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"Beware dealing with clans without prior knowledge, as they will always be wary of you at the very least. Each one has their own rules specifically about outsiders; if they do not tell you their own terms after acknowledging your presence, leave immediately." ~Guide, Chapter 2

The Sandmelters of Anubis live in a cave like most desert dwellers do in groups, but with one minor detail: that cave is buried deep underground at every side. We have the supposed luxury of merging into the sand, and moving inside of it. In this case, we simply use the sand as a door. Melt in, come out. Unfortunately Travis would need to wait outside as it was bad enough alone that I would sneak back. He would likely be shot on sight if he crawled through the trader's route, and we're nowhere near a new body for his 'ghost' to transfer into. Before I make it down the entrance I left all my belongings with him minus the cargo pants and open-back tank top with built-in composite vest I was already wearing. The more you have with you, the harder it is to maintain form in the sand. Today I was anxious and focus could only go so far. Leaving my whip and pistol with him means I'd have to use stealth.

Other Chrea like to think that moving through sand works a lot like moles do. Like digging extremely fast but with a psychic trick mixed in. Or maybe you slink through it like a Sandfish, and you're able to live in there like worms in dirt. A researcher of psionic abilities once theorized that we are able to convert our entire physical forms into a state similar to sand. This was also proven untrue. The only thing most get right is that we initiate the process. What others don't understand is that this desert is like Mother Nature's gaping maw, waiting like a venus flytrap. Once you enter you feel forces always tugging at you and trying to rip you apart. Noises always sound while moving through, like whispers of unknown languages always trying to tell you something. In reality it takes immense willpower not to disappear in the sand, but to get out of the sand. Many members of our clan are forever only halfway above ground after our coming of age ceremonies, the sand's presence slowly eroding their sanity. Some never come back up.

The earth is alive. Apparently it's either very jealous of our existence, or sees us as an invading virus only fit to be crushed.

The cave's proper entrance is a natural wall of sand about half a mile deep, covering the ceiling over the south half of our cave. The exit is not at the ceiling, but It's close to it and still extremely high to us smaller cats, about 18 feet up. There's a steel spiral staircase with a wide top platform at the entrance, decorated in blue stained glass descripting our victories around the railings. Being the one color we can actually see lets us spot it quickly. I however would rather stay high out of the sight of my brethren until I knew what I was up against. I push out my paw first and blindly dab around for one of the small shelves used to store the more expensive supplies. Only after finding the flat top of the shelving did I then push my head out, but I can't just fall out all at once. I had to be delicate or else it would break apart. With a slow, agonizing removal from a veritable hell with a finesse only a feline could really pull off, I was just barely sitting on all fours on an empty space. Thankfully, it appears most of the clan has gone to sleep for the day, save those few on board for trading and defense. From the shelf my landing is silent as the grave.

After I land on the ground right hand first and take a step forward however, I'm immediately hit with a tiny pair of voices calling my name in the back of my head. I recognize this as the psionic surveillance of my sisters. Of the litter I was born from Kyrie and Maria are the only ones with a communion of sorts. They can sense anyone who enters and act as a kind of sentry for the cavern, but they wouldn't betray me. I never really developed such things outside of linking with machinery. Most likely because I was too occupied with controlling my ever-present nanomachines, to the point of shelling out for four Blue Hemimorphite crystals just to have finer control over them. Two right below my right wrist, two at my top stripes. Not that I wasn't useful, far from it. For a couple of Cat Years I was the resident machinist.

I managed to make my way silently enough through the homemade sandstone glass walls to our temple, also the site of our shopkeeper and bank. Actually shopkeeper is a misnomer of a sort; we do buy surplus supplies we've gotten through trade here, but it's set up more like a bar with entertainment to match. Counter, round tables,stools, the whole thing. I've performed here most of all as a singer, and I'm pretty sure the rare shellac record seen in a clan's store is mine to this very day. The clan also negotiates trade deals here as the so-called Sandmelter Spirit is our chief export. Our Prickly Pear Cactus brew dates back to the early days when water was a scarce luxury without even a way to trade for grain, and we learned that the Sand Cat's resistance to alcohol is much greater than before. Between this and moisture from kills, for a long time we were the only Chrea to actually thrive out here.

A counter is set up in front of an alcove with the trap door to the hallowed catacombs of our most honored dead, as a last defense against robbers. Anyone who would think this is weak has never been turned into boneless jelly by a bartender's sawed-off twin barreled Pulse Rifle before. And behind that counter is my wife Caroline, not that different from me in looks. Smaller stripes, less in the muscle, maybe a bit more in the bust than my flatness. Though she's approximately 80% less made of metal than me, she was "given" a cybernetic eyestalk on the top of her head in a definite sign of fate laughing at a poor blind feline. Yet she always carried with her a peace and almost childlike joy that always melted my cold, cynical self. She's flesh and I'm iron, I'm skeptical and she's optimistic. Opposites attract, and I wouldn't have it any other way. Over time we've shared something more than friendship and to this day she's the only Chrea that I've ever called a mate, as evidenced by the utter defenselessness of her greeting. An abundantly cheerful "hello" from a lady with few words, enough to fill anyone with joy for a split-second.

For whatever reason after Caroline popped up from behind the counter, that joy turned into a moment of clarity that cut through my nostalgic fog. I was now alone, to be treated as a visiting trader. I didn't have much to give but perhaps a song, or a tiny bit of catnip under the table. How exactly was I to trade for any source of food? A sliver of shame came to me; not only had I resisted crawling back until the last minute, but now I had to sew some doubt and fear into Caroline's mind. It's not right that she stays up in the morning all worried about whether or not I'm still alive.

My mind feels like it's in a sinking ship. My eyes dart back and forth, my nose sniffing in a desperate search for an anchor to salvage my feline bravado. I make an effort to gird my nerves before speaking while trapped in a vice-like hug, enveloping me back into that comforting warmth.

"So, um, how are you doing?"

"I was so sure I'd never see you ever again!"

"The feeling's mutual, but hun would you kindly stop trying to suffocate me?"

"Oh, sorry!" Hugging ended ith a bit of a giggle, now the licks on the forehead. This relaxes me just enough to regain my clarity for a brief moment. I return in kind, but unfortunately I'm not here for the hanky panky. I get to the whole reason why I'm here, albeit with hesitation.

"You wouldn't happen to know anything about the prey suddenly going all militant, would you?"

"A little. There's about a sheep being unable to do business in the Korewood. He started selling arms to the local folk. Trade and food's been down here, so we're all a little worried." My worst fears. At this rate they'd be dominated by some rat king. This saddens me on a certain level, yet I immediately rebuke those thoughts as I realize there's a sliver of hope for this bleak future. "I'm guessing there's a bounty on the bastard?"

"Well, not yet. There is one out from the sheep, but..." She casts a sheepish look that I know well, and it screams to me to take caution more than her words let on. "J-just take a look at my SCP on the desk here." She's always keeping it straight on a surface while I always just wad mine up into my pants. Well anyway, time to business; bounty hunting is lucrative enough that the bigger deals of all things are recorded by those lovable scientists. After a quick look I spot it:

WANTED:

Silver fox with a fish tail, last seen riding a spider twice his size.

Claims to be a druid, has been raiding travelers and trade caravans.

Origin unknown, but reports say a Lyssa is also in the area.

Reward: Fifty pounds of preserved fish, rat, and chicken.

I'll tell you two things I'm not a fan of: spiders and Lyssa. The former are almost always poisonous, and the latter have psionic powers far beyond what they can control. Only a fool would challenge one head-on. On the other paw I only kill to eat. The reward is enough food after preservation to keep me going through this rough patch. I could even hit the road with Travis and Caroline in tow. We'd explore the world, completely funded. Or I'd end up a mindless husk or something. Either way I would end up supporting Travis for a good long time, and it sure does beat swallowing my pride. All that pales in comparison to Caroline's bombshell.

"Wait, I'm coming with you!"

"Yeah, right."

"No buts, lady. You need me, and I'm not about to hear about parts of you found on some giant spider web!" I can't argue with that and I always relented when Caroline's all aggressive, but this wasn't part of the plan. Then again neither was my return. I figured that as an exile I'd just go and not be heard from again, maybe die in a blaze of glory. I had made my peace when I left. I may not have ended up with a heroine's burial in the catacombs, but Caroline would be safe.

I relented, but I would continue to always attempt to flee either way out of feelings about Caroline being a part of any danger I caused. It became an annoying, yet oddly comforting ritual.

We start to gather supplies as if we were nesting for kittens. What little dried food we could scramble, spare parts, cat brushes, Caroline snuck her business suits, you name it. Our burdens would have been prohibitively heavy to most, but with my back and the prospect of being together again both of ours will be light. Curiosity got the best of me and I started looking around while Caroline rooted around for a spare hunting bow. In the back corner right next to the trap door were a few quivers gathering dust, the arrowheads were outlined with a dark substance I could barely make out. "Don't touch the tips, those are leftovers from the war with the Coyotes." Poison. These Viblade-tipped arrows came out of the defensive rush against our rivals without such code, they're coated with dark chocolate. The idea is a substance that can't be immediately seen by the colorblind at a time when laser pistols weren't in high supply. They would dig deeper into your skin with the razors at the tip. Then the included barbs would make them even harder to pull out and neutralize the poison.

I wrap one carefully in thick cloth and hide it in a pack pocket, just in case. With everything taken care of I take the trip up to the exit once more, this time with no need to sneak and with a lot more baggage.