force: "You are not going to do that." She steered him to the back wall, surprised at how pliable shock had made him. "I will not say a word, and you are not going to touch that gun. Do you understand me?"

The forlorn young fox stared at her. "I understand," he rasped.

"Give it to me."

Tails frowned, dubious. "To...to you?"

"Yes. You are going to give me that gun."

He shook his head, finally recovered from the shock of being caught as he was. "No." His hand began to reach toward the holster.

"If you touch that gun for any reason but to give it to me, I will scream." She meant it, and the fear in the his eyes told her that he knew she meant it.

Despite the fear on his face, his hoarse voice was suddenly calm, strong, not at all thickened by alcohol as she'd expected. "Fine. Take it. But I want you to promise me something first."

"What is it?"

"Promise me that you'll kick it under the bathtub, and do nothing else with it."

She paused. Does he think...oh. Right. She then recalled that the whole reason she was here, was that Amy had told him about her own suicide attempt, and Tails had told his father. More solemnly, she replied: "I'll do it." Maybe he isn't drunk? That disquieted her more than she could say.

Tails nodded, and raised his arms to let her take the gun. "The safety's still off. Do you-"

"I know how a safety works," she snapped.

The light cut out for good as she set the gun on the floor, and tapped it under the six-foot steel basin with the toe of her slipper. As she did so, he shut the wooden holster and buttoned its leather strap to keep it closed.

After groping through the dark for the door, they decided that his quarters were the best place to talk: if someone caught them together in the bathroom, the third party would certainly get the wrong idea of what was going on. Not that the right idea would be much better, Sally thought. Tails's quarters, unlike Sally and Amy's, were located above the kitchens instead of the mess hall, which meant that if their voices were raised, the constant clatter and bustle below made sure that no one would hear it.

Sally shut the door and locked it. Soft gibbous moonlight poured through the broken window, pooling on the floor between Tails's bunk on one side of the room and his wardrobe and writing desk on the other.

Tails sat heavily on his bunk, trembling with delayed reaction to his brush with death. His eyes fixed on the floor. "I'm sorry," he mumbled. He propped his elbows on his knees, and his mouth in his hands. Then his eyes came up and met hers. "Please," he said suddenly, "please don't tell him."

"Your father?"

Tails nodded. "He'd..." He sniffled, and wrapped his namesakes around himself again, shivering. "He wouldn't understand. He'd have me locked up, and discharged, and I would just be some useless mouth in a sanita-"

"Sshh." Sally seated herself beside him, now actually embracing the young fox. "It's alright. I'm not going to tell him." Not unless I have to, Father above, please don't let it come to that. "It's okay. We can talk here."

Instead of talking, Tails buried his face in her shoulder. He didn't bawl like a child, nor did he gasp, sputter, or bellow his grief like a grown man. Hot tears and snot soaked her shoulder, and she saw his mouth make an O as if to let out a long, dismal howl; but none came. The howl was completely, eerily silent. His shoulders heaved, and his stomach convulsed in telltale signs of sobbing; but not a sound escaped him.

A minute passed. Then ten more. Finally, the young fox managed to pull himself together enough to raise his face from her shoulder to look her in the eye. "Thank you," he whispered, his voice thick with gratitude.

Sally rested a hand just below the nape of his neck. When he didn't shrug it off, she began to slowly move the hand across his athletic shoulders. "How much have you had to drink?"

"Four pints of beer."

Sally's eyes narrowed. "That's all?"

"More like two and a half," Tails confessed, "the rest of it went down the toilet." His hands fell to his lap.

She sensed that he was telling the truth, or was at least sober enough not to fumble a lie. "Sensitive stomach?"

Tails's mouth twisted as he tried and failed to make an ironic smile. "I was trying to sober up. For you and your friends. For some reason, Herr Hauptmann believes that drunk men make terrible hosts."

Sally kept up the soothing motion across his tensed, athletic shoulders as she ran down the facts in her mind. Two pints. He's not drunk: he's simply at the end of his tether. She thought back to when Chu interrupted Vanilla's burial. Why did you do that? Did she think to follow Vanilla in that moment? Did she really want to so see her teacher that badly, to... No, her actions were not at all so rational, she realized. She thought further. She remembered hearing of a species of tree that possessed leaves which, when touched, caused such agonizing pain that even dumb beasts like horses committed suicide to escape the pain.

Out of the past, Vanilla spoke to her. "Some men drink to numb their backs, and others drink to numb their souls. But remember: every drunkard is a man seeking to escape his pain."

Finally, Sally said: "Thank you."

Tails looked sharply at her. "For what?"

Her smile was genuine. "Saving my life." She patted his shoulder. "I'm sorry I put myself in a place where I needed saving, but thank you."

He relaxed under her caresses. "Roi de Prusse," he muttered.

"I'm sorry?"

He made a soft snort. "'For the King of Prussia,'" he translated, "it's a way of saying 'It was my duty.'"

Sally nodded slowly. "Your duty. Well said." She gently gripped his left trapezium, and dug into it with her thumb. She'd seen Knuckles do that to himself many times, claiming that there was no better way to soothe a headache.

The ghost of a smile tugged at the young fox's lips. His eyes shut. After a minute, she switched to his right trapezium. This elicited another snort from him. "Thank you," he said.

"Do you think you can come downstairs with me?" she asked. "You might feel better after some food."

The smile disappeared. Unbeknownst to him, the young fox regarded her with the exact look his father had given her, that hard, analytical gaze that made her feel like he was looking at her under a microscope. Then his eyes defocused, as if he were looking at something extremely close to his face that only he could see, and he turned his face away. "Later. I can't-" He sniffed hard, fumbled his breast pocket for a handkerchief, and wiped his nose with it. "I don't think I can face my father. Not now."

She nodded. "I'll stay with you, then."

A knock at the door, and Amy's voice. "Tails? You in there?"

"Stay where you are," Sally gently ordered, "I'll handle this." She got up.


Sally was the last person Amy would have expected to answer the door. "Sal? You look terrible, what happened?" Her eyes went to the huge patch of darker blue on her friend's shoulder and upper chest, wet with the telltale glisten of mucus. "Oh my God. What happened?"

Sally took a moment to answer. "Amy. I need you to do something for me."

That sentence, alongside that grave, quietly authoritative tone both Vanilla and Sally used in delicate situations, engaged a particular set of instincts in Amy's mind. These instincts had always been part of her basic mental machinery, but the last two and half years of fixing twisted ankles, setting broken bones, and delivering squalling infants had honed them to a razor fineness. Her voice came out low and equally quiet: "Has something happened to Tails?"

"No." Sally bit back the following thought: Not yet. "Nothing has happened, but I need you to go back downstairs. If anyone asks after us, say that we're in prayer."

"Are you?"

"We will be." Sally bit her lip, a gesture Amy usually associated with anxiety.

Amy nodded. "How much time do you need?"

"At least half an hour- no, forty-five minutes."

"There's more to this, isn't there?"

"I'll tell you what I can, but later. Do this for me. Please."

As Sally disappeared back into Tails's quarters and Amy made her way back down the hall to the stairs, Amy realized just how much she didn't like that statement. I'll tell you what I can, but later. Was Tails that drunk? Knuckles had told her that the young fox had slugged nearly five pints in the past hour, but Tails hadn't seemed to her like that sort of drinker. Had he downed a few whiskeys before going for beer, as she herself might have before meeting Vanilla? If so, she didn't exactly blame him, but...

Something occurred to her then. Maybe he's afraid of Amadeus seeing him like that? Or maybe he's afraid to embarrass his father? That made sense enough: it seemed to her that Tails carried an awed reverence for his father that bordered on worship. She'd stopped carrying such an attitude for her own father by the time she was eight, when he began using her tips to pay the liquor bills. Whatever's going on, he probably doesn't want his father in it.

Knuckles was talking as she began her descent. "-came in with at least ten more. I don't know where they'd meet, though. Probably some pot-shop downtown."

Sonic tisked his annoyance. "Do you have any particular shops in mind, a street, any address?"

Amy stopped on the steps, out of sight but well within earshot. Who were they talking about?

She heard the shrug in Knuckles's reply: "There's Boxers everywhere now. What're you going to do if you find him, arrest him?"

"If he's as deluded and dangerous as you say, probably not."


Sally locked the door and turned back to the young fox, who stared vacantly at the puddle of moonlight on the floor. "Alright," she said quietly, "can you tell me what-" She stopped, and then said: "Why?"

Tails's eyes didn't leave the floor, and his lips stayed shut.

She returned to her seat beside him. "We'll be alone for a while. Whatever your reasons, you can tell me. I won't say anything."

His voice came out soft and bitter. "Who said I needed a reason?"

"Nobody seriously contemplates that out of the blue."

Tails didn't reply. His eyes shut as his hands morosely cupped over his mouth and nose.

"I won't let you out of this room unless you say something."

"I could go out the window," he mumbled.

"Then what? What's your plan after that?"

Tails shook his head, remaining silent. The silence attenuated.

Finally, Sally put a gentle arm around his shoulders. "If I tell you, will you tell me?"

Tails's eyes opened. He cautiously turned his face to her, but still said nothing.

"If I tell you," Sally repeated, "will you tell me?

Tails said nothing for a long moment, regarding her with that scientific look once more. Then he gave her a fractional nod.

She nodded. "Alright." She took a long, deep, quiet breath to speak, but the words froze on her tongue. What am I doing?

Tails waited.

After what felt like several minutes, but was truly about thirty seconds, Sally spoke. "Five years ago, my father shot himself. I..." She forced the rest past her teeth. "I saw him do it."

Tails exhaled. Wearily, softly, he asked: "It was the same way I was going to, wasn't it?"

Sally's eyes flashed with anger, but her reply was a soft, choked "Yes."

Tails looked away from her, swallowing. On top of everything else he had done, he'd saved her life, only to open an old, horrifically deep wound in her heart, and twist a knife inside it. Worse than Judas. "I'm sorry."

Sally's eyes felt hot. If I start crying now... She wiped her eyes with the back of her hand. "It was Easter. We were getting ready for church that morning, when he told me that he couldn't find his glasses, and then he said he might have left them in the study upstairs. He went up. I waited a minute or two, then called out, asking if he'd found them. But he didn't reply. I called again, but no answer. By then I was coming up the stairs, and there he was, at his typewriter, with a pistol to his head."

Her mouth crumpled. "He heard me. The last thing he said to me was 'Stay where you are.'" A bitter sound left her lips. "He heard me. He knew I was there, and he still did it." Her nose flooded with snot, and it dripped out her nose, down her palate and into her throat. Tails retrieved another handkerchief from his pocket, and handed it to her. She gratefully blew her nose.


Amadeus brought a bottle of goat's milk to his daughter's lips, saying: "If he can be found, this Chu will be dealt with accordingly."

Knuckles eyed him. "You would have him killed," he said softly.

"Wouldn't you?" Sonic asked.

For a long time, Amadeus didn't answer. Even before the Boxers, it was an argument he and Vanilla had pursued endlessly. She would argue that killing a man in self-defense was one thing, a terrible but necessary evil done in the interest of preserving the lives of innocents. But to pronounce death upon a captive, even a murderer, deprived him of the chance to repent of his crime and make amends. Should Paul have been executed? What of the many Roman centurions who rounded up converts to Christ and threw them to the lions, only to convert themselves? Should they have been thrown to the lions in their turn?

Amadeus had once countered by asking her if men such as Burke and Hare, men who murdered God knows how many men, women and children and sold their corpses to universities for booze money, were at all capable of reformation. Would you think a man such as Ketteler, an unrepentant child-murderer, is capable of reformation? He knew Ketteler; she hadn't. The man was an avowed Sinophobe, who would gladly have Miles shot for insubordination if such punishments were still tenable. A hundred years ago, he might well have gotten his wish. Instead, Ketteler had acted out his deranged fantasy on a boy whose only crime was being in the wrong place at the wrong time. If it were Sally, or Amy, or our own daughter on that table, would you stomach seeing such a man live out the rest of his life? He could see Vanilla's face fall at that question.

"If he is found, he will be tried," he finally told Knuckles, "Vanilla's mission is technically protected by American law. My son and Miss Acorn are witnesses against him." He studied the echidna as his daughter ravenously gulped the milk. "Would you be a witness at such a trial?"

Knuckles's eyes narrowed. After a moment, he nodded. "Yeah."

As Sally related her story to his son upstairs, Amadeus watched Amy come around the bannister and take her seat beside Knuckles. When her two eyes met his one, he saw…something. Fear? Not exactly. But the girl looked plainly troubled. He shifted Sahne to his left arm. "My apologies Miss Rose," he said, "we did not mean to trouble you with such matters."

A strange look came into Amy's face. "It's fine," she said quietly, "I'm glad you all sound like you know what you're on about."

The old fox smiled modestly, as a trio of servants came to the turntable. One set utensils, small bowls, and warm white plates before each chair; another refilled glasses and mugs with water and coffee; and another bore a tray of serving dishes so hot, that steam leaked from the edges of their lids. "That's kind of you, Miss Rose." He glanced back at the stairs as the steaming dishes were set in the center, and their lids removed. The aromas of home wrapped around the old fox like Vanilla's arms: hot bread, veal meatballs in cream sauce, capers, fresh sauerkraut, steamed cabbage rolls stuffed with minced pork and rice.

Amy answered his unspoken question. "They'll be down soon."

Amadeus wasn't sure if it was the plural "they", or if it was something in Amy's voice, but her answer made his ears prick up attentively. "Miss Acorn is with him?"

Amy froze, which struck the old fox as rather strange. "Yes," she said slowly. "She…" She exhaled. "They're in prayer together now."

Amadeus nodded understanding. Two hours ago, he'd come upstairs to check on Sally and Amy, and he'd seen the pair kneeling by the bed in Amy's room. He hadn't disturbed them. Despite the circumstances, part of him was relieved that Sally and Miles were already connecting; Vanilla would have liked that. "For the boy?"

Amy nodded. "I think so." She paused, then said: "Miles blames himself for his death. We had an argument about it earlier."

Sonic quirked an eyebrow. "He blames himself? Why?"

She hesitated, glancing at Knuckles, then Sonic, then him. Knuckles looked suspicious; Sonic looked simultaneously annoyed, sad, and wary. Amadeus simply looked tired. "He sent me to the other mess when the Boxers came. I got lost, and then I bumped into the kid. We both panicked: I ran into the wall, and he ran into your boss."

"So he believes that if he hadn't sent you, the boy wouldn't have crossed Ketteler's path," Amadeus finished. Miles, you truly are my son. My sweet, soft-hearted boy. He was glad that Miles had stopped at four pints.

"I'll talk to him," Sonic said, pushing his chair back and getting to his feet.

Amadeus caught the panic on Amy's face, but his own expression didn't change. Calmly, he said: "No, Herr Hauptmann." He turned his eye back on Amy, who was halfway out of her seat herself, her face flushing. "If they haven't come down in fifteen minutes, I will check on them."