Shell Game

A taxi had pulled up outside a smaller, older building in the town of Backridge. It was a bright, pleasantly cool but early morning in the sleepy town. Some commuters and a few tourists were about, and some of the cafes and business were just opening up. A warm, tempting smell from a nearby bake shop wafted into Sasha's nose. She considered taking a small detour there to grab a pastry and coffee, since she hadn't even gotten breakfast yet.

There was work to do, however. Sasha just let out a sigh and went inside the building where she was to meet Moreau. It used to be a small shop, but it seemed to have fallen into several years of disuse. It was cold, dusty, and cluttered with old refuse, but otherwise empty and devoid. A twinge of doubt crept into Sasha's mind, that perhaps this was the wrong building, or worse...

"Upstairs!" Moreau's somewhat muffled voice then greeted.

The husky took a quick look to identify the voice's origin. There was an open door to the back of the run-down shop, with a staircase leading up. Sasha proceeded there and up the stairs, checking around as she went. There must've been some passive surveillance downstairs, maybe a hidden camera or two, possibly booby traps as well. She didn't have time or need to check for sure.

Upstairs from the run down shop was an equally derelict apartment, likely belonging to who would've been the shop owner; common practice in many regions. One thing that stood out though was that, along with all of the older ill-maintained furnishings and amenities, was a smattering of high-end technology. There were a few portable computers, some bags of supplies, and even a few small-arms weapons about.

Moreau herself was in the apartment's kitchen, going over something on a notebook computer when she motioned for Sasha to join her.

"Here, gear up," Moreau said as she picked a small duffel bag off the kitchen table, and unceremoniously thrust it into Sasha's hands. "We don't have much time."

"What's going on?" the husky asked quickly. "What's got Connor all up in arms?"

Sasha opened the bag, and found a concealable weapon harness and comm gear, which she began equipping while Moreau briefed her.

"I've been surveying an important asset," the stoic tigress answered, and brought up a picture of an owl on the computer that she showed Sasha. She recognized this avian: he was the target of the last operation Sasha and Moreau worked on together.

"Him?" the husky said, a little confused. "We captured him back on Zoness."

"That's right," the tigress confirmed. "His name is Cadan Olsen. He's a brilliant doctor and technical engineer, old colleague of Owen Phoenix in-fact, but he is also a spy."

"What's he doing all the way out here?" Sasha asked, while she secured the weapon harness. "Wasn't he a prisoner?"

"Yes, in a way. He moves where he pleases, but we keep him on a tight surveillance leash," Moreau motioned around her, to her gear. "I've been keeping close tabs on Olsen, shadowing his movements, monitoring his communications. That's how I got this..."

She entered a command into the computer, and an audio file played: a comm exchange.

"Oh Finally! So then, we meet in–"

"Dammit! I told you not to call me again!" another voice snapped back.

"But I–" the message cut out.

Sasha recognized the first voice, having heard it briefly from the target they'd captured on Zoness. The second one however seemed somehow familiar, but she couldn't quite place it...

"Olsen had been trying to call this angry mystery man a half dozen times before he finally got a response," the tigress explained. "He's meeting someone."

"And this is a crisis... why?" Sasha asked, securing the comm gear. "It just seems like he got a wrong number."

"You'd think so, but take a look at this," Moreau showed another window, a signal map. "Our irritated mystery man is bouncing his signal all over the place, using a self-adjusting comm encryption, making it impossible to get a trace. The only reason we even have what little we've got is because Olsen's comm is properly bugged."

Sasha could keep up with the jargon, but only in concept. If Specialist Vance were here, he might've been better able to examine Moreau's findings.

"This seems like a lot of paranoia over small potatoes," the husky observed, remembering the frantic, almost panicked tone of Connor Griffon when he called.

"'Paranoia' is my line of work, and also this illusive ghost it seems," the tigress rebuked coolly. "What he's doing absolutely reeks of clandestine tradecraft. Very few kinds of people go to such lengths to cover their tracks this way, none of them pleasant, and yet Olsen has some interest in meeting this unpleasant person."

"Okay, fair enough," Sasha agreed, if somewhat reluctantly. Moreau's justification was sound enough. "So what's our plan?"

"We need information. So we shadow Olsen, closely, and intercept this ghost contact if we can," the tigress handed a small blaster handgun to Sasha, and gave an icy stern look along with it.

"Expecting trouble?" the husky asked, accepting the weapon and securing it in the harness.

"Always," Moreau said bluntly. "Let's move."

\


/

In a few minutes, Sasha Zura found herself in the passenger seat of a hovercar, parked on the side of a street in a nearby residential area next to Moreau.

Cadan Olsen was staying at a quaint bed-and-breakfast nearby Moreau's impromptu safehouse. The idea behind the shadowing operation was simple enough: wait for Olsen to make his move, shadow him to his contact, and secure him in a discreet manner, bag the contact if possible. At least Moreau had the courtesy to let Sasha get a cup of coffee and fresh pastry from that bake shop. It wasn't a full proper breakfast, but as long as they were going to sit and watch Olsen's sleeping place for a time, might as well have something to snack on.

Some minutes later, Moreau perked up, snapping to attention. "Look sharp. He's on the move."

Sure enough, a few seconds later the owl stepped out of the front door and moved toward one of the hovercars parked out front. The tigress started up the engine, and prepared for tailing.

Shadowing Olsen as he drove was straightforward enough: follow the car, stay inconspicuous. Moreau herself was cold, laser-focused on her objective.

Sasha didn't particularly enjoy this kind of spy work. There was a lot of waiting, a lot of tension, a lot of uncertainty. The husky officer was far more comfortable in the context of a mission, particularly spec-ops. There were clear objectives in those, with complete intelligence, well-trained soldiers under her command that would follow her orders, as well as easily identifiable enemies. Slinking around, playing this hide-and-seek game, just didn't do it for her...

Still, if she was the only one available to do it, and it needed to be done, she'd bite her lip and do it.

In time, Olsen had traveled some distance out of town, with Moreau and Sasha in discreet pursuit. The surroundings became far more rugged as the pursuit continued, into the wooded back-roads, up the mountainside and away from civilization. They didn't need to keep in visual range, since they still had the bug on his comm working and providing position. All they needed to do was keep close enough to act, and far enough not to seem conspicuous. Granted, that became more and more difficult the further they got. Moreau worried that they might spook Olsen, or the illusive contact.

Olsen finally came to a secluded cabin, deep into the woods, but nearby the roads enough to work with. These cozy, somewhat upscale retreat cabins were common enough in the Glamis Mountain region. They provided comfort and luxury, but also isolation, privacy, and immediate access to the lush natural environment right outside the doors.

Moreau pulled the hovercar up to the driveway Olsen had turned onto, but stopped, and did not pursue any further. From under her seat, the tigress retrieved a telescopic infrared sensor, and scoped out the cabin from here. The cabin itself was only barely visible from this point unaided, through dense vegetation, but it was there, and the infrared sensor would cut through most of it.

After a few moments scanning, Moreau set the infrared sensor down and went to work, "There's no other vehicle parked at this location. Olsen is alone here, which means the mystery contact will be coming to meet him."

"How do you want to work this?" Sasha asked. "Stake out and nab the contact?"

"Not exactly," Moreau answered, stepping out of the hovercar.

"How do you mean?" the husky questioned, following the agent out of the vehicle.

"Cadan Olsen must be secured, he is the top priority. The contact is only a secondary objective."

The tigress opened the hovercar's trunk, and slid back a hidden panel, where a couple of assault rifles sat. She took one of them, along with a few extra magazine cartridges, and handed them to Sasha.

"So it's a lone assault on a cabin in the woods then?" the husky mused, while she checked the rifle and placed the spare mags in the weapon harness.

"A covert assault is more your speed, isn't it?" Moreau said, with as close to a joking tone as Sasha had ever heard from her. "Go on ahead, secure Olsen and the location. I'll stay here on lookout until it's done, at which point I'll join you."

"I'll have the location secure in five minutes," Sasha said with determination, already scoping out her approach route.

"Do it in three, and drinks are on me after we're done," the agent proposed, more relaxed now?

"You're on!" the husky agreed with a confident smirk, and set out toward the cabin.

As awkward as the lead-up to this point had been, Sasha was in-fact more in her element now. She may not have had a squad under her command, or the ideal equipment for the occasion, but she wouldn't need them for a civilian like Olsen. Part of her would have been at least intrigued by the challenge of a solo assault with limited gear, like she was now. For all intents and purposes though, the husky soldier treated this assault as if it really were against well-armed and dangerous enemies, just in case. So many dead soldiers had made the mistake of underestimating their enemies, and more often than not, it happened in suspiciously easy-seeming circumstances such as this.

The approach to the cabin was relatively straightforward. Sasha kept off the road, slinking through the underbrush and dense foliage instead. As she neared closer, she made sure to confirm Olsen's location through the scope of her rifle, making sure never to make a move while the owl was near a window.

Then at last came the final approach to the cabin itself. The husky crouched down behind a dense bush, one of the closest to the building. It would be a short sprint, not ten meters, but she absolutely had to make sure she wasn't spotted while traversing the open ground. Again, she kept her scope on Olsen, waiting until he had stepped well away from the window... and...

She moved, bounding across the open ground toward the nearest wall, and backed herself against it. Sasha took a moment to evaluate her surroundings, listen for any movements, a sign that she'd been compromised...

Nothing. Good.

The husky crept along the wall, toward the back, ducking under windows and around obstacles. Her goal was the back door, which she gambled there would be. Going through the front door would've been obvious, and likely alert Olsen to her presence. Besides, if there was no back door, then going though the front would be no huge loss...

There was a back door: a simple hinge-and-latch style, opening inward easy to breach.

Sasha approached the door and tried the handle, which was locked, as anticipated. She took a step back from the door, took firm footing, and with a grunt of effort kicked the door in. A hollow crunch sounded as door swung in and the wooden frame splintered where the latch was.

The husky brought the rifle up and quickly scanned her immediate surroundings: living room, hallway, dining area; nobody there. She then listened, very carefully, for any noises in the house that would betray Olsen's location, or tip off an unseen threat, or any reflex reaction to the sudden sound of Sasha's breach...

Nothing.

Sasha carefully stepped in, getting a better position inside the cabin living room, and called out, "Cadan Olsen! Come out, slowly, and you won't be harmed!"

"I... I'm coming out!" a feeble voice replied, "I'm unarmed!"

A few footsteps, and a quivering flat-faced avian figure crept around a nearby corner

"Down on the ground! Arms out!" Sasha ordered as she approached Olsen, weapon raised.

The aging owl complied with no resistance, laying face down on the hardwood floor, arms splayed out.

"Who else is here?!" the husky demanded.

"There's nobody! I'm out here alone!" Olsen replied in a terrified voice. "Don't shoot me!"

"Quiet!" Sasha ordered the owl, and contacted Moreau over the comm. "I've got Olsen. Securing the building now."

She was going to move, but there was no response on the comm.

"Moreau?"

Still nothing... Sasha checked the comm, and found it was still activated. Was it being jammed? No, the signal was still going through. Moreau just wasn't responding...

The husky snapped to a attention, in search of any threat. If something happened to Moreau, if someone had neutralized her–

Sasha felt a small, sharp pain at her neck, barely a pinprick. Then there was a nearly instantaneous sensation of sluggishness, of numbness: tranquilizer! The husky swung her weapon around and fired by reflex, or so she'd intended. Instead, Sasha found that her vision was blurring with every movement, that she had tripped over herself, and simply fired wildly into nothing. She barely even heard the shots...

Everything faded, like a sudden sleep, but a sleep she didn't want...

\


/

Initial Briefing,
Major Salazar Hunt, Macbeth Special Forces Trainer.

"What is it that people fear most?"

That was the question posited to Captain Sasha Zura and her unit when they began special forces training. Soldiers by nature are trained to conquer their fears, to be calm and deliberate in their actions where others would panic. Soldiers are given their goal, and under no circumstances are they to deviate from pursuing it if at all possible.

"People fear most what they do not know."

Special Forces went further, however. Fear was no longer simply something to be tucked away and ignored. As an officer and soldier of Special Forces, Sasha would learn not to simply overcome fear, but learn to wield fear itself as a weapon against the enemy. Like any weapon weapon though, the wielder must become intimately familiar with it to maximize their effectiveness in combat. Just as a sword in the hands of a skilled fencer becomes an extension of their arm, fear would become an extension of Captain Sasha Zura's will.

"We will help you to know these fears, to learn about yourselves what you do not know, and to become familiar with these darker aspects."

For Captain Zura and her squad to become familiar with fear, to be able to use fear in battle, they would become familiar with what they didn't know. In particular, they would need to find out more about themselves: the nuances of how they think, how they feel, how they perform, and more importantly, how they do so under various conditions.

"When you know your fears, when you learn that which you don't know, you will then learn to control your fears."

One of the items in the Special Forces regimen was something called 'exposure conditioning'. In exposure conditioning, the trainee would be put under the effects of one of a variety of states –deprived of sleep, deprived of food or water, exposed to any one of several psychoactive substances or toxins. Then the trainee would perform a series of evaluations including a psych exam, marksmanship, as well as fitness and close-quarters combat tests.

"Your fears will become an extension of yourself, and you will learn to wield fear itself."

\


/

"Again!" the trainer's voice barked in that gruff, unsympathetic tone.

Sasha had performed this goddamn sequence far too many times already, she'd lost exact count of how many was, but it was just getting ridiculous. Even so, the husky executed the sequence again, exactly as before. Jab, jab, elbow, grapple, hip-throw, throat-punch, neutralized. Her muscle-memory had the movements burned into her reflexes by now; she could perform it blindfolded, drunk, in her sleep, or hyped up on whatever ginned-up chemical was in her veins now in this exposure conditioning circus-routine...

"Again!"

Sasha gave a determined huff, and executed the sequence once more. Jab, jab, elbow, grapple, hip-throw, throat-punch, neutralized. It was supposed to be some kind of stimulant this time, that the damned doctors injected in her, to watch her. She knew for a fact that they were on the other side of that two-way mirror in this training room, watching her, judging her. What the hell were they trying to prove anyway?

"Again!"

Jab, jab, elbow, grapple, hip-throw, throat-punch, neutralized. Were they looking for weakness? Were they looking for some excuse to drop her entirely from spec-ops?

"Again!"

Jab, jab, elbow, grapple, hip-throw, throat-punch, neutralized. What if it was something else? What if this wasn't just some evaluation?

"Again!"

Jab, jab, elbow, grapple, hip-throw, throat-punch, neutralized. She'd heard some of the wild rumors about spec-ops, everyone has. There were stories about indoctrination, about brainwashing, how they turned good soldiers into mindless tools.

"Again!"

Jab, jab, elbow, grapple, hip-throw, throat-punch, neutralized. But that wasn't what they were doing here, not at all. The were just subjecting her and her squad to some routine tests, injecting a substance or two, and doing the same tests again...

"Again!"

Jab, jab, elbow, grapple, hip-throw, throat-punch, neutralized. Earlier, Sergeant Gavin Fletcher did a similar test under the influence of a frighteningly potent hallucinogen. He was instructed to disassemble and reassemble his weapon, while he relived his childhood night-terrors, and all Sasha could do was watch from the other side of a two way mirror.

"Again!"

Jab, jab, elbow, grapple, hip-throw, throat-punch, neutralized. Military training was supposed to be brutal, and special forces would no doubt have to be even more-so. However, what these doctors and officers were doing was beyond training, or conditioning; it was outright torture.

"Again!"

Jab, jab, elbow, grapple, hip-throw, throat-punch, neutralized. What was really in those injector tubes anyway? Were they really what they said they were? How would they know?

"Good. That's enough," the trainer said at last.

Sasha had long ago lost count of how many times she'd performed that particular hand-to-hand sequence, but she didn't feel at all exhausted. She felt she could do that sequence a hundred more times at least, as well as any number of the other maneuvers she knew. She could take on anything right now. Nothing could stand in her way...

The trainer simply stood there, watching her, scrutinizing her, analyzing her. She could feel his eyes on her, making notes, making judgments, and not an ounce of compassion or remorse. He was being a good little soldier, and he was watching Sasha to make sure she was too.

The door at the end of the training room opened, and two figures wearing lab coats over their utility uniforms stepped in, heading toward Sasha and the flinty-eyed trainer with dutiful purpose in their steps. They were the medical personnel: the people who were watching every little physiological change in the trainees' bodies, making little notes on their tablets. These were the same people who, after Sgt. Fletcher repeatedly assembled and disassembled his weapon while high on a sadistic "bad trip", stuck the delirious avian soldier with all manner of pins and syringes while he writhed in hallucinated agony.

These men –these Special Forces trainers and their medical technicians– they broke their subjects down. They found the trainees' particular breaking points, and they pushed on them, hammered relentlessly until there was nothing left where a soldier once was. But to what end? What did they expect to find when there was nothing left?

"We need to take a blood sample," one of the medics informed in his cold, methodical voice when he approached. He was holding a bag, which he opened up and prepared some equipment from.

Sasha didn't believed him, not in this state. He looked like he was getting far more than a mere sampling syringe. There were other vials he was getting, and other items she couldn't quite identify.

"Let me rest for a bit," the husky requested.

Undeterred, the medic came to her with an alcohol swab in one hand, and the syringe in the other, "It'll only take a second–"

"Don't you touch me!" Sasha snapped, knocking the medic's arms aside, and she went into an alert combat stance.

"Stand down, Captain!" the trainer barked as he stepped forward, looming over the husky.

She wasn't afraid of him, of his commanding voice, or his cocksure posture. The young husky officer had stepped over countless similar boisterous blowhards in her training getting here. He meant nothing to her. What right did he have to dictate like that anyway? If he wanted her to stand down so bad, he'd have to make her, and earn the right to dictate.

"I said, stand d–" the trainer's last word was lost in a gasping, gargling fit.

In the blink of an eye, Sasha had already sent a lightning-quick jab into the trainer's throat. An instant later, with the trainer still reeling, she'd stepped forward, struck the back of his knees in a sweeping kick, and pushed forward in a takedown that landed him on his back with a heavy thud.

The husky turned toward the two medics nearby, glowering, and ordered, "Stay away from me!"

They backed off, cowering before her. She could feel their fear, see it in their widened eyes and trembling bodies. This must've been what power felt like, and it felt good.

Sasha felt a small pain in neck, a minuscule pinprick. She grasped for the source of the pain, but her arm had become sluggish and clumsy, and she only managed to strike herself in the face. Then her knees gave out, feeling like they'd gone numb, and she collapsed. The movement only looked like a blur in her vision, and she wasn't even sure she felt when she hit the floor. Everything just faded away after that, faded away to nothing...

\


/

Sasha gasped for air and bolted straight upright as she awoke. Her heart was racing, her breaths were short and shallow, and she'd broken out in a cold sweat. Instinctively, the husky took a quick assessment of her surroundings and status. Apart from the odd rush of fearful adrenaline from that dream, her body felt fine, maybe a little woozy and sluggish or hyper-alert, but otherwise fine.

This was a living room, the same living room in the mountain cottage she was assaulting earlier. She was on a couch, with a simple wool blanked draped over her. Sasha found that all of her gear was gone, leaving her with nothing but the clothes she put on this morning–

"Bad dream?" a mellow voice to her right asked.

Sasha snapped her head toward the direction of the speaker, and saw what, for a moment, she suspected was a ghost. She saw Richard Cooney.

"You?!" the husky exclaimed, "You're supposed to be dead!"

The old raccoon was there, sitting quite calmly in a nearby armchair, with an open book in his hand. He simply chuckled and rolled his eyes as he set the book down. "Young lady, I'm supposed to have died at least a dozen times over the course of my career, and yet everyone always seems surprised when they find out I haven't."

"What the hell is going on?" Sasha demanded. "What did you do to me?!"

"Saved your life." Rick answered as he set the book down.

"Bullshit!" the husky spat as she stood up from the couch. She felt her head spin from dizziness when she did, and fought to regain her balance.

"Take it easy there, you're still feeling some lingering effects from Moreau's sedative."

That much made sense. Sasha's head was still swimming and foggy, exactly the latent effects of a fast-acting sedative. There were still a number of things that didn't make sense, and there was no way she was about to trust the word of this Cooney character alone. "How am I supposed to know you didn't fire the knockout dart?"

"A fair point," Rick conceded with a nod, "but let's look at the circumstances: Griffon contacted you in a state of panic, and gave you some phony reason or other why he needed you specifically to to report to Moreau."

"And suppose he did?" Sasha mused, eying Rick for any suspicious activity or movements.

"How much did Moreau tell you when you reported to her?" the raccoon asked. "Did she brief you on her surveillance operation? Did she give you much information on her plans or Olsen? Or... did she evade your questions, and rush you quickly into the mission with little prep-time and little intel?"

Sasha's head was beginning to clear up, and her thoughts more coherent. Hearing Cooney speak, she quickly arrived at a realization she should've known before. "That was you on Olsen's bugged comm. Moreau played back your short conversation with him during her briefing."

"That's right," Rick confirmed, and went on explaining, "I deliberately didn't use a voice modulator, on a comm I knew would be bugged, with people listening in who know my voice."

"But... neither Connor or Moreau made any mention it was you," Sasha was pacing restlessly now, growing more and more worried.

"And from that moment on Moreau kept you on a tight leash, never letting you out of her sight for an instant," Rick said in a matter-of-fact tone, but he was wrong there.

"Moreau sent me up ahead by myself for the assault here."

"And she didn't support you as backup," the raccoon retorted.

"She stayed back to watch the road–"

"Which is a job better suited for a simple remote surveillance monitor," Rick interrupted. "If the plan really was to assault this place and nab Olsen, then Moreau had no business hanging back and sending you alone. If she was suspicious of you though, sending you ahead is the perfect way to gauge your actions, and then isolate you for easy capture."

She didn't want to believe it, but Rick's explanation was making sense.

"Don't you see it, Sasha? Griffon and Moreau set you up from the start. They intended to capture you, bring you in for questioning, and ultimately dispose of you."

"But why?" Sasha asked. "All you're giving is circumstantial evidence. There's no motivation there for why exactly they'd go though all that trouble to capture me. You could be feeding me a whole load of crap for all I know."

"Young lady, their motivation is right in front of you, explaining their spycraft in minute detail," Rick finally stood up from the armchair, and took a deep breath. "It's like you said: I'm supposed to be dead."

"So why aren't you dead, then?" Sasha asked, folding her arms over her chest. "How did you survive?"

At that moment, the back door to the cottage opened up, and Sasha snapped that direction, anticipating almost any threat. Two figures walked in. The first was Cadan Olsen, who flinched a little when he saw Sasha, but the wizened old avian quietly moved on. The second figure was someone Sasha didn't want to be involved, but ultimately, he had to have a hand in all this: it was Alastar.

"We've buried Moreau's body and–" the scruffy schnauzer canid froze dead in his tracks when he saw Sasha: saw the rage, and shame, and despair that was taking the husky.

"Alastar..." she uttered, in a weak, defeated voice as she approached him. "You never really stopped working for Rick, did you?"

"Sasha, I..." Alastar stammered. "It's... difficult to explain–"

"God, how could I be so stupid!?" Sasha blurted as she turned away, and nearly tore her hair out in frustration. It wasn't a moment though before she got in Alastar's face, writhing in outrage. "All that bullshit about you not liking Rick, about wanting something else; everything you told me was a filthy lie!"

For his part, Alastar simply stood there and took it. He offered no response, didn't do any action, or really change much at all. The only thing that scruffy schnauzer did was stand there, with his face locked in a kind of petrified, helpless state of silent panic. The merc looked absolutely pathetic to Sasha right now; she felt her hand form a fist at her side, ready to punch him square in the face, or worse...

Rick soon stepped up to Alastar's side, and offered his cool, collected response in the face of Sasha's seething rage. "Let's be fair, Sasha: you lied to Alastar when you were 'convincing' him to 'kill' me. All he really did was help fake my death."

"It's not the same!"

"It is exactly the same. He was just better trained at it than you were. You thought you were playing Alastar, when in reality, he was playing you."

"You set this whole thing up," Sasha's voice became cold a bitter as she confronted Rick again. "Why?"

"We should get moving," Olsen finally chimed in, sounding nervous as he fidgeted, and kept looking around, like he expected an ambush. "There's no time to explain–"

"No. I need to explain it," Rick said to Olsen, cutting him off. "I owe her that much at least."

"Please do," Sasha prompted impatiently, glaring at at the old raccoon with dagger-eyes.

Rick turned back to the husky, and wasted no time, "My plan, like Moreau suspected, really is to get Cadan Olsen out of Venom's clutches. I just needed to get Moreau off Olsen's back so we could whisk him away easily. I needed a diversion, something to scramble Venom Intelligence so Connor and his analysts would reach erroneous conclusions, and so make mistakes. Making Venom Intelligence suspect you were in cahoots with me, and start acting on hasty plans around you, provided just the opening I could use."

"So why did it have to be me?" Sasha demanded. "What makes me so special? Why couldn't you use someone else, anyone else?!"

"What exactly is the proverbial feather in your cap for the clowns at Venom Intelligence, Sasha? What makes you the spies' go-to girl for their dirty work?" the raccoon posited. "You were supposed to have single-handedly eliminated me:the biggest potential pain-in-the-ass that Venom Intelligence is afraid of. If this pain-in-the-ass all of a sudden comes back from the dead, one way or another that's on your head, either because you failed utterly, or because you're a turncoat. I knew well in advance that you were going to be here at this time, Sasha. I arranged for Olsen to come around the Glamis region at the same time as you, then I show up on Moreau's surveillance in the most suspicious way possible. Faced with evidence like that, all the clowns at Venom Intelligence start jumping to conclusions and scrambling to take action." Rick suddenly switched his voice to a kind of mock-panicky tone, "Sasha Zura didn't kill Cooney! She must've helped fake his death! They're in the same area with Cadan Olsen now! They're getting ready for an operation to spring Olsen! Quick! Throw a monkey-wrench into their plan! Nab Sasha and pump her for more information!" he switched back to his cool, calculating deadpan, and looked the husky right in the eye. "And that, Sasha, is exactly what they have just tried to do."

Sasha matched the raccoon's steely gaze, and glared right back through his cold, flinty eyes.

"So you turned me into nothing more than a feint, a red herring, a goddamn decoy in this goddamn shell-game of yours!" the husky fumed. "Did you think about how much this little diversion of yours actually costs? For your precious plan, you've destroyed my career, ruined my reputation, and tore me away from my love. You've taken everything away from me."

"You're absolutely right," Rick agreed with a nod, almost sounding sarcastic. "I did use you, I did wreck you life, but Venom has used you even more, and for far worse purposes. They've kept you in the dark about the natures of your missions, never fully answering any sensitive questions, and they're willing to throw you to the beasts to pursue their ends if you get in the way. Now consider the difference you have with me: even in our short time together, I've kept you alive and well, even though I could have and by all rights should have killed you. You're getting honest answers that I explain in detail, as opposed to dodging around and cryptically telling you 'you don't need to know'. Believe me Sasha, I'm doing you a favor by getting you away from those creeps."

"The hell you are!" Sasha spat back.

Rick sighed at this, shaking his head. When he spoke again, he toned his voice down, tried to speak more gently, "You want to go home, don't you? You want to see your family, see your lover, and do your duty to Macbeth and Venom, but you can't. You're a traitor to them all now. The evidence your superiors have found points to 'Sasha Zura murdered Agent Moreau and assisted Cooney in the retrieval of Cadan Olsen'. You may not like it, but your only chance to survive now is to stick with me, and become the 'traitor' that Venom believes you to be."

"I'd sooner die," the husky declared, and she meant it too.

"In that case, stay here and wait for Connor's cronies to come sniffing around. You'll get that death, eventually," Rick informed her, betraying not one ounce of pity in his exposition. "First, they will take into custody, and bring you to the worst possible secret prison they have. There, they will torture you, make you feel unimaginable pains you never thought were possible to feel, bringing you down to the edge of insanity while they interrogate you for information. Once you can't take it anymore, when life has become nothing but endless agony, they will finally grant you the mercy of death when they execute you for treason. Then you can die, satisfied that you've sated your appetite for spite against the person who had the utter gall to try and save your life."

That was all Sasha needed to hear, and she lunged at Rick, fist flying and voice raving, "Not if I kill you first!"

She landed a blow against the raccoon: a throat-punch that sent him reeling back and gasping as he grasped his own neck.

Fuming in rage, Sasha stepped forward to kick the old bastard down, but felt a strong hand on her shoulder pull her back. The husky rolled with the momentum, twisting her position into a solid center-mass punch, only to find her fist had been caught in Alastar's firm hand. The merc exploited Sasha's momentum, pulling her toward him by her arm, and rotating her further. He was trying to twist her arm around her back!

Sasha dropped low, and caught Alaster's legs between her own in a scissor takedown. Caught by surprise, the merc collapsed on his back in a dull thud, while Sasha fell to her own back, but free of his grasp. She lunged on Alastar, smashing a knee into his side before positioning herself on top of his upturned torso.

He looked even more pathetic now, lying pinned on his back, looking up at the husky while she had him pinned down. Still, Alastar didn't betray any fear in his eyes, or any emotion really. Sasha would make him feel fear though, she would draw terror from the lying merc's eyes, make him squirm in horror beneath her as he died, slowly...

Sasha shot her hands at Alastar's neck, and the schnauzer uttered a squeaky little gasp as she gripped his windpipe, and squeezed as hard as she could manage. Alastar opened his mouth, maybe trying to say something, but the husky didn't care. It'd only be a matter of time –seconds, in fact– before this miserable excuse of a soldier went limp in her grasp–

In a flash, Alastar reached up and jerked her hands apart and away from his neck. In almost the same instant, he'd taken hold of Sasha's wrists, and bucked his hips up underneath her while he crossed her arms into a double elbow lock. The sudden rising force knocked her off balance, and combined with the torquing leverage of the elbow lock, the husky quickly found she was now on her back, with Alastar looming over her, planting a knee on her stomach.

Sasha was pinned down for good now. Alastar was too strong for her to overpower from here, even with her considerable strength, and she had no positioning to bring critical leverage into play. For all intents and purposes, try as she might, she was immobilized, helpless. She couldn't stand being in this position, with those pathetic eyes of his staring blankly down at her.

"Do it Alastar," Sasha growled, glaring up at the scruffy merc. "Finish the job. Neutralize the threat: kill me."

He was hesitating. He didn't have the balls to do it. Alastar just sat there with Sasha at his mercy, shaking his head as he wheezed, "I can't do that."

"And why the hell not!?" she demanded.

He didn't answer. The merc just gazed with this blank, glassy-eyed look over Sasha's head. Alastar had to have a reason, a real reason, but he wasn't saying.

"Tell me!" she barked.

That finally got a sigh from Alastar, and he looked her in the eye. "Because... this isn't you, Sasha, and I think you've still got plenty to live for." He stood up, and released the husky from the grappling bind.

"Weren't you listening, idiot?" Sasha quipped as she pulled herself up and got in the scruffy merc's face, "I have nothing! You creeps tore away everything I had!"

"You've got me," Alastar suggested, opening his arms, again with that pathetic look in his eyes.

"Thanks, but I think I prefer my newfound nothing in life," she spat as turned sharply away from him, arms folded as she looked out the window. The weather outside was embarrassingly bright and pleasant; it ought to have been raining...

"Look, I lied over what I thought about Rick, alright? Sure, he's a bit of an ass, but he's a damn clever ass who just might do some good in this crazy world." Sasha heard his voice quiet down as he drew closer, speaking in almost hushed tones. "What I feel about you though, that's real, I can't fake that, it's why Rick made me play you. He knew real feelings would be easier to work with than if it was fake, and it absolutely tore me up inside to do it to you."

"And that's supposed to make me feel better about all this?" Sasha asked bitterly over her shoulder.

Alastar turned the husky toward him, and looked into her with that glassy-eyed stare again. "It wasn't my idea to screw up your life, but it was my idea to save your life." It wasn't a blank stare, Sasha realized. Alastar was in pain –absolutely horrendous emotional pain– he just didn't seem to show it beyond this awkward tongue-tied trance of his. Subject him to enough inner pain though, and even this was beginning to break down in front of her.

"It's true," Rick confirmed in a somewhat hoarse voice, clearing his throat as he stepped in. "Al threatened to wreck the whole plan if we didn't spring you along with Olsen."

"Even if you don't believe anything I've said, please, believe what I've done for you here, Sasha," Alastar pleaded. He was desperate, and looked as if he might burst into tears any second.

Really, Sasha didn't know what to think anymore. If what Rick said was true, she couldn't go back to Connor Griffon, or anyone in Venome Intelligence, not without compelling evidence that clears her. She was a traitor in the eyes of her own government now, and there was no one for her to turn to other than the very people who've ruined her life. She hated it, but it was the only play she had left now.

"Fine," Sasha relented, hanging her head. "I'll go with you."

"Then let's get moving," Rick implored. "We've spent more than enough time lingering here."

As they turned to leave the cottage, Alastar laid a hand on Sasha's shoulder, which she quickly brushed off.

If nothing else, Sasha would remain with these cretins for a time, and if an opening presented itself, she would use it. Perhaps it wasn't too late to try acting as a double-agent. Who knows? Maybe she'll even find out what –or who, rather– all this fuss was about: Cadan Olsen...

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Author Notes:

Ha! And you thought I'd kill off one of my strongest OCs n such an ignoble, anticlimactic fashion. Nope, Rick is back, whipping up a whole new generation of his schemes all over again. Well, this is of course, a major major turning point in the story. And I can promise you, there is plenty more intrigue, action and drama on the way as we go forward.

Let me know what you think with a review; your feedback is always welcome. Special thanks to my old acquaintance Mel O'Wallace who came back after a long absence, and also to Serpent P who I believe has written one of –if not the– best Fox/Wolf shipping I've yet to read. Also, feel free to shoot a pm my way if you like. I don't read/review stories here very often, but when I do, it's usually because someone asked me to.

Anyway, that's me. Catch you all later!