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It's been a whole three years after returning home from Germany. The war has officially ended and the world is getting back to normal life. However, adaptation to normal society has proven harder for veterans returning home from the front lines than anyone would have ever imagined. Most of the men that went over were young, fresh out of high school, and inexperienced in almost everything except shooting a gun. Damien was no exception. He tried to find work in his small town in upstate New York. Most jobs included working in a grocery to a short term job at an insurance agency. In an effort to finally find work, Damien looked beyond his home town and was offered a job in New York City, working as a New York police officer. He took pride in his work and felt like he was making a positive influence on his new community. Plus, he was really close to Alice.

Within weeks of returning home from Europe, Damien proposed to his long-time girlfriend. The wedding was beautiful. Alice wished to have a beach wedding, and Damien made sure it happened. With his shoes in the sand and his wife's hands in his, Damien swore he was the happiest man alive. The beauty of the beach came nowhere close to the beauty in Alice's blue eyes.

Among the guests were Damien and Alice's parents. Damien's mom cried the whole time. His father found himself choked up as well.

"I'm happy for you, son," said his father immediately after the wedding ceremony, "about everything. Your new wife, your new job here in the big city."

"Thanks, Dad." They hugged. "It means a lot."

"Now, don't forget about us back at home."

"Of course not."

The thing that meant the most to Damien was having Micah Stolas as his best man. He couldn't think of anyone else he would rather have as a best man than Micah. He survived his injuries he sustained back in Germany, but at a price. He walked with a cane, not permanently, but for now he walked with a limp until his leg would fully heal. His right hand was beyond repair. It was amputated back in Germany. During the wedding, Micah held his right arm in a sling. A shiny Purple Heart metal was displayed on the chest of his tuxedo.

During the toast, Micah gave a speech, one that Damien would never forget.

"Damien..." he laughed nervously. "When we met on Base, I had no clue where our friendship would lead us. Even though we've only known each other the past few years, I feel like I've known you my whole life. Out on the battlefield in Germany, we saved each other's life, but I owe you everything. I would not be standing here today if you weren't so bull-headed." Laughter filled the room. "I know I may not be in the best of shape, but that has not made me ignorant. I saw the way you ran right towards Alice when you got off the plane. I've never seen two people make such a connection. Heck, you didn't even notice I was there for a while." Again, the wedding guests laughed. "The look in your eyes when you're with Alice, the way you act, I've never seen such a thing. I know you two are supposed to be together." Micah made direct eye contact with Damien, then said, "And I know, through thick and thin, you two will always love each other. And I know from personal experience, you will do anything to keep the ones closest to you safe. Cheers to the happy couple!" and sipped a glass of Champaign. The rest of the crowd followed, "Here! Here!" and drank to the newlyweds.

After the wedding, Damien didn't see or hear from Micah for a year. It wasn't until their first anniversary, Damien received a letter from Micah.

"Hey Damien. Happy anniversary! How's life going? How's your beautiful wife? Any thoughts of children yet? Life for me has been eventful over the past year. I hope police work is going well. Just like you, I'm working in law enforcement. If you ever get tired of the day to day drag of the New York Police Department, contact me. I could help you find work. It's the absolute least I could do. We should get together sometime."

_ "My injuries have healed up just fine. My leg is back to normal and I'm getting used to writing with my left hand. I have a prosthetic in the works, but it's still in early stages of development. Hopefully when it's done, it'll be just like having my old hand back. Who knows? Maybe even better."_

_ "See you soon. -Micah Stolas."_

Those joyful days were behind Damien, and now he patrols the streets of New York City trying to keep people safe. His partner was an officer named Clarence Davis. He was slightly older, a Doberman. He has been on the force for over fifteen years. Damien has been on the force for all of a year. Police academy can teach you the essentials for police work, but an experienced person like Davis can teach you much more, like how to survive out there.

"Always expect the unexpected. It's cliché but it'll keep you alive."

"Never put too much trust into anyone."

"Make sure you can see a suspect's hands at all times."

"Never let your guard down."

"Don't get shot."

Things like that.

It was a cold New York evening. The sun was setting, but Clarence and Damien were tucked in a warm police cab.

"You should have gotten a Medal of Honor," said Clarence.

"What?"

"Come on, I've heard of people that did less than half the heroics that you pulled in Germany and they got a Congressional Medal of Honor. What makes them so special but you not?"

"It doesn't really matter."

"And why doesn't it?"

"We all did heroic stuff during the war. They don't just give those out like they're candy. And besides, my friend's still alive, so who needs a stupid medal?"

"I guess so. It still sounds like some bullshit to me."

A voice came on the radio, "Eleven, twenty-five. Chestnut Street. Copy."

"What was it like?" asked Clarence.

"What was what like?"

"Germany. The front lines."

All Damien could see in his mind was flashes of his friend, dangerously near death, and having the blood on his hands. Or the unknown soldier from the truck before the assault. Knowing there was a wife and child out there who learned that someone they loved wasn't coming home. It was too much for Damien. The reality was too real.

"Never mind," said Davis, seeing the saddened look on Damien's face.

There was a moment of silence before the radio clicked on again. "Ten, fifty-six, A. North 5thAvenue... Ten, four."

"I couldn't imagine, Damien. You know, being out there in Europe. It must make New York look like a safe haven."

"No argument about that. At least I can see my wife. I can see my family."

"Amen to that. It makes me feel... kind of silly about my home life. My wife and I argue sometimes. Not too often. Plus, it's not even over anything big. It's always over stupid, small shit. Then I think of someone like you. You spent time overseas, a stranger in a strange land, being shot at from all angles on a daily basis. And here I am, safe at home, arguing about television shows and who drove the car last and who forgot to put gas in it. It seems so goddamn pathetic if you think about it like that."

"You should do something for her. Take her out, have fun. Let her know you still love her."

"I do. And you know, you're right. I should. Thanks for the advice, Doctor Love."

"Ten, sixty-six. 722 Armstrong Boulevard."

"We're really close to that," said Davis. He picked up the radio, "This is Officer Davis, responding to Ten, Sixty-six."

"Ten, four."

A Ten, Sixty-six was a suspicious person. Normally just drug dealers or it could be nothing at all.

Pulling up to the scene, it was clear something has gone wrong there. No one was around, but the front door of the building of the address they were given was busted open.

"Breaking and entering?" asked Damien.

"Looks likely. I'll radio it in."

Damien and Clarence moved towards the open door, guns drawn and at the ready. The building was a house. Inside of the door was a living room. Besides from the shattered remains of the door and its frame scattered around the floor, nothing seemed to be out of place. The flickering light of the TV was the only thing illuminating the room.

"Keep your guard up," said Davis. "This is the police! Anyone here?" he yelled. There was no response.

The two officers moved further into the home. Damien peered into the kitchen. Aside from being unusually empty for a kitchen, in terms of dishes and glassware, nothing seemed out of the ordinary.

"Is there anyone here?!" yelled Officer Davis again. This time, a noise came from upstairs. It sounded as if something fell and hit the floor. Davis and Cole looked at each other in shock. They ran to the stairs and began ascending to the second floor of the building. The steps were old and creaked as they stepped up. The only light coming from upstairs was from one room down at the end of the hallway. Some quiet noises came from the room, almost sounding like whispers. Moving swiftly, Cole and Davis moved towards the room, aimed their guns in, ready for anything.

Looking back at them was a masked man with a handgun pointed at another man's head. The hostage was a middle-aged dog, Border collie possibly. He was being held in a choke-hold by the masked man, who held a silver gun to the dog's temple, threatening to shoot. The criminal looked directly at Officer Davis.

"Police! Drop your weapon!" screamed Davis.

"I'll kill him, I swear to God," said the suspect.

"I'm not going to ask you again, drop the damn weapon!"

"Fuck off! I'm not going back."

Damien held his gun steady. He was the best shot in police academy. He felt confident he could take drastic action if the situation wasn't resolved peacefully. The culprit was dressed from head to toe in black. If it weren't for the light in the room, he could move like a shadow.

"You got nowhere to go. So fucking drop it!" demanded Davis, but the masked man wasn't having it. He stood strong. The dog began struggling in the suspect's arm.

Damien, wanted to move over a few inches to try to get a better shot. The dog was moving around too much for a good, clean shot. Damien figured if he moved, the suspect could protect himself from either a shot from Damien or from Clarence, but not from both. One of them could get a decent shot.

Damien took his first step, and the gunman's attention was immediately shifted to Damien for the first time. The gunman moved his gun from the dog's head to Damien. Damien prepared himself, ready to fire, but the suspect softened his grip on his own gun. They stared at each other for a brief moment. The masked man's eyes widened, "It's you."

Damien and Clarence glanced at each other, both sharing the same look of confusion.

"What are you talking about?" asked Damien in an authoritative tone. The gunman didn't answer. Instead he lowered his gun, dropping it onto the floor, and releasing his grip on the dog's throat. The dog stumbled away, coughing, but unharmed for the most part. The suspect then put both of his hands in the air, surrendering himself. Davis moved in, gun still aimed, ready for anything, but the suspect gave up without any more resistance.

Once the handcuffs were in place, Davis removed the mask obscuring the man's face. What was revealed was a raccoon, probably around Clarence's age.

Davis said jokingly, "Then what was the point of the mask then?"

Damien rolled his eyes at the potentially offensive joke.

"What?" Shrugged Davis, "I thought it was funny."

"And highly original I assure you," commented the raccoon.

Back in the police cruiser, Davis radioed in that they had the man in custody and that they were bringing him in. Damien always dreaded riding in the car with an arrested man in the back. It usually entails constant shouting, complaining, and arguing that they are innocent. But the raccoon was different. Sitting in silent, going as far as to refuse to give them a name. He had no kind of identification on him, so until they got to the station, he was unknown.

One thing bothered Damien. It was the way the culprit looked a Damien. The way his eyes widened, almost as if he was afraid. The way he said 'it's you' as if he knew him. But Damien swears he has never seen the raccoon before in his life.

Back at the station, the processing procedure is like any other. Question and personal accounts of everyone involved was recorded. Damien was standing outside of an interrogation room where the raccoon was being asked about his side of the story. The detective in charge of the questioning exited the interrogation room, leaving the door cracked, and approached Damien after all parties were thoroughly consulted with.

"Officer Cole? I'm Detective Garvey," said the detective. He was an old Irish wolfhound.

"Yes. Did you get anything out of the raccoon?"

"He's a stubborn one. I got his name, though. Seth Dolon. He's been arrested before. A cat burglar... figuratively speaking, of course. He used to run a pretty successful crime organization here in the city. Successful, maybe even if short lived."

"Do you think this was a robbery gone wrong?"

"It's too early to say. Nothing was taken from the victim's home. Nothing moved, nothing bumped, nothing even breathed on as far as we can tell. So far, the only thing we have to go on is attempted murder. But even then, we don't have a motive or anything yet. There may be some reason to believe he is working for someone else, but like I said, he's stubborn as hell. Of course, we'll keep looking into it, Officer Cole. It's late; near the end of your shift. Go home for the night, Damien. Get some sleep. Thank you for your help."

Damien was unsatisfied and had to muster up an artificial, "Yeah. Thank you, detective," and shook the wolfhound's hand. The detective walked away, back down the corridor towards where the offices where many other detectives were located.

"It's you." That's all Damien could think about. He was hoping he could find answers during the booking or initial questioning process, but instead left more blank answers than completed ones. He paced back and forth, wanting reason but was denied so intently. Cold, white light spilled out of the interrogation room. 'The door,' Damien thought, 'Garvey didn't close it.' This was his chance. He wasn't a detective and he wasn't sure if he was allowed to do this, but he felt as if he needed to. He entered the room. The raccoon, apparently named Seth, sat chained in his chair. With the bright lighting in the room, Damien got his first good full look at the raccoon. He was a skinny, little man, probably very light on his feet. He looked to be in his thirties possibly. His brown fur was messy, and even with the black mask surrounding his eyes, Damien can see he's suffering from lack of sleep. His long, ringed tail hung down to the floor, almost lifeless. Dolon himself had his arms stretched out onto the table, his hands in fists, cuffed together, and his head hanging low. He resembled a trapped, wild beast. Once a free soul, now confined to the shadowless room he was condemned to.

"Seth, can I have a word?" asked Damien.

"Sure. Not like I much else to do or anywhere else left to go," he responded sarcastically.

Damien closed the door and leaned on the table. "Who are you?"

"You know who I am."

"I know your name. I don't know how you know me... and why you gave yourself up when you saw me?"

The raccoon shrugged, "We all do things we can't explain."

"So, what? I doubt it was my charm that made you give up. You seemed dead set on a stand-off, until you looked at me. You said 'it's you.' So let's cut the shit, and you tell me how you know me."

The raccoon looked up at Damien with a shit-faced, smug smile on his face that made Damien want to lash out at him. "I know you well, Damien. We all do."

"We?"

Seth broke eye contact, looking back towards the ground. Damien slammed his hands against the table, causing the raccoon to jump, "Who do you work for?!"

"I can't tell you."

"Why the hell not?"

The raccoon shook his head, but refused to answer.

"Tell me!"

"They'll kill me..." he finally admitted.

Damien's rage left his body. Whatever he can't say can put his life at risk if he releases information. The problem was more than Damien initially thought.

The door to the interrogation room sprang open, and the wolfhound came in. "Damien?" he said in surprise, "I'd thought you had left."

Damien found relief in the fact that he wasn't in trouble for being there, but the expression on the old wolfhound's face didn't say that he was particularly welcome either, or at least not without someone else knowing it. Without saying another word, Detective Garvey walked over to the other side of the table, grabbing Seth by the arm, bringing him to his feet. Garvey began escorting the raccoon out of the interrogation room. That's when the raccoon said something that struck Damien like a punch.

"Hey, Damien... Keep an eye out for you wife, okay? Keep her safe."