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Chapter 1:

The radio at my hip chirps and barks its quiet chatter, disseminating information on arrests and crimes in progress. My ears stand on end, intrigued, but, resume scanning again when nothing of interest comes through. The majority of calls consist of the usual suspects: public drunkenness, petty thefts, and personal emergencies. There's nothing like listening to a fire somewhere burning down an apartment building to keep you going at night.

I round a corner and trek up a smaller off-street near Riverfront Station on the Inner Loop Line. The short apartment buildings rise up on both sides of the street like uneven walls. The businesses on the ground floor are all quiet, their windows dark, having closed several hours ago. Up above, on the second and third floors, windows illuminate the street with soft yellow light.

Streetlamps here are more uneven, as this is an older neighborhood. A lot of things are uneven here. Just over the old fence line, this used to be part of a place called 'Happy Town', one of the many segregated parts of the city. The fences came down twenty years ago, but that would be impossible to discern from the state of these homes. And I'm just barely inside the neighborhood. Unless you go deep into the neighborhood, the only telling signs are more predator-centric advertising and the general lack of upkeep. The police by and large don't patrol any deeper than this.

My radio kicks up again and I slow to a stop to listen. The dispatcher repeats requests from other officers before giving out orders. Unfortunately, they are either not within my response range, or are events I'm unable to resolve. A lot of the dispatches that go out are like that: ambulance calls and auto wrecks. I'm pretty close to Downtown, where the traffic is the heaviest, so hearing that some old geezer wrecked his Coyote Roadrunner into a telephone pole isn't out of the ordinary.

"I wish something would happen," I mutter to myself.

And I do. I've been with the force for about two and a half years now. Having graduated near the top of my class, I had hoped to make it into the detective program within six months. But every time positions open, my name is unfortunately always left off of the list. And why? Because I'm a doe, that's why. I'm never sure if it's because they think I'm not physically apt enough for the position, or because they think my natural instinct to everything would be to run. Or just because I'm female.

I guess it doesn't matter; my name is never on the list. My sergeant says it's just a matter of time, to wait for the next round of selections for promotions and classes, which is just a month away. But, I can already guess the outcome of that round, too: denied. Maybe they're just too content having one of the best beat cops to grace their precinct in ten years to get rid of her. Yeah, that's it, I'm sure.

As I cross the mouth of an alleyway, I glance down it and observe no movement. But I take the flashlight from my hip and point it back with a click. Bugburga wrappers litter the concrete, bent trash cans line the sides. The only things that really stand out are the old posters hung up on the brick walls. They're for some bands performing up at the Aries, a club I've never been to, but hear about all the time here in Happy Town. Clicking it off again, I move on, stepping over somebody's dumped bag of food.

A car cruises by with the low hum of a new engine, and I glance up to see a wolf behind the wheel. If he notices me, he doesn't let on. He just glides up the block and out of sight. I pause underneath the glow of a streetlamp and lean against it. This night has been abnormally quiet. Well, excepting the usual suspects, I mean. Even now, I can hear bottles breaking in the distance, the squeal of tires, and the rumbling unease of the city.

Weirdly, there is a lot of music playing. Though, a lot of it makes me feel old. It's all R&B, jazz, big band, and other segregation-era sounds. Not a lot of pop music, or newer rock and roll, but that doesn't surprise me. Predators generally don't approve of or listen to the disco music and pop that they accuse of theft from their culture's biggest names. But, hearing it is a lot nicer than the alternatives.

"Calling all units, we have a possible disturbance in the area of Water and Stripe, please respond," a crackling voice broadcasts over my radio.

Water and Stripe, that's about a block from here! I pull the radio from my belt and press down the talk button on its side.

"This is Officer Brooks, responding to disturbance near Water and Stripe; go ahead," I say into the transmitter and begin walking forward.

The radio clicks off and there is static for a moment. Moving briskly up the street, wondering if this night has finally delivered on something to do, I wait for the radio. It only takes a few moments before it delivers.

"Officer Brooks, be advised, reports of violent engagement at 5150 Stripe Avenue, possible domestic disturbance. Parties involved may be armed and dangerous."

"Copy; en route," I respond.

The radio clicks off abruptly leaving me with just that picture. With a bit of a smile on my lips, I break into a sprint. That address is even closer, possibly only a few minutes away. In the late hours of the evening, I'm able to break across the road without looking and mount the empty sidewalk beyond. At full tilt, I sprint the distance to the end of the street is just a matter of moments.

After taking a quick look in both directions, I cut cattycorner across the end of the block to the corner of Water and Stripe. When I'm able to see my destination, I slow to a light jog and begin to approach more cautiously. Even though my reactions are good and my senses even better, I have no idea what this is going to be like. And one wrong move can end in disaster.

It's not uncommon for domestic disturbances to turn into all-out brawls. Similarly, there have been officers responding to a simple assault or a robbery call to discover they've escalated into a kidnapping or a murder. The last thing that I want to do is stumble into a murder or one in-progress and end up on the receiving end of something unfortunate.

Brass numbers on the building to my right read 5190 and I slow my job into a slow walk in order to mask my approach as well as to observe anything pertinent. The street is like the last: similar buildings in a similar neighborhood. But here they consist of all residences. Even though not a lot of lights are turned out, the blinds are pulled in the windows.

But faces peer out here and there through peepholes made in venetian blinds or from lightly drawn curtains. Not sure if they watch me, or the building in question. Across the street, somebody leans out of their window and stares at the building with great interest, but retreats back inside when they see me spot them. The window is slammed shut and then the blinds are pulled haphazardly. Whatever is going on here is definitely something more than a domestic dispute.

I stop near the stoop at 5170, an older concrete one that was more ornate before it fell into disrepair. There's an alleyway between the buildings into which a large ray of light pours from somewhere above. Quietly stepping forward, I look up and see a fire escape that climbs precariously up three and a half stories. At the top a set of bay windows is pulled wide open, curtains fluttering in the wind.

The escape creaks under its own weight and something crashes on the other side of the building, as if something hard hit the concrete and shattered. Gasping, my hand goes to my tranquilizer gun and I look around for any threats. While it isn't the firearms that the armed response units, or ARUs, are issued, I trust my tranq gun to protect me. But apart from myself, there's no one in sight. The alleyway is still empty, the street is dead, and no cars appear.

Creeping forward, towards the building's front door, I contemplate calling into the precinct. But as I approach and silence more-or-less reigns, I think better of it. The fight, assuming it was up there on the third floor, seems to be over. Or something else has occurred and I've yet to discover it. I hurriedly round the bottom of the stoop and push my way into the foyer on the first floor of the building.

Just inside, a zebra stands in the frame outside of her apartment's door dressed only in her frilly pink nighty. She turns towards me with a concerned look on her face and pulls her clothes tighter against her body, as if fearing for her modesty. The foyer is cracked, old, discolored, and appears as if it hasn't had a remodel since before the war. Because of this, the zebra's face communicates a look of surprise at seeing a cop in her neighborhood, as well as a bit of distrust.

Actually, it's odd to see a prey species in historically predator-only areas.

"What's going on, ma'am?" I ask of her authoritatively and then add, "Please, I'm here to help."

"The couple on the third floor," she begins certainly, her voice thick with an unknown accent. "They are having the most violent fight I have ever heard. I think she is hurt; you must hurry!"

I nod at her in appreciation and silently tell her to go back into her home for safety. She does so wordlessly, and I begin to hurry up the stairs. I draw my radio from my belt and hold down the broadcast button as I round the stairs to the second floor.

"This is Officer Brooks, reporting a possible assault at 5150 Stripe Avenue, requesting back-up," I say into the microphone. "Perpetrator may be armed, victim may be injured. Ambulance response is advised."

There is no direct response, but the call hums out a few moments later requesting backup and an ambulance to report to the scene. I'm just hoping that either the backup arrives quickly or that it isn't required at all. But as I reach the top of the stairs on the third floor, I'm thinking I may need that backup more than I had suspected.

The hallway is drenched in light from inside an apartment to my right, though unevenly. It breaks every so often as something passes in front of it, but it's so quick and constant that it makes me think it's a definitely not somebody else. When there is light to see, it's obvious that something is coating the wall on the other side. But it's not nearly as obvious as the door, ripped nearly to ribbons, strewn on the floor in the center of the hallway.

Not only is the wood completely destroyed, but as I approach, I can see that it's been ripped from its hinges. The brass on what pieces clung to the door are wrought and torn like paper. What the hell could do that? I swallow hard and pull my flashlight from my belt and click it on again. Aiming it towards the door, the fresh light highlights deep cuts, innumerable and deep, that gouge into the exposed side.

Lifting the beam upwards, I shine it towards the floor where more claw marks are cut into the thick hardwood, some deep, some superficial. They bound off of the door and onto the floor, slamming into the wall opposite of the empty doorframe and then continue up the hallway. At the very end is a single window that has been completely shattered outwards, by nothing less than great force.

Somebody, or maybe something, leapt from the window. As I'm pulling my light back, it catches something red. Pointing it back, I realize there's blood seeping into where the claws dug into the flooring--and dripping down the wall--and splattered onto the ceiling--and soaked into the door. Oh, Jesus Capybara. I recoil, stumbling back around the door and then turn my flashlight into the frame that once contained it. What I see I can hardly believe.

Blood coats the floor, pooling thicker as it passes over an old rug in the center of some very old carpeting. It's torn up, as if there's been a deadly fight. Farther back, a coffee table has been thrown over, a couch has been utterly destroyed, and a ceiling fan above hangs precariously on its wire, swinging back and forth after being wrenched from its casement. A singular blade still sits on it, swinging around on its track surrounding the only bulb left in the room unbroken. It's light reveals a blood-soaked room, and then the darkness hides it.

Something happened here, something insane. Somebody lost their mind and started trashing everything, and obviously either turned on a sane friend. Or maybe two fought and one won. And the loser's prize, unfortunately, seems to have been death. Towards the back of the room, on top of another rug surrounded by decimated furniture, is a gazelle. Maybe 'was', is the right word to use. She's been torn to pieces, her fine, black dress ripped to tatters and scattered about. Her arms are splayed in unnatural, broken angles and her legs are spread-eagle.

Her face is turned towards me, thin and once pretty. The white of her underbelly used to mesh well with her light tan overcoat and darker brown accents before being ruined. A shining earring glistens and sparkles, only just attached to her single remaining ear. But what are truly striking are her eyes: dark brown, full of unknown terror, and beginning to mist over with a milky, opaque residue. Those lips, hanging open, display a similar emotion: unadulterated and unrestrained terror.

It is her blood that leaks into every surface, glittering in the beam cast from my flashlight. It's difficult to tell where the floor ends and her body begins. It's even difficult to identify who or what she once was. As I enter the room, I try desperately to keep my hooves out of the blood splatter, but that's all but impossible. It's everywhere. Oh, Jesus, it's everywhere!

"D-dispatch, this is Officer Brooks," I say absently, coldly into the radio. "The domestic disturbance at 5150 Stripe has escalated into a 187. Perpetrator is on the loose; assume they are armed, dangerous, and un-collared, over."

Lifting my flashlight just slightly, I suddenly realize that I'm not alone here. A figure is hunched on the other side of the room, just inside a wide window leading out to the fire escape. Down on his hands and knees is a coyote, dressed in a trench coat and suit. His hands are soaked with her blood, as is the front of that tan overcoat. Despite the darkness and shadows cast by my flashlight, I can see that his appearance is one of shock. He doesn't see me enter, doesn't see the light, and doesn't seem to see anything.

The collar beneath his chin, the one that keeps all predators from becoming violent, blinks a rapid yellow. Yellow is the status between a calm, serene green and the red that causes a horrible shock to any predator dumb enough to try to vent their frustrations, their unchecked rage, or their baser instincts. The low beep it creates as it flips statuses is barely audible over the pounding of my heart deep within my chest. Fearing for the worst, I advance a step or two inwards as the blood drips from his shaking hands.

I pull my tranquilizer gun and aim it at him just over my clenched flashlight. The wind blows at the open window behind, pulling the curtains out. It's just a few steps from where the perp is kneeling, within fleeing distance. Now approaching quickly and quietly, I train my sights on him center mass. The radio screeches at my hip, voices fighting over each other to report their statuses, to assure they're closing in, or just to join in on the feeding frenzy. And it is this that the coyote finally registers. Looking up, he makes eye contact with me, ears folded back and mouth agape.

I step forward aggressively.

"Hey! Yes, you! Don't move!" I command. "You're under arrest!"