FSE

Furry search engine

formerly SoFurry search engine

CHAPTER 15

20 Minutes West of Keslow, Colorado

1905 Hours, August 22** nd ***, 2052*

Marcus turned on the spot. He had been pacing the entire room, trying to ponder the events that may have transpired in the dank chamber beneath the house. It was obvious that Warren had been here. The guard upstairs had known him. Or at least, he had known of him.

But where had he gone? Had they killed him and ditched the body? Or was he still being held captive? His thoughts were interrupted by a faint fluttering at the periphery of his vision. He moved his head to track the motion, and saw something he hadn't expected to see again.

It was a small moth, almost identical to the one that he had let out of his hotel room. Was it the same one? No, that was stupid. It couldn't be. Could it?

The small insect fluttered about the room contentedly, and Marcus watched it do so, his mind subconsciously seeking a distraction from his failure. His helmet comm squawked slightly as Sam came on at the other end.

"Marcus?" she asked.

"Hmm?" Marcus watched the moth as it swept past him, heading for the stairs and the still open doors to the air outside. It's brown wings flapped mesmerizingly, and he found himself following its faintly erratic motions, placing one foot in front of the other while hardly being aware of it. "What is it?"

"I'm not sure. It looks like a box." she admitted.

"A box? Can you be any more specific?" Marcus was making his way up the stairs, his leg giving a steady, throbbing pain and thumping on the wooden steps. The moth was close to the square of cloud-streaked sky now, and Marcus staggered after it. He became faintly aware of Wilks asking him where he was going from below him, but he ignored the man, his attention already divided wholly between the moth and his conversation with Sam.

"Not really. It's armoured and looks like it's gene-coded though. Probably something worthwhile in it."

"If we could get it open." Marcus grunted. He was at the top of the stairs now, his head and shoulders above ground level. He frowned as he lost sight of the small winged insect, but he found it again as it flickered across the sky above him in the direction of the mountains. Wilks was following the wolf fur now, his various questions falling on preoccupied ears.

"Yeah. It looks like it's pretty solid. Whatever is inside, it's pretty heavy. I'll bring it out and we'll see what we can do."

"Affirmative." acknowledged Marcus as he made it out of the basement. The brown moth had evaded him again, this time it seemed as if it was for good. Wilks emerged from the hole behind him, shrugging at his fellows who had clustered around the front of their vehicle.

"Fine, I'll head out to the MAVs and we-"

The rest of the statement was lost as a horrendous explosion tore the house apart from the inside out, blasting Marcus and the others off their feet and flattening them to the ground with its powerful pressure wave. The bomb blew out the entire front of the building and warped the other sides horribly, bubbling them out spectacularly and sending glass and wood outwards in a veritable hurricane of razor edged fragments. The entire top floor collapsed downwards, crumpling the first floor beneath it and scattering a cloud of dust and dirt into the air.

There was a creaking and groaning as a wall swayed in the aftershock before coming down hard with a rumbling crash onto the ground, narrowly missing the two sergeants and flattening a small bunch of once-ornamental shrubs beneath its considerable bulk.

Marcus coughed as he pushed himself upwards after shoving a heavy board off of where it had come to rest atop his chest, hacking and wheezing as his helmet's air purifier missed some of the dust that clogged the air as it settled towards the ground. His head ached from the explosion and he started walking towards the ruin, several flames burning loudly in the wreckage. He stumbled as he put weight onto his wounded leg and gasped, gritting his teeth until the pain passed. He pushed himself upright once more and started examining the wreckage of the home.

"Sam!" called Marcus into his helmet comm. There was almost nothing left of the building, the entire structure having collapsed into the basement. If he had been down there, his armour definitely would not have helped him. He would have been crushed by the many tonnes of the falling building. "Report, anyone!"

He heard a hacking, whooping cough to his right and turned to see Wilks climbing to his feet from where he had been thrown by the shockwave. A bloody gash crossed his brow and his helmet was missing. The ex-military combat uniform he had been wearing was torn and hanging off of him in places, but he was still alive. "Over here!" he called, waving a limp arm in the Phoenician's direction.

Marcus saw most of the others stirring and moaning as they regained their senses. Only two of the bodies that lay sprawled out on the earth were unmoving; one with a large board poking from his back and another laying with their head at an odd angle, his neck evidently broken.

"Sam!" tried Marcus again. He wasn't expecting any answer.

He never received one.

Marcus made his way laboriously over to the house, stepping around piles of debris that had been flung clear in the explosion and soon came to where the porch had once stood. There was nothing standing there now save a mound of rubble. The only thing still erect was the far back wall, and it was a shabby sight, chunks missing and several bits of framework still clinging to it from where the second floor had once been, forming a small shelf of snapped wood and singed carpeting. The bathtub fell from the ledge as he watched, landing amidst the broken timbers and destroyed bits of building with a heavy crunch and the ringing of metal.

He looked it over, his heart sinking as he saw something. He bent down and pried it out from under a fallen plank of snapped wood and what looked like it used to be a sink from the upstairs bathroom. He brought it out and dusted it off carefully, turning it over in his hands.

It was Sam's helmet. And it was dented in in a fashion that suggested that it had taken a fierce blow. A mortal blow. The thick splatter of carmine blood that dripped out of the giant rent on the top of the helm made him drop it as if it had bit him.

Sam was dead.

He didn't need to look through the rest of the rubble to know that. He turned away in disgust, feeling a knot of hatred form in his heart. He tried to suppress it, but it was a battle he wasn't prepared to fight. He gave in and the result wasn't what he had expected it to be. Not in the slightest.

Instead of the blind fury he had been expecting to overwhelm him and send him into an atrocious fit of rage, Marcus instead felt an icy calm descend upon him the likes of which he had never before experienced, wrapping him in its steely and all-enveloping embrace. He felt its tendrils seep into every corner of his brain, spreading out and mingling within every pore of his being. His thoughts were clear and concise. He found he enjoyed it. He relished the sensation, letting it flow through his veins and spread its cleansing influence.

He pitied whomever might find themselves unfortunate enough to be on the receiving end of it.

**

Eldora Resort, West of Denver, Colorado

1912 Hours, August 22** nd ***, 2052*

The man trying to riddle John with bullets was put down mercilessly, Owen's pistol barking in his direction. The man looked as if he had hit a brick wall and slammed to the ground heavily. He wasn't going to get back up. Owen whirled back behind the rapidly-diminishing pillar as the drone once more sought to dislodge him, feeling sweat trickle down his brow from his dank hairline. His HUD's ammo counter dropped again.

Two rounds left.

The drone whined as it powered forward, the desk-sized automaton ramming a table and a set of chairs aside as it came, trying to line up a better angle of attack. The remaining Humanist troops rallied around it, using it to suppress the tormented Phoenicians as they moved forwards. Their edge of advance was now scant metres away and Owen knew that they would be right on top of them in a few seconds.

"They're pushing me back!" called Sasha from her post at the back door.

Owen hissed as a glancing shot skimmed his partially-exposed shoulder. It deformed the shoulder pad of the armour, making a small crater in the metal and lodging itself just short of piercing the final one of the three layers of carbon-laced tungsten. If the shot had hit him anywhere else, it probably would have done more than that. He tried to make himself smaller behind the pillar. It was almost a worthless enterprise; power armour wasn't designed for contortionists. His helmet buzzed as the other two tried to get him to make a decision.

"Colonel," shouted John over the roar of the drone's mounted weapons, "we have to move back! Our cover is getting shot to shit!"

"Owen, I don't think I can hold them any more!" cried Sasha.

The only place that they could fall back to now was the kitchen. There was only one entrance to the kitchen aside from an iron door that they had managed to shore up with a fridge and several other miscellaneous large appliances. The Humanists may not have been able to get though the makeshift barricade, but they would definitely have a guard posted there to hamper any break for the hill beyond. It was essentially a corner from which there would be no escape should they fall back to it. In other words, it was suicide.

A barrage of near-misses that came perilously close to killing him made Owen think that maybe it was the lesser of two evils. His choice was made for him.

"Move back to the kitchen. It's the only place we can go. Maybe we can force them through the door one at a time." Owen said as he rolled away from the pillar and back towards the counter and the waiting doors. His stealth field was active, for what good it did, but he still took an unhealthy amount of fire from the Humanists. His armour whined as the carbon-weave muscle fibres of his armour expanded and contracted to lend him some much-needed speed, and he barely made it behind the low counter before a trail of impact sites met his body.

John popped a few conservative shots at their enemies as he crawled along the counter towards the doors. He reached Owen and nodded. Owen returned the gesture and they both simultaneously crouched low and moved towards what used to be called the kitchen doors, making sure to stay behind the rapidly-disintegrating counter. They passed through the mangled remains of the steel doors and emerged into the hallway.

Owen could still see the trail of blood from where he had dragged Lily leading to the kitchen, the crimson vitae appearing as gruesome smears on the white tile. Owen saw John look down and hesitate, but to his credit he resumed his retreat in good order after Owen, trailing behind as they stood up to move more quickly now that they were momentarily free of incoming fire.

"Sasha, we're there. John, get Lily to the back." said Owen into his helmet mic as he and John entered the kitchen. John merely nodded and started tugging a very tired-looking Lily to the rear of the kitchen, extending the crimson trail even more. Sasha gave a brisk affirmative and told them that she was starting to fall back. Owen lingered in the archway until he saw Sasha jogging around a bend in the hallway the opposite way that he and John had fallen back from. Her tail was frazzled and he noted with a frown that there was a silver crease near to her chest from a ricochet, but she looked good considering that she had just come from fighting for her life.

"Where's Lily?" asked Sasha, as she saw the blood trail at Owen's feet.

"In there." he said with a gesture behind his head. He could hear booted feet coming from both directions of the hallway and ushered her inside with a bit more protectiveness than necessary. "Come on!"

He caught sight of a soldier rounding the bend from the way that Sasha had come, and fired at him. His shot proved to be well-aimed, taking the man in the thigh and making him stumble and fall. The soldier hissed in pain as his comrades that had been following close behind collided with him, tripping and likewise falling.

Owen took the time that it presented to back into the kitchen. He saw that his ammo counter had once more counted down.

One shot left.

Knowing that he needed a weapon, he crouched low beside the inside of the aperture that served as the kitchen's main entrance as the others found spaces behind the two rows of counters to duck in behind. At least the vacant spots where they had moved the stoves from provided little boltholes now.

Owen activated his active camouflage and hoped that the idea rapidly forming in his head worked. Lily's pistol was in his left hand and he drew Nevermore with his right in a reverse-grip. The pistol felt odd where it was, but he needed the knife in his good hand. He flexed his hands, shifting the two weapons in his grip, and waited to the right of the entry.

The clamouring outside in the hallway soon grew in tempo before dying down just on the other side of the wall. For a moment, silence reigned. Then it was broken as a small 'click' sounded off from the other side of the aperture. Soon after, a small metal object flew through the opening, another grenade, and landed amongst the two rows of counters.

The explosive shook the multitude of pots and pans hanging above the counters by metal hooks, causing a cascade of bangs and clatters as they fell to the floor. The shrapnel pinged off of the plethora of metal surfaces, rebounding in a storm of small fragments. Owen still waited.

It was when the first Humanist swung around the hole that he acted. He moved swiftly, like a snake coiled to strike did when it was ready to lunge forth and plunge its fangs into its prey, whirling around the wall in an instant, cold steel flashing. He struck the man with a heavy blow which buried Nevermore to its hilt in the surprised soldier's chest.

Owen felt the blade press through the KEVLAR vest that the man was wearing after it bounced off of a magazine pouch that was yet to be emptied. It slid clean through a gap in the soldier's ribs and punctured a lung with a gurgle of blood-thick spittle from the man's mouth. Owen didn't revel in his kill, however, and pulled his blade free with a squelch. At the same time, a series of curses and profanities echoed in the hallway as the soldier's squadmates started to react, the first of whom who appeared behind the first and began to raise a shotgun at the semi-visible assailant.

Owen was faster, his left hand coming up with armour-assisted speed, and pulled the trigger. The final round from Lily's pistol exploded from the weapon accompanied by a hearty bang and a tongue of instantly-dissipating fire. The round flew over the first soldier's descending shoulder as he fell and lodged itself in the cranium of the second, striking him right under his eye and exiting out near the top of his head.

No ammo. But Owen's plan didn't need any more.

He dropped the gun after it was spent, the weapon flying backwards and downwards over his hand as he released it at the moment after it fired. His now-empty hand flitted forwards with a nimbleness that surprised even him, clenching around his small target quickly and deftly. He gave the still-falling man a fierce blow with his right hand, Nevermore held sideways so as to not stab into the body, instead striking him with the spiked knuckleduster.

The man, who at this point was dead on his feet, fell backwards and collapsed over the body of the second. Owen spun back around the entryway, the grenade pin that he had grabbed from the man's webbing with his left hand still held tight. The grenade that it belonged to was still on the body of the first man he had killed. It was now active. And it was strung alongside at least three others.

The explosion almost deafened him, and he shook his head to clear the incessant ringing. Knife at the ready, he risked a glimpse around the now-shredded wall.

There were no survivors. Only one man still moved out of the seven that had been ready to breech the kitchen. Not the movement of the living. No, it was the slow sloshing of entrails out of a shredded-open stomach. Owen, after seeing no more troops immediately come running from either direction, stooped to pick up the shotgun that the second man had carried.

He wiped off the majority of sticky blood from the weapon and did a quick check of its functionality. The ammo counter pinged as his armour recognized it as a Remington 920 and reset the count.

Eight rounds left. He would make them count.

**

Eldora Resort, West of Denver, Colorado

1921 Hours, August 22** nd ***, 2052*

The quad engines of the QTR thudded with a steady rhythm as it homed in on the location that had been provided by Angie. The helicopter was currently in cruising mode and all four of the propellers were facing forwards, transforming it into an odd type of plane. The dragon painted on the front of the hull glittered as it caught the final bits of sun coming from over the mountains and the scripture, both the crude and elegant, was emblazoned proudly on its flanks. Its weapons bristled outwards from the lozenge that was its body, mounted grenade launchers on the sides scanning the ground below and the fierce autocannon mounted near the nose was sturdy and resolute, facing towards the painted horizon.

The Righteous Flame banked as it hugged the curve of a hill. It was flying low in an attempt to avoid any prying eyes. Not that it was likely needed, of course; there were very few people in the forest spread out below it. Fewer still would be interested in it.

"Coming up on the hill now, Ang." said Gunnery Sergeant Tom Walt. He wore a grey flight suit and bulky pilot's helmet, as he was piloting the immense helicopter, and sat behind a panel filled with flight controls and the primary control stick.

"Good. Bravo, prepare to disembark." Angie said from where she stood behind the pilot's seat. She wore a simple set of military fatigues and a headset that allowed her to converse with the people aboard the QTR.

"Ready." came Tracer's gruff response in her ear. He was in the troop bay with Tyler and a squad of ex-United States Marines, ready to run down the ramp and get Owen and the others out of the hot zone as quickly as possible.

"There it is." gasped Eric McCallahan, Tom's copilot. He was dressed in identical apparel, but his slightly stockier body filled it a bit more. He pointed out the cockpit windshield at a building that squatted on the top of one of the multitude of large hills. It looked like a decent attempt to barricade the place had been made, but now the hasty defences were blown wide open and gave the structure a sorrowful look.

"Let's hope they're still living." frowned Tom.

"Anything on the radio?" asked Angie, leaning forwards to try and get a better look. Eric checked the instruments before giver her a slow shake of his head.

"No." he reported. "We aren't getting anything except for the Humanist channels."

"Hostile contacts on-screen." reported Tom, his hand flexing slightly on the control stick.

"Numbers?" asked Angie.

"Inconclusive, but there is at least one APC and a few heavy drones." he said. The chalet was starting to get closer now, and Tom flicked a few switches to rotate the powerful engines so they were almost perpendicular to the fuselage. The transport slowed and Angie experienced sudden deceleration, subconsciously grabbing the back of Eric's chair for support.

A small pinging sounded off of the hull as the QTR initiated a flyover, passing directly over the chalet and into the sun from the east, making it difficult to track as the sun from the light blinded anyone who tried. The Humanists below had started firing on them, hoping to score a lucky hit on the VTOL aircraft. Angie saw the turret of the bulky APC turn to track them as they banked into a ponderous turn that would make them end up more or less level with the roof of the chalet, the vehicle trying to draw a bead on the slow-moving transport the whole while. Apparently the APC's commander wanted to be sure of a direct hit. Tom rounded on the armoured vehicle from a low hover on the other side of the chalet, pointing the nose of the aircraft towards it. She saw a grin tugging at the corner of his lips as he triggered the QTR's underslung autocannon.

"Clear the LZ, boys. Light 'em up." he grinned as he fired.

The weapon sent a shuddering through the frame of the helicopter that rattled Angie's teeth and set her nerves on edge. The dull pounding was accompanied by a steady chugging noise that reverberated through the metal fuselage. The autocannon was not standard-issue on a QTR, but Wilks and a rather open-minded ground crew had managed to mount the new 25mm autocannon on the undercarriage in place of the old 40mm a few days ago despite the many safety risks it represented.

The autocannon tore through the relatively-thin top armour of the APC, punching jagged holes through the plate and creating huge plumes of sparks. Angie didn't need to be close to see that the crew were dead; there was nothing remaining of the roof and the vehicle was no longer moving with any sense of purpose even though the shots continued to hammer away at it. It revved forwards, something probably having happened to the controls to jam them into forward, and the vehicle rammed into the deck of the chalet, making it disintegrate into a flurry of broken wood.

The autocannon quieted down, and Angie heard the quieter-by-comparison banging of the four mounted grenade launchers crewed by the troops in the troop hold. Tom rotated the transport again so that it was side-on with the chalet and dropped so that he was hovering only a few feet above the ground. Outside, what little glass still held in the panes of the chalet was shattered as the high-explosive rounds from the mounted launchers cleared the LZ. She thought she saw two mid-sized combat drones explode as the munitions blew them apart, but she couldn't be sure past the dust kicked up by the heavy weapons fire and the fierce downwash from the QTR.

"Touch-down in three." reported the crew cheif calmly over the intercom from his position just outside the cockpit.

There was a thud as the transport touched down a short distance from the building, and the firing from the grenade launchers stopped as the troops lowered the rear hatch and powered away from the aircraft to secure the immediate area, one staying behind to watch the hill strewn with smoke, dust, broken bodies, and destroyed vegetation from behind one of the grenade launchers. Angie watched them go, chewing her lower lip anxiously. She hoped she wasn't too late.

She watched the backs of the soldiers, Tracer and Tyler easily discernible from the rest in their bulky power armour, as they breached the door nearest to the helicopter with practised ease. The majority of the marines spread out around the rear of the helicopter while the breaching team went about clearing the building, making sure that no Humanists decided to try and shoot at the relatively-vulnerable transport.

There was the staccato report of small-arms fire from inside the chalet and a few stray high-velocity rounds from inside the chalet thudded into the armoured cockpit, making Angie wince and Eric give a startled yell.

"Tracer, report!" ordered Angie, her tan and black tail still with dread. Technically, she didn't have any authority over the large bear morph, but she had insisted that she be a part of the mission. Any attempt to dissuade her fell on deaf ears and they had let her come as the supervising officer. A completely made-up title, Angie knew, but it was better than getting radio transmissions from back at the station.

"The Humanists have been dispatched. They had a drone in here, but its junk now. Seems it was being controlled by someone in the APC. Proceeding to the back rooms."

Tense seconds ticked by as Angie slowly grew more and more anxious. The tension in the cockpit threatened to drown her, and she tried to control her nerves. She started to tap out a beat on the back of Eric's chair, her fingers drumming against the material of the seat. Finally, Tracer made it to the back rooms of the chalet. His voice was still formal and grating, as Angie knew his voice always was, but it also held the tone of relief.

"They're battered, but they're still alive."

A collective sigh of relief sounded on the cockpit and Angie turned from the window. She exited through the small door that separated the cockpit from the rest of the craft and proceeded past the rows of seating that lined the troop bay. The medical team that she had managed to get ready for the extraction bustled about the large compartment, attempting to get ready for everything as the crew chief watched with a blank stare. She hoped that they were as she paced down the shallow ramp, stopping just short of stepping onto the ground.

Her brown hair flew about as the thrust generated by the throbbing engine nearest her rustled it around. Angie's ears were forced downwards a bit to make the noise that accompanied the huge transport more bearable. She brought a furred hand to her brow as a cluster of figures materialized from the interior of the building and fought down the flailing strands of hair.

John was the first of the previously-missing Phoenicians to exit the chalet. His armour was scarred and pockmarked from ricochets and small shards of shrapnel were stuck into the thick plate. John walked rigidly, something wrong with his armour that looked as if it made walking a bit difficult. His helmet was off and his face was streaked with grime and sweat, his hair plastered to his skull. He clutched a pistol in a death grip, but whether it was an armour malfunction or iron-bound will, she couldn't tell.

Tracer came out next, flanked by a pair of astonished-looking marines, and carrying Lily in his massive arms. Her helmet was also off, but where Angie had seen weariness in John's expression, she saw only pain in her's. Lily's usually white fur was smudged with dust, taking on a colour more akin to grey now, and her eyes had a quality that could only be described as glazed-over. They were unfocused and seemed to be having trouble making out anything beyond a foot ahead of her muzzle. The blood was unsettling. Her chest piece had been removed and a hasty bandage applied over her lower ribs. Crimson blood had begun to dry in her fur, making it spike up in small ruby-coloured pillars. Tracer nodded for her to get out of the way as he hurried, passing John, and ran up the ramp. The medical technicians began to clamour about to accept her as the final two members of the lost team emerged at the rear of a column of friendly soldiers.

Owen limped along, Sasha helping to support him as they made their way to the transport. Their armour was just as bad as John's; cracked, riddled with shrapnel, horribly scarred, worn down, and abused so much that it hardly looked anything like Tyler's or Tracer's, even though it was the same model. Sasha's hair was flat and flowed down the sides of her head, her usual ponytail having come undone somewhere along the line. Her violet eyes lacked any of the flare that they usually had, the green flecks not even visible at the moment.

Owen was, if anything, worse looking than her. His face showed a dignity battered but still proud despite the trials that Owen had just been put through. A sizable cut began above his left eyebrow and continued downwards, thankfully sparing his eye as it hopped over the socket, and halted just above his jawline. Red vitae was starting to harden along the line, slowly becoming a darker, crusty burgundy. More blood ran in small rivulets from a puncture wound underneath the pad of his shoulder guard and a large dent on his midriff told of a coming bruise that would be felt for a long time after they had left the chalet. His limp was caused by a sprained ankle or something similar, his right foot never quite coming down completely on the ground and his mouth twitching beneath the dust that smeared his face with every footfall. His right arm cradled a growling ball of grey fur that looked around as if it had just emerged from a cave for the first time in years, sniffing and listening for anything and everything. His left was hanging around Sasha's back and clutched a shotgun in a loose grip in the middle of the barrel. His eyes met Angie's, and he nodded. The gesture spoke volumes about how tired he was.

"Angie." he said, his voice quiet but still controlled. "Aren't you a sight for sore eyes."

"Colonel, are you alright?" she asked, hurrying down the ramp to help Sasha carry him as he almost stumbled and fell.

"I'm fine. Is Lily...?"

She looked behind her and into the troop hold. One of the medics clustered around her saw her gaze turn in their direction and the woman nodded. "She'll be fine." she said as the medic turned back to work.

Owen's eyes closed slowly in relief. "Good." he said after a while. He said nothing more as Angie and Sasha seated him in the bench nearest to the back hatch. He leaned back heavily, his legs sprawling out in front of him. Sasha saw that he was mildly comfortable and left the two of them as she headed forwards to where her sister was being stabilized.

The rear ramp whined as the last few troopers pounded their way up it and into the transport. The thudding outside increased in tempo and the QTR rose slowly into the air, its flight now more moderated and less rushed. Angie took the seat next to Owen, several minutes passing before they spoke.

"I'm glad you got here when you did, Angie." he said. "I don't think we could have lasted much longer." He winced as the small canine in his lap got excited with all the movement and pressed over the large dent in his armour. He grabbed the animal quickly, holding it away from his body in an attempt to keep it from touching another wound. "Do you mind holding him for a bit? He's usually not this rambunctious, but he's been in a freezer for a while now." He smiled hopefully, holding the pup out for Angie to take.

"Uh... No, I'll take him." she made to take the animal from him, but the wolf cub struggled in his grip and let out a surprisingly vicious bark at Angie.

"Shh, Romulus! Its okay; she's with us." placated Owen as he stroked the animal behind the ears gently. The pup calmed a bit and allowed Angie to take him. He was shaking slightly as she held him in her arms, but his excitement quickly overpowered his fear and he was soon laying in her lap and watching the soldiers as they watched him back. "Sorry about that."

"Its fine." she said with a small grin. "He's cute."

"I thought so too. You mind if I take him?" said Sasha as she returned from her sisterly vigilance. Apparently, Lily was stable now and needed some room for the medics to proceed to tend to her wound. Angie knew that she was about to get in the way of something, so she stood up quickly, offering her seat and furry charge to the battered Phoenician. She took both with a small thank you, easing into the seat with a barely-audible sigh. 'Romulus' snuggled up against her, managing a small nip at her weary tail. She pulled it out of the way quickly, though, and the wolf cub settled down for a nap.

Angie made her way up the length of the transport to the cockpit, passing the other members of the squad and the gun ports on her way. It was now fairly dark outside, and the air was beginning to cool down. The marines chatted amongst themselves, gaping at the bloodied men and woman of Phoenix squad. The air made her shiver faintly and she let out a small breath as she opened the door. She threw one more look back at her superiors.

Sasha was leaning on Owen now, and he looked as if he was about to drift of to sleep. The wolf was snuggled into a small ball on Sasha's lap and his eyes were starting to close much like his adopted fathers'. Sasha, probably not knowing she was being watched, placed a tender lick-kiss on Owen's cheek in a spot where blood and dirt were absent. She then whispered something into his ear, and the right side of his mouth budged slightly into a half-grin. He said something back, but Angie looked away and entered the console-lit cockpit. Whatever was being said, it was for the two of them.

**

Owen was tired. His entire body ached, and the cut on his face was raw and stung more than a maddened hornet ever could. He felt like shit, but he was glad for it. They had survived, despite the odds being stacked against them. They were worn and beaten, but yet they had made it.

Sasha leaned in close to him, planting a small lick-kiss on his left cheek. He opened one eye in time to see her heft Romulus into a slightly more manageable position before whispering in his ear. Her words, despite the fight they had just barely emerged from, were light and tender.

"From the ashes rises life." she whispered quietly. The adopted motto of the Phoenicians made him smile, in turn making the cut on his cheek open up a bit.

"Full of hope, and free of strife." Owen finished, reaching out to scratch Romulus behind the ears. After a moment of this, he noticed that the dog tags were still clinging tenaciously to his arm. With is left hand, Owen undid the small clasp. Sasha watched him thoughtfully as he slipped the talisman into his chest rig. "For the moment, anyways."

**

EPILOGUE

Location Unknown

???? Hours, August 23** rd ***, 2052*

Warren was still. He was once more bound and tied and he bounced slightly, feeling vibrations carry through his bones. He wasn't moving, but whatever he was in was. But he didn't care; he wasn't quite there, shackled and imprisoned.

His mind was drifting, lost in a cloud of thought and far away from his body. Past memories flooded back over him, washing over his mind like a torrential flood. The voices of a thousand people, some he knew and more that he didn't, filled every cavity of his canine head. Emotions writhed like living things around his psyche, preying on loose thoughts or vain hopes.

He found himself hanging over a cliff above sharp and weathered rocks protruding from a storm-wracked and seething sea of hate. He could feel his hands slipping, his body heavy and weak. Warren knew that to let go would be to lose everything. A fierce wind buffeted him, slamming him against the cliff face and he let out a strangled cry.

One finger slipped and Warren panicked. For one terrifying second, he was only clinging to the rock with a single shaking hand. Thunder boomed as his struggle came close to ending abruptly. His legs kicked as they scrabbled for purchase, dislodging loose rocks as they fought for grip, and he managed to swing the loose arm up and grab the ledge once more. But he knew it wouldn't last. He would fall. It was only a matter of time.

+You know, you are really not making my job very easy.+ The voice drifted his way lazily, and Warren thought he heard a faint and malicious chuckle.

"Help!" he called up over the edge of the cliff to where the voice had come from, any anger lost in despair.

+Oh, I intend to. But first, you must do something.+

"Anything!" pleaded Warren.

+Let go.+

A fierce cackle pierced the air, partially interrupted by another sky-shattering boom of thunder.

"What?" stammered Warren, hoping that he had misheard but knowing that he had not.

+I said let go.+ Warren looked down against his better judgement. The way down was straight and terrible, the drop ending in a cluster of sharp boulders placed perilously at the bottom of the drop-off. The dark water below frothed as it crashed headlong into the rocks and the salty tang of the sea swept into the air along with sprays of cold water.

"No! I can't!" he yelled as he looked up again in a failed attempt to stop the frightening sensation of vertigo.

+Have it your way.+ sighed the coyote.

"Hey, wait!" shouted Warren as he felt sharp nails start to claw energetically at his bare knuckles. His grip loosened in the face of the torment. "Stop!"

+Oh, I've come too far to stop all of this now.+ sniggered the coyote as its canine face appeared over the lip of the edge. +Only one way to go from here. Down!+ At that, the coyote bit into the fingers of his right hand, drawing blood as its glimmering fangs pierced flesh. Warren's hand came free, his fingers cut up and hurt. Warren tried to regain his grip, but the coyote was already starting to chew at his other hand.

"Wait! Stop! Please! NOO!!!" shouted Warren as his other hand let go and he began to fall.

+One piece of advice;+ called the hauntingly joyous voice. The sound carried to his folded ears effortlessly in a way that defied the laws of sound. +hold your breath.+ Howling laughter followed, providing a backdrop for Warren's fall into madness. His screaming soon joined it as he fell to the frothing water and jagged boulders below.

END OF PART II

Chakat Universe is © Bernard Doove and is used with his permission.

None of the above characters are copyrighted, but if you want to use them, I would seriously appreciate you telling me what for and how you intend to do so.

Questions? Comments? Suggestions? Just want to say hi?

Email me at [email protected]!

I'm (almost) always here to reply.