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How Legends are Made

Part 2

Everyone wants peace - and they will fight the most terrible war to get it.

Miles Kington, on BBC Radio, 4th February 1995

PART II: MIA

CHAPTER 1

Somewhere West of Denver, Colorado

0731 Hours, August 16** th ***, 2052*

"We're coming up on the target area now. Eyes sharp!"

"Damn! It's still wet."

"I told you; it doesn't dry out up here that quickly. This was pointless."

"We owe it to them to try. Besides, its not like there's a fuel shortage now."

"True, but it has been three days and they still haven't contacted us. Face it; they're gone."

"Just one more pass. We might have missed something."

"One more, then it's back home."

"Thanks, Tom. Maybe we'll get lucky this time."

"After that though, we need to head back. There's going to be a storm soon. The wind is picking up; I can feel it in the pedals."

The helicopter banked slowly and flew slowly back the way it had come. It was a small UH-25 transport that had been found at Buckley Air Force Base after the gene forces had taken it on the thirteenth. The helicopter was a common single-rotor craft that sacrificed armaments and carrying capacity for the lighter aspects of speed and fuel efficiency. It was finished in the blue and white livery of the Denver police forces and carried a large spotlight mounted under the two-seat cockpit, nestled in between several sensor suites that whirred and clicked softly as they scanned the terrain below. The light and the sensors had proven invaluable over the last few days for what Marcus needed.

Marcus and Tom Walt, his go to pilot, had been spending each morning of the past several days in the air searching for their lost comrades. So far they had not had any luck. They had happened across the wreckage of Owen and John's buggy, but the trail was lost in the night's thundershower. They had followed the road leading back to Denver, but only halfheartedly. Owen would not follow the road if he were on foot. It would, ironically, be too easy for others to track and find him.

They swooped in low across the trees, the slight mist sifting silently through the branches and tree trunks. The occasional chirping of birds or chattering of squirrels was quickly drowned out by the steady thumping of the helicopter as it flew by. Marcus's eyes stayed glued to the sensor display screen, watching for anything large enough to be a person on the thermal imaging. The slight mountainside mist swirled as it was blown away in the wake of the chopper.

"Anything?" asked Tom above the steady thumping of the rotors through the microphone attached to the headphones that were set into his pilot's helmet.

"A few deer, but not a single phoenix." replied Marcus, his eyes fixated on the monitors arranged in an orderly bank in front of the copilot's seat. He fought the urge to tear his own communication equipment off. It was starting to hurt his ears, the helmet not being designed with gene project physiology in mind. "Nothing on the comm channels, either."

"If we find them, I don't think it'll be in this valley; it's way too far from their likely path." sighed Tom, vectoring the aircraft to gain a few more feet of altitude and clear a small rock outcropping.

"Maybe, but maybe that's why they'd be here. Paul said there was a whole crap load of Argonauts at the manse, and I doubt all of them were caught in the blast. Maybe they are trying to lose a tail."

"Yeah, but we found them. Hell, we called an airstrike down on their asses. Any tail they might have had is probably gone now." groaned Tom.

"Well, I don't know... We should have found them by now. Either that or they should have at least contacted us. Its been three days."

"Maybe they're dead. Shit happens."

Marcus sighed heavily as he slumped back into his seat and looking out the window, his prosthetic arm clicking as he clenched it. He pulled a small bottle of pills from a hip pocket and swallowed a pair of the chalky tablets with a gulp that Tom heard over the comm before replying. "Maybe you're right, Tom... Maybe you're right..."

The helicopter finished its flyby of the valley and turned East towards the city. Marcus kept watch on the thermals and radio monitor, but his hopes were at a new low. It would be the last day he would look for his missing teammates. If they were still alive, they would need to save themselves.

**

The sunlight streamed partially through the window blinds, landing on John's face as a gentle breeze wafted through a nearby open window. The sweet chirping of songbirds sounded off outside, the rustling of leaves and the occasional whoosh of a vehicle passing by outside added to the small symphony of the current morning. All was peaceful before his alarm clock clicked and started to shout its blaring annoyances. Was it really nine o'clock already?

Beep Beep BEEP BEEP BEEEEP BEEEEP BEEEEEEEEEP!

Sighing, John threw his hand at the offending device, slapping it around on his bed table until he found the clock's off button. He hit it as he rolled up to a sitting position, rubbing his eyes and throwing off the covers. He stretched his arms backwards and rubbed his eyes, a yawn coming to him before he could stifle it.

He sat there on the edge of his bed for a moment before standing and walking to the gaping window, the floorboards under him letting out the odd groan. He drew the blinds and looked out on the streets set out below his third floor apartment in Bear Valley. People walked by, going about their daily routines. Some of them had gene projects carrying their things or pushing strollers down the stone sidewalks as they talked on phones or chatted with friends and family. Cars drove by on the street as their drivers enjoyed the warm Sunday morning, no doubt bound for the numerous shopping malls and outlets now that they were off work.

John turned from the scene below and he clambered into the shower before pulling on a pair of jeans and a t-shirt. He grabbed a pop tart as a snack after he was dressed and took a bite of its somewhat-crunchy form. Strawberry. Not bad. He grabbed the paper that had been placed in front of his apartment door and unfolded it as he settled into a chair at the kitchen table.

He was reading an article on an explosion in a nearby neighbourhood, supposedly caused by one terrorist group or another, when there was a knock at the door. It was probably Jeeves, the landlord's gene whip.

Jeeves was a long-haired Persian cat morph, fittingly named as he served as the building's butler and attendant. Many people thought lowly of him, treating him as an animal fit only for the service of the human race. John had never done so, instead taking a liking to the poor fur. He had slipped him several foods usually forbidden to him on several occasions, even going so far as to hide him in his apartment when Leonard, the landlord, was in a foul mood. In return, Jeeves, or Jay, as he liked to be called, went out of his way to ensure that John's laundry was done and that he wasn't late for work.

"Just a minute!" John called, finishing the last bite of his much-needed pop tart. He sauntered over to the door and glanced through the door lens. It was Jay, a basket of laundry held lazily in his hands. John unlatched the locks and swung the door open. "Come in!"

Jay was about to step into the room but stopped, a look of pain becoming plain on his features. He then crumbled into dust as John watched, his eyes remaining locked onto John's before they became featureless puddles set into ashen sockets. Whatever had struck the fur down seemed to spread, the walls of his white kitchenette hissing as they turned slowly into a thick, dry, grey paste, the cupboards rapidly rotting and the appliances rusting as he watched. The decay spread outwards from the door, soon consuming the entirety of the room. John backed away from it quickly, not wanting to touch the incessant rot. He soon found himself in the bedroom, the last bastion of vibrant life in his apartment. A scream pierced the air as the weather outside grew dark and gunshots began to sound off outside, punctuated by the odd explosion.

A large explosion rocked the building as the sound of tank treads scraping across pavement outside reached his ears. Fire began to cascade through the open bedroom door, spreading around John as he stared in horror at the encroaching blaze. Everything went dark as a piece of falling debris struck him from above and he fell in a heap on the floor. John's eyes fluttered open amidst the powerful heat, a dark silhouette filling his vision. It seemed to be saying something, but only a whisper could be heard over the sounds of death and destruction. He strained his ears, attempting to hear what it said until, finally, he heard it.

"Some people, like you and I, care that this is happening and will seek to stop it. Others... Others just want to kill. To maim. To annihilate. The thin layer of society that kept mankind in check all these years has collapsed, revealing the true horror that lies beneath..."

**

Somewhere West of Denver, Colorado

0745 Hours, August 16** th ***, 2052*

John's eyes flicked open in a flash, taking in his surroundings. The cool air whipped by him, the wind starting to pick up in the shallow valley. He glanced around the small grove of pine trees that they had chosen as last nights camp. The trees spread around and above them, sheltering them from view of anyone nearby. A large rock to John's right betrayed the fact that they were somewhere in the mountain, frost thawing on its jagged flank as sun filtered down from above and warmed the stone's scarred flanks. An almost imperceptibly thin blanket of the white frost covered the ground, the smell of it invading his nostrils as it began to melt.

A few metres from him, Owen sat sharpening his knife at the base of a pine tree. The steel edge glinted in the morning light as Owen wiped it on the small whetstone that he carried on him at all times. Seemingly satisfied that the knife was sufficiently deadly, or sensing that John was awake, Owen holstered the knife and spoke to him, his helmet off and eyes rimmed in a faint black from a restless night without sleep.

"You ready to move?" His voice came as a lightly clipped tone that was completely at odds with their situation. It was the voice that had played in his waking nightmare.

John coughed as he threw off the thermal blanket that had covered him as he slept. Owen tossed him an MRE, taking one for himself out of his pack of scavenged food that he treated as a holy relic. John frowned, having to resort to eating the main course cold as a fire to boil water would risk detection by anybody nearby. Oh, how he wished they were some of the new model of MREs with their self-warming packages, but that was not to be.

The food in the olive-drab coloured packets was terrible. It consisted mainly of lumps of processed meat in thick gravy-like sludge. It tasted about as well as it looked. They were already gross enough warm, but cold they were almost completely unbearable. The desserts and bread that came packaged with them were actually edible, but the mashed potatoes were far worse than the meals themselves. He threw the rest back to Owen, swallowing the final mouthful of 'meat' and taking a swig from his half-empty canteen. They had to ration their food and water now, it was unlikely that they would find more any time soon.

Not all their food came from the insufferable MREs, though. Sometimes some poor animal would happen across their path to be picked off by incredibly lethal fire from their atlatl, a device Owen fashioned from several sticks sharpened by his trusty blade which hurled arm-length spears. Normally an effective hunting weapon, it was truly deadly when paired with Owen's suit-enhanced speed and control. The animal was then ruthlessly cleaned and served up almost as fast as it had died. As rare as those occasions were, they were cherished greatly and made them scan the bushes eagerly for another innocent creature to butcher and serve on a silver platter, or rather, a chunk of flat wood.

Packing the finished wrapper away in his pocket, John stood and stretched, branches scratching against his battered power armour. It had certainly seen better days, but it still worked. The stealth and thermals were completely beyond field repair and the plates were dented in several places, but it was still functioning well enough that it was still more of a help than a hindrance. But for how long? They had switched out power cells when the one in his suit had died, but the backup was only a touch over half. Owen's first was down to a third, his newer-model battery having a longer life span. His backup, however, was missing from the crash and his time was starting to draw short.

"Ready to go? We have a lot of ground to cover." asked Owen, pulling his pack on and crouching to pick up the duffel bag full of other random supplies that they had procured.

"No time like the present." responded John as he threw his own backpack over his shoulder.

The pair started to trudge southeast, following the gentle slope of the valley towards what they hoped was a major interstate. John's HUD's map had been knocked out when he had hit the tree after being flung from the buggy, rendering it completely useless. Owen's had taken damage but managed to stay on, albeit it was froze to the last screen that it had displayed; the mansion's immediate area. Since both were unreliable, they resorted to navigating by the sun and the stars, more or less walking in the general direction of Denver and praying that they were correct in their auguries.

They would have followed the road that had branched off from he mansion if it had not been for the increase of Humanist traffic heading towards the site of the fleeting fight that had happened there a few days before. Twice they had almost been caught on the road as a convoy roared by mere feet from where they hid among the undergrowth near to the dusty road, and they had deemed it too hazardous to continue along the path. Deciding that their rescuers were either laying low themselves or were lying dead in the ditch, they had opted for the route less travelled; the open mountains. It would be hard walk that would take quite a while to complete, but they hadn't run into any other hostile forces up here so the trade-off was okay as far as safety was concerned.

They continued until they had reached the end of the wide valley, a hike that took them the better part of four hours to complete. They stopped to rest for a bit before walking another hour and emerging at the edge of a group of houses nestled on he cusp of a clear mountain lake. They were just behind the last row of trees that gave way to a clearing before it reached what appeared to be the outskirts of the town. A larger structure dominated a small hill at the north end, probably a chalet for the ski hill that loomed behind it.

"Oh, thank god! Civilization!" gasped John, panting heavily. The air was surprisingly thin here due to the altitude and it was beginning to take its toll on him.

"Whoa," cautioned Owen, catching him before he stepped into the open, "There's still a war going on. We don't know who controls this place. Let's just watch for a moment and see if anything moves."

The duo crouched down in the treeline, their armour protecting them from the cold touch of the rapidly dwindling frost, the layer of frozen liquid slightly thicker here and taking longer to disappear than that in more open spaces. The amplification feature in their helmets still worked well enough so they stayed put for a few minutes, watching for any movement coming from the town. There was none.

"I'm going in." said Owen, throwing his pack onto the ground next to John. "I'll wave you up if it's all clear." At that, Smith turned on his armour's still-functioning stealth mode. Several parts of the disguise were slightly askew from the crash damaging several of the projectors, but it was still better than being completely exposed in the open field.

John watched him, or rather the absence of him, fade as Owen pushed through the moderately thick underbrush, leaves crunching beneath his barely-visible feet, and emerged into the knee-high grass. Even with his helmet's target acquisition technology, John was having a hard time watching where he went. He seemed to slip through the foliage like quicksilver, flowing and pooling in the shadows provided by the odd shrub or sapling that interrupted the flatness of the clearing at irregular intervals. It was only a minute before he lost sight of him in the open space, his IFF transponder having been switched off to help prevent detection.

The wind blew through the branches, making them swish back and forth in the wind. Somewhere to the west, a squirrel made itself heard, its chattering echoing oddly through the trees and off the mountainsides, almost making it seem as if there were an army of those tiny rodents. A small flock of winter birds decided to take up residence in a tree a few metres from John and they began a social chorus with one another.

John cleared a spot on the ground and sat up against a tree, still watching the outskirts of the town for anything abnormal. He pulled off his helmet, placing it on his backpack along with the atlatl that Owen had placed on the ground when he left. His lungs filled with the fresh mountain air immediately, the sweet scent of grass and pine trees filling his nostrils in place of the semi-filtered stuff that he had grown accustomed to over the past few days. This was the first time in a month that he had had time to relax. For that moment, save for his proximity to a potentially hostile town, everything seemed at peace.

**

Somewhere West of Denver, Colorado

1052 Hours, August 16** th ***, 2052*

Owen looked for any sign of danger or even the slightest glimpse of movement in the row of houses only fifty metres in front of him. Satisfied that he wasn't in any immediate danger of being shot, he sprinted across the final stretch of the clearing, sliding into the shade of a fence behind the houses. He took a moment to catch his breath before slinking around to the edge of the fence and risking a peek around the corner.

Before him was a normal looking suburb made irregular by its location high up in the mountains. His not-so-advantageous vantage point looked clear down the street to the intersection at the end. There were mailboxes in front of each house, which, upon closer inspection, turned out to be row upon row of duplexes, all covered with the same light brown wood siding and stone detail work. It was almost '1950's sitcom' in its portrayal of human life.

Hmm.. Must be a resort town.It was probably a nice place once. Owen thought.

To call it nice now would be a gross over-evaluation. Where once perfect lawns might once have been there was now only long grass intermingled with weeds and budding trees. Finely-trimmed bushes and hedges were now hideously overgrown from neglect. A deer even strutted across the street further down the road, Owen having to restrain from shooting it for fear of being discovered by whoever may be in the area. Birds called out and bugs chirped in the now untrimmed hedges, grass, and trees. A large sign at the intersection read; WELCOME TO ELDORA RESORT, YOUR SLICE OF PARADISE IN THE ROCKIES!

Owen took this all in before carefully making his way out to the street, careful to watch his motion detector as he emerged on the pavement. He turned in a slow circle, his handgun held loosely in front of him as he once again scanned for targets. Finding none, he proceeded to the intersection at a slight jog, his pistol still clutched in two hands.

There were no vehicles around, parked, crashed, or otherwise, and there was a disturbing absence of belongings scattered in the grass or on the street. None of the mailboxes' notifiers were up and the doors were all closed and probably locked. The resort must have either been shut down for the summer months when the war had broken out, or just always been this empty. Either way, it resulted in an eerily empty suburb spread out amidst nothing but the shadow of a mountain and in the company of wildlife.

Owen paused for a second at the intersection, watching the readouts on his HUD as they flickered in front of his eyes. The stealth mode was draining his battery greedily and consuming a terrible amount of energy that it normally wouldn't have. Frowning, he deactivated it and his form once again became corporeal. He would have to rely on his own skill as he proceeded towards the chalet.

He halted as he took his first step, his head snapping around at a black shape at the edge of his vision. Movement?

Just a crow.

It landed in the ditch just out of view, cawing as it found a meal. Curious, Owen wandered over to the edge of the street to see what it had discovered among the long grasses. He flinched as a flock of crows took flight, scared away from the Phoenician's unsubtle approach. His eyes settled on a deer, or, at least, what had used to be one. All that remained now was the spinal cord, head still attached, and several strips of sinew that had at one time held the legs of the once-elegant creature to its body. Flies floated around the carcass and maggots could be seen writhing around the spinal disks as they gorged themselves on the meat within the cracks inaccessible to the birds.

His face screwing up into a grimace, Owen turned away and stalked back onto the road. That's when he remembered that he wasn't alone out here. John was still in the bush. Glancing back the way he came, he debated whether or not to call him up. He decided against it: John hadn't relaxed since before they had shipped out to help the geneticists. He was on edge, keeping to himself and jumping at even the faintest shadows. Owen couldn't blame him. He just wasn't as used to this kind of survival like Owen was. Hell, even he was starting to struggle even though he HAD had done this before. Three times, in fact.

Snapping out of his thoughts, Owen gripped his pistol tighter and decided to check out the chalet before he told John to come into the resort area. Let the newbie rest. It took him about fifteen minutes to reach the chalet along the sun-baked road. His muscles grew tense as he approached the front door that lay past a wooden deck above which was For some odd reason he knocked on the heavy wooden double doors as he peered through the dusty windows. He caught himself as he was about to knock again. What the hell am I doing. Nobody's here. And this is a warzone for Christ's sake, nobody's going to care what I do.

He tried opening the doors but they were locked tight and he was without the appropriate key to gain entry. He sighed and threw his manners to the wind, stepped back from the door, and found the hinges. There were four; two for each door. Owen clicked the safety off on his pistol and lined up his shots. He aimed at the first and then to the second of the left-hand side, switching between them before he found he could target both quickly and without hassle. He took time to ready himself before he opened fire for the first time in a long while. He fired two shots into each hinge, the metal bullets blowing the heavy duty hinges apart with a loud clang of metal on metal. The hinges effectively destroyed, Owen shoulder barged the door. His enhanced strength catapulted the door into the entryway. It hit the floor with a loud crash, sliding a few feet before it scraped to a halt. Owen swung around the door frame with his gun levelled at chest height, watching for targets. That's when he realized he had made a mistake.

A deadly mistake.

Red outlines coursed into being on his HUD.

Owen opened fire again.

**

The shots echoed across the empty town, reaching John's ears a second after they had been fired. John bolted upright, sliding his helmet over his head as he grabbed his own handgun from on top of his bag. The visor lit up as it connected to the suit's power source and it ran through its normal boot-up sequence. Not bothering to grab their supplies, John began running towards the town, dreading what he would find at the source of the gunfire.

More shots ringing through the mountain air gave him a destination as he drew up on the resort town from across the small meadow. They were coming from the chalet. Damn! That was on the other side of the resort! John hoped he wasn't too late. His hopes sunk as the gunfire stopped.

**

Owen dropped his first target with a single shot before turning to meet the other aggressors that had gotten closer as his attention was fixed on the first. He managed to put another down with a desperate burst as it ran towards him before the magazine was expended and the gun clicked, empty, in his palm. There was no time to reload now. Another hostile made to take him down, leaping for his neck and trying to bowl him over. Owen slammed the butt of his pistol down onto the skull of the lithe form, dropping it as the momentum of his swing was halted with a sickening CRUNCH. He swung aside rapidly and the hostile fell heavily to the floor before him. Owen's other arm grabbed for his knife at his chest rig and pulled it from its leather sheath with a slick swish and only a mild hint of flourish.

His knife was an overly ornate combat blade that had been gifted to him by an old friend back in Canada. It was a Treeman Combat Knife, a 7.5" Ultra Phalanx model. It had a 6 5/8" cutting edge made out of 1/4" high carbon tooled steel that was the colour of an arctic midnight. The reverse of the cutting edge was a toothed saw to allow for versatility in the field. The word "Nevermore" was engraved beautifully on one side of the blade with a silver finish, denoting the name given to it by its creators. The checkered micarta grip was finished with a dull-spiked knuckleduster, a guard that doubled as a set of brass knuckles and was darker than even the blade, and the silver inlays glimmered in the half-light. The pommel was finished in a pointed tip for thumping down on skulls and breaking bones when the blade itself was not able to be used, a technique that had come in handy for him before. It was probably his most prized physical possession in the entire world and it was responsible for no fewer than two-dozen deaths to date. Right now, he wasn't sure if it would help.

The remaining three wolves prowled around him in a circle, their grey and white fur bristling in anger, watching for any sign of weakness in the threat that had broken down their front door. They were powerful looking creatures, their new-found domain having been kind on them and their pack. As a result, they were large and well-muscled, their animal strength surging beneath the surface of lush fur pelts. They had obviously been living in the chalet for a while, the grey wolves having made quite the den of the large building. The very air was heavy with their musk and piles of bones and refuse were scattered about the floor without any semblance of care or order. They were also vicious and fearless opponents, their fanged maws more than capable of cracking the femur of a healthy bull moose in two with contemptuous ease. Their circling started to become tighter and more controlled as they growled and spat, a small part of Owen's brain knowing that they were about to close for the kill.

The wolf directly behind him lunged, Owen's helmet picking up the movement and alerting him of it. He turned on his heel, swinging aside as the animal flew past to his left.

The wolf on his right was next, deciding to come barrelling towards Owen at a lower angle with its jaws snapping for his heels. Owen barely had time to re-centre his mass and swung out with an armoured foot, landing a desperate kick on its head as it came at him. The animal ducked under the main force of the blow and sprung backwards quickly to rejoin his comrades, a deep grumble rumbling in its throat as it stared him down.

The first beast swung around to face Owen again with its teeth snapping and claws scrabbling, enraged that it had missed the first time. It bunched up to try again, but Owen was ready for the maddened canine this time. As the wolf jumped for his neck he ducked, making the creature's chest collide with his left shoulder. The canine whined as the air was driven from its lungs by the force of the collision. Acting before the wolf could recover, Owen swung his right arm, lodging Nevermore deep in the wolf's neck, blood bubbling around the haft of the ferocious weapon. The wickedly sharp blade slid easily into its windpipe, scraping against the animal's spinal chord as the wolf gurgled on its own blood and fell off of him to the wooden floor.

He threw the dying animal aside, crouching into a knife-fighter's stance with his blade held in a reverse grip in front of his head and off to the right. His other hand was open and ready to respond quickly should the need arise, though Owen knew that merely striking a wolf would be ineffectual to say the least, even with the strength of his suit to back it up. The last two decided to attack at the same time, coming at him from two different angles in an attempt to use their numbers to their advantage. He buried the blade into the back of the second wolf as it lunged in a fashion similar to that of the first animal, paralysing it from the neck down in a fraction of a second. He felt the knife lodge in its thick hide and was forced to release the blade as the final one jumped onto his chest, its hefty bulk knocking him over onto his back as its jaws sought to crush his throat in their steely grip. He knew the wolf had more than enough strength in its jaw to pierce that vulnerable point of his armour and easily tear the life out of him, so he did the first thing that came to mind.

Owen kneed the animal in the ribs with as much strength he could muster in an effort to get it away from his neck, his knee hammering into the creature's midsection with a solid thud. The creature pulled its head back in pain and Owen took the slight amount of time that he had bought to get his arms in front of his throat before it attacked again. It clamped its jaws onto his left arm, its teeth scraping on the metal plating of his armoured forearm and actually scraping the paint from the armour, creating several shallow silver rents across his arm. Owen kicked the floor beside him and rolled off to the right, bringing the animal beneath him in a quick twist of movement. Owen felt no remorse as he pulled his arm upwards, the wolf still gripping his arm in a grip like a steel trap, before grabbing his left arm in his right and driving it downwards towards the floor. His arm forced its way deep into the animal's mouth and he felt his forearm crunch up against the part of its head where the lower jaw joined the skull. He heard a crack as he broke the wolf's thick jaw and several smaller snaps as teeth broke before his brutish ministration. His arm came free with a flood of saliva and fresh blood as he yanked it from the animal's limp maw.

The animal scrabbled out from beneath him in a surge of pain and terror, its lower jaw and tongue hanging uselessly from its skull and blood dribbling from its ruined front teeth. It whined and nuzzled the floor in a futile attempt to stop the pain, but there was nothing it could do. It would die of thirst, unable to drink any more, unless it was put down now. Owen strode over to it as it writhed on the wooden floor. He grabbed the struggling animal by the head and twisted quickly, snapping the creature's spine. The sound of its neck breaking put an end to the frantic fight.

Owen glanced around before walking over to the paralysed wolf, tugging his knife free of its hide before embedding it past the animal's ribs and into its weakly thudding heart. It stopped its frantic breathing and lay still as death overcome it, Owen patting it on the shoulder lightly as a sign of respect. He wiped Nevermore on the wolf's fur to clean it before sliding it back into its sheath and looking around him. The crumpled bodies of the five wolves lay perfectly still in crushed heaps, blood beginning to find its way to the floor in several small rivers that snaked through their hides before creating small lakes and tributaries on the floor. He had won, but Owen felt hollow as the adrenaline slowly worked its way out of his system.

What a waste.

That's when he noticed the whining coming from a room down a hall somewhere to his right. Retrieving his weapon from the floor where he had dropped it, Owen slid a new magazine home and cocked the gun. He crept down the narrowing hall, the light streaming through the large windows being noticed for the first time by him as he came upon a half-opened door in a hallway full of other ones just like it.

He nudged it open to discover a small lodging chamber, akin to a rustic hotel room. Wooden furniture and an antler chandelier decorated the small area, and Owen noticed that there was less refuse scattered about than there had been in the main entryway. It took him a little while to locate the source of the noise; a small canine that looked to be only a few days old, its lanky limbs and large head completely out of proportion to the rest of its body.

The animal staggered around drunkenly, not yet aware that its entire family had just been annihilated. It whined and mewled incessantly, trying desperately to find a mother that would not be returning. It yelped as it saw Owen and retreated to the far side of the small room under a bed.

"Fuck..." breathed Owen, regretting his earlier actions even more than he already did; he was a sucker for small animals. Looking around for any other cubs and seeing none, he kneeled down on the floor to make himself look smaller. He started making tich-ing noises, trying to get the small wolf's attention.

It poked its head out from under the unkempt and ruined hotel bed and let out a high-pitched whimper.

"I'm so sorry little buddy... Come here...That's a good boy. Please don't make this harder than it has to be..."

**

John reached the chalet after a good few minutes of flat-out sprinting, bursting into the building and barely registering the dead animals spread across the blood-slick floor as he looked for Owen. He called out to see where Owen was and if he was still alive. Holding his gun in front of him, he waited for an answer. He was relieved when he received one from a slight distance off.

"John? I'm in here. Right-hand side, down the hallway. Come here, but don't make too much noise."

John followed Owen's voice and came upon the room that Owen was in. He was at the far end of it by a window that overlooked the small resort town, sitting against the wall below the white sill. His helmet was on the floor next to his pistol, along with most of his assault webbing. Owen was smiling, his storm-cloud grey eyes glinting happily, as he played with something that he had wrapped in a fold of curtains that he had fashioned into an ad-hoc carrying sleeve. Every once and a while John heard a infantile growl or yelp come from the bundle and it dawned on him what it was that Owen held.

"What the fuck? You kill an entire pack of wolves and steal their now-orphaned child? That's wrong, man." groaned John.

"I never would have come in here if I knew," said Owen levelly, regret audible in his voice, "and I couldn't bring myself to kill this little guy. Feel free to do so if you can."

"Why didn't you look in a window?" asked John, already knowing he'd never be able to kill the little animal and letting the thought go. "There's enough of them on this place."

"Like I said, I didn't know what was in here. I wasn't going to risk losing the element of surprise and stand outside a window waiting to get spotted and shot." He decidedly left out the fact that he had knocked on the door previous to crashing it inwards. No need to spread the fact that he may have been losing his mind. "You would have done the same."

John sighed. It was true; you don't look in a window when you were leaning against a house full of possible hostiles. Unless, that is, you have a reason for wanting a bullet lodged in your brain. You observe from a distance if you are going to look through windows.

"I need to find this guy some milk. There has to be some canned stuff in this town. Come to think of it, I even saw a corner store down in the villa. He can only be about two weeks old. His eyes have only been open for a little while; he was staggering around pretty bad. He's under 20 days, though, oddly enough."

"So, what, you're a biologist now?" asked John, a look of disbelief marring his features.

"No. My father was a trapper. I had to know about the animals to be able to hunt them. If I'm right, Romulus here is a Gray Wolf, species, not just colour, and quite the fine example at that. And the reason I know that he's under 20 days is that he hasn't tried biting me yet, so he's still pretty impressionable. That is, he's still trainable. Kind of odd considering the time of year not being when wolves have their pups, but-"

"Romulus?" John questioned, cutting off what he knew would be a small spiel on the species.

"Yeah, that's what I'm going to call him. You know, like Romulus and Remus? The two brothers raised by a she-wolf that went on to be the founders of Rome? I think that it's a fittingly ironic name." said Owen evenly. John wasn't familiar with the story, but decided the last thing he wanted at the moment was a history lesson. He had just dodged the biology one, after all.

"Whatever. So 'Romulus' is going to be your pet?"

"Well, I can't leave him here and I am not going to kill him. I... can't kill him. Besides, I'm responsible for him now." Owen said adamantly, frowning as he finished.

This was an awkward moment for John. Here was a man that could kill another human being without flinching, but he had lost his nerve in the face of a small ball of fur and teeth? John sighed, shaking his head slowly. "So, where's the store? I must have missed it on the run up. You know, when I thought you were in trouble?"

"Thanks, Ferris, I owe you one. It's just down the hill on the left; a 7/11. You might want to grab our stuff, too; I'm thinking we should stay for a while. Unless you want to watch Romulus here so that I can do it." smiled Owen, the small barb bouncing off of him ineffectually. The small canine poked its head out from the folds of cloth, small blue eyes settling on John. Its ears perked up as he replied and it let out a whine.

"I'll grab our gear."