Recap: Miss enlists the help of a mysterious marauding stranger. Oakpaw arrives in the city, much to his distaste.


The dark tabby disappears into the the darkness of the hole with an undignified yelp. Achilleus is a hard tom, and not an easy one to like, so naturally, he smirks a little as Oakpaw disappears down the chute. Serves the forest bastard right, he thinks to himself from his lowly position by the stairs. Miss is shaking her head, looking disappointed, and Emory frowns by her shoulder; in terms of pliant, malleable cats, this was not what they were hoping for. Specifically, the gruff young tom is what no one has ever hoped for.

Achilleus turns his gaze back to the floor below; this is, after all, his dictated duty. He's little more than a glorified guardsman, but he has been promised so much more, if he can just be patient. He dreams of it, every night, although his bloodlust shares a painful, illusive corner with the memories of those whom he has lost. He forgets to dream of her, when he fills his thoughts with the impending battles and the true glory of war. He has honed himself; not for that moment, admittedly, but it will serve him well all the same. Achilleus is a creature of conflict, and the truth of it lies scarred on his skin.

He senses Miss approaching him, although he does not look at her. She has a soft presence, a maternal one, yet it is not easy to overlook. "You don't look anything like that tom I found in the alley," she says gently, flicking her tail against his shoulder. He nods in acknowledgement, but keeps his eyes trained on the warehouse below. None of the youngsters have caused trouble yet, but he waits everyday for them to start.

"I am not covered in the blood and guts of my enemies," he replies mildly, as though such a distinction is obvious. That night is still fresh in his mind; the vivid image of Tiberius and Caligula dying as cowards is never hard to recall. Even now, he smirks a little. Three long years of anticipation has only served to make the memory all the more sweet.

"You never told me what that gang did to deserve your wrath," Miss says, laughing. Blood does not disgust her, and she's seen far worse than death.

"It's in the past," Achilleus replies. He keeps it to himself now, as it feels only right; he is the only one left who knew her, and as such, he must preserve her, but not through others. It's his duty alone, and he knows much of duty and service.

"Right," Miss says, obeying his silent decision to drop the topic. "Anyway, that tom Azazel brought back isn't suitable. We'll have to scrap that plan, or else the minute we let him go he'll be running back to PureClan to tell them exactly what we're about to do."

"Not exactly the susceptible young soul you were hoping for, is he?" he asks wryly. Miss shakes her head and frowns; in a fell swoop, they've lost one of their best fighters and dragged home a feral, stubborn Clanner to boot.

"We might be able to do something with him yet," she mutters. "Bargain with him, or wrangle answers out of him…Anyway, Achilleus, I'm giving you a mission, since I know you've been dying to get out of here."

He pricks his ears expectantly. He's never been on a mission. The idea is thrilling, although it is probably a routine patrol or a hunt for food. The warehouse is a place he loves escaping from, even for small periods. Afterall, it's dark and it smells, and revolution is such a persistent odour.

"You'll need to scout out the territory. See if Cariad's alive. Look for anything we can use as an advantage. You can't bee seen, is that understood? They'll all be on high alert after that incident with Az. We just need for something to go right, Achilleus, because right now nothing is."

"When do I leave?" he asks, masking his excitement with polite professionalism. If he hurries, he can get there tonight. For a long time, he has dreamed of these fierce forest beasts. The prospect of spying upon them is exhilarating.

"Now," says Miss, a small smile twisting her muzzle. She looks almost fond. Achilleus is gone within minutes, and the forest beckons with every step.


Patience is becoming, and he has waited for this for a long time. His memories of Drusilla are not as vivid as they once were, although they are the only thing that drive him. He has plotted and trained, tearing himself to pieces in order to accomplish her vengeance. She deserves nothing less, and those maggots nothing more.

Tiberius has been so careful, so hidden. Caligula is a stark contradiction, and it was easy to find his gang and plan out each and every death with a gruesome resolve. He learns their routines, their faults, their downfalls. After their evening meal they are all lazy, insolent and egotistic, bragging of conquers and murders and things they've never done, but claim they have anyway. There are eight of them, but this is a false figure, because the ninth is still at large, and he is a rogue factor in his plan.

He steps into their midst like a ghost. They are all focused on a particularly lewd tale emitting from the mouth of a scrawny tabby with more spittle than teeth. He pauses for a moment and enjoys their last moments. He hopes they know that they've made him into this, and their doom is a fate of their own reckoning. Lepidus notices first, and it is a simple thing to slit his throat. The bulky brown tom never harmed him and as such he is granted a quick death. Others can not hope for the same.

Agrippa startles as he moves from the shadows- his back is broken, but he is not to die yet. The rest of them become sluggishly aware, turning their heads in slow awe as he, surely a mere figment, strolls into their camp and decimates them. Gemellus is crushed, although he pants shallowly against the pavement. Drusus falls, and Macro is repelled, for he is not allowed to die yet. Lucius bleeds brightly and Julius can only shriek.

Only Caligula is left, snarling as he stands at the entrance of the alley. He will not run; his bones were not made for fleeing. He is scarred and battle-worn, and thinks he is ready. Achilleus beckons to him and leers. "Thought you'd escaped punishment, did you?" he growls, over the moans of the dying. "Now you will find that no punishment I can deliver is good enough for you."

"It was a mistake," Caligula spits. "We all suffered, but don't forget it was your fault."

Achilleus quivers. His excitement shines brightly in his eyes. He has waited for this moment for so long, and dreamed of Drusilla every night. He pictures her as he first saw her; warm and beautiful, white-gold in the sun. "Your suffering has not ended yet," Achilleus says, after a moment, already moving. Caligula is too slow to evade the blow that rips across his muzzle, but he does retaliate, raking sharp claws down Achilleus' flank. He does not hiss. Every ounce of pain is worth this moment. He welcomes it, even, because he wants his scars.

Caligula turns, the scene of gore and pain reflected dimly in his blank eyes. Did he always know this was coming? Did he know he deserves it? "You're not the only one who loved her, you know." There is no hope in his voice, only a scathing bitterness that fails to sway Achilleus. He too is pained and bitter, yet such a small dose of camaraderie will not change his mind. Instead, he growls at the pitiful tom.

"She was my sun and sky, my heart, my life. She was a mere sister to you."

Caligula sneers at his words. "You have no concept of family, street-rat. Don't presume to talk of relations you understand nothing about. I would have died for her!"

"You will!" Achilleus roars, moving with a speed Caligula does not predict. He wrestles the older tom to the ground, cuffing him into submission. As he tries to rise, Achilleus uses his momentum to fall heavily on his back, snapping his spine with an audible crack. Though the black tom howls in defeat, he does not relent, turning instead to his useless legs, breaking them methodically. Caligula is not allowed to escape, and now he knows it. Now, he turns to Macro; the right-hand tom lies panting on this ground, one eye bloodshot. He's sure he can trust Macro for this job. No one is more unfailingly loyal, devoted to a fault.

"You," he snarls, as Macro gasps for breath against the cold concrete. "Fetch Tiberius. He will meet us tomorrow night. There is no room for argument. I may give the rest of you a reprieve, if you should prove successful."

Macro glares at him; he is not stupid, but his duty is to Caligula alone, and he will uphold it until they die. He has no choice, and Achilleus smirks at his back as he turns and stalks away.

"Tibe has no part in this," Caligula says wearily. "He took Dru's death the hardest."

"Au contraire," Achilleus remarks, thinking back to that ill-fated day. Tiberius had found him, curled against Drusilla in a well-worn crate, the moon to her sun. He had been enraged. That, however, was nothing compared to his grief when he struck her down with a blow intended for the traitor himself, the turncoat. Drusilla had been admired by loners and gang cats alike, and it was perhaps because of this she was guarded so fiercely. Achilleus had done the guarding, once or twice. "The murderer himself deserves a dramatic entrance, don't you think? Don't give the game away too early."

The rest of the day is a blur. He has waited so long a mere few hours feel inconsequential. He hears the footsteps as he waits among the shadows, sheltered behind the dead and the agonized dying. Tiberius has shrunken, fallen into himself- he was so muscular once, and carried himself with the air of a king. That air had dissipated the moment his claws struck gold. Caligula bristles upon seeing him. He is shrieking within moments, and Achilleus steps in, savouring the terrified recognition on Tiberius' face. "Ahh," says the scrawny tom, and Achilleus grins as he rips into him. The rest is bloodshed and damn, he wishes he never washed it off.

Achilleus opens his eyes, slowly dipping into a languorous stretch as he yawns. It's one of his favourite dreams, reliving the brutal deaths of his enemies. Tranquil forest sounds surround him, and he peers across the gorge to the meadow the flourishes in the dawn. He arrived last night and bedded down quickly, taking care to hide himself amid the dark flowering bushes on the outskirts of the forest. He'd had to cross a river navigate a shallow portion of the gorge, but it had been the safest approach; according to Ice, Clanners don't bother to come here, and it's all to his advantage.

He rises to his full height and gives his surroundings a cursory glance. There's nothing to see, really; a few trees, a bird or two, shrubs. He supposes all the action is on the other side of the gorge. He hunts down a mouse to start his day- they're in abundance here, and are far superior to the scrawny city variety. He's always been an adept scavenger, but the masses of prey living in the forest make it easy. Achilleus now sees why the Clanners keep it all to themselves. He could easily join their number, if not for the fact they habitually murdered their houseguests.

Yawning, he wanders a little closer to the ravine, still carefully submerged in shadows. There's nothing to see in the meadow, he thinks lazily, just long grass- until he spots motion in the corner of his vision, and sees his first real warrior. He is bulky, grey, imposing, guarding the dark mouth of an underground cave. Achilleus ducks into a cautious crouch, narrowing his yellow eyes. The Clanner doesn't move, staring solemnly across the meadow to nothing in particular. Though his pelt is scarred, he looks nothing like a monster, a legendary beast, and Achilleus is slightly disappointed. He turns his gaze instead to the cave; Ice has mentioned it, briefly, to the visible horror of Miss. From her reaction, he's gathered that it's where 'their kind' are kept. Still, perhaps if they can dispatch the guard, free the prisoners...they may be of some use in the final climax.

Achilleus continues to watch the sombre tom as the morning drags on. Small muted noises alert him to the presence of more Clanners as they glide from the trees into the meadow. There are four; a small black she-cat, a grizzled tabby tom with a scarred throat, and a lanky ginger tom that lags behind the rest. At their head is a sleek golden she-cat, a molten creation, a dark flame of consummate danger. His breath creeps from his lungs at the sight of her, and he almost fears she can hear the sound. Her predatory grace rivals his quicksilver elegance, her severity to his brute charm. The others are well aware of her power, and with good reason, although Achilleus has not yet seen it justified.

As if of the same thought, they move as one towards the cave, where the warrior on guard inclines his head and steps aside. They all disappear inside, though the ginger tom appears reluctant. Achilleus pricks his ears, in vain; he can hear nothing from here, save the wind whispering among the long stalks of summer grass. Gritting his teeth, he waits, and they reappear several seconds later, with a battered black tom in tow who appears bafflingly familiar. After a moment, a second of confused squinting, he realizes who it is; Cariad, not dead, just cowed and defeated. Achilleus does not yet realize this tom has, in fact, been victorious, and this is his triumphal march. Wide-eyed, he watches as they hustle him from the meadow, treating him with wariness and bemusement and perhaps a residual trace of disgust.

He is a prisoner, Achilleus thinks, the only conclusion he can logically reach, and he is about to die.

As the rest of the group disappear back into the forest, the golden queen lingers on the threshold, gazing out across the meadow with a contemplative expression; on her, it is a cold and caustic look. He freezes where he stands, eyes now narrowed to slits. He feels like prey, and it is a sensation he has become accustomed too. It's not enjoyable, but it thrills him. He has not known such danger in years, hasn't met anyone he could not murder. Yet this forest creature of golden splendour is decisively different.

The golden queen turns slowly, eyes sweeping the dark forest on the opposing side of the gorge. They are a deep bronze-amber, hawk-like, haughty and high and thirsty. He freezes; he has studied these eyes, worshipped their burning gaze. Drusilla's eyes have been fixed firmly onto this stranger's face, though it confounds plausibility. He sees them even now, dead and barren. He thinks he gasps, perhaps, or makes a small sound of discontentment, because she stiffens, statuesque as she glares into the shadows. Achilleus' heart stutters as he closes his eyes; he could have sworn it had stopped, had rusted, but he hopes its frail pulse does not give him away. For a long lingering moment, his eyes remain tightly closed. She isn't there when he opens them, but he no longer trusts his safety on this side of the gorge.

As quickly as he came, he flees. It is an ugly feeling.


I don't think your concept of familial love is so hot either caligula

anyway here's an icky chapter for you

i also wrote and posted a sable-strong au which is called soliloquize and is probably the ending you all hoped for but never got