"So this is how the foreigner lives," Knuckles said to himself as he followed Sonic into the officer's mess. The room was washed in the golden glow of two electric chandeliers, one above the turntable at one end of the hall, and the other above the bar area. Between the turntable and bar sat three tressel tables with their benches, each about fifteen feet long. If nothing else, he was comforted that these foreigners believed in communal dining as much as his own people did. He also found many of the smells coming from the kitchen behind the bar strange, but nonetheless pleasant: frying oil, mustard, onions, cabbage, some unidentifiable herbal scents, and...beef?

He'd tasted beef once, and loved every bite of it, but he hadn't had the opportunity to try it again until now. The smell alone made up for the rather cold reception he'd gotten from the men on the gate, which hadn't been helped when he made a show of turning Sally's Peacemaker over to Sonic.

Sonic had whistled appreciatively as he turned the big pistol over in his hands, examining its action and cylinder for signs of wear and tear. "This looks brand new," the captain had said, "how much did this set you back?"

"It's not mine," Knuckles confessed, "It's Sal's. Her dad gave it to her."

Sonic's face turned wary. "Why do you have it?"

Knuckles had his lie ready. As far as he knew, only himself, Amy, and Vanilla's congregation knew why, and he didn't think it was wise to tell anyone else. "She gave it to me in the hospital," Knuckles had told him, "said I might need it if the Boxers attacked while we were building."

Sonic had relaxed, then nodded approval. "Do you know how to use it?"

"Yeah." Like Chu, Knuckles possessed a rudimentary understanding of firearms, but he came by this knowledge from his previous jobs with the railways: whenever he wasn't laying tracks himself, the British foremen would occasionally have him stand guard with a pistol to deter would-be saboteurs from dismantling all of his hard work.

Sonic led him to the turntable where Miles, the young fox who saved Sally's life, was already seated. The faint wheaty-oaty scent of beer made the echidna's nostrils flare. Shit. He knew that half-vacant look and flushed cheeks on the lad's face: not yet drunk, but if someone refilled the mug, the lad would be. He chose the seat on the lad's right, and Sonic sat one seat over to his left. "You alright, kid?" Knuckles asked.

The young fox blinked twice, then swallowed before he answered. "I'm fine," he said hoarsely.

Sonic made a sound that was almost a chuckle. "How far into the keg have you gotten?"

Miles looked into his mug, which looked large enough to hold about one and a half pints. "Two of these," he admitted, lifting the mug and giving it a little shake before lifting it to his lips. Knuckles winced as the lad took several long, deep swallows, the kind that told Knuckles that he didn't care about the taste, so long as he could get as much of it down his throat as possible. No, Knuckles thought, he's not fine at all.

"Doppelbock?" Sonic asked.

Miles didn't answer until he'd drained the mug and set it on the table. "Doppelbock indeed. This one's number three." After a moment, perhaps sensing Knuckles's half-contained disapproval, his weak smile faded. "I should switch to water, shouldn't I?"

"It wouldn't hurt," Knuckles muttered.

Sonic took the mug wordlessly, studying his protegé before motioning to a serving woman, an old water dragon with a bent back and dull blue-green scales. As he handed her the mug, he ordered: "Wasser, drei Schwartzkaffee, bitte schön." She bowed and went off. Turning his attention back to Miles, Sonic said: "Something on your mind, Herr Leutnant?"

"No, Herr Hauptmann."

"When did you start your first drink?" Sonic pressed.

The young fox paused, before confessing: "An hour ago, Herr Hauptmann."

Knuckles blinked, rather stunned that a man half his weight managed to put away four and a half pints that fast.

Sonic deliberately turned in his seat to face Miles squarely. The young fox mirrored him. "For the next hour, do you think you can act sober?" the captain asked, "I don't think our Quaker guests would appreciate one of their hosts being drunk."

Miles nodded, "I will do my best." before he rose to his feet. "If you'll excuse me, I need to stick a finger down my throat."

"You are excused. Don't dribble on your shirt, verstanden?"

"Jawhol, Herr Hauptmann." Miles saluted, then turned on his heel to find the nearest toilet.

When he was gone, Knuckles asked: "What's with him?"

Not wishing to risk another punch, Sonic gave him a sanitized version of what happened: "The Boxers brought a ten-year-old when they attacked this morning. The boy was injured, and died while Herr Leutnant and Miss Rose were trying to save him."

The echidna's disapproval softened into pity. "Ah. Yeah, I'd want to drink like that." Knuckles looked in the direction the young fox had gone, before speaking further: "How's Amy handling it?"

"Miss Rose? Not well, I'm afraid, but she hasn't been drinking at least."

Knuckles let out the breath he didn't know he was holding. "Good. She used to be as bad as I was."

"I was not!"

The protest made them turn their heads to see none other than Amy. She seated herself on Knuckle's left, the baby at her breast. She was dressed in borrowed servants' clothes, a light blue linen robe and pants with simple black slippers. "Sure I got the staggers, but you almost died, didn't you?"

Knuckles scowled but said nothing. Amy patted him on his broad shoulders. "Just givin' you banter; lighten up will ya?" she asked before turning to Sonic. "It's true. I was almost as bad when Vanilla found me. Whatever I earned busking on the railroad, I drank right up."

Sonic was curious. "Busking?" he asked, more to himself than her. He tasted the word and found it odd. "I... don't believe I've heard the term."

"It's like...well, you're on the road, and singin' for supper. I played harmonica and did whatever else I could to make people throw money at me." Sonic's snort told her that she should've phrased that sentence differently. Blushing, she laughed. "You're a sick man, you know that?"

"You'll find much worse just outside these walls." Sonic chuckled. A different servant, a young crow about Amy's age, brought glasses and a tall decanter filled with water. As the crow poured, Sonic returned his attention to Amy. "So, you're a Catholic yet you work for a Quaker mission. Tell me, how does that work out?"

Amy shrugged. "Just does. Vanilla never forced me to convert or threaten me with hellfire, if that's what you're wonderin' about."

Sonic sipped his water. "I take it that Miss Acorn is now is now your chief priest?"

"All of us are priests," Knuckles said automatically, "but she does lead worship more often now." That was indeed the case until two weeks ago. At the Fu-a large mansion—turned-refugee camp which most of the native Christians coming to Legation Quarter were staying at—the rumors about himself and Vanilla had evaporated. He didn't remember whether or not Cixin had said anything during the riot, or if Falun or Xin blabbed later, but news of Sally's attempted suicide was all that anyone in Vanilla's former congregation would talk about.

"And what exactly do you do?" Sonic asked.

"I make sure no one causes trouble." Knuckles said as he flexed his biceps, which earned a grin from Sonic.

"And here I thought you Quakers were all pacifists."

"They are, Herr Hauptmann." The two younger men looked up to see Amadeus approaching the turntable. He sat in the chair Sonic had passed over, which would put Miles at his right hand when he returned. "Most Quakers renounce anything to do with violent conflict, even in the interest of self-defense. My wife's grandparents believed as much when they left Kansas to evangelize the Sioux, though not without cost."

"I don't doubt that they paid dearly for it." Sonic remarked.

Knuckles knew the story: though many of those far-away Sioux responded well to the Gospel, just as many others did not. A war party attacked the mission and scalped Vanilla's grandmother, though her husband and their son, Vanilla's father, managed to escape.

Sonic huffed, as if blowing out smoke. "I know that type, the ones who take a boat straight from Bremen, or Oslo, and think they can run into the bush without a guide, a guard, or even single bottle of quinine. If they're smart enough to go as a group, they come back with half the people they started with, if they're lucky." He glanced at Amadeus, whose eye regarded him with cool curiosity. Amy was glaring at him as she fed the baby. Sonic at last read the room and chewed his cud as a sign of penance. "Er... I meant no offense, Herr Oberst."

Amadeus simply nodded. "None taken, Herr Hauptmann." He glanced at Amy, whose glare softened. "It's true," the old fox said, "piety has made many fools in this world, I will not deny that." The serving woman brought a tray carrying three white ceramic mugs and a silvered coffeepot, and set it on the center of the turntable. "Coffee, at this hour?"

Sonic offered a small, rueful smile and leaned closer to his superior. "Herr Leutnant overindulged."

Inhaling the dark, vitalizing aroma and enjoying it, Amadeus replied: "I see. Well, I have business to attend to after dinner anyway." He sent the server off to get three more mugs before turning back to Sonic. "As I was saying, piety has its fools, but Vanilla was not one of them." He sighed. "But what piety couldn't do, I did." He began pouring cups, and turned to Knuckles. "My apologies," he said in Mandarin, "Cream, sugar, or both?"

Knuckles looked distrustfully at the black, steaming liquid in the mugs. The smell was alluring, but he was as wary of alcohol as the Qing empress of poison. "What is it?"

"Coffee." Amadeus said, "Like tea, it won't get you drunk. In fact, it can keep you awake for hours longer than you would otherwise."

"What does it taste like?"

"Bitter. Most prefer cream and sugar, especially newcomers, but I find it best like this."

As if to assure Knuckles, Amadeus lifted his mug, blew away the steam, and took a sip. Knuckles then deliberately took a mug and mimed his host. Well, he's not lying about the taste. The drink was hot, and bitter, but not unpleasantly so, similar to tonic water; and like tonic water, it was... clean. He took another sip before setting it down. "Thank you."

Amadeus nodded. "As our muscular friend demonstrates," he told Sonic, "Vanilla did not believe pacifism was a suicide pact." He looked back to Knuckles. "What did Vanilla teach you about the subject of meekness?"

Knuckles thought. "She used to say that the meek would inherit the earth," he said slowly, "but 'meek' doesn't mean 'harmless'."

Sonic looked puzzled. "What does it mean, then?"

"Forbearance," Amadeus said sententiously, "a man's ability to keep his weapon sheathed until he absolutely must use it." He looked around. "Miles needs to hear this. Where is he?"

Tails winced at the stinging tingle in one of his canine teeth, caused by the acid that followed the beer out of his mouth and into the toilet bowl. He worked up a decent pool of saliva and swished it around, sweeping the noxious bile up with it as he spit it all out. The tingle slowly dissipated as the foul, foamy brown soup spiraled down the drain. Good riddance. He straightened up, and went to the sink to wash his hands. He hadn't eaten since breakfast, so there were no chunks stuck in his fur.

Before doing so, he checked his uniform over in the pale yellow light of the bathroom, and found himself quite pleased. He looked every bit the off-duty Prussian officer he was, with starched collar, rolled sleeves, gleaming brass buttons, and-

"Fuck."

He noticed an oblong dark spot, a little larger than a quarter, sitting just above one of the buttons on his upper chest. Now he had to find a new shirt. Did he? Ah, of course he did: even if the stain disappeared, he'd smell it, and so would Amy. He'd need to find a clove, or spring of mint to chew on to cover up his breath.

Covering up won't help. Your troubles shall find you out.

Tails finished washing his hands. He met his own eyes in the mirror. You're better than this, he thought. As an officer cadet, he'd been drilled relentlessly to compartmentalize any pity he might feel for an enemy. It was common sense: such emotions would only cloud an officer's judgement in the heat of battle. On the walls this morning, he had done so, not truly seeing the attacking Boxers as men, but simply targets that could shoot back. Even the kitsune girl Wesreidau had shot subconsciously fell under that veil, at least until he no longer had work to occupy him.

But when battle was no longer joined, when fury faded from his mind, when that poor red panda was dying on the table, when he and Amy were doing all they could to keep him conscious...he didn't see a target. He couldn't, no matter how hard he tried to. All he saw was a child in pain and agony, because that's what that was: a child!

And for no reason at all...

The lightbulb in the ceiling fixture flickered once as he stared into the mirror, not actually seeing anything. Water ran continuously from the tap, though his hands were now still as he thought.

Both children armed with broomhandles. He frowned. The C-96 Mauser had only hit the global market a year ago. By all accounts it was selling well, but it wasn't exactly a cheap weapon; Tails doubted that either of them could have afforded a single ammunition clip, let alone their pistols. Could the Boxers have stolen the pistols, perhaps from a Qing garrison's armory? Then why give them to children?

The light flickered twice.

With half a thought, Tails reached for the pistol on his belt. Ketteler had decreed that no soldier should go unarmed henceforth, even abed. One of his better notions, the young fox mused as he drew out the weapon. He studied it for a long time; in this light, its smoky, grey-blue steel shined black.

He thought. During this morning's attack, he'd noticed that some of the adult Boxers had been armed with a mixture of dated and brand-new weapons, from rusty muskets to Mauser rifles identical to the ones Tails and his men were using. The fire...that was an ammo dump, no question about that. Why the hell was there an ammo dump in the middle of a slum? How many more were there? Was the ammo stored with their weapons? Could the Boxers have found one of these deadly caches by accident? Or maybe...

The light went out for one full second, then back to full power. Absently, he thought: Didn't I change that bulb last week? I did. It must be the wiring, maybe the socket itself, then. He could replace a socket himself, but if the issue came to wiring, he'd have to comb through all of Legation Quarter to find a proper electrician, of which there were few enough.

All that is done in darkness shall be revealed in the light.

Shut. Up. His eyes traced up the underside of the narrow barrel, over the front sight, then the rear sight, the magazine well, and the hammer. A sturdy, double-action weapon, the broomhandle would be easy for a child to fire, but its powerful cartridge and milled steel frame all but guaranteed that an untrained operator, especially a child, would hit nothing worth hitting.

Verily I say unto you, it would be better that you be cast into the sea with a millstone tied to your neck.

Tails was not untrained, and no longer a child. He continued to stare at the pistol as a strange feeling came over him, one that wasn't the heavy euphoria of alcohol. Instead, a strange academic detachment, combined with a breezy light-headedness, creeped over him. Slowly, he brought the pistol closer to his face, close enough to inspect the serial numbers stamped on each of its constituent parts. He flipped the safety to off.

The light flickered once again. Off for two seconds, back to full power.

His hand trembled as the pistol left his peripheral vision. The light went out, covering him in complete darkness. It came back on. Steel brushed the side of his head, behind his right ear. He wouldn't feel a thing: the bullet would go straight through the brain stem. The light went out. Tails shut his eyes.

He that shall blaspheme against the Holy Ghost hath never forgiveness, but is in danger of eternal damnation.

The strange trance that had come over him vanished, as did the detachment that had proceeded it. Icy fingers of terror gripped his belly, his heart, his throat, and squeezed. He numbly shoved the pistol back into the holster and sank to the floor in front of the still-running sink. He frantically unbuckled his belt to remove the holster, but then stopped. What am I doing? What the hell am I doing?

He knelt there in the dark, dumbstruck, his heart hammering. The light flickered on.

Because they said, "He hath an unclean spirit."

His father deemed him innocent all those years ago, but the fundamental truth was that he wasn't. Not truly. In his deepest core, Tails knew what had been done. If looking upon a woman with lust added up to adultery, then even thinking the words "Fuck the Holy Spirit" added up to saying it, and meaning it with his fullest intention. Tails knew he deserved every moment of torment that was coming to him in this life, and the next.

"Worse than Judas," he whispered to himself, "Judas did it for thirty pieces of silver. You? For nothing."

The brothel madame crossed her arms. "Do you know how ugly you look when you cry, boy?"

Despite the warm air, he shivered, his bushy twin tails wrapping around his body. His eyes felt hot and wet. No, he wouldn't chance it. Even if his gut were completely wrong, and a bullet would see him to the Pearly Gates instead of The Pit, he would not do such a terrible thing! What would his father think? What would his little sister be told? Would she even know, or would the shameful secret of a suicidal Sinic bastard be kept to his grave as well as his father's?

The light flickered on.

No. None of that would do. He couldn't mention this to anyone. Not to Amy. Not to Sonic. Not even his father. If hiding it from God was possible, he would consider attempting that, too.

Vater. I'm so sorry.

The bathroom door shut, and the lock clicked as the light went out once more. His head snapped up at the sound, and he was rising to his feet before he could even register what was happening. It wasn't fast enough, and someone grabbed him by his lapels and pulled him to his feet. "I-I...Herr Hauptmann, please, it wasn't-"

"What it looked like?"

Tails's eyes went wide. "Miss Acorn?"