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Cooper sat behind the oak desk, a large stack of manila folders off to his right, an even larger pile to his left. He leaned back, removing his glasses before rubbing his eyes. What a day, he thought. Letting his eyelids fall, he rested for a moment, enjoying the brief respite before being pulled back to world by a soft knock on his door. He sat up and opened his eyes, spotting one of the bank tellers standing in the doorway, a pretty, young collie.

"Excuse me, sir?" she asked, smiling nervously.

"Yes, Ms. Hamilton?" Cooper replied, flashing a weary smile. "What can I do for you?"

"I..." she stammered a bit, composing herself a moment later. "I just wanted to say: thank you for hiring me. I really appreciate it; it means a lot to me."

He smiled at the clerk. "You don't have to thank me - you were qualified for the job. I remember going through university myself and trying to find work, so think of it as paying it forward."

She bowed slightly in response. "Well, everything is taken care of, Mr. Matthews. Drawers are locked and the deposits are waiting for you to put into the safe."

"Thank you, Ms. Hamilton. Have a good night."

"You too, sir," she replied and left, her tail swaying behind her.

Cooper chuckled to himself and leaned back in his chair once more, looking up at the tiled ceiling. The husky's mind wandered for a few minutes, his expression somber. It's a shame, he thought. _She seemed like a nice girl - I would have liked to get to know her better. _

Sitting up, he reached over and opened his drawer, retrieving a small cigar box, the gold paint inlay having fading significantly over the years. He opened the lid carefully, it and its contents a treasured thing for him. Inside were objects that told his family's story - what made him who he was today and reminding him of where he had come from.

The first collection of objects he pulled out were related to his father. In a picture, he was an older man, his hair wild and gray. He stood in a lab coat, surrounded by assistants at his lab on the Berkeley University campus. A well-respected scientist, he had taught classes and working on various projects, both for private and government contracts, on a few of the most prestigious campuses, including Berkeley, Cambridge, and even the Massachusetts Institute of Technology. That was before his work turned away from traditional academic discipline and became focused on the fringe sciences - those that were widely regarded as eccentric and irrational.

After he had become obsessed with the some very specialized theories, things had gone downhill for the renowned scientist. He had become a different person, caught in a world of math and physics that only a few could understand - most of whom wound up in mental institutions over the years. Cooper flipped through a handful of handwritten notes, diagrams and equations that he couldn't understand even if he tried.

Setting those aside, he removed a photograph of his grandfather along with his military dog tags. While he had never known his grandfather, he knew that he was a real hard-as-nails soldier, often volunteering for the most dangerous missions. He had survived the Normandy beach invasions, along with the rest of World War Two, fought in the Korean War, but had been killed in combat during the Vietnam War. Rubbing his thumb over the raised lettering on the dog tags before putting them aside, Cooper wondered what it would have been like to meet him.

Next were a small collection of photographs, along with an authentic rifle cartridge from his great-grandfather's rifle. His ancestor had been Marshall Flynn Matthews, the arm of the law when the city was just a sprawling mining town. He flipped through the photographs, noticing that in almost all of them, he stood stoically, rifle in hand. No one ever seemed to smile in these, he mused to himself. In one, he stood with his deputy, an older red fox that seemed to carry the same no-nonsense attitude about him. The last picture was of his great-grandfather and his great-grandmother, the two smiling as they sat on the steps of their house, holding paws and looking very much in love. It was strange seeing that side of him after the other photographs portraying him as such a serious man, but Cooper smiled nonetheless.

Putting those aside, he carefully pulled out the last item from the bottom of the cigar box - a yellow, faded wanted poster from the same time of his great-grandfather. Gingerly, he unfolded the paper, careful not to cause any more damage to it than had already been caused by time. The ink may have lost its color, but the image it depicted was clear: Jesse Thompson, the man that had killed his great-grandfather and who had terrorized his family for years.

The outlaw was responsible for killing Flynn Matthews and his deputy, Michael Cardigan, nearly a hundred and thirty years ago during a bank robbery. After the town became lawless, Jesse had decided to stay and founded one of the most ruthless and infamous gangs in the west. They rode between the smaller towns in the area, stealing and frightening the locals for several years with few willing to oppose them. A few lawmen had tried to put an end to Jesse and his gang's reign, but they all fell to the quick-draw of the cat.

With no sheriff or Marshall willing to take the chance in going up against Jesse, he and his gang were left alone to do as they pleased. For Cooper's great-grandmother, it was an unbearable time. Jesse knew it was her husband that he had killed and used that fact to strike fear into her at every opportunity. He reveled in the knowledge that no one would stand up to him and used that to show her just how powerless she was against him several times. She was a strong woman, something that Cooper admired about her from the stories passed down to him, but the thought of Jesse forcing himself upon her angered him beyond comprehension.

Thankfully, Jesse met his end a few short years after killing Flynn Matthews. Finding himself and his gang in a territorial dispute after biting off more than they could chew, a member from a rival gang put Jesse down during a shootout that had claimed nearly twenty men. In a single afternoon, the balance of power shifted as the Marshall service was quick to reinstate the law after Jesse's demise.

Cooper smiled at the thought of Jesse Thompson getting what was due to him, but the Matthews family had suffered irreparable harm because of the outlaw. His great-grandmother died later the same year, leaving his grandfather an orphan at the age of five. The rest was history as far as the Matthews family was concerned. Everyone except for his father, and because of a promise, himself.

Letting out a sigh, he knew that he could no longer delay his promise. His father had passed away a few months prior and it was up to him now. Through a bit of hard work, social networking, and a cut in pay, Cooper had secured a position as general manager for this particular financial institution. The importance of this location couldn't be understated - this was bank was built on the same plot that once belonged to its predecessor, the same bank where Jesse murdered Marshall Flynn Matthew and his deputy, Michael Cardigan. Standing up, Cooper grabbed his keys - it was time to go to work.

Reversing his truck up to the loading dock of the bank, Cooper knew there was no going back. Security cameras were recording the whole ordeal and undoubtedly, come tomorrow, there would be a warrant out for his arrest. Though, if everything went to plan as according to his father, none of that would happen. Hopping out, he pulled back the tarp covering his truck bed to reveal a large wooden shipping crate, the stamped shipping information indicating that it had been shipped from the University of Berkeley.

After a bit of effort, he managed to roll the crate on its shipping casters down the hallway through several security doors to the bank's underground vault. After using his access codes on the digital lock and his manager keys on the more traditional mechanisms, he spun the rotary handle of the vault and opened it to the world. Despite being in a room with access to millions of dollars in cash, jewelry, and more, the thought never crossed his mind. Picking up the crowbar he had brought with him, he jammed the narrow end between the planks of wood and began to disassemble the crate.

It was a slow process, taking him several hours to remove the various pieces from the crate and place them around the vault per an instruction booklet written by his father, but he was done. Three obelisk-like devices formed a perfect triangle in the center of the room, coils affixed to the top with various cables running between them. Off to the side was a stack of equipment, a computer monitor outputting various readings as a generator slowly charged the capacitors that were needed to make the device function. Cooper took a moment to read the variables, comparing them with the notes left for him by his father. While he didn't know what they meant exactly, they matched, and that was the important part. The system indicating that the device was charged to ninety-five percent, Cooper knew he had a few minutes to prepare. Walking back out to his truck, he retrieved a black duffle bag from the back seat. The contents were comparatively light to the rest of the equipment he had spent the night setting up, but its contents were no less important. While it had never been explicitly said between him and his father, Cooper knew what he needed to do.

Returning to the vault, he sat down on an empty electronics case and unzipped the bag. Reaching in, he pulled out an old lever-action, .387 caliber long-barreled rifle, the initials 'F.W.' inscribed into the stock. Running his hand over its length, he felt ever knick and ding the rifle had suffered over its lifetime. He had refused to have it refurbished, saying that each mark had a story to tell, from the scratch on the barrel to the missing piece of wood on the bottom of the stock. Taking a handful of cartridges from the ammunition box he had packed with the rifle, he began to load them one at a time. He should only need one shot, but he couldn't afford to take any chances.

Cooper's ears perked up at the sound of an audible beep from the equipment which indicated that the capacitors were fully charged. Walking over, rifle in hand, he looked down at the large, illuminated green button. Finger poised over it, he hesitated, knowing that once pressed there would be no turning back, no knowledge of what the long term effects could be. Exhaling slowly, he pressed the button, committing himself to his fate.

Stepping away from the electronics, he walked into the area between the obelisks, making sure to stand over a spot he had taped onto the floor previously to identify the exact center between the columns. He glanced over at the monitor, watching the digital timer count down.

Ten.

Nine.

Eight.

He closed his eyes, taking in a deep breath. This would be the last breath he would take from here. From now.

Seven.

Six.

Five.

His fur began to stand on end, his flesh tingling at the sensation of a static field beginning to surround him.

Four.

Three.

He opened his eyes, his heart was racing. Electricity arced between the obelisk coils, a blue light filling the room.

Two.

Cooper pumped the lever of the rifle, loading a shell into the chamber and braced the firearm against his shoulder.

One.

He exhaled.

Zero.

#####

"Paws where I can see them!"

Jesse froze at hearing the voice behind him - it was a voice he did not recognize. He was certain that it wasn't the deputy or the bank clerk, and that made him feel uneasy. Dropping his satchel and its contents on the table in front of him, he held his hands out to either side and slowly turned around to face his rival. What he saw affirmed his suspicions - it was the town's Marshall. Unable to help himself, Jesse smiled. "Why, Marshall, what a pleasant surprise."

"Jesse Thompson," the husky's eyes narrowed in response. "You'll forgive me if I don't say the same."

"Tsk tsk."

"Keep yer paws up. You move in a fashion I don't like and I'll put a hole right through you."

The calico complied with a sigh. "Is this really necessary, Marshall?"

"Yer asking if you robbing our bank warrants me to arrest you?" Flynn asked rhetorically. "I didn't take you for a fool, Jesse."

"Nor I," Jesse replied. "But consider fer a moment the fact that you are alone with, if rumors are to be believed, the quickest draw in the west."

Flynn ignored the threat and motioned with his head. "Come out of there and up against the wall."

Jesse smirked and took a few steps closer to the Marshall. "As you say, Marshall."

Flynn kept his rifle trained on Jesse, taking a few steps back to keep a set distance from the bandit. Motioning to the wall, Flynn let Jesse figure the rest out on his own.

Stepping outside the vault cage and into the hallway, Jesse stopped and turned to face the Marshall. Smacking his lips, he tilted his head to the side a bit. "I don't think so, Marshall."

"I said against the wall!" Flynn barked, taking a step closer as his expression changed from one of authority to anger.

"Marshall, I think you and I have reached a bit of an impasse." Jesse's hand inched closer to his pistol, his fingertips nearly brushing the ivory grip.

Flynn kept his rifled trained on the cat. He had no cover to speak of, no way out should things go poorly. The question was whether he could shoot Jesse and put him down before he drew his pistol or not. If not, there would be a fair chance he would be gunned down before he could finish loading the next cartridge into the chamber.

Before either could make a move, their senses were thrown into disarray as a bright flash bathed the vault and hallway in a blue hue, a loud boom akin to dynamite shaking the very walls around them. Jesse raised his paw up and drew his gun, aiming it at the source of the light. Before he could pull the trigger though, a shot echoed within the confined space and threw him against the wall. Then another. And another.

The ivory-handled pistol slipped out of the calico's paw and clattered to the ground, all six shots still in the chamber. Three gaping wounds dotted his chest, his shirt and vest becoming saturated in a dark hue. Sliding down against the wall, Jesse looked up at the stranger - a younger husky with smoke rising off his fur like a creature from hell, a long-barreled rifle in his hands.

"Who..." Jesse said between gasps, "...what...are you?"

Looking down at him and without saying a word, Cooper pulled the trigger a fourth time, sending a slug through Jesse's heart. Lowering the rifle from his shoulder, he turned to the older husky who had been thrown to the ground by his arrival, visibly shaken and unable to make sense of what had just happened.

Flynn looked at the young man, then to Jesse's corpse, then back to the husky. He took in all the details he could: the strange clothing, the smoke that rose from the man's fur, even the rifle. No, it couldn't be, he thought to himself. Gazing down at his own rifle, he ran his thumb over the engraving and examined the missing piece of wood from the stock. He had lost the piece when he brought in a cattle thief just last week; he hadn't had the time to get it repaired yet. Looking back to the stranger's rifle, he saw the same initials and wood missing - it was identical to his own rifle. It was his rifle.

Cooper held out a hand and helped the older husky up when he accepted it. Taking to shake the man's hand, he smiled. "It's a pleasure to meet you, Flynn Matthews."

"Who are you?" Flynn asked, finding the only words that truly mattered at this moment.

"That," Cooper said, putting a paw on his great-grandfather's shoulder, "is quite the story."