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Chapter Text

The whisky burned as it went down her throat. Tangle never liked the taste, made exponentially worse by the twenty questions she had to play with the bartender. The simple request of ‘One whisky shot’ inevitably became: single malt or blended? Aytland, United Federation or Silirican? Peaty? Light or full bodied? Chaos, did she look as if she cared?! Just get her the damn drink!

She wouldn’t put it past the tender to try and upsell her either. The best word to describe the bar she frequented was… skeevy, to say the least. Cracked tiles and a low-hanging roof, heavy metal speakers and pool tables covered in smog. Oh, yes; only the best for Tangle. Most patrons came from the criminal fold; flaunting their gold chains, wife-beaters and biker rep without fear of police repercussions. The typical ‘generic goon’ attire. A lit cigarette dangled from every mouth, and the fire alarm had been disabled with a strategic piece of masking tape. Such was life at ‘The Girder and Mallet’; welcoming only to the unwelcoming.

It was a small luxury that Tangle considered herself right at home in this den of depravity and illegality. She’d seen it all; only twenty-five years old, and yet she felt so much older. The past decade hadn’t been kind to her. Bags hung under her eyes, which lost their amethyst sheen long ago, and the pompadour she once proudly wore had now been slicked back into a greasy mullet.  The signature sports gear was traded in for a dusty bomber jacket and cargo pants, giving the impression of a veteran kicked to the curb. In some cosmic sense, she was . The Restoration slowly went defunct ten years ago without an Eggman to fight. Tangle wasn’t there to see his demise, but felt the aftermath like a backhand to the face. She left not too soon after. After all, she didn’t really have a reason to stay. Jewel had resigned in disgrace, strike one. Lanolin was forced to retire from active duty, strike two. And Whisper?

Tangle took a deep swig from her beverage. It pricked at the cockles of her heart… Whisper might as well be dead to her.

Everything that had made Tangle Tangle - a bouncy ball of optimism that would not sit still - had died with the sting of that betrayal. Her tail was limp and sedentary, draped across the floor where it at one time might’ve been curling its friends into a squeezey hug. But the shock, given way to utter despair, of that day yielded a hardened, lonely lemur. Hopeful Tangle was a distant memory, someone that Disillusioned and Wiser with Age Tangle could confidently call a bright-eyed idiot. She saw things much clearer now than her younger self ever did.

The question of why exactly she spent her time in a dingy dive bar, found within a run-down district of Central City, had long since stopped percolating around her mind. It certainly wasn’t for the sterling company and bohemian vibes, ninety-five percent of the room had definitely killed someone (the thought of which always made Tangle shudder). Rather, the booze was cheap and the atmosphere matched her own demeanour just fine. Dark, sullen and borderline criminal. The lemur counted her blessings that her sense of justice hadn’t quite given up the ghost yet. Had it been battered? Absolutely. Was it limping along like a fox with a broken leg? No doubt. But did it deserve an Old Yellering? No. Tangle wasn’t ready to let it go yet.

A oxidised bell coughed out a dull jingle as the entrance door heaved itself open. The silence that reverberated across the floor gave Tangle enough pause to wonder why this place even had a doorbell in the first place. Hovering in the frame was a teenager, who clutched at a leather satchel with the words ‘Just Being a Bee’ embroidered onto it. The insect dropped onto the grungy floor and nervously shuffled into the open space, rubbing at his hair fuzz whilst his antennas twisted into interesting shapes.

“S’up fellas?” he managed to stammer out, shifting his gaze from one staring thug to another. Sweat beaded his forehead, Tangle rolling her eyes as she swivelled her barstool to the young man’s direction.

“Charmy. Over here.” she called, swinging an arm back around with a twofold ‘get your ass over here’ and ‘stop exposing me, dumb-dumb’ gesture. Charmy’s expression lit up as he scurried onto the seat next to her, his bag pressed tightly to his chest. Tangle studied this older version of someone she only knew as a child: still baby-faced, how cute, but obviously out of his element. She hung her tail over his shoulder defensively - sending out a very simple message to the patrons: off-limits . The hub-bub conversation and the clacking of snooker balls began to rise once again, and a sigh of relief escaped from her throat. After settling, Tangle threw a rare half-smile towards Charmy. “How’re you doing, kid?”

“I’m good! Sophomore year is kicking my butt a bit… and Vector still expects me to man the telephone in the evening. Can you imagine trying to do algebra while also having some geriatric whining about their missing garden gnome? X equals ‘I do not care’!” The lemur snorted at the comment. Gaia, this kid was precocious.

“Vector and Espio okay?”

“They’re away on some murder mystery cruise.” What ? Tangle opened her mouth to inquire further- “Don’t ask.” The mouth closed again. “But less about the Chaotix, we’re fine - chugging along.” Charmy waved a hand dismissively, trying to act cool and ‘adult’ but coming across more so a sixteen-year old’s skewed imitation.

“Still in debt?” Tangle asked, knowing the answer already.

“Whadda you think?” The bee said with a sarcastic huff and a grumpy batter of wings. “I’m never going to college.” Instead of sulking over his lack of educational prospects, Charmy rummaged about his satchel, flipping brown portfolios and photo-albums onto the bar surface. “How about yourself? I gotta say I didn’t expect to get a message from you of all people. With the disappearance and Jewel shrugging her shoulders, we kinda assumed…” He stopped his drabble, fidgeting with a paper corner. “It was nice to hear from you again. I wish you kept in touch with us.”

Tangle caught a twitch, despite the slight stab of panic that suddenly found itself skewering in her stomach. Reminiscing could’ve been fun, but she didn’t drag Charmy into her favourite (dangerous) bar just to socialise. After all, he was underage. His guardians would murder her.

“Please tell me you didn’t show Vector and Espio my note?” Tangle gripped at the whisky in her palm. Charmy’s hands flew up instantly.

“No no! I stealth printed like a pro! I even bought replacement ink so the guys wouldn’t suspect anything.” He tapped the stack of documents proudly; his own personal victory. “So you owe me two days worth of kitchen porter wages… but as for the files you asked for? No problemo!” The harshness in the lemur’s gaze dropped away as she ruffled his hair, big sister style. The kid came through after all!

“Nice! You’re the best little dude!” Her grin remained infectious in spite of the abuse it had been put through, Charmy couldn’t help but match it.

“I think this is cause enough for a lil’ something… BARTENDER!” …Maybe the grin was a bit too infectious. Before Tangle could pull the teenager’s arm away, he’d already summoned said bartender. A surly bison with biceps that tore at his shirt sleeves leant towards the boy, huffing smoke into his face. Luckily, it wasn’t insecticide, so Charmy remained undeterred, coolly jabbing the side of Tangle’s bomber jacket. “I’ll have what she’s having.” The older woman choked.

“No, you ain’t!” Tangle cried out with a loose laugh.

The bison, ironically known as Marshmallow on account of his cuddliness, scowled at the duo.

“What are you, his Mom? If he wants it, and pays for it, then he can have it. I don’t care- Hell, he might even enjoy it more than you. I see how you grimace after every sip.” His voice had been raked over the coals of a thousand cigars. Tangle pointedly thrusted a finger towards her whisky. 

“I drink this for strategic reasons. Not for pleasure.”

“Clearly, else you’d smile more. Miserable bint.” Excuse you ? Tangle bristled, unconsciously squeezing her tail around Charmy’s neck. He shrank into the knot, managing a muffled ‘forget it’ as bison and lemur, two of nature’s greatest foes, growled at each other lockstep.

It was Marshmallow who broke away first. “I’m messing with ya, Tangle. You can’t be a Mommy since everyone knows ya munch on-” He paused to survey the stacks of paper on his bar. “That looks official.” Charmy poked his head back out, seemingly in preparation of saying something stupid.

And say something stupid he did.

“Nah, big man. These are files, police docs. On some greasy shyster named Scald. Ever heard of him?” Charmy blurted out without any tact. He turned and winked at Tangle… smooth as shag rug.

“Are you cops?” If there was any word that freaked out a Girder and Mallet frequenter, it was cop . The hub-bub faded back into tense whispers. A tiny CLICK pricked at Tangle’s ears. She hoped it was only poker chips.

“He’s a private detective doing me a solid.” Her hand pulled Charmy in close, instinctively shielding him. “Scald owes me money.” Marshmallow’s yellow, crusty irises peered through leathery lids.

“This kid is barely out of diapers, and Scald owes everyone money.” the bovine murmured, before he bursted out laughing. Tangle’s stranglehold on Charmy loosened, allowing the bee to breathe again. She’d tell him off later… after beating herself up for plopping him directly into the frying pan. Why didn’t she choose a nice cafe again? “Which means you got scammed lemur!” Marshmallow continued to guffaw as he poured out another whisky on the rocks. Plunking it down in front of Charmy, he nodded at him like a sage master. “Nice grift, bee boy. It’s on the house.”

With a casual swagger that betrayed the fact he was fully prepared to shank a teen, Marshmallow strolled away, hiccuping out wheezy chuckles, and leaving the establishment to go back to business once again. Charmy had already hoisted his hard-earned drink in the air. 

“Cheers!” Tangle face was a picture mix of exasperation and exhaustion, reminded as to why she cut contact with most of the old Restoration crew. Once, she might’ve saw herself in Charmy’s recklessness. Maybe even joined him with loosie-goose shenanigans that’d make Lanolin cringe and Whisper smile… but what use did that ever serve? Truly? All she remembered was a happy-go-lucky girl who didn’t know how good she had it until everything came crumbling down and left her with nothing.

Charmy still had his whisky in the air, staring expectantly at Tangle and silently asking for permission to make a dumb decision; something she was too acquainted with. Being the responsible adult, she reasoned, would perhaps demonstrate to the kid how much of dolt she used to be, and encourage him to not blurt out confidential information, or down double strength alcohol (the bee was still stout and not liquor built). Tangle was seconds away from confiscating the whisky, when she spied the crooked photograph of a red, gnarled lobster – Scald – poking its head out of the pile. She’d see him very soon, and there was nothing responsible about her intentions.

So instead, Tangle clinked her glass against Charmy’s. Permission granted to make dumb decisions.

“Cheers, you numbskull.” she breathed. “Don’t drink it all at once.” 

After bundling Charmy into a taxi and paying the cabby’s fare, Tangle set off down the streets of Central City. One whisky was enough to knock the bee to the ground, and she could only keep her fingers crossed that he didn’t end up painting the backseats with his vomit. Whatever, he wasn’t her problem now, and she was glad he wouldn’t be either present, or sober, enough to witness what came next. As nice as it was to catch up, she had business to attend to.

The documents detailed which locales Scald the Slipper (Lobster, but he ditched that for the alliteration) conducted his business at. In truth, he didn’t owe Tangle money. He was a street peddler and dealer, someone whom rumours from the grapevine told her had connects up to the hilt. Enough to bust this elusive gang out into the open. She’d seen it around her; wisps going missing, increased gun homicides, new designer drugs ripping their way through the underworld, and if there was one thing that Tangle never lost was the desire to help where she could.

It's only that her methodology had changed. No more punches were being pulled.

Turning a right, she stomped her way down a messy intersection. Crappy clunker cars with loud exhausts roared past her. To a normal person, the slouching concrete and flickering street lamps would be enough warning to get the hell out of dodge, but what was self-preservation but cowardice anyway? Tangle shoved past a duo of skells, ignoring their vile barbs and sexist remarks. If she had a dollar for every time someone threatened to rip off her tail, she would be a philanthropist who wouldn’t have to deal with such garbage.

Tangle parsed through what else she had learnt about Scald (throughout Charmy’s inane chatter about the Great Garden Gnome Escapade). The guy loved his toys – wielded two glammed up EggTech revolvers, which meant he was a flashy douchebag with no practical sense. Had a business card, ‘Want a Hitter, Call the Slipper!’. Puke. The wrinkle that gave her pause was his species. Slipper Lobsters were compact and armoured, and the prior convictions that Charmy managed to dig up were for assault, brawling and battery. Clearly, she was dealing with a gentleman and a scholar. Held up in a dirty motel, always… always in room number one. Because of course he would be.

The lemur pulled her bomber jacket against a cold breeze. Her fur was once fluffy and warm, but poor hygiene, and a lack of anybody to show it off to, left it matted and flat. The whisky was doing its job enough, she was numb to the worst of the chill.

“There you are.” she stammered through chapped lips. Before her was the motel, built into the side of a high-rise and appearing particularly uninviting. The sort of place no-one would want to stay, perfect for illicit dealings. Tangle had walked past the dump many times, on other ‘missions’, and it humoured her that its Chekhov moment had finally arrived.

As per her ritual, she wrapped her fists in bandages. They weren’t new ones either, painted with flecks of red, but they served as both a badge of honour, and a warning. Next came the black balaclava to hide her identity. Tangle wasn’t having any blowback coming her way, and she’d avoided the worst of it before. Whisper always said she wanted to give Tangle her own mask. It only came ten, regret-filled years too late. The final piece was a bent-up crowbar that fit snugly in her tail’s grasp. Her own macgyvered iteration of the brass knuckle, and damn if it wasn’t effective. A couple tightenings here and a collar pop later, she was ready to go.

The door was busted through with little fanfare, Tangle picking her way over broken glass and patchy ceramic flooring. The doe receptionist barely registered her presence, too enthralled in a pulpy romance novel to care about the destruction before her.

“Room one?” Tangle demanded, dinging the bell for emphasis (and not because she liked dinging the bell, that’d be silly for a vigilante like her). The receptionist blew a loose strand out of her vision and pointed down a corridor, still ogling at metaphorical abs in the form of prose. Good enough. Tangle left her to her debauchery.

She paced her way through darkened hallways, listening for any creak of danger. The motel reeked of dank water damage, evident by the conspicuous black stains littering the carpet. Besides the drip, drip, drip of the ceiling leakage… it was silent.

Her wraps dug into her palms. She’d done them up too tight, and they cut with each of her flexes of preparation. Room one crept towards her, only signified by its distinct lack of a designating number. Someone had pilfered the ‘1’, and it didn’t take a genius to figure out who. Finally, noise, faint and deafened, found its way to her ears. Dull thuds, clicks and… two voices. Tangle smirked; Charmy’s intel was dead on the money.

“And the serial number?” one said, higher and warbly. Nervous. A coarse snicker echoed whilst Tangle pressed her head into the side of the door. It was damp.

“Serial number?! Sweetheart, the reason you buy from me and not a wispon dealer is the absence of those annoying governmental overreaches.” This guy was much more self-assured, the clacks of mandibles giving away his identity. Scald the Slipper, in the flesh (shell?). “Nobody is gonna pull you up on this. So, do you want it or not?”

“Seems a lot for a pea-shooter.” Then came a lull in the conversation, followed by a sharp thump. “Sorry! I’m sorry! I’ll take it.” Tangle snaked her hand around the handle, jiggling it minutely. Locked! Damn… but Scald kept taking an aggressive sales pitch regardless.

“And the wisp?” Tangle froze… the scumbag had a wisp with him! The bandages cut even deeper when she balled her hands into fists. “You’ll need the ammo. I’ll throw it in at half-price since I’m such a nice guy.” 

Taking a couple steps back, Tangle pivoted herself, winching up her tail like a trebuchet. She sucked in a breath, held it true, let her muscles tense… and released a battering ram.

Her makeshift metal sleeve punctured through the wood as if it was styrofoam. Splinters and detritus scattered across the dingy room, dust billowing out and hazing the air. A cyan glow emitted from the bedside, a wisp cowering inside of a capsule. The occupants spun and ducked as Tangle launched herself off the frame and into the fray.

Scald scrambled to his feet. The lobster’s excessive amount of jewellery jangled as he made a mad-grab for his pistol holster. Meanwhile, the customer, a scrawny magpie woman, threw herself under a pillow in a pitiful attempt at ‘if I can’t see it, it isn’t happening’. Tangle opted to thrust a boot into the woman’s beak. It forced the bird back and smashed her head through a vintage television. Crunch.

BANG! Some motel art exploded into a million shards of glass, Scald rattling off a wild flurry of bullets. Tangle dived behind the bed. She could see the golden glint of his revolvers beyond the muzzle flashes as she shuffled and spun herself into a more advantageous position. Blessedly, Scald fancied himself a trick-shot, he was spinning his fingers around the trigger with every squeeze. The lemur tutted to herself. Gangsters were so predictable.

“Could’ve at least knocked!” Scald joked… Oh, so he considered himself a comedian too? Well, it seemed only fitting that she delivered a punchline… except maybe after the guns stopped tearing up the bed linen. The guy had terrible aim.

CLICK, CLICK, CLICK. Out of bullets. Now!

Tangle launched her tail out as the thug flicked his chambers out, spent casings rattling. The crowbar pistoned into a white splash of carapace that coated Scald’s facial shell - the origin of his namesake, Tangle supposed. It made a superb target. The impact was swift, whipping the lobster neck out violently. She continued her assault, the metal slugging into his stomach and then swiveling itself into an uppercut. Each blow yielded a crack of red crust.

The revolvers went skimming out of Scald’s hand, Tangle closing the distance and wrapping an arm around his neck. No amnesty was to be found as she repeatedly jabbed him in his mug, only to throw him into a wall once she got bored of the pummeling. A textbook clothesline was dished out on the rebound, the crustacean being flung off his feet like he tripped on the marbles he  lacked.

The wisp stared in horrified awe. Its saviour continued the beat-down, Scald already having lost the fight the minute Tangle had burst onto the scene. A kick to the neck sent him reeling. A stomp to his chest snapped some more exoskeleton off. The lemur hoisted him up by the scruff of his football jacket, the white ‘L’ on the lapel proving too humorous to ignore. She snorted once, before clouting his head into the bed-stand. He flumped to the ground, revealing his jersey number was ‘1’. 

Tangle rubbed her wrist, exhaling harshly, letting the adrenaline drain out of her body. The magpie was writhing and moaning to herself, a complete non-threat. Scald was out cold. That was fine, she could wait - she went easy on the jagoff. Of course, there came the question of any reinforcements coming her way, but she found herself in such a crime ridden part of town that gunshots might’ve well been part of the day to day soundtrack.

Three wispon pistols were spread across the bed, which had now been riddled with holes and fluff. Tangle picked one up to study. Standard, boilerplate affair; a bang average pistol make. Serial number filed off… and a crystal cartridge? She held the casing up to the light. A miniature wisp capsule of some kind? By the way the cyan wisp shrunk away from it, it clearly wasn’t a friendly invention… Oh right! The wisp.

Parceling the cartridge away for future investigation, Tangle bapped the poor thing’s cage, freeing it at last. The lemur took a pensive step towards the wisp. It was shivering in fear. Her heart broke for it, and she wasn’t completely without empathy, reaching out in an attempt to comfort it. It recoiled away from her outstretched hand. Ouch . Emotional gut-punch. Before she could even say a word, it flew out the room without a second of hesitation. She scoffed. Ungrateful.

A groan of pain bubbled out beneath her. Scald had rolled onto his back, blinking at the fluorescents. Now that he wasn’t trying to kill her, Tangle finally got a decent look at the fellow. His shell overhung his eyes, giving him a sunken, dishevelled aura - completely at odds with his braggadocio and the audaciously ‘I peaked in high school’ fashion sense. The white mark on his face reminded Tangle of vitiligo, or rather suggested that this was the one part of his face that hadn’t been boiled by an angry chef. Either way, dude was compensating big time for his crooked teeth or the creepy mandibles; one of the two… or even both.

“You’re crazy!” he managed to wheeze out. “Agh… y’shattered my carapace, damn it! What the hell is wrong with you?!” Tangle gave him nothing, only pressing one of her boots to his chest. It gave slightly with a crackle.

“Doesn’t your kind molt? I just expedited the process.” she growled, applying a bit more pressure. “Whatever, you’ll be fine. And I don’t have to explain myself to scumbags like you - hurting an innocent creature like that.” Scald winced even harder, making a feeble reach for his pistols. Tangle chuckled. “That’s not gonna help, you moron.”

“I can still smack you… with it.” Scald was struggling to breathe. Good. Let him struggle. Though… it did put a time limit on her interrogation; better get it over with before he conked out again. Tangle shoved her foot down harshly. There was a crunch. The crustacean screamed, and Tangle tried not to let the piercing howl deter her.

“Who’s your supplier? Answer quickly and maybe I’ll stop.” If only Jewel could see her now. She’d be appalled.

“Guy named Hoyt, horseshoe crab, dresses like a gimp!” the lobster cried out. A name, that’s a start! A description too; she must be skilled at this interrogation thing.  Still, Tangle wasn’t done.

“Where do you meet?”

“A construction site -   Westward Avenue, can’t miss it! Nine o’clock sharp- every Friday! Ow, OW -  That’s it, I swear.” The lemur mulled the information over, still keeping her boot pinned to his chest. It seemed to check out. Scald gave one last weak gasp. “ PLEASE STOP! ”

Tangle relinquished the misery, allowing Scald to curl up into a ball, coughing and heaving. The bravado had been wrenched out of him, and he twitched and steamed as if he’d just been saved from the boiling pot… She did that.

“Thanks.” Tangle spat out. It was all she could say. A lump had formed in her throat, choking her swallow. She grabbed one of her hands to stop it from shaking. Her heart beated at a heightened pace, and tears pricked at the corner of her eyes. She turned away from Scald. He didn’t deserve the luxury of her weakness.

Scumbags deserve no mercy; that was her mantra. She sucked in the shakes and doubts, and hardened herself once again.

Perhaps this was how Whisper felt. Maybe they were meant for each-other after all.

Taking a landline phone, Tangle punched in 911 and left the receiver dangling; another part of her crime-fighting process. She did the heavy lifting, and the police could sort out the aftermath, if they even cared enough to show up. That wasn’t something to dwell on. She got what she needed, and Scald wouldn’t be selling again anytime soon.

The vigilante unwrapped her bandages. A job well done. Whoever this ‘Hoyt’ was, he was next on her hit list.

Chapter Text

The wheel of enterprise was beginning to wind down; the typical end to a typical tycoon’s day. Strutting through the sleek corridors of her penthouse office - a slick, besuited kingsnake was besieged by her various associates. She paid very little attention to each of their grovelling, remaining fixated on pushing forward – treading the ever-unending march of big business.

“Ms. Règne, we’re trading at an all time high!” She already knew that; she ushered it in after all.

“Ms. Règne, the shareholders of Serra Co. have agreed to sell to us. Monopoly here we come!” Yes, yes. She was in that meeting too.

Règne the Kingsnake had become the epitome of a cut-throat career gal. As the youngest CFO in the corporation’s history, she’d already righted the sinking ship within the first month of her appointment. Some fat had to be trimmed; people fired, social care cut, but hey: into each life a little rain must fall. Règne didn’t concern herself with the piddling troubles of the worker bees; the reason why Gaia put her on the planet was to make money, and make money she shall.

Her lawyer was waiting outside her office, a bespeckled weasel of a man. After throwing a hand to dismiss her posse, finally giving her some breathing space, Règne waltzed up to him with an expectant glare.

“I trust it’s good news?” she spat. Despite the fact her species wasn’t venomous, Règne made up for it with a harsh turn of phrase. Her lawyer readjusted his glasses, nodding once concisely.

“Yes. They’ve agreed to drop the suit.” Règne pinched her brow in relief.

“Thank Gaia. Those bleeding hearts were starting to get on my nerves; I thought they’d never shut up. It was the smear campaign, wasn’t it? I knew it’d be too expensive to whack that many moles.” she said, flashing blunt fangs. She stood next to an expansive glass pane that covered the entire wall. From there, Règne could see the entirety of Westopolis, remembering how she once swore that the night skyline would one day be hers alone to enjoy. The lawyer simply sniffed, dragging her back to the present.

“Smear is a strong word. I prefer prudent truth. Regardless, you’ve won. The Hengemens won’t be haranguing you again.”

“Fantastic. Here’s hoping that they’ll crawl back under whatever rock they slithered out from.” Règne spun on her high-heels, bluntly signalling that the conversation was over. However, before she ducked back into her top-floor office (with doors that reached the ceiling – a testament to her humility), she paused. “Want to join me for a celebratory glass of wine?” Règne’s smile split her scarlet scaled face wide. It sent shivers down the lawyer’s neck.

“No thank you, ma’am.” The snake’s face crashed back down to earth, sneering like a spurned lover.

“Suit yourself. See you next Thursday.” Règne put one foot through her door, causing a canine ear to flick in the dark. “Oh. And if that union isn’t dead and buried by the time we speak again… don’t bother showing up.”

The door slammed with finality, cutting out the hustle and bustle of the office for still, quiet silence. This was her sanctuary on top of the world – lit only by the moonlight filtering through another unnecessarily large window. Règne sighed to herself, inhaling through her slitted nostrils and releasing with a hiss of fatigue. Her heels were kicked off at the doorway, left unattended as she selected a nice, vintage red wine from Spagonia. So enthralled by the expensive label, she didn’t notice the svelte shadow that lurked in the far corner; pouring out her hard-earned glass was all that mattered to the reptile. Not even a cyan visor, lighting up a menacing silhouette, could distract her.

The wine was smooth and fruity, just how she liked it. Now to answer some emails, and she could go home-

Suddenly the room was illuminated, her corner lamp flicking itself on with a snap. Règne froze mid-swivel chair, glass in hand. Sat in her little schmoozing corner wasn’t a shareholder, or a swanky mate, or a politician she lobbied for. Instead, there was a wolf, clad in black and grey special op gear, with brutally compact ballistic weaponry strapped to her thighs, chest and arms – wearing what could only be described as a techno-outfitted combat mask. It reminded Règne of some of her products… only this was much more threatening and jagged. She couldn’t see the canine’s eyes behind the featureless metal plating: by all means, they could’ve been a ghost. It was only because of their brown tail, dangling lifelessly, that their organic status was given away.

Règne’s eyes drifted lower, and upon seeing what was held in their gloved grip… her cold blood dropped to frigidity. 

A silenced pistol. Pointed directly at her.

“H’lo.” The figure finally spoke. Règne guessed she was a female by the soft tones, but she sounded so dead and soulless. The snake tried to steady the shakes that ravaged her body, gingerly placing her glass on her desk and tenting her fingers together.

“W-who the hell are you?” She attempted to wrench some control back from the wolf, however the quiver in her voice betrayed her unease. The gunman remained statue still, though the silencer glinted in the lamp’s luminance. What was usually a comforting glow had become stark and flat.

“Harbinger.” The intruder said succinctly, standing up. The pistol remained glued to her hip. Staring at the metal piece, Règne licked her forked tongue across dry lips. The smell of death singed its tip. “My employer wanted me to relay a message to you.”

“Oh yeah?”

“Remember Josie.”

Josie? Règne wracked her brain trying to recall a ‘Josie’. Nobody sprang to mind, despite the pressure. She didn’t know what was more piercing - the barrel or the woman’s invisible gaze. Règne couldn’t meet her eye, her vision floating lower and lower.

“I d-don’t know who that is.” she stammered. The masked canine took another step forward, robotic and rigid.

“Yes. You do.”

Règne stopped lowering her head, vertigo swooning around her bare feet. A yellow blur invaded her field of view, and when she refocused, her heart almost leapt for joy - she had her panic button! Who knew that would pay dividends? Règne almost cried, but that’d be unbecoming of her status.

The kingsnake challenged her aggressor once again, slithering a hand around the button and staring her down. The power had shifted; Règne was bulletproof.

“Illuminate me.” An edge of cockiness had snuck back into Règne’s tone. The figure lowered the pistol, and Règne felt the itch on her forehead melt away. How the tables turn when you’re rich and charismatic. She had to stifle a smirk whilst the assassin answered her.

“Someone who is missed. Someone who was crushed to death in your warehouse. A warehouse that you made dangerous, and couldn’t even bring yourself to care.”

Oh… that Josie. Josie Hengemen. Règne cruelly scoffed.

“That was her fault.”

“She couldn’t see anything. You refused to fix the lights.”

“Then she should’ve picked a different line of work.” Règne snapped. No reaction from the wolf, barring a finger tapping at the pistol chamber.

“Eighteen years old.”

“Accidents happen everyday. I’m not shedding any tears.” Règne sipped her wine, swirled it around her mouth, and swallowed; taking all the time in the world. “Look, I saved us four hundred thousand. I’m not apologising for doing my job, nor should Ms. Hengemen - thoughts and prayers - be revered for being crap at hers.”

The assassin raised her pistol again, and the snake didn’t even care. That dog was doomed.

“Her family disagrees. They send their regards.”

Her family? How pathetic; unable to win at a lawsuit so they send a hitman instead. The stench of desperation was thick and obvious. Enough was enough.

Règne yawned and tapped her panic button. Soon security would shoot down this threat.

And so she waited.

And waited.

…And waited.

Panic creeped its way back into Règne’s chest. Her breathing became shallower, when a sigh was emitted from behind the mask.

“That’s not going to work.” The shadowy gunman whispered. “I disabled the alarm.”

Règne’s smug expression fell away, as a maw of dread closed its way around her, squeezing her throat, stabbing a heart that was beginning to pound. 

“I-Uh… strike that.” the reptile stammered. Words failed her. Desperation forced a plea out. “Whatever they’re paying you… I’ll double it.”

Her harbinger shook her head, resigned. The gun remained steady, not a flinch or quiver diverting the aim. Règne felt as if a red hot iron had pressed itself in-between her eyes.

“A contract is a contract. I won’t break it.” the wolf murmured emphatically. Règne choked as bile came rushing up her throat.

“C’mon, don’t kill me on the behalf of those losers. Screw it, just for you, I’ll square your fee!” she begged, her nose wrinkling into a twisted snarl. Anger throbbed across her temples; this could not be how she went down. “Is this really how you wanna spend your evening?”

“I’m sorry. Not my call.” The canine clicked the safety of her pistol off. The clack rang throughout the grandiose, over-indulgent office. “Any last words?”

Règne swallowed some saliva, mustering one last barb.

“Listen, mongrel, you better not miss else I’ll-“

She didn’t get to finish her sentence before three bullets thudded into her chest. The snake tipped backwards, wine and paper flying everywhere, dead before she even hit the floor.

Whisper always tried to execute them when they least expected it. It was her minute form of mercy; if they were stewing over their last words, trying to make them poignant or meaningful, then they wouldn’t be thinking about the bullet coming their way for a precious few seconds. In that fleeting moment, she hoped they felt nothing but peace.

At least, that’s what she told herself. Better to try and delude herself into believing she was some kind of altruistic angel righting wrongs, rather than a hired gun who murdered for a living. It was a half-hearted attempt; Whisper had long stopped trying to justify herself. This was the path she chose. She could try and select her contracts; kill only the deserving, but regardless of intent, six figures still entered her bank account. That was the only empirical fact. 

The wolf had left Règne as she was. It came to be some dumb luck that the woman was such an obnoxious shrew that no-one would be entering that office unless invited in... by a corpse. That gave her six hours at least. 

It was a relatively textbook hit. Whisper had slipped by security with little fanfare, clambered fifty-two stories up the elevator shaft, and picked at the lock for a good fifteen seconds before she realised that it was already open. The hubris of her mark was outstanding, but nonetheless Whisper had made assassination into a science. Règne was never leaving the tower alive, not even if the skyscraper had become a castle surrounded by a moat, laser-grid and the finest private military money could buy. The canine didn’t have to change up her previous methods either – she only had to switch her modem to lethal.

An unmarked, black van trundled along the streets of Westopolis. The vehicle was her mobile base of operations, her means of locomotion, and her home. It seemed as if she was predestined to be a drifter. The only time she had ever set down any roots was when she lived at the Restoration… and she threw that away. Whisper shrugged off the bitter memory – she revealed herself as unsalvageable on that fateful day, despite how desperately she wanted to be the contrary. A monster like her didn’t deserve a place to call her own. That, and the law would catch up to her in an instant. Better to bounce from city to city, country to country, leaving a trail of bodies and broken dreams… than to ever face up to what she had become; no better than Mimic. The thought crushed her soul, and she could only thank whatever cruel higher powers existed that her fallen comrades weren’t around to see her debase herself. Even still, Mimic might still be out there – laughing at her. She lost track of him a decade ago, and even though he was the zeitgeist of all her problems, her hatred had long since burnt out. Whisper had resigned herself to an inscrutable truth: he was right in the end. 

She’d still shoot the bastard dead if given the chance. Tangle - poor, innocent Tangle – wouldn’t be there to pry her finger off the trigger. Whisper immediately pushed the lemur out of her thoughts; it hurt too much to ponder about what could’ve been. A future where  she could’ve been content, if not for her paranoid, miserable nature.

Whisper turned into a small enclave and parked the van beneath an underpass. Not a soul could be found; no homeless to shoo away. Tonight, she might actually get some sleep. Switching the engine off, the wolf demurely opened the side-door and landed on the wet concrete. The snaps and cricks of the hot mechanics blended in with the rushing crash of a sewer canal. Whisper peered over the edge at green, sickly water. This was exactly where she belonged, she supposed. ‘Environment dictates’ – that was something that Lanolin used to say. Just another nugget of under-appreciated wisdom that Whisper chose to ignore… opting instead to-

She tore open the back hinges and hopped into the van’s load space, her personal H.Q. It was a depressing affair. Stone grey colouring, matching her tactical gear, and characterless furnishings were brightened only by the glow of her computer system. She’d transformed the space into a portable Faraday cage so that no-one could track her signals, the resulting design being an example of mundane practicality. Whisper tugged at a nightshade switch, letting a small glimmer of orange subsume the electronic blues and greens.

Pulling back a hatch, the assassin was met with her gun rack; she’d amassed quite a collection over the years. Six different pistols, two submachine guns, an automatic shotgun (that she never used, too messy - but it was on sale), an assault rifle and a bolt action sniper rifle. She spun the silencer off the barrel of her pistol, setting it down in its own compartment, before unloading each weapon she had strapped to her person. It wasn’t necessary to carry so much firepower on a job – Whisper only fired three shots that night, and they found their target – but it was sounder to prepare for all eventualities; always planning for a situation where she’d turn from a picky, ethically conscious murderer, into an indiscriminate one. Lastly, she filed away her ammo neatly into boxes, and became officially ‘unarmed’. It was a pleasant state to be in, to not have instruments of death hanging off her person as if she was some unstoppable force of nature.

No, she was just a mercenary; and that was all she ever will be. The chance to change that slipped through her grasp entirely by her own worthless volition.

In the corner of the cupboard lay her Variable Wispon. It was caked in dust. A pang of guilt rang through her; the weapon demanded some long overdue tender loving care. So, she shut the sliding door and left the prototype to rot.

Her old mask hung over the desk, surrounded by profiles of past and future targets. Whisper wrote ‘DECEASED’ next to a picture of Règne the Kingsnake, exhaling through her nose. The act yielded no satisfaction. The air caught itself on the edge of her mask; she’d forgotten to remove it. Not a rare occurrence, sometimes it felt like a second skin to her. Peeling it off, she gave it a quick once-over. Whisper had copied Smithy’s schematics to the best of her ability, removing all flourishes until a blank slate of steel was left. It was worse than the original in every conceivable way, unfeeling and anonymous, but she couldn’t stand to use her old mask. Corrupting it from a symbol of hope and friendship into one of death and despair would’ve been a step too far; she might've well spat on her teammates’ graves. She placed the newer model on a podium, letting it charge. It was better to treat it as a bare necessity, since Whisper hated how it morphed her into a faceless wraith, striking nothing but terror into the hearts of her victims.

Next, she checked her bank statement. A transaction had come through, clearly washed through many different fronts and covers. Six hundred thousand, more money than Règne had even saved when she cut those corners to fatal effect. The irony was palpable, but Whisper felt nothing but a void. It all just seemed terribly sad.

She switched off the computer, the cold lighting disappearing. After checking that the doors were locked, and the perimeter was secured, she pulled off her boots. Her feet and hands ached from the long climb, so the flat camping bed was most welcome. Even then, Whisper made sure she picked the most uncomfortable option possible, to guarantee that a good night's sleep was nothing but a pipe dream. It was what she deserved.

With a click, she flicked off her nightshade and, for a brief moment, was cloaked in pitch blackness. The last thing she did, every night, was turn on the fairy lights that hung over her sleeping quarter. Five bulbs – orange, pink, green, cyan and dark blue – filled the lonely space with much needed colour. Whisper smiled at the comfort, a reminder of the friends that had long since left her. Not that she blamed them. Not one bit.

Slowly, she began to drift off to sleep, ignoring how a spring poked directly into her shoulder blade. Her occupation was exhausting, and though she tried her best to torture herself awake, unconsciousness was a form of respite for the canine. A special time where she wasn’t Whisper the Wolf, assassin. Instead, she was nothing. Guilt can’t penetrate oblivion.

The forces that be had other ideas. A burner phone, resting on her desk, intensely vibrated. The growling buzz snapped her back to attention, and she couldn’t help but stare daggers at the blasted thing. So much for oblivion. The wolf answered the call with disdain, and sat on the edge of her bed.

“Yes?”

The voice on the other end was crackly. To be expected, the signal was tangoing with her scramblers.

“Is this Whisper the Wolf? Otherwise known as the ‘Harbinger’?” Whisper dragged a hand over her snout, tracing the scars that littered her delicate features. She despised that nickname; it made her sound like a supervillain. Robotnik, Starline, Harbinger; she was reluctant to slot herself into such a pantheon. The caller coughed once, reminding Whisper she was waited on.

“Speaking.”

Through tinny fuzz, she swore she heard a fist-pump.

“Ah, lekker! My colleague wasn’t lying, you do exist. Howzit? The name’s Hoyt.” Whisper tutted to herself. Why so personable?

“Mr. Hoyt. How can I be of service?” Whisper said limply. She really didn’t want to be of service… and perhaps Hoyt could tell, snickering down the line.

“Service?! Oh-ho! You make it sound like icein’ folk is an average occupation! What, you got a storefront in between the pizza place and the mom n’pop newsagent!? Do kids get contracts for free?” Whisper groaned internally. Damn, if this prospective client wasn’t allergic to ‘the point’. Hoyt continued his tirade. “Suppose this is to be expected - if you’re good at something, I guess it would become second nature. Nary an eyelid battered, eh ol’ sport? Eish, I know you’re blerrie adept at snuffin’ pests. Y’see, I’m pretty sure you killed one of my fellow captains. Escobar the Puffer?” Hoyt trailed off with a casual lilt. It took Whisper a couple of beats to realise he’d actually ceased his deluge.

Not for long though. Hoyt cackled again. “Escobar. Big lug. Nasty piece of work. Ugly. Y’shanked him.

Whisper cringed to herself, she remembered that job too well; the way the overweight mobster unceremoniously slapped onto the tiling after she thrusted a knife into his blowsack. Disturbingly,  he deflated like a water balloon. Sometimes, she frightened herself with the extent of her barbarity, and Whisper found that she needed to pivot away from that image. Fast. 

She sighed despondently. “I didn’t care for him, and if y’are an associate of his, then I want nothing to do with you. I don’t work with criminals.” Her flip-phone exploded into manic laughter, causing Whisper to flinch and pull the speaker away from her over-sensitive ears.

“Oh, I’m sorry!” Hoyt exclaimed through chuckles. “I haven’t heard such doff in a long, long time. Killer with a conscience, are we? Or vice-versa? Ag man, you and I both know that ain’t true, so let’s try again, on the level. I’ve got a job, I need a professional, you killed Escobar- who was a douchebag, so don’t feel bad; your skills are recognised, game respects game, which means my baas and I are happy to pay up to an eight digit number. It’s a plum deal, sunshine. Easy money. Whaddya say? Will you at least take a meeting?” He ended up panting through the microphone.

Whisper stewed for a moment, tensing her claws and releasing. Eight figures… could she sink any lower? Break the one rule keeping her above sociopath status and take a job that isn’t morally justified even if she squinted? Hoyt was obviously a criminal… but so was she.

“What’s the job?” Whisper muttered, pushing past the self-loathing. Whatever misfortune would come next, it’d be apt enough that the wolf wouldn’t bemoan her fate.

Hoyt’s reply was veiled, but painted a bleak picture.

“Just a bit of maintenance, my love.”

A meeting was definitely in order.

Chapter Text

“Let me get this straight. The intruder kicked your door in… asked for directions… which you gave them… and it never once occurred to you to call the police?”

“In my defence, I was getting to the good bit in my book.”

Lanolin tried, with all her might, to not throttle the receptionist before her, instead scribbling a nothing note in her pad. Her job was already hard enough with this dim-witted deer yielding absolute bupkis, better not go down with an assault charge too, else she’d have to arrest herself.

There’d been a trend of 911 calls containing nothing but dead air, and this occurrence was no different. Each time delivered an unconscious criminal, and each time nobody could name who was responsible for the attack. The sheep was always a solution-oriented person, hence why detective work called to her, but she would be lying if she didn’t admit it resulted in nothing but frustration. The bit she liked, putting together puzzle pieces and finding the cohesive answer, was often out of reach. Instead, she’d have a half box-full of clues, stacks upon stacks of cold cases, unreliable witnesses who tended to be zonked out of their minds (or too absorbed in fifty shades of erotica to even notice, as she found out with this annoyance), and a metric crap tonne of paperwork. There was always so much paperwork. Not quite the fulfilling job she’d expected, fresh out of the academy with a letter of recommendation in hand, but life had the uncanny ability to underwhelm her no matter where she currently stood.

She had hoped that this incident would be the one to shine some light on the mysterious vigilante, whom she’d never admit was doing a better job than she was, but once again: nada.

The irritating part about this carefully elusive individual was that they were neither careful, nor elusive. For Gaia’s sake, they rang the bell! Lanolin had underlined that particular factoid with intensity. It should not be this hard to catch a hoodlum with a Punisher complex.

She huffed forlornly, clicking her pen once – praying the ball-point would manifest something usable. “Did you see them leave?”

The deer shook her head, blowing another strand of hair out of her eyeline. “In my defence-“

Lanolin gritted her teeth so hard that they almost shattered. “I’ve already got that, you were getting to the good bit…” What was she supposed to do with that!? “You must’ve, at least, heard the gunshots, correct?”

A long, drawn out ‘uuuuuuuh’ was the only response that the useless reception could muster. Lanolin pulled one her hooves across her face, stretching her weathered expression as far as it could go. She knocked her own bell with the motion - ding a ling!  …And now she’d officially had enough. “Y’know what, that’s fine. Thank you for your time.”

“No problem!” said the ‘witness’, with a giggle so bubbly that Lanolin had half a mind to smack her with her cane. She immediately went back to her novel without even skipping a beat. Meanwhile, Lanolin slipped the notepad back into her silken lined trench coat (a gift from her mother) and re-adjusted her singular, poofy woollen bun. Her partner often described her as one-part typical grizzled gumshoe, one-part rich girl in denial, all-part buzzkill. She was beginning to see their point.

Setting off with her good knee, Lanolin hobbled towards the crime-scene, leading with her trusty walking stick. It had become her signature, for better or for worse, mostly owing to the fact it was a custom design from Tails himself, back from when she worked at the Restoration. He had created a meticulous invention, pulling out all the stops; as in, it was retractable and made of titanium. No, it couldn’t fly. No, it couldn’t open her third eye and find the culprit to any case; but as a support for her busted knee? It had done its job superbly for ten years. 

Last time she checked, Tails had been accepted into the top engineering university in the Sovereign Kingdom. Good for him, he deserved nothing but the best… though she still could’ve used that tungsten knee-brace before the Restoration went bust. However, beggars couldn’t be choosers, and Lanolin wasn’t accepting any hand-outs from her parents. Ever.

Except the coat. The coat was nice.

The interior of Room ‘1’ was a complete bombsite. Bullet holes riddled the wall, courtesy of the lobster currently on a respirator, and the cheap television had been wrecked beyond repair. Even the bed didn’t survive. Lanolin did her best to not disturb any of the wooden shards that littered the floor as she picked her way in. The scene was similar to previous ‘vigilante’ incidents - first she found a jellyfish with his head smashed through an escalator, constantly having his bobbly head knocked every cycle. Another call fielded a catfish dangling from a tree by his whiskers. A busted up slipper-lobster, niche specimen aside, was pretty tame. The victims were all aquatic species too… that couldn’t be coincidence.

Hovering over the shoulder of two paramedics was a green tenrec, her partner… Surge. Suited in a torn up uniform (and giving the finger to the dress-code), the cyborg turned to Lanolin with an electrified grin, sparks dancing about her glove cuffs and singeing her sleeves. The radio on her lapel had died a death of high voltage; what a surprise. The tenrec tore through their supply of walkie-talkies as if they had personally insulted her family. Which Lanolin was no closer to finding - another feather in her cap of futility.

“Ah-ha. Lanolimp finally arrives!” Surge snickered to herself. The paramedics shot each other a concerned glance before tending back to their patient.

Lanolin, for her part, gave Surge nothing bar her classic dead-pan stare. Today, it was ‘Lanolimp’, because she stumbled over some loose cement whilst entering the building. Yesterday it was ‘Bell-Neck’, because Surge was nothing if not original. Day before that was ‘Lamb-Chops’, then it was ‘Caffelin’’; ‘Poofball’, ‘Jingles’, ‘Sweatershop’. ‘FluffyMcCane’ was a personal favourite of hers.

“How’s our man holding up?” Lanolin said, bending over and observing the unconscious man. There came a level of morbid fascination during her surveying; this was a lobster who was dunked in the boiling pot for too long, and she was definitely leaving a bad review over presentation. Crustaceans aren’t usually served with a halo of their own chipped carapace surrounding their body. Forensics wouldn’t even need a chalk line, the attacker had done it for them.

Surge, ever the dutiful officer, played footsie with a loose piece of glass, completely disinterested. She had done much worse that morning. “Eh. He’s had a lot of his shell shucked off. According to Quack 1 and Quack 2 down there, it means he’s struggling to breathe. Whoever put the screws to him must’ve busted a rib.”

“That’s not possible.” Lanolin murmured, pulling out the mangled victim’s wallet and checking his ID.

“Why the hell not?” Surge’s crackling grunt came from behind her. “Is this going to turn into one of those ‘the time of death doesn’t line up with the bruises’ thingy ma-bobs? I haaate those.”

The ID read Seymour Bisque, thirty-four years old. His business card was a tad more useful - ‘Want a Hitter, Call the Slipper!’. Lanolin jotted down the info as she continued to placate Surge. “A, autopsies are for corpses. Mr Bisque here is still with us. B, Lobsters don’t have ribs, they have exoskeletons. Hence why he needs a respirator, his lungs have no exterior support.”

Surge folded her arms, flouncing. “Whatever. I’m not a doc. I just punch people who need punching.”

Chaos only knows why Surge, of all possible candidates, got to become a police officer. Lanolin remembered the news stories about an electrified punk terrorising the city, made exponentially worse by Whisper getting the ever-loving crap beaten out of her (something that Lanolin wouldn’t object to now). How Surge went from ‘public menace’ to ‘public menace but this time it’s legal’ positively baffled the detective. 

She had three working theories. Theory One, the commissioner tripped over in such a way that he accidentally erased the tenrec’s rap sheet. Theory Two, Surge stole a badge at some point, and no one had the guts to challenge her. Lanolin thought Theory Three was most probable: the mayor liked the idea of having an unstoppable murder machine on the force… which said everything that needed to be said about the state of Central City. Surge’s presence was a reminder to the sheep that, most of the time, bad folk get what they want, and what they want is praise, authority and a carte blanche to push about anyone who gave them grief. Come to think of it, Surge was the absolutely perfect beat-cop, and guess who had the plush job of reigning the tenrec in?

“You’re meant to show some judgement before you decide to punch someone… especially with your capabilities.” Lanolin said. She wasn’t paying attention, not really… she’d had this conversation with Surge too many times. The result was often the same; a smouldering heap of wrong-uns… and a cackling cyborg who insisted she used proper restraint. ‘I saw a gun’! No, Surge, you didn’t. 

Lanolin scanned the bed, mentally checking each piece of contraband that littered the scene. She scoffed to herself. “An illegal black market in a motel room, more news at eleven.” Stiffly, she turned to her partner, who was busy picking at her ear. “Did you get a statement from the customer before you let her go?”

Surge paused mid-finger swivel, grinding her sharp teeth together in concentration. “…No. Was I supposed to?”

“Yes. Yes, you were.” Lanolin kept writing in her notepad, not even batting an eyelid at Surge. Such nonchalance infuriated the tenrec, who sparked with aggression.

“Interviewing dopes is your department!”

“It’s yours too.”

“No, limp lamb, my department is a good ol’ fashioned knuckle to the jaw, which I should be serving up now if it wasn’t for that stupid vigilante. They keep stealing my marks! I mean, talk about taking away the punch bowl! What the hell?!” Fist met fist as Surge bashed her hands together, the o-zone in the air beginning to fry. Lanolin didn’t react, as this was a typical Tuesday, which only triggered the woman more. “Once we find them, I’m gonna kick their ass six-fold. One for each fight they’ve denied me.”

The paramedics stretchered the lobster out the room, both girls pausing to watch him go. Was it out of respect? The affair came across as more of a funeral procession, since the crustacean’s shell had been mashed into a sick example of abstract art, priced onto the market via an expensive hospital bill.

“We’ll have to hope he’ll recover enough to give us some answers on our friendly neighbourhood wildcard.” Lanolin hummed, absentmindedly. Surge just snarled, showing her gums and eliciting flickering fluorescents.

“He better. Else I’ll finish him off myself.”

The sheep stared at the ceiling in pure exasperation. Chaos, did this nasty tenrec need a hobby.

The phrase ‘a watched pot never boils’ tended to repeat in Lanolin’s head whenever she watched a pot come to boil. She understood its conventional wisdom - patience is a virtue, blah blah, time drags if you wait for it, yada yada - but as the kettle tinged a mere minute after she activated it, Lanolin had to call bull. Her whole job was watching pots until they boiled. Finding the ‘mugs’ was the tricky part.

Coffee helped. Whether it was pulling late nighters in the evidence room, or staking out a random corner in hopes some dope would be dumb enough to sling drugs in front of their ‘inconspicuous unmarked station wagon (trademark pending)’; the only thing that kept her standing through it was a simple cup of joe. ‘Blacker than a moonless night, hotter and more bitter than Hell itself’... a prosecutor had dropped that tidbit randomly whilst she was testifying. Coffee also helped her come to terms with the fact that she was surrounded by weirdos.

Taking her mug, and a stack of profiles she pulled once she got back from the crime scene, Lanolin awkwardly squeezed her way through the heavy door of the district’s Criminal Affairs Department. She hooked her cane to keep it swung stationary, a trick she pioneered herself so that nobody pitied her enough to hold the door open. The one aspect of Surge Lanolin tolerated was that she didn’t treat the sheep as lesser because of her disability. Her colleagues, her family, and even her few remaining friends all stared at the way she shambled with unrestrained pity. ‘Oh, you’re so strong’. Lanolin set her coffee and her papers down on her desk with a careless flump; she wasn’t strong, she was just like everyone else. At least Surge ribbed her non-stop, and that was a welcome change of pace from the constant participation trophies Lanolin received. Congratulate her when she actually solved a case, don’t reward her for simply existing.

As if to make a point, and without a care about office decorum, Lanolin dragged the corkboard from the corner of the room over to her cubicle. It screeched along gracelessly, requiring tugs and shoves to make any progress; Lanolin could easily clip the wheels off the brakes, but she wasn’t going to allow an inanimate object defeat her. A head peaked over the partition, Detective Burgess shaking his head again.

Detective Burgess could kiss her-

The next ten minutes were a flurry of pins and string, low quality photographs and royalty free question marks. At the end of her heavily-caffeinated arts and crafts attack, Lanolin had amassed a traditionally shambolic conspiracy board that only she could follow. With the blue strands and their randomly assigned directions, the display looked like a swirling whirlpool. The Mystery Pool? Lanolin sucked at naming, and she prayed that the board appeared more so a crashing wake of unceasing justice, rather than the truth circling around the drain.

At the epicentre was this ‘vigilante’, the unknown point of origin, and surrounding the blank space were the six previous victims, including ‘Scald the Slipper’, the latest unlucky twit with a dumb name and an even dumber dress sense. Lanolin took a step back, and no, it didn’t become any clearer.

Except for the aforementioned realisation… the targets were all water-dwellers.

Surge had eventually waltzed up behind her, chewing on a croissant. Her laugh of disbelief spat crumbs and pastry straight into the sheep’s wool. “Have you finally lost it?”

“Maybe. I don’t really know anymore… but… you can see the trend too, right?” Lanolin said, tapping the numerous mugshots. “A jellyfish, a catfish, two tropical fish, one flounder, and now, a lobster. What do they all have in common?” Surge rubbed her chin in an over the top manner, before tilting her head towards her partner with a faux-sympathetic grin.

“They’re aquatic. No doi. Kit could tell you that and he hasn’t left the house in three years.” Ignoring the sarcasm, Lanolin jumped on the opportunity to wax the process out with someone who, for once, was listening.

“Exactly! Don’t you find that strange? Water dwellers are rare enough as is… I wanna say they’re two percent of the population? And despite that, they’re completely over-represented in our incident statistics. There must be a reason they’ve become the sole target of our vigilante…” Lanolin garbled out, waving her arms about and backhanding the board for emphasis. The dull thuds shot through Surge, who minorly jumped with each impact… maybe Lanolin really was losing it.

The tenrec, instead, provided valued input. “Maybe the vigilante is racist?”

Lanolin halted, turning to her partner with a confused frown. “What? No.”

Surge snapped her fingers together. “Oooh. Maybe you’re racist?”

“No.” Lanolin said with more force, gripping her cane and pressing it down into the floor. Surge just shrugged, waiting for the sheep to answer… which she did, reluctantly. “I believe we’re dealing with an organised gang, and somehow, our vigilante knows it too. Really think about it… how did Scald the frickin’ Slipper get his claws on military grade wispons?”

“Dude has a genie… or a supplier. Obviously.”

“Bingo!” Lanolin grinned with a borderline insane glint in her eye. Now they were getting somewhere. “Perhaps we’re looking through the wrong end of the telescope. Focus on the victim’s crimes instead of our vigilante’s. There’s probable cause enough to cross-reference our intel streams should we catch them, and combined we might be able to catch some real bad guys!” Frantically ruffling through her files, she pulled out a map - marking it with a circle. “Let’s ask some questions, triangulate the vigilante’s movements, find out where more of this aquatic gang are dealing, and then-“

A voice from out of the boys in blue put a stopgap into her exciting breakthrough. “Sorry to bother you, Detective Lanolin… may I have a word?”

Polite and benign; she instinctively knew who had approached. Lanolin attempted her best ‘put-together’ stance whilst she spun to meet the question’s owner. A navy-blue badger, with the weakest moustache known to mankind, stood, arms behind back, teetering to himself. He calmly gazed, through librarian style glasses, at Surge, who slowly took another bite out of her croissant as if no-one was watching. Lanolin, on the other hand, did her bell up a smidge tighter, before saluting.

“Commissioner Grip, sir!” She bleated out, sternly. Surge rolled her eyes behind the sheep, and did her own half-hearted, twirly greeting.

The grandfatherly commissioner chuckled to himself, gently pulling Lanolin’s hand off of her forehead. “Hello hello, you two. I’ve told you before, you don’t need to salute me!” He fished about his tweed coat, pulling out a chunky battery and passing it into Surge’s palm. “I found this in my office drawer, and I thought of you, Ms Surge. You could use the extra juice to help keep the streets a little bit safer, yes?”

Surge cupped the battery in her hands, before a ripple of electricity quivered over her being, her eyes flashing an even brighter blue. Lanolin balked, Surge getting a power up usually meant chaos was around the corner. To her surprise, however, the tenrec just bowed her head, her loose quills battering her shoulder.

“Thank you, sir.”

Grip smiled, a warm sheen of pride in his eye. “There’s a 132 situation on Gerrant Boulevard, I’d like you to sort it out. Use the energy wisely.” With a crackling snap, Surge instantly flipped into battle mode, a thrilling burst of energy shooting its way through her. Lanolin felt her wool stand on end as her partner amped herself up. She pursed her lips to the side in contemplation; gifts and orders were very much within Grip’s playbook. He could be surprisingly shrewd underneath the gentlemanly exterior.

“An armed robbery?! Hell yeah!” Surge exclaimed, and with a wild shriek and flash of white light, the tenrec was gone. The only remnant was a burnt, smoking ring on the carpet, leaving Lanolin alone with her superior. She could never quite read Commissioner Grip… he didn’t play favourites, yet still treated Surge as a personal pet project. Lanolin sighed, credit where credit is due, he was doing something right; not everyone can sedate Surge, nor re-energise her at their beck and call.

“Now, Lanolin, I hope this mood-board is a prudent use of your time.” Oop. She had accidentally slipped into deep thought again, the detective suddenly realising that, with her Mystery Pool and twitchy caffeine jitters, she appeared as the kooky one, not Surge. How did that happen?! Lanolin shook her head, presenting the board with an appropriate amount of gusto.

“No, sir. I’ve made a discovery with the vigilante case; I was just heading out to gather some more evidence.” Grip nodded along as he listened, chewing on a nail and breathing heavily. Slapping at Scald’s ugly face, Lanolin continued her debrief. “As funny as it might be, we’re on the same side as the vigilante. I’ve got reason to suspect that all of the assault victims are part of the same criminal network; I’m trying to identify their supplier so to cut off their product. Failing that, one of them will surely have a description of our vigilante, and if we manage to put a name to the face, we should be able to cross-reference leads and bust open a major arms-dealing ring!”

The badger seemed exceedingly proud, his jovial chuckle making Lanolin feel all fuzzy, and seen.

“Excellent work, Detective! You have my blessing to follow this lead.” He said. There arose a mischievous twinkle in his expression. “Just remember to charge our out-of-system do-gooder for their own misdeeds too. Can’t have any Tom, Dick or Harry running about intercepting criminals on the street. It causes many, many civil issues.” He leaned in a tad closer, mustering a cheeky whisper. “And it’ll put us all out of the job too!”

Lanolin bounced on her feet, elated. “Of course, sir!”

“There’s one more thing. I’m assigning you an apprentice.”

Thoughts of taking down an entire criminal enterprise rushed through Lanolin's head. Finally, she could do some good - actual good - instead of being a glorified mall cop in a purple trench coat (thanks to her Mom, again). She was psyched beyond recognition, and to have Grip’s approval. A double whammy of happiness flooded her- 

Say what now?

Her joy vanished into thin air as she processed what Grip had just said. A creeping wash of cold flooded over her shoulders, her eyelids drooping back to their grumpy default. It was like getting whipped in the face with a soaking wet flannel.

Grip shuffled out of the way, revealing that there was someone with him the entire time. Lanolin kicked herself for not noticing; what sort of detective was she?

To be fair, the teenaged rabbit was exceptionally small. Freckles dotted her beige cheeks, creased by the candid smile that graced her features. Big, bright, brown eyes shone with admiration, paired with a friendly dress-shirt and skirt combo of baby blue and orange.

She threaded her hands together and left them dangling by her front - performing a tiny curtsy to the sheep, who was gawking in befuddlement.

“Ms. Lanolin! It’s so lovely to see you again!” The girl beamed and immediately pulled Lanolin into a tight hug. “I can’t believe it’s you I get to learn from! Mama will be so pleased!”

A flash of recognition sped through Lanolin’s head, as the penny finally dropped. “Cream?” She felt a nod from the rabbit through her coat. “Wow… you want to be a detective?”

“Mmhm! Just like Papa Vector!”

…Papa Vector?!

Grip patted Cream on the shoulder. “Seems you two are already acquainted! Lanolin, I want for you to mentor this young lady into the best damn detective on the service! If there’s an officer who can achieve it, it’s you!” He waddled backwards, and gave a small wave. “Anywho, I’ll let you two settle in. Lanolin, why don’t you bring Cream up to speed on the vigilante case, and then the two of you can go questioning tonight? How about it?”

The commissioner turned the corner before Lanolin had a chance to object. It was all a little too much too quickly. She took a moment to stare at Cream, who was about to burst from excitement; Lanolin could see how the girl vibrated… only for the sheep to then switch her focus to the mug of coffee.

Snatching it up, Lanolin downed the entire contents in a record breaking time. Her throat screamed at her as burning hot bitterness rushed down her oesophagus and set fire to her chest.

Cream’s hands flew to her mouth as she gasped. “Doesn’t that hurt?!”

The sheep wiped her mouth with her expensive sleeve. Her voice felt like it had been stabbed by a thousand needles, but despite the pain… Lanolin felt a sense of calm flow back into her being.

She coughed hoarsely. “Only if you let it.”

Words to live by, Lanolin reasoned.

Chapter Text

Tangle stared into space, her hands white-knuckle gripping the edge of her sink, waiting for the basin to fill. The water, thanks in due to her basement convert dump of a bachelor pad, was slightly cloudy, and always a tad gritty. She’d given up trying to fix the piping (and by fix, she actually meant whacking it with her tail until the pressure gauge went ‘click’), resigning herself to borderline undrinkable chalk water and an inevitable death by dystentry. Or, if she was feeling entrepreneurial, perhaps the limescale could be repackaged as healthy minerals, perfect for building strong bones to aid in a night of illegal crime fighting. There was a trick missing there.

After aggressively twirling the faucet off, Tangle cupped some water and splashed it into her face. Mmm, lukewarm and not refreshing at all. The cuts that littered her face stung as she scrubbed the blood out of her fur. Okay, sure, Scald never managed to get a hit in, but her reckless busting through wooden doors and shattering of glass left her with a tidy collection of bumps and scrapes regardless. Being roughed up had become her default state of being, but que sera sera. She did not care enough to clean her wounds out properly, the lemur was the world’s least eligible bachelor after all, resulting in the grey fuzz and red gashes combining together into a litany of brown stains. 

Tangle glared at the reflection in the cracked mirror before her with pure disdain. The tousled hair, the sunken eyes, the deflated aura; she looked bad, especially when compared to the old photograph that she’d taped to the frame when she first moved in… four years ago. Damn. Time flies when you have nothing to wait for.

Gingerly, she slipped the photograph into her hand. A younger, starry-eyed Tangle had her bestest buddy in the whole wide world, Jewel, wrapped up in a vice-grip hug. Cheek to cheek, they were squished together with the biggest grins their faces could manage, bobbing about in knee-high seawater. A gorgeous day at the beach. Tangle’s sigh dripped with nostalgia, longing for the simpler times. Times when she believed she could climb any mountain or leap over any ravine. Times where anything was possible with her friends… times where she could actually full-heartedly trust that they were her friends.

She should really call Jewel. The beetle lived back in Spiral Hill, and seemed to be doing fine… but what was there for Tangle to say? ‘Sorry you were fired, it was mine and my psycho teammates’ fault, which I felt so guilty about that I deserted you for a decade; anyway how’s life been’? Tangle knew she’d left it too long, shame and insecurity gnawing away at her go-get-‘em attitude. Jewel had managed without her; clearly Tangle wasn’t that important in the grand scheme of things. Such a thought came as a comfort to the lemur. The fact that she hadn’t been missed only made her work safer… nobody had to suffer her loss on the off-chance a Scald could actually aim properly. The higher up the chain of command she clambered, the astronomically more probable that chance became, and Tangle couldn’t really care less.

Her hand shook as she pinned the memory back in its rightful place, desperate not to disturb the cherished moment with her roughened and gnarled hands. Whisper had been the one holding the camera – too shy to pose with them. Tangle didn’t insist she joined, and now she wished she was a little more pushy. Well… more pushy than her usual self. The sweet hearted and gentle Whisper, that Tangle once knew, was missed so, so much. She would’ve killed to have some sort of keepsake of that wolf.

They said she’d heal with age, but the knot in her throat told a different story. Tears had begun to well up in her eyes, unwanted delicate trickles that trailed down her cheeks, unbecoming of the tough exterior she put on. It drove her insane how she still couldn’t get over Whisper, even after ten years of trying to smother her feelings. A small part of her remained dedicated to carrying a torch for the quiet and demure girl she fell head over heels for, even if fate had forced her to quench the flame. Behind that bashful smile was a savage… one who tore Tangle’s heart out without an ounce of regret.

The lemur inhaled and banished her emotion back into the deepest recesses of her mind. It was pointless to fixate on the past - Whisper was gone; and that was that. 

But in doing so, a point was conceded that her past self would’ve once thought unfathomable; friends, love, family… they were just chinks in armour, waiting for a knife to slip between. Whether it arose from the ugliness of betrayal, or defending others deemed sacred to her, or even for the sake of protecting herself… It made no difference. The knife twisted all the same.

Her internal turmoil had remixed itself into the crappiest pick-me-up subconscious thought could muster, lavishing Tangle with a multitude of excuses for her railroad of a mission. It reminded of those motivational speakers who spoke at her school, except this time it wasn’t some saccharine message like ‘be yourself’, or ‘drugs are bad’; ‘sticks and stones’ - no. The voice preached the virtue of a simple solution. A solution that consisted of naught but a boot to the face of scumbags.

Tangle listened to the monologue; hung on every word.

Underneath her binds, loose shards of lobster shell dug into her knuckles. A memento that stressed a delicate truth, barely hanging on by a thread.

Good will prevail. The biting pain proved it. Tangle would never give up on hope - not like Whisper did, despite how tempting it might be to throw in the towel. The vow manifested with every slug and punch she launched; a promise that she’d show a spiteful universe that so long as she could stand: justice would be served.

And she steeled herself to do it alone.

—

Westward Avenue, found in the north-east of the city (go figure), was surprisingly well-kempt for a supposed gang bastion. That wasn’t to say it was homely - but the sidewalk was smooth and the buildings weren’t painted with thick black tar, which by Tangle’s standards left it comparable to a palace. Gentrification must’ve been right around the corner, if the distinctive frame of a new skyscraper wasn’t enough of a hint. A construction site, half-finished, ominously loomed over the streets. The territory of Hoyt, the next rung up on the totem pole.

The lemur’s mission remained straightforward. Scout the building, find a weak spot, and capitalise when the Friday meet-up rolls around. Easy peasy. She usually winged her excursions, petty crooks never required much strategy beyond sockin’ them where it hurts the most, but something in her gut told her that she needed a concrete plan going into this particular lion’s den… Horseshoe crab’s den? Did those exist?

The steel beams interlocked together in such a satisfying way, creating a jungle gym ripe for tail-climbing. Tangle almost was excited to sink her teeth into casing the place. She checked for cameras, saw none, and hoisted herself over the fence and onto the site. Floodlights blared, nuking the flat terrain with a pale, unearthly shine that consumed the night sky. Suddenly feeling very exposed, Tangle watched her back… but there was not a soul in sight. Deader than a disco-themed funeral.

The air musked with the scent of sawdust and paint. Tangle did her best to ignore the asbestos, hooked her tail on an overhanging girder and pulled herself up with a curling yo-yo-like manoeuvre, beginning the ascent up the tower. 

Each story had a cursory floor plan laid out, free to explore; an endless maze of chipboard and loose sheet plastic that surely would’ve been impossible to navigate. Luckily, Tangle could cheat. She weaved in between gaps of the structure, dodged wires, swung through windows. Lightbulbs dangled from patchy grates of metal, angling her to slip through a crack and plummet, but to no avail. 

The ground slowly dwindled away as she climbed to floor fourteen, then fifteen, sixteen, seventeen; the end inching into sight. Her ears pricked as the beeps and honks of city life faded into foreboding creaks and flexes. If there was a God, Tangle prayed that he made certain the builders followed proper guidelines, as checking out from an OSHA violation would make for an immensely underwhelming obituary. Come to think of it… it seemed incredibly unlikely that they were honest contractors, if they were happy to lease out the location to a gangbanger.

A dull soreness etched its way across Tangle’s digits as she dragged herself to the top of the tower. Blisters had opened on her palm, and for such effort, she had nothing to show for it. Tangle swept the sweat off her brow, taking a moment to recuperate energy. If she had to be honest with herself, disappointment arose from the distinct lack of anything gang related. No secret caches, no baddies to smack down, not even a drug lab or two. The construction site was, in fact, a construction site. The top floor happened to be another let-down in that regard.

The ceiling hadn’t been installed yet, leaving the stars exposed. A pleasant breeze rocked Tangle gently, neither cold nor hot… comfortable. The temporary lighting was dim and tepid, and if it weren’t for the nails sticking out from the wooden flooring, she might’ve packed it in for a nap. It’d be a suicidally stupid nap… but a much needed one.

However, one aspect that struck the lemur as odd was the chair and table combo carelessly placed in the centre of the unfinished room. Cheap, plastic tat. The seat wouldn’t be out of place in a classroom, the table appeared to be designed for camping. What the hell these were doing at the peak of a construction site was anyone’s guess. 

Stepping forward and taking a closer inspection of the odd furnishings made their presence much more regrettably understood. Tangle’s stomach dropped violently. She’d found her gang evidence alright, for caking the table and chair was dried blood. 

Shock rippled through Tangle’s being. A drug lab, she could handle. Goons were a dime a dozen. Penthouse torture chambers? Nuh-uh. Just who the hell was she dealing with?! All her intel told her that she was meant to be up against a disorganised group of gunrunners - not sadists. Tangle had heard tales of cartels and triads on the continents, but she thought of them as a human problem. She thought wrong.

The splatter had concentrated itself into a vicious bloom of crimson, as if it had exploded from a single appendage. The image alone made Tangle’s throat dry.

But before even the notion of fleeing popped into her head, a faint rumbling swelled underneath her. Tangle turned to find an elevator shaft, sturdy and flimsy in equal measure… adorned with a number ticking up and up. Ice shot through her veins, she wasn’t alone.

Counting up her options for an easy escape yielded nothing, so in a desperate panic Tangle threw herself off the side of the building. It seemed the most prudent option at the time. She wrapped her tail around a sticking out pole, slamming into a beam from the momentum. For a moment, she dangled, hoping she hadn’t made a death knell crash. Every part of her screamed to continue the descent… but from her position, she could watch the entire expanse through a tiny divide in a partition. The oncoming presence might just be some workers… or perhaps valuable intel instead? Curiosity killed the lemur, Tangle choosing to observe from her fluffy suspension. The only way to find out was to stick about, no matter how much the blood stain haunted her vision.

The elevator cage shuddered open, two fish stepping out onto the floor. They wore filthy puffer-jackets, and earpieces near their gills, their scales sheening a dull silver. Exotic reef dwellers these gents were not. Tangle analysed their get up, deducing they were thugs and not lost bouncers, and formulated a slap dash plan. Take out the left-hand trevally with a sweeping kick, then take down Mr Cod before he even knew what was happening… or that would've been the play, if they weren’t armed with assault rifles. Scratch everything she had believed before, Tangle was witnessing some heavy cartel level activity, something she was woefully underprepared for too; she’d left her weapons back home. Her future career as a clairvoyant, doomed to fail.

The duo fanned out, taking point at the edge of the room. Guards, presumably? Following close behind them was a long-nosed swordfish, attired with a dress shirt and a kevlar stab vest substituting for a waistcoat. He slicked a blue specked dorsal fin back, akin to a fifties greaser, and then proceeded to drag another occupant out of the lift. With a cry of fear, a blindfolded man was shoved to the floor, a burlap sack already shoved on his head. The swordfish lifted him up and threw them onto the chair. It rocked from the force, the prisoner shaking and wriggling like his bones had melted to jelly.

Tangle could see where this was going… but she couldn’t just leave the poor man there. And yet: one exit, two guns, three guys - the odds of recovery were looking bleak. Biting back the urge to blitzkrieg, the lemur lurked - biding her time with morbid attention.

The swordfish wrangled out a pair of zip-ties, restraining the captive’s left wrist. The thrashing still continued, only for a forceful back-hand slap to be dished out by the tall fish. Tangle winced as the blow jerked the seat with a skid; the thrashing stopped. Instead, the prisoner hung their hand, their shoulders heaving with effort.

“He’s ready for you, Hoyt.” The swordfish spoke into a lapel mic. Unable to hear the response, nonetheless Tangle’s breath hitched. The boss himself was here!

A couple of moments later, the lift dinged again, sliding the grate back to reveal a short, sandy horseshoe crab, clad in a black and leather duster coat, the edges swishing about on the floor. His large, magenta eyes were his only visible feature, a mask reaching up and covering his lower face so snugly that only his domed shell and leering stare could be seen. A spiky tail-like extension drooped behind his head, which had been styled into a bizarre ponytail. The piercings that littered the appendage jangled like the dismissive shake of a wallet whenever he turned his head. Scald had given a pretty apt description, Tangle reckoned; Hoyt the Horseshoe Crab dressed like a gimp, though she might’ve tacked on ‘ninja wannabe’ too.

The cheerful chelicerate threw his hands out in a grandiose greeting. “Rudy! My favourite mammalian! How have you been?” Hoyt’s accent was thick and harsh, dripping with fake niceties. “Oi. Ricasso, take the blerrie bag off, we’re not hosting him a surprise jol.”

The burlap sack was yanked off the prisoner, now revealed to be a pink stoat of about forty, who gasped for air suddenly and desperately.

“I’ll get you the money. You don’t have to do this-”

Hoyt had already lackdaisically spring-heeled himself over to his ‘guest’, hushing him with a finger to the mouth; “Top marks Rudy, I don’t want to. But the question does arise on whether or not I need to?” He placed a mockingly gentle hand on Rudy’s shoulder, who shrunk from the touch. “I’m an understanding man; crosser of aisles, advocate for the diplomatic method. Let’s try and hash this out, chum to chum… Answer honestly now, do you have my money?”

The stoat stuttered out jilted words, single syllables of terror. The crab changed his tactics instantly, clawing Rudy’s neck and squeezing. “Where’s my money, Rudy?”

The answer came choked and ragged. “I don’t- I don’t have it.” Hoyt violently released Rudy back, the chair trundling across the floor; Ricasso the Swordfish catching it before it tipped.

“Jog my memory, Ricasso. How much money did I lend dear Rudy here?”

“One thousand dollars.”

“One thousand dollars?!” Hoyt gasped, sarcasm abundant. “That’s a big number! Certainly burns a large hole in my pocket, ne?”

Whimpering, Rudy shivered, staring pleadingly at the men before him. “Please… it’s not my fault. I was down at the Fargo Strip and a skell mugged me-”

“Stop, stop, stop. Fargo Strip is drug dealer territory, what the hell were you doing down there? Aren’t you a family man? I distinctly recall the money was meant to buy your daughter a new car; I actually felt good, befok, about loaning it to you. What happened? You weren’t… you weren’t purchasing narcotics, were you?”

The shameful way Rudy shifted his gaze and gnawed at his lip revealed everything, Tangle feeling a mix of pity and disgust at the situation that he’d found himself in. Still, no opening she could seize. He’d have to endure it.

“I… I know I messed up.” Rudy said quietly, delicately as a mouse, hoping that Hoyt wouldn’t hear him.

“Ja ne, you messed up!” Hoyt snapped, launching himself into the stoat’s face. If he weren’t masked, Tangle could imagine the spittle that would’ve jettisoned out with every snarl. “Lying through your teeth, paying the competition with my money!” Bending down into a squat, he levelled his eyeline - maroon irises glazing over with sinister intentions. He pretended to be composed, but Hoyt ultimately was a rubbish actor, miniature shakes and quivers tale-bearing his true colours. “Be that as it may… I can forgive you. But first, how ‘bout a history lesson?”

Behind him, Ricasso groaned. “Not the samurai crap again…”

“Ricasso, I find you to be rude and impatient. Ignore him, Rudes, he’s a philistine. Prefers the knights ‘cus his nose is a horse and fence away from jousting.” The swordfish’s eye twitched as he pressed both his hands against the table, conceding the point with a curt sniff. His nose hovered above Rudy, ready to pierce at any moment.

Springing up, Hoyt un-tied his coat string, revealing he had a scabbard holstered above his hips. Inside the ornate sheath was a blade, decorated with a ribbon tied hilt and shiny gold trimmings.

“Even if you agree with stick-nose over ‘dere, I endeavour you will realise how valuable this knowledge is by the time I’m through with it. Today’s subject will be the samurai…” Hoyt almost had a wistfulness to his demeanour as he paced about like a tenured professor, uncaring students and all. “Perhaps the greatest warriors to ever walk the planet, the samurai had a reputation of incredible honour. Y’see, it was baked into their very psychology: the bushido code! Loyalty, respect, benevolence, self-control, courage. These tenants guided each cut of their fine weaponry, the symbolism within their art, the stunning ornaments upon their helmets; the aesthetic. And in turn, this willingness to suffer for their beliefs is what transcended them into the apex. So, to recap - they were really, really cool.”

The blade had left its ebony home with an elegant scrape, the stainless steel glinting off what little light there was. Tangle remembered seeing such a sword in a museum… a ‘waki’ something or another? Its owner twirled his ‘waki’ with a practiced swagger, finishing the flourish by tilting the tip at his captive student’s nose. “They are cool, aren’t they Rudy?”

Said captive student nodded in desperate agreement. A centimetre further and he was at risk of impaling his forehead on the pointy cusp. Sensing this, Hoyt withdrew and rested the sword in the crook of his elbow.

“Now, what if I told you all that was a sham?”

“W-Whuh… Huh?”

Ricasso suddenly snatched Rudy’s free arm, slamming his hand onto the table and locking the wrist in place. Bit by bit, the fingers were splayed open; every attempt to wrench away was met with triple the pressure.

SHUNK.

With a dull thud, Hoyt stabbed his sword into the table, barely missing Rudy’s index finger. The crab leaned over, resting a knuckle on the table, his other hand clasping the sword’s hilt. Shadows darkened the nooks in his features.

“This idea of honour, fairness, dignity - it was all an illusion. The bushido code only concerned itself with the privileged few: the samurai themselves. The nobility. The top dogs. If you found y’self within the fold - great! Many respectful bows, cherry blossom backed duels and meditative haikus awaited you. But if you were a peasant? Oooh-ho. Aweh, the samurai were tyrants.”

It took every ounce of willpower for Tangle not to drive herself in between Hoyt and Rudy, his tragic blubbers having escalated into shrieks and wails. Hoyt’s voice kept on raising and raising, battling against his victim’s own screams.

“Do you know how the samurai checked to see if their katanas were sharp enough?” He sneered, tearing his weapon out of the surface and back into the air. “They killed a farmer. Drove the blade through flesh and bone, and ripped it out. And they did this not as a punishment, nor did they waste their time waxing poetic about the technique. They did it because they could; because they were the apex and no-one could stop them.”

The end of the sword balanced off the crux of Rudy’s ring finger, scratching at a golden wedding ring. Hoyt’s hidden grin stretched his material wickedly taut, as the cries devolved into hyperventilation. The stoat had squeezed his eyes shut, shaking his head wildly as if trying to wake up from a nightmare.

“The poor farmer was completely innocent, and yet he still perished like a rat in a gutter. So imagine, Rudy, what they did to someone who was actually guilty?”

Tangle didn’t remember jumping back onto the floor, or when she had started to sprint towards the ugly scene before her. It was like her legs had turned to auto-pilot. All that consumed her was the resolve that this had to end now.

Hoyt lifted his blade up, slicing into the moon above him.

“Well… I guess you’re about to find out.”

The threat was cut short once Tangle tackled herself into the crab with a meaty crunch. He slid across the floor, dislodging dust clouds and scuffing up his nice coat, yelping pathetically, which… somewhat undermined whatever menace he was trying to exude. The effect was magnified as he came to a stop with a protracted squeaaaaak.

Tangle spun back around to meet Ricasso ogling her, transparently trying to comprehend what the hell just happened. She swore she could hear dial-up as he buffered. Meanwhile, Rudy wore the starriest grin on his face; his saviour had arrived and she came in the form of a scruffy marsupial.

“Are you guys doff or something?” Hoyt had recovered remarkably fast, straddling his shaking feet and using his sword as a support. “Frickin’ shoot her, you domkops!”

Ricasso’s brain eventually caught up, the swordfish reaching into a holster and brandishing a revolver. Off her back, metallic clicks sounded as the two guards took aim, their rifle barrels glowing a bright, pastel pink. The hollow silence, broken only behind the giddy, hacking breath of the resident stoat, allowed for the gravity of Tangle’s actions to sink in immediately.

Quick headcount. Revolver, Assault Rifle, Assault Rifle, Tied up man, Sword. 

Whelp…

“Shi-” Tangle hit the deck as a mortar’s worth of firepower erupted above her, cyan lasers and pink spikes ricocheting off the walls and strobing her senses as if it was one those raves she always regretted attending in the morning. She was definitely feeling regret right now, crawling underneath the sloppy gunfire. So used to running with experienced marksmen, that Tangle oft forgot that they tended to be the exception, rather than the deadly rule. At the very least, she could take advantage. 

There were precious few seconds to work with before the gunmen would be able to shift their aim. Tensing her tail into a spring, Tangle hesitated, building the pressure up and up until-

Hoyt had carelessly bounced into the fray, swivelling his sword to a downward thrust that prepared to plunge the lethal edge into her spine. A flashy, if over-telegraphed move. Tangle discharged all the built up force in her appendage, rocketing across the floor and leaving Hoyt stabbing at thin air. The impetus propelled herself into Ricasso’s chest, the lemur digging the mother of all headbutts into the kevlar jacket. The impact throbbed, but was effective. The revolver, which Tangle immediately surmised as a wispon, flew out of his grasp as Ricasso crashed through a wooden frame.

More pink bullets flashed around her, the lemur scooping up the gun and returning fire. The two guards ducked and weaved through her fanning of the hammer, her covering fire seeming to… not work that well, especially now that Hoyt had ditched the sword and produced an SMG.

This was bad. Tangle understood her position was untenable, Hoyt sensing the weakness and rattling off a burst of gunfire. Whatever calmness floated in his ego had completely shattered, his pin-pricked stare trembling with mania. She’d pissed him off alright, perhaps it would’ve been better to leave well-enough alone. Damn her and her jank sense of right and wrong!

“Is that you, vigilante?!” Another flurry of bullets; Tangle rolled out of the way barely in the nick of time. “Finally deciding to show your face?! Okay then! I’ll take it, and mash in so much lead that even your mother won’t want an open casket!” Hoyt’s approach was measured, each barrage of bullets coming closer and closer to snuffing her. She couldn’t just keep dodging, sooner or later he’d find his mark.

Whatever shot she decided to fire, the trio of automatic weaponry returned with ten times the vengeance. The elevator was a no-go… too slow, and the side of the building had become too far to break for…

Yep, her goose was well and truly cooked- oh wait!

Salvation arrived in the form of an orange pipe, Tangle registering it as a skip chute. No time to speculate what might be at the bottom, she leapt towards the maw and the cover it brought. Met with inky blackness, preferable to being riddled with bullets, Tangle swung her legs in and prepared for a bumpy ride.

“Wait, no! NO! Don’t leave me!”

Her escape plan halted.

Rudy, miraculously unscathed, had reached a hand out towards her. Tangle had never seen an expression so feeble, so woeful; his hope tumbling down the chute with her. She needed to go back.

More bullets sparked across the plastic, a burning nick of pain blooming across her ear. A wetness dribbled down, bright red weeping through her fur. Even that felt frivolous, however, once Tangle’s own eyes were unable to meet the stoat’s searingly desperate gaze, a kindred connection joining the two strangers for a lifelong second.

“I’m sorry.” she said. It was the only response she could muster before she dived into the blackness.

The gunfire, Hoyt’s shouts and Rudy’s agony-filled wail of despair faded away as she travelled down the steep incline. The texture tore against her skin, friction-fuelled chars ravaging her tail. Below her, through the darkness, a tiny dot of white grew and grew. The light at the end of the tunnel, which instantly turned bleak once bricks and rock came into view. The brightness finally engulfed her, fresh air whipping her hair and her clothes, the slide ending beneath her, as she sailed towards the pile of rubble, free-falling for a split second. Latching for anything, anything, her tail grabbed the chute’s rim and bungeed her away from a grisly end. Tangle heaved out a sigh… that was too close, but she got out unscathed. She’d managed to keep hold of the revolver too… small victories and all that miserable jazz.

Dropping onto the stones, Tangle picked her way down. The peace and quiet devoured her, smothering her like a weighted blanket. Her ear had been grazed by an errant shot, and an unending cascade of blood stained her cheek and the top of her jacket. She hissed as she touched it… not entirely unscathed.

Tangle mustered one last look at the top of the tower. She could imagine what was to come next for Rudy. Pure hatred, a hatred for herself, swelled in her stomach, her teeth gritted. But what could be done? She was only one lemur, who barely escaped with her life. Either they both died or… she was making excuses.

What a failure you are, Tangle the Lemur. If only you weren’t alone.

She scrambled over the chainlink fence, licked her wounds, and abandoned the innocent to his fate. A numbing cacophony of white noise engrossed her, blending her turmoil. For some abstract reason, the only person she could imagine was Whisper. Was this how she felt? It’s true that Tangle’s empathy had survived the split. She wished it hadn’t, otherwise she’d be able to continue on as if she hadn’t just condemned a man to death. Was she any different to the wolf, in that regard? That yucky, conflicting swirl churned within her again… Whisper being banished once again.

The cynicism had rooted itself into her for many… many years - but a silver lining did reveal itself. She now understood who she was dealing with. Her flighty retreat shifted into a reinvigorated march, boots stomping, a revolver torching itself against her pocket. 

Hoyt was on borrowed time. That, she swore.

Chapter Text

Yachts. Yachts as far as the eye can see. Whisper strolled her way down the marina, analysing each boat that passed her by, noting how they got increasingly extravagant the further down the pier she travelled. One sail, two sail, three story, four. A particularly gaudy design had a speedboat inside of another speedboat. This casual flaunting of avarice was to be expected, the contractor she was set to join had wafted ten million under her nose… just for a meet and greet. Stands to reason that they’d have a sizeable account of ‘f you’ money for a fancy dock ornament too.

Such wealth only conjured dislike within the canine… and she didn’t excuse herself from such ire. She possessed more than enough money to afford a modest schooner, murder paid well; well enough that she could retire from the killing and instead travel the seven seas on a whimsical adventure! Yeah, right. The thought amused her. As an overly-cautious beast, Whisper wrote off boats as tactically unsound, for a multitude of reasons. Principally: they were too obvious. She’d stick to the van, thank you very much, lest she disappear into the Bermuda Triangle and fade even deeper into obscurity… which could be interpreted as a stroke of good fortune, if the hitwoman was in a particularly self-deprecating mood.

Whisper enjoyed reading military history in what spare time she had (skipping past the espionage pages, those were… awkward). Navies existed for nary a reason but to flex defence budgets. Chun-nan had an aircraft carrier? The United Federation had three. And so the tit-for-tat would continue until eventually the ships would become so large that they’d be able to declare themselves sovereign nations in their own right.

There wasn’t anything an overengineered man o’war could achieve that a well-placed sniper couldn’t match, Whisper reckoned she could do more damage on her lonesome than any souped up military invention. On one job, an enclave of rebels hired her to assassinate their banana dictator. It’d been seventeen gruelling years, and not once had they managed to lay a scratch on him. And yet? She managed to snipe the despot smack dab in the middle of his motorcade. It took an afternoon. The country devolved into anarchy soon after.

Funny how by removing one cog, the entire machine collapses. A humbling sentiment, as Whisper was too aware of how fragile the status quo was. All it took was one bullet, aimed true, and it shattered. Irreparably. Vultures would come to pick at the glass; rebuild it into a new shape, a new state of existence, and she’d be waiting to break it over and over again, with a steady hand and a solitary squeeze of her trigger. Whisper couldn’t miss in that regard, and it stood as a hesitant point of pride. To be fair, she had nothing else going for her when everything else was said and done. Fate made certain of that.

Whatever argument Whisper tried to make in her head was rapidly validated by the, quite frankly, absurdly large superyacht bobbing at the edge of the docks. What it lacked in verticality, it made up for in sheer surface area. With a sleek, pearly and smooth exterior, adjourned with black tinted windows, Whisper valued it… in the ballpark of two hundred million. She’d seen her fair share of superyachts, mostly through a rangefinder, and this one took the diamond encrusted cake. Oh look, it even had a helipad, situated next door to the jacuzzi. The wolf wasn’t impressed, not with the art deco trimmings, not with the open air bar, and especially not with the name: The Golden Ratio.

Upon Whisper’s approach, a stark, sun-bleached jellyfish woman, matching the gold and white colour scheme of the yacht, stepped off a gangplank and onto the pier. Beads dangled from her tentacles, which had been styled into a swept bob-cut that complemented the gelatine bell comprising most of her head; every movement eliciting plasticky clacks from the jewellery. Whisper, upon meeting any new person, conducted a swift visual survey, immediately clocking how the outline of a gun-holster pressed against the chic uniform. In contrast, the assassin didn’t bother to hide her own pistol, exasperated by the bulky submachine gun she strapped against her chest. A pessimist’s fashion statement. Everyone knew she was armed to the teeth; so why be coy?

The jellyfish stepped forward, her heels echoing across the cobbles. Put bluntly, she was too well-dressed to be a lowly guard. Yet despite that, she spoke in the same deadpan and dry tone as someone who’d been forced to stand for eight hours straight. “Spread your arms.”

Whisper obliged, allowing the woman to pat her down. The jellyfish clearly couldn’t care less, tapping hips, thighs, armpits so briskly that the touch was barely felt at all. Once she had finished, her hands lifted away and came to rest on her waistline, attention moving upwards to combatively stare Whisper down. Resisting the shy urge to slip her own mask off her bangs, the wolf matched the gaze through icy blue slits. If this was another interrogation, then she wouldn’t be the first to break contact.

At long last, the medusae breathed out and jabbed a thumb towards the deck. “You’re good, come on through.”

“The guns?” Whisper couldn’t help but question the judgement.

“Consider it a gesture of trust.” Flipping her tentacles behind her, the jellyfish sauntered up the gangplank. “The frisking was for show anyway. I’m not blind, I can see you’re packing.”

But so are you? 

…Fair is fair, Whisper supposed. 

Remaining schtum, the wolf followed up behind her, ducking through the hull and finding herself suddenly surrounded by spruce panelling. Rather than providing any nautical hints, the ship’s interior presented itself as a postmodernist chalet, lined with numerous obtuse statues of blobs; pieces which cursorily held meaning but basically had none.

Two thumps caught Whisper’s attention, the jellyfish having dropped her high heels by the opening.

“Shoes off. Boss wouldn’t want your nasty combat boots dirtying up his carpets.” She said monotonously, as if she hadn’t just insulted a world class hatchet woman. Meanwhile, the gangplank hoisted itself back into the wall, blending in with the rest of the wood. Swanky. It did occur to Whisper that she was, for a lack of a better word, trapped; but she didn’t worry. If the meeting went pear-shaped, Whisper could easily yank the tentacles back, pull the jellyfish into a headlock, and snap her neck. Or upon facing the chance that CQC was off the table, a split second bullet sweep would solve the problem too. That, or any of the seven other solutions to have popped into her head, each involving a dead jellyfish at the end of them.

Instead, Whisper tugged her boots off, retrieved the knife she stored there, produced it to her host as a token of good faith, and clambered up a staircase.

Popping out the other end, she was met with an open plan sitting room; cold in colour and marble surfaced, with various monochrome, elegant furniture interlocking together like tetris blocks. The flooring had grey speckles mixed in with a staunch white, swirling into a faux stone imitation. However, the material itself was as soft as a duckling’s down. Whisper’s brain registered that she was atop granite, yet her paws sunk into plush carpet. Obviously, the design ethos was ‘schizophrenia’. At least it had windows, the twinkling skyline of Central City sneaking its way through the smoky glass. 

Further bolstering the ‘lots of money, not a lick of taste’ theming was the collection of geodes littered about the place. Each hovered (via metal standees, very swish) within crystal display cases, embellishing the drinks kiosk and the sofas and the coffee table; anywhere where there was space, a fancy mineral could be found. Whisper inspected a glossy, limestone specimen - the ridges giving away that it wasn’t a rock at all, but rather an ammonite fossil.

“Wait here, I’ll get the boss for you.” The jellyfish floated by another set of stairs, twirling a strand in abject boredom. “Feel free to have a seat, grab a drink… or don’t. I really couldn’t care, you do you.” With that, she peaced out, not even letting Whisper consider that, perhaps, she might’ve found a like-minded spirit; they both despised their jobs.

Whisper turned her focus back to the fossils. She’d found herself a tidy exhibition: the aforementioned ammonites, an opalised trilobite, shark teeth, and full skeletons of prehistoric fish, somewhat disturbingly, considering how closely related islanders were to their feral counterparts. Taxidermy had been deemed taboo within the archipelago, and this was a bit too similar for comfort, even for a well-trained tango like Whisper. It felt as if an entire cemetery had been defiled, regardless of the fact they were fish fish, and not people fish.

The crown jewel of the collection paraded itself front and centre. The wolf trod towards the spiral shell contained within and peered through the glass with an even stronger squint. Size wise, it eclipsed its cohort; big enough to slip over Whisper’s head and wear as a hat… she realised, with a start, that the delicate husk had the outlines of an anthromorph’s jaw. This was the remains of a walking, talking, posthumous person. Whisper recoiled with a grimace… What the actual hell?!

“Ah. I see you’ve met my grandfather.” A bassy, velveteen voice rumbled from the distant side of the room. Pacing down the stairs, robed in a smoking jacket and unbuttoned collar, was a nautilus. His helix shell matched that of the display’s, though it weathered less chips and cracks - instead it was polished and lustrous. Such care did not translate over to the gentleman’s face, which had a gaunt tension that stretched from his beak across to his creased and leathery skin.

The first notion that came to Whisper’s mind was ‘The Godfather’ (which she did not care for) - at least it did until she properly comprehended what the man had said.

“Grandfather?” she inquired with just the right amount of concern. The nautilus laxly joined her, placing an uninvited palm on her shoulder, all the while chuckling to himself.

“Yes, my dear. Grandfather. I use him as motivation. Teaches me to never - never - forget the past, and gifts me clarity on the present.” He extends a hand out to Whisper. “Nacci Mariana. Pleasure to meet you, Ms. Whisper.”

Whisper hesitantly gripped his hand, shivering with how icy it was to touch.

“Pleasure is mine, Mr. Nacci.”

“Don Nacci, if you please.” Nacci crooked his mouth to the side, flashing his shiningly pale teeth. “Handsome and debonair chairman of the Mariana Mafia?” Stricken with unease, Whisper’s ears pulled backwards as she parsed over what to say next.

“Forgive me. I expected to meet a man called Hoyt?”

The gangster scoffed to himself, irritated, and shook his head in minor vexation. “Hoyt? I’m terribly sorry, young lady, the best I can do is Hoyt’s superior. Will that suffice?”

The wolf grasped the ego at play within a second, and presented her best apologetic smile. A typical negotiating trick… though Whisper was still yet to decide if she wanted the contract or not. In lieu of genuinely offending the mollusc, she swiveled her SMG off to the side. Open body language defuses any situation, correct? 

“I’m curious about your grandfather. How did he end up… here?”

“Pop-pop called himself a revolutionary. And I don’t mean that poetically or metaphorically, he wanted to overthrow the government… in so many words.” Nacci had sauntered off to his drinks bar, and rummaged through numerous alcohol bottles that looked like they belonged in a museum rather than a cabinet. “He had the foresight to start the Mariana Family - would you like a vodka and coke? On a fundamental level, I understand what he fought for. Us aquatic folk don’t exactly enjoy many advantages; especially those of us who live under the seas. They’re fifty years behind land-dwellers, would you believe? Imagine being forced to live with no electricity, no infrastructure, no aid; simply because you mammals, birds and reptiles can’t be bothered to figure out water-proofing - one shot or two shots?”

Whisper gestured ‘one’. She didn’t drink, else she’d lose the benefits of her sharp instincts, but said instincts told her to play along. Admittedly, her interest was piqued by the strangely engrossing man in front of her.

Nacci poured two shots worth of vodka into some (thankfully) tasteful tumblers. He carelessly spilt drops whilst gesticulating along to his story. “I digress. The ocean was the Wild West, still is, and my grandfather campaigned to change that by any means necessary. Not by actual, bloody revolution. No no no. He went high, you see. And so he petitioned. Spoke to some representatives. I believe he got a bridge built? For so much effort, he had nothing to show for it.”

A glass of dark, fizzy liquid was placed into her hand, Whisper taking a reluctant sip. Expecting a burn, she was met with a refined sizzle, with a sweet roundedness added on top. The proverbial good stuff. Nacci continued between his own greedy gulps.

“He died of cancer. I’d never seen a man look so pathetic in my life. And as he rattled out his last, meaningless breath, it gave me pause. I would finish what he started, only I’d do it correctly. I went low, and thus the Mariana Mafia was born. As you can see…” He spread his arms out, inviting Whisper to drool at his yacht in awe, wearing the cockiest, most self-satisfied grin she’d ever laid her eyes upon, and she once knew a certain blue hedgehog. “I’ve done pretty well for myself. Turns out having no police presence in the Atlantic really… loosens up what can and can’t be achieved. Yes, in my particular experience, crime does pay! But, you already knew that, don’t you Whisper?”

The question stabbed her in the gut like a dagger. Whisper willed her expression not to darken, as she folded her arm and tilted her head. Very astute observation, cephalopod. Though, sarcasm would go down like a house on fire, by the canine’s estimations. Still, defensiveness bubbled.

“Crime might pay, but that doesn’t mean I’ll associate with criminals.” She murmured. Nacci responded by kicking back into a cubic armchair, his short tentacle dreadlocks splaying out across his shoulders like a clumped mop head.

“Then don’t think of me as a criminal! I hire unfortunate marine souls and provide them with a wage, family loyalty notwithstanding. Grandad would be very proud of me. We’re a charity, coincidentally both in spirit, and on my tax forms.”

Whisper’s claws dug into the tumbler, scratching the crystal glass. One of Nacci’s wrists dangled limply, as he leant off on his elbow. “I sense you’re upset? Please. You are not in any position to throw stones, sweetheart. Nobody enters into our world with a spotless track record; so, I beseech thee, what sparked your career?” 

Her fangs bit into her lip, barely drawing rivulets of blood. The answer was doused in regret.

“I murdered an innocent.”

For a fleeting moment, Nacci’s expression blended together amusement and confusion, before he snorted. “My my, you’re even worse than I thought.”

A churning void had begun to roll around Whisper’s abdomen, a suffocating weight coalescing through her. She felt oh so tired. Even her beverage turned bitterly sour. A pitiful thought rose from the tar, a familiar friend: you never can come back from that. The pop, the scream, the tears-

“Details?” Whisper choked, tone hoarse with strain. The inquiry was clumsy, ominously tapping on a gas line about to blow.

“About the job? You’re taking it?”

“Determinant.”

“Tch. Aren’t you precious?” Nacci swished his liquor in a lazy circle, condescendingly jingling the ice cubes. “Fine. I’ve got an ammo shipment coming in; it’s a deal that has been a year in the making. I need it to go smoothly, for the sake of my bottom line… and the lads and ladettes under my employ, of course. Too much is riding for the transaction to go tits up now.” The sockets underneath his forehead plate scrunched up with trepidation as he took a extended swig from his vodka - punctuating the last dash by slamming the tumbler onto the arm-rest. “There’s this… pest. No current description, and no agenda besides throwing a wrench into my plans. They’ve only gone and incapacitated six of my dealers. Six. In the space of two weeks! And here I am, the schmuck who has gotta pay the bails, clean the scene, scrub the details, replace the stolen cargo- Time, time, time; money, money, money!”

“So you want me to eliminate this threat to your business?” Whisper interjected, piercing through the anxiety and wrenching her emotions back by their collars.

“I want you to protect my shipment. I’ve got feelers out already, this cockroach won’t make it past the end of the week. But time waits for no man, and all that gubbins… so if they decide to show up this Friday?” Nacci slit his own throat with a vicious smirk. He was nothing if not eloquent.

“Feel me?”

Whisper certainly did not feel him. Her snout wrinkled in disgust. This mobster was full of crap, happy to string his own grandfather up as an ornament; at the same time as poking the bear that was her sordid past. She glanced down at her glass. She could smash it, use a shard as a shank and do the world a favour.

“No. I don’t work with criminals.” Whisper said. End of discussion. There came a miniature twitch of enmity across his the mobster’s face, reciting frustrations like ‘Don't you know who I am?’ or ‘Nobody defies me!’, or any other generic statements of megalomania that the canine heard every day. Nacci was the type of person she killed, never worked for.

“Not even for ten million?” Nacci asked in a mockingly saccharine manner. “That’s a lot of zeroes. And besides, you, I, this reprobate; we’re all criminals.” Lifting himself up, Whisper took in how tall the nautilus was, especially for islander standards. Shingles of carapace overhung his knuckles like storm-battered cliffs, and this area of his shell wasn’t nearly as well-maintained. He pressed up into her personal space. The scent of smoke, salt and cologne hit her nose all at once, voice a low hiss. “Don’t get sanctimonious on me now. I’ve invited you into my home, plied you with the finest booze… the least you can do is watch my things for an hour or two.”

Whisper’s hand fluttered above her pistol. The weak spot would be an eyeball… one bullet should be enough to do it. She flexed her feet into the carpet… it’ll need a deep clean, once she was through with this bastard-

“Boss.” The jellyfish was back at the top of the staircase; disinterested as per usual. “Hoyt wants to talk to you.”

Nacci’s beak stretched into a jovial laugh. “Isn’t that lucky!” He pinched Whisper’s cheek fluff, the wolf a moment away from snapping her teeth around his fingers. “You get to meet him after all!”

Roughed up and covered in dust, a horseshoe crab shuffled into view. A bandana hung around his neck, a trickle of dry blood oozing from his mouth.

“Don Nacci.” The crab appeared utterly defeated, Whisper spotting the slight limp that he lugged himself along with.

“Gaia above, Hoyt. Do yourself a favour and fire your stylist.”

Hoyt brushed a grubby hand over his exposed dome, drawing attention to the fact he was bald and thus didn’t need a stylist… which would explain the ‘BDSM shinobi’ get-up. He exhaled. “Sies baas, s’been a long night. Who’s the furry?”

Asserting some sort of parental possessiveness, Nacci patted Whisper’s shoulder and pushed her forward. She bristled at the touch. “Whisper, Hoyt. Hoyt, Whisper.”

The crab’s drained expression shifted to a lecherous sneer, winking at the wolf in greeting. Chaos, she was in the finest company, wasn’t she? Whisper started to weigh up the pros and cons of diving out the window.

The jellyfish’s presence continued to linger in the room, prompting Nacci to flap his wrist. Shoo, shoo. “Thank you Lume, three’s pleasant but four’s a crowd.”

Lume opted to roll her eyes, but obeyed. Furthermore, nobody raised an objection to Nacci’s butchering of the phrase. Three should be a crowd, and Whisper would take any excuse to leave at this point. It’s not as if she was out of her element, per say, but more so because she didn’t want to admit that she was in the same echelon as these creeps. Deep, deep down, she was better than this… but no, she really wasn’t.

A metallic scrape distracted Whisper from her self-analysis, Hoyt having drawn a wakizashi from his belt. It had an elegance that didn’t match the crab, but the sanguine red liquid splattered across the curved edge definitely took away from the supposed nobility. Nabbing a cloth from the drinks bar, Hoyt cleaned the sword of blood - a tinge too casually for Whisper’s liking. Why did it always feel like she’s the only person in the world to experience crushing guilt?

“The stoat’s debt is cleared.” Hoyt said, buffing away.

Nacci cocked an eyebrow. “Oh? Good. How’d you manage that? Last time I heard he was flat broke.” 

To answer, Hoyt fished about his pockets, eventually retrieving a golden wedding band and handing it to his boss. The nautilus focused in on the diamonds lining it, pinching them between his thumb and forefinger.

“Should be worth about two grand, easy.” Hoyt hummed, knocking his head back in fatigue.

“Mm. You’re better off smelting the metal and pawning the stones.” Nacci seemed nonplussed by the ring, and Whisper wondered whether or not he’d forgotten she was there too. “I trust Rudy won’t be telling any tales?”

“I would be very surprised.” Hoyt replied, before trailing off to make childish air swipes with his blade. Whisper detected that something other than a red wedding had occurred, a bush being beaten around with a samurai stick. The swishing ceased when Nacci cleared his throat in apprehension, as if he had just caught Hoyt’s hand in the cookie jar.

“What else?” He growled, storing the ring inside his jacket for safe keeping.

Hoyt chucked the now stained cloth to the side, jerking his head in Whisper’s general direction. His… ponytail?- piercings clanged together.

“Harbinger over here’ll find this relevant.” Hoyt announced snidely. ‘Harbinger’s attention pricked up at the mention of her nickname, which she hated. The crab slid a mitt into his pocket and gestured at her with the pointy end of his sword, which she really hated. “Our vigilante friend paid us a visit. Klapped me straight in my gob.”

Whisper leant against Grandpa Nacci’s transparent coffin, pretending to be intrigued. With any luck, the work would already be finished.

“ And? Did you get them?” Hunching forward, Nacci egged him on with excited anticipation.

“ Ha! No. Otherwise I would’ve brought a bottle of dop with me.” Hoyt frowned, only for him to nudge a bony elbow into Whisper’s side. “But I do have a description for ya, though!”

Ugh, she didn’t care. Quite frankly, whatever this vigilante had planned was a-okay in her books. Whisper was a bad person, sure… she’d made tenuous peace with that. But these guys? These guys deserved whatever was coming their way, and then some. She had unconsciously exhaled in resentment, tuning out Hoyt warbling in that excruciating lockjaw accent of his, when, out of nowhere, a ghost from the past clinched itself around her lungs and squeezed the air out of her.

“She’s a young woman, I suspect twenties -  grey fur, big eyes, mullet. That ain’t even the worst part, baas, she had this tail on her. Blerrie thing could stretch like an elastic band. It took Ricasso out with a frickin’ coil spring move; the poor chop is still away in la-la land!”

Whisper’s eyelids opened wider and wider the more Hoyt rattled off. There’s no way. It can’t be.

“Species?” She urged, now incredibly interested in what he had to offer. The answer was unwanted… but sorely needed. Her stomach flipped. Whatever you say, don’t let it be-

“Some sorta lemur? I guess? I’ll be honest with you, bokkie, you mammals kinda all look the same to me. A hairy blob of wet noses and pyramid ears.”

The sharpness drained out of Whisper’s vision, replaced by fuzzy, blurry, sparks dancing into view. Pressure thrummed throughout her being… Hoyt suddenly seemed like a million miles away, or as if she’d just plunged into the frigid ocean and water had rushed into every one of her orifices. 

Why? Why now?

Fight or flight pumped through her veins. The yacht rested on calm waves, yet her entire world rocked to and fro. Why would she do this? What would she think? Whisper stood on the precipice of a dark, dark moment. One she ran from through her waking moments. Every job, every kill, every speck of blood spilled seemed so insignificant in the face of her. Which beggared the question… What had Whisper done to herself? 

Murderer. Butcher. Harbinger.

Then, all at once, the turmoil calmed, the pressure dissipated, and the ocean broke way to allow oxygen to rush back into her chest. The assassin made her mind up.

“Nacci.”

The two mobsters twisted their heads in her direction. Their pupils felt like scorching spotlights, coaxing her to cross the line. Whisper almost couldn’t believe she was about to.

“…Yes?” The nautilus extended the acknowledgment; he’d already figured out what was coming. It was printed, signed, and initialled across his smug visage.

The wolf wielded hesitation similarly to the pistol she had unconsciously withdrawn from her holster. At some point, its safety had been dragged off, her thumb no longer belonging to herself.

“I’ll do it.”

Chapter Text

“Twenty-Eight! Twenty-Six! Twenty-Nine!”

“Oh my Lord, Frills, just tell us when you get a Thirty-Five - you don’t need to call out every single friggin’ car that passes us by!”

Operation: Mentor Small Bunny was going swimmingly, so swimmingly in fact that Lanolin floated several planes above conscious thought in an effort not to engage. Such transcendence can only be achieved by completely and utterly checking out, allowing the racket of an unstoppable tenrec battling against an immovable rabbit to homogenise together into a cacophonous thrum. From there, glaze over your eyes until the cars that you were tasked with speed-checking disappear into slurry, and let the tinnitus take over. So far, this was the single trick that helped the sheep survive the past two days. Two long, loooong, loooooong ol’ days.

Lanolin had nothing bad to say about Cream, despite her initial apprehension of, essentially, becoming a baby-sitter on top of everything else she had to worry about (which was more than her therapist recommended, but it’s not like she could say no ). But Cream was clever, hard-working and especially attentive, if those ears were to be believed; the teenager had picked up the ropes almost immediately. Namely: ‘Take notes’, ‘practice restraint’, ‘understand that most of the job isn’t chasing criminals but rather sitting at a desk and filling out paperwork’. Yesiree, Cream took it in her stride, with an adorable pep to boot. She was everything that Lanolin desired in an apprentice. For one, she actually listened to instructions, what a breath of fresh air that was! 

Not to mention just… unbearably sweet. Yesterday, Lanolin arrived at her desk to discover an already brewed coffee (no sugar, drop of milk - how on earth did Cream remember her coffee order from a decade ago?!) and all her current case files sorted by date and urgency. It almost brought a tear to a stoic sheep’s eye. Almost.

In a vacuum, this assignment could not have turned out better. But add Surge into the mix and… well.

“I’m not above shoving that stupid lace-tie down your throat, pipsqueak!”

“That’s appalling! You’re meant to Protect and Serve!” Cream gasped, taking a brief pause from speed gunning the one o’clock lunch rush to express her venom, or rather, as much venom that Cream could physically muster; closer to a slightly tart sugar plum than anything with a remote bit of kick.

“Actually go and choke on your teeth.” Surge had collapsed over the steering wheel, pressing her forehead into the horn; leaving enough space to not honk and blow their ‘inconspicuous unmarked station wagon (trademark pending)’s cover. The crackles of electric frustration created bedlam with the radio. The music soundtrack buzzed from greatest hits, to classical, to some of the worst rap Lanolin had the displeasure of hearing, over to an underground conspiracy nut ranting about ‘them’ (just…‘them’), until it circled back around again. Lanolin noticed how the tenrec kept eyeing up the door. Surge was a free-spirit at heart, who was in desperate need for some stimulation ever since the police scanner had decided to take a vow of silence for the past hour. Her solution tended to lean towards combing the streets at Mach 10 until something interesting happened, but alas. She couldn’t figure out the child lock.

Cream was draped across the back of the passenger seat, constantly nudging her petite torso into Lanolin’s poofy bun. Somehow, she got it in her head that being closer to the cars meant that she could zap them faster, eagerly balancing herself on the sheep’s shoulder. Luckily, Lanolin wasn’t quite home, else she might’ve (gently) shoved her off. It was difficult not to feel jealous of Cream’s unending enthusiasm for even the dullest of tasks. Even back when Lanolin worked at the Restoration, she didn’t find it fun. Having constant doses of dopamine to  keep her going would’ve done wonders for her mental capacity. Especially when dealing with Tangle; dang if that lemur wasn’t a handful.

The first, proper conversation she had with Cream gave her a decent window into the rabbit’s fluffy, fluffy psyche. After the interview with Scald the Slipper went nowhere - try have a conversation with a comatose lobster - Lanolin, forlorn and despondent, found herself banging her skull into the station infirmary’s wall. The poster she had chosen to bash depicted an insultingly cute cat, with those stupid, shiny peepers telling her to ‘Hang In There!’. Screw you, kitty. How could she hang in there when every lead on her vigilante pursuit directed her to a dead-end, then another dead-end, then to a slightly open door, ultimately drawing her towards another… Cream got the picture.

“Are you sure you want to be a detective?” Lanolin had moaned into the bricks. Surely, the bunny didn’t want to swim against the current until the heart-attack struck. “It’s… painful.”

Cream wiggled the ball of her foot into the laminate flooring, stewing on the question, before speaking up. There was nothing but sincerity in her answer.

“I don’t care if it’s painful, Ms. Lanolin. I just want to help people. Do good because it’s the right thing to do!”

Usually, Lanolin would scoff at such a naive outlook. You want to do good? Go grab a ladle and head on down to the homeless shelter. But the sheer earnesty of the response, devoid of the pessimism that defined who Lanolin was, sent the sheep back to her youth: volunteering at the Restoration, because it was the right thing to do. Her apprentice had the innate ability to knead warmth out of a sterile heart.

“That…” Cream abashedly stroked her ear, day-dreaming away. “And contribute to my Papa’s Detective Agency. We’re in so much debt… I love my parents, they work so hard, they don’t deserve to be so stressed… Especially Mama! I can see her hair turning grey!”

Join the club, Lanolin had thought. And she was only twenty-six! However, when Cream clasped her palms together, desperation written across her round features, something compelled Lanolin to stop whacking her head at the futility, and observe.

“They tell me not to worry, but I can’t stop myself. I need to pitch in somehow. Do my part, and become a great detective, like Papa! So… please, Ms. Lanolin… will you help me?”

With such an impassioned plea, Cream might have well pointed a gun directly at Lanolin and mug her for all her empathy. She mirrored the ‘Hang In There!’ cat almost perfectly. Somehow, this time, it worked. The grizzled detective facade broke, and the brickwork stopped receiving abuse.

Lanolin gave her best patented half smile. “Of course, Cream. If that’s what you need… then of course.” And she meant it. She wouldn’t fail another apprentice again. The beaming smile that Cream delivered had made the constant vigilante set-backs feel inconsequential.

“Yo, Lan.”

Surge tippy-tapped the side of Lanolin’s muzzle, before moving onto prescribing a tiny, static zap to break the trance the sheep was in. Rattling her head back into the present, Lanolin shot her partner an irked glance, past the scruff of a rabbit planking akimbo.

“What do you want?”

Immediately, Lanolin winced at the acerbity of her words once she saw the worried expression plastered across Surge’s face. The typical cocksure grin had been swapped out for an uncharacteristic frown, and coupled with the sound of sharp teeth grinding against themselves, it told Lanolin everything she needed to know. In the tenrec’s palm glowed a mobile phone, displaying an exceedingly jumbled up text received a mere second ago. Somebody had typed that in a hurry… or, more familiarly to Lanolin, a panic.

“It’s Kit.” Surge exhaled. “We gotta swing back ‘round to my apartment.” Lanolin stymied into her seat. She really didn’t want to be the asshole here, but…

“Surge, I know it’s tough, but he’s going to have to stick this one out. We can’t abandon our posting again.”

“Abandon what post? Who gives a crap about speeding tickets?!” Surge snarled, revving up the engine against the detective’s wishes. “You’re a hard-ass, I get it, Sweatshop, but the kid’s scared. I’m not sitting here watching you teach Frills the importance of ignoring someone in need. Chaos- Isn’t that what you’re always nagging at me about? I’m not having this argument again: we’re going.”

The latest lesson that Lanolin decided to impart upon Cream was when to pick and choose your battles. As the station wagon thrusted itself into the flow of traffic, Lanolin sank back into her chair and prepared for the next hour of Surge freaking out at red lights and cross-roads.

Cream had been sent hurtling into the backseats from the aggressive acceleration of the vehicle. The radar gun had accidentally gone off, revealing that Surge was speeding… but for some reason, the bunny didn’t bring that up. Though it might’ve had something to do with the jolts of lighting currently illuminating the cabin and fuzzing up Lanolin’s wool. Instead, the rabbit buckled herself up and tapped her mentor’s shoulder.

“Who is Kit?”

Lanolin clicked her tongue against the roof of her mouth. “Surge’s brother. We’re off to say hello.”

Lording over Surge’s apartment complex stood the Central Dam. The oppressive shadow it cast muddied the streets with a depressing gloom; dusk arrived several hours early thanks to that humongous slab of concrete. It figured, to Lanolin, that Surge would choose to live in this cheap part of town. She didn’t have to worry about electricity bills after all. Still, the dam always made the sheep feel uneasy. It held dominion over the water supply of the city, and just the thought of it breaking? The concept was too terrifying to even fathom, they were woefully underprepared for such an event, but innocents would drown.

After a slap-dash attempt to park the minivan, leaving a moment of silence for the neighbour’s bin, Surge stamped up the brutalist stairs with a slugged urgency. Urgency that could only be diminished by repetition, as the entire bureau came to realise. Cream hovered behind Lanolin, hands behind back, rocking nervously with hesitation. With a nod letting her know that it’s okay, Lanolin led her to follow Surge up through the cold maze of open-air walkways. A challenging climb, considering Lanolin’s damaged leg, but if Cream offered an arm she would toss the rabbit down the stairwell. Not her fault, it’d be a knee jerk reaction on Lanolin’s part.

The tenrec halted at her front door, marked by the lightly toasted wood rippling out from behind the door-knob. She jiggled it once and spat out a curse after it didn’t budge. Meanwhile, Lanolin spied the damp patch of water surrounding a sopping wet welcome mat that read ‘F Off’. Very officious. Eventually, after a tense few moments of rummaging for keys, Surge managed to unlock the door, and burst into her home. 

The trickling patter of a faucet met Lanolin’s ears. Unable to resist her curiosity, she peered into the dark corridor. There was Surge, pacing slowly to an overflowing sink that was flooding the kitchen, along with a blue fennec fox of about seventeen; Kit. He’d curled himself into a fetal position, shivering as tendrils of water encased him like a safety blanket. His sister switched off the nozzle, before gently kneeling down to the fox’s level. Lanolin stopped peeking at that point. The two deserved some privacy. Cream almost stepped in, but immediately thought better of it; Lanolin having let out a quiet ‘mm-mm’ and blocked with her cane. No, stay here.

Their conversation could still be heard, Lanolin deciding to earwig anyway. It was invasive, but y’know, Surge had also left the door open.

“Hey Drippy…” Her voice was pensive, delicate, entirely anti-Surge in delivery. “What’s up? What happened?”

“I HEARD HIM!” Kit suddenly sobbed, cutting through the quiet. “I heard him… I was just- I… there was nothing and then I HEARD HIS VOICE!”

A small shuffle; Surge had pulled him closer. His croaks were muffled by her shirt. “He keeps… he wants me to… hurt-”

“Shush. Kit, I got you.”

“Why?! Why won’t he leave me alone?!” Lanolin blanched internally. It never got any easier to listen to. She had no context on who ‘He’ was, all she learnt was that Surge and Kit had a turbulent past. Where Surge seemed to function somewhat… Kit hadn’t recovered.

“He has left, Kit. He’s gone. And you know this. It’s only the programming.” Surge whispered, the edginess of her tone evaporating.

“I-I can’t fight it… I’m so tired!”

“I’m tired too, Kit. But we… I dunno- owe it to ourselves to keep enduring.”

“I don’t want to endure!” Kit weeped, bitterly. “I want to be free.”

Surge hushed him, a couple of splashes clueing in that she’d succeeded in getting even nearer to the fox. “I know, I know. It’s exhausting… but he’s dead. You’re safe. We’re free, alright? The bastard can’t hurt us ever again. You are in control.”

Kit’s anguished wails had shrunken down to whimpers. Cream had been staring at the ground, awkwardly rubbing the texture of her ribbon tie between her fingers. Lanolin should’ve ordered her to wait in the car, but that genie was out of the bottle. Some mentor she was.

“Repeat after me. ‘I am in control’.” Surge hummed.

“I… am in control.” Kit murmured, unsure if the statement was actually true.

“Yep, because you’re a badass, Drippy.” Surge perked up. “How do you feel now?”

“Sick.”

“Yeah, but being sick is better than… whatever the hell that was.” The tenrec stood up, chuckling to the best of her ability, when a watery wake latched onto her for dear life.

“D-don’t leave, ma’am. I hate it when you aren’t here! Everything’s worse and-”

“Hey, Drippy, chill.” Surge’s demeanour shifted to something a bit more assertive, telling of the dance that had been performed a thousand times. “I’m jus’ going to speak with Lanolin, ‘kay?”

“Lanolin’s here? Can you tell her I said ‘Hi’?”

“Tell her yourself?”

She was met with silence at that prospect. Lanolin frowned, she wasn’t that scary. Surge had stepped back outside, absolutely drenched and drained, shutting the door behind her. The tenrec completely ignored Cream in favour of marching up to the sheep instead, seemingly in a confrontational mood.

“Well, are we entertained? ‘Cuz that was a bad one.”

“You think?” Lanolin said. Tact was never her strong suit. “Isn’t it time that Kit sees a psychologist? You can’t keep doing this, sooner or later you’ll need to find out what’s going on in that head of his. For his sake.”

Surge seethed at the words, Lanolin successfully ruffling the few feathers remained untouched. “It’s nothing mental.”

“What is it then, Surge? Because we keep on dropping everything for him, you do the same ritual, say the same things, and he isn’t getting any better.”

“It’s none of your business!” Surge snapped, the porch-light briefly blinking out. “Kit’s my responsibility. I’ll deal with him. You stay out of it, else I’ll break your other knee. Got it?”

Lanolin retorted by leaning on her cane, quirking up an eyebrow. Crystal clear. That satisfied Surge enough for the strain to exit her shoulders, the tenrec deflating with a sigh. She pinched her brow. “The floor is in a state, I’m staying back to clean up. Would that be fine with you, jobsworth?”

“...It isn’t a problem. Kit comes first.” 

Surge nodded, the barest hint of appreciation creeping onto her stress-withered features. “Thanks, Lan. You’re not so bad.”

The sheep abruptly laughed. “Damn straight.”

“And Cream?”

The bunny bolted to attention, Surge’s query freezing her like a deer in headlights. “Yes, Ms Surge?”

“Tell anyone about this and I’ll garrot you with your necktie.” Surge dropped a trite grin, barring her rows and rows of shark-teeth. Lanolin had long deduced that they weren’t natural, but best to leave that bell unrung.

“My lips are sealed, Ms Surge.” Cream tilted her head out of concern, copying the smile with equal cheesiness. “Give Kit my best. He’s lucky to have a big sister like you!”

Surge’s grin plummeted to the ground, shattering with a weak clatter. “How can you stand her, Sweatshop? I feel like she’s about to read me the gospel.”

Lanolin checked the address she was given from dispatch; 449 Davis Street, Wrengbrooke. A cursory survey of the modest, two story family home outside her window, hidden behind a neatly tended garden, confirmed she still understood how their GPS worked. She’d received the call during the drive back to their designated post, it thankfully distracting Cream from asking awkward questions that Lanolin didn’t really have any right to answer.

“How does Kit have water-powers?”

“I don’t know, Cream, and I wouldn’t ask Surge either.”

“But she’s got electric powers too! How do you even get those?”

“I’ve no earthly clue.”

“Is that why she’s so mood-swingy?”

“Surge is a complicated beast.”

“Ooh! We’re detectives, why don’t we find out who ‘He’ is for them!”

“Cream.”

“That’ll put a smile on their faces! Maybe even help Kit with his mental health-”

“Cream. Drop it.”

The bunny had flinched at the sudden scolding, but shut up nonetheless. The rest of the journey remained uneventful until the marching orders came through. Apparently, the woman on the other end of the phone was in a frenzy. Dispatch couldn’t make heads or tails of it, and so they did what they always did when a slightly complicated call arrived - punt it over to Lanolin.

As the duo approached up the driveway, a middle-aged otter stumbled out to meet them. Her yellow fur fit snugly into her mom-jeans, tracksuit top combo - though her cheeks were stained with the trademark matting of tears.

“Oh, thank Gaia! You’re here.” Her voice was run-ragged. Lanolin acknowledged the otter with a small wave.

“Hello ma’am. I’m Detective Lanolin, and this is Cream. Don’t mind her, she’s here on work experience.”

Cream gave a miniature bow. “Don’t worry Miss! We’re here to help!”

The gross honeyed glaze that the rabbit slathered over every single one of her words whenever she addressed a civilian, quite frankly, annoyed Lanolin beyond reason. Evidently, the otter woman’s mouth hung agape for similar, bewildered reasons. When in such a state of dismay, the last thing you’d need is a cheery teenager espousing pick-me-ups better suited for a children’s television show. Lanolin never held it against Cream though; she hadn’t had the full brunt of the world kick her whilst she was down yet.

“What’s the problem, Ms…?” Lanolin commenced, only to yelp when the woman nabbed her wrist and yanked her inside the house. Cream scurried behind her, wielding a pen and notepad, ready to diligently take notes.

“Cyril Mensk- And the problem is my husband!” The woman cried out, almost tugging Lanolin’s arm clean off. The sheep studied the front room for as long as she could manage. Hanging baskets she had to dodge, numerous family trinkets she briefly heeded. There was a family portrait, displaying a younger, less plump Cyril holding another otter, periwinkle in colour, which Lanolin surmised was the daughter. Finally, she eyeballed the husband; a pink stoat with a neatly trimmed goatee.

The strength of Mrs Mensk couldn’t be understated, Lanolin being launched into the sitting room through a dainty archway. The television blared away, the weather-bird acting out their usual shtick, but both were unwatched. Poised to the side of an antique armchair was the daughter, now much older. She clasped the armchair occupant’s bicep, unwilling to let it go. Her stoat father's stare reached a thousand miles away, borderline catatonic as the light from the tv flickered and flashed his dull pinks into a bruised purple.

Not exactly the image of 50s bliss, but Lanolin hadn’t seen anything too out of the ordinary to trigger alarm. Maybe Mr Mensk had a tough day at the office?

“I’ve tried forcing Rudy to eat, I’ve tried speaking to him, I’ve even tried slapping him silly - he won’t respond!” Cyril hissed, still clamping onto the detective.

Lanolin sidestepped the potential domestic abuse issue at hand, instead freeing herself from the vice-grip and stepping over to the stoat. Tepidly, she placed two fingers on the crook of Rudy's neck. His pulse was strong. She tutted to herself, and faced the family. 

“Have you called a doctor? Unfortunately, there isn’t a whole lot I can do, unless a crime has been committed?” 

It was the daughter’s turn to speak up. “Have you seen his finger?!” She implored, shocked that this professional inspector would miss something so obvious?

Lanolin shifted her vision over to Rudy’s lap, and…

Ah.

Cream cupped her hands around her mouth, stifling a gasp. Lanolin swallowed hard.

Rudy was missing his ring finger.

A rough-shod bandage had been applied, no doubt the work of his wife, but inky red continued to leak through the fabric. He needed medical attention, and he needed it sooner than yesterday.

“Probably should’ve started with that.” Lanolin uttered under her breath. “Cream, call an ambulance.”

“Oh… no, please don’t.” Cyril murmured, wringing her wrists in shame. “We can’t afford an ambulance, we’re living paycheck to paycheck… Rudy, bless him, is our sole form of income.”

“That's why we called you.” Her daughter cut in. “We had nowhere else to turn…”

Lanolin rubbed her forehead, already fatigued. This picture kept on becoming more and more depressing. “Okay, okay… When did you first notice something was wrong?”

Between them, both Cyril and junior both gawped at Lanolin as if she’d asked the dumbest question in the world.

“Since he came home without a finger?!” Cyril squawked.

Sweet Gaia above… The sheep took a deep, deep breath.

“Yes, and when did that happen?” Lanolin pointedly inquired, chewing on her nail.

“Last night.”

“Had he displayed any abnormal behaviour before this incident?”

Cyril tenderly rubbed her husband’s shoulder. “He has been very highly strung lately. Money has been tight for the past year.”

A scratchy scribble, Cream recording the new information. There was something to be said about having a personal scribe. Lanolin advanced from asking the basics; Who, What, When, Why, How - yada yada, to something a little more uncomfy.

“Any history of alcohol or drug abuse?”

“Rudy would never.” Cyril appeared offended by the remark, scowling. Not her Rudy. Wouldn’t be precious Rudy.

“Cool your jets, it’s standard procedure.” Lanolin urged. She had wrangled with belligerent family members so much that it turned into somewhat of a hobby for her. “Did he exit the house in any capacity, before the injury?”

The older otter paused, searching her brain for a morsel of useful intel. Her pupils scanned from left to right, as if she was replaying a tape in her head. Lanolin threaded her fingers, allowing the woman to take her time.

“He had gone to Westward, to buy a second-hand car for Trish.”

“My exam is coming up.” The daughter, expertly deduced to be Trish, bleakly smiled. Cream maintained her concentration, jotting factoids down as if her life depended on it: ‘Trish has driving test - is going to do great! <3’. The test wasn’t the intriguing part for Lanolin. Rather, she finally had a string to pluck at, and perhaps unravel this conundrum.

“Who was he meeting with? It’s not unheard of for private sales to actually be a trap - for muggings, insurance fraud. There are a lot of lowlifes slinking about, searching for good-natured people to rip off. Does any name spring to mind?”

Cyril’s bottom lip warbled as she shook her head. “No. No name. I’m sorry.”

“He didn’t even tell me what the car brand was, either.” Trish droned with an empty melancholy. Desperate to help, but without anything to give. Lanolin was acquainted with that feeling oh so well, for once again, she had been left with nothing.

Almost nothing… She did have one last hail mary to try.

“Mr Mensk?” Lanolin poked the comatose stoat’s cheek. “Rudy? Can you hear me? Can you tell me who you were meeting with?”

The group suppressed all noise, looking expectantly at Rudy - pleading for an inch of movement, a sign that he wasn’t brain-dead. Worry swirled in the sheep; something horrible must’ve happened to leave the man in such a plight.

The television trumpeted the news. A clock ticked. Cyril began to cry.

“I would strongly recommend taking your husband to the hospital, ma’am.” Lanolin said, with a sympathetic hand on the otter’s shoulder. “Until then… it’s out of my hands.”

Trish supported her mother, who had collapsed into a bawling mess. She herself was shaking, withholding her own tears, but managing to dip her forehead in acquiescence.

“I’ll make sure he gets to the hospital. Thank you for everything, Detective.”

Lanolin couldn’t match her gaze. She wished she had answers. She wished she could be the saviour that the family so gravely needed. 

“My pleasure, Trish.” the sheep lied. “Don’t hesitate to ask for me if the situation changes.”

What else was there to say? Leaving it at that, she chivvied Cream through the archway, the rabbit’s ears flopping down in defeat. She pressed her thumbs together, shuffling to Lanolin’s side.

“What do we do now, Ms Lanolin?”

“I don’t know.” Lanolin sighed. “Would you like to run through our vigilante leads back at the office, see if there is something we missed?”

“Vigilante?!” A man’s voice bellowed out, rattling the knick-knacks that were spread about the hallway. Immediately, they spun on their heels and skidded back into the sitting room. Cyril and Trish were mute in confusion, unable to react to Rudy sitting upright in his armchair. Even with this miraculous turn of events, the stoat didn’t take notice of his company. He simply stared into space, raising his wounded hand for all to see.

“The vigilante… she was there.” Rudy spluttered out, zombie-like. Lanolin’s jaw dropped at the revelation. She?! The stoat’s mantra continued. “That’s what they called her… this was her fault.” He waved his stump around. “She did this to me…”

Cream gingerly prised the notepad back out of her pocket, flipping a page back and writing down the bombshell.

“Vigilante… Vigilante!! She’s in on it, she could’ve saved me!” Rudy frothed at the mouth, spitting the words like vile bullets in Lanolin’s direction. “It’s her fault… darling, it’s her fault.” He reached out for Cyril’s hand and crumpled back into unconsciousness.

The detective blinked in shock. Resolute, she spun the car keys into her hand, whipping them with a jingle. Was that just the ramblings of an ill man, or did they trip their way into a breakthrough?

“Nevermind. We’re coming with you.” Lanolin declares, with a confidence she had missed so damn much.

Chapter Text

Spin the drum, pull back the safety, take careful aim and-

Bang! Bang! Bang!

Three cyan blasts streaked out from the barrel of the revolver, hurtling towards the old tins stacked up with reckless abandon. Each bullet of energy missed their target, soaring into the darkness like shooting stars before fizzling out with a whimper.

Tutting at herself, Tangle brandished her new toy into the air. That settled it, she couldn’t aim if her life depended on it. Still, she brushed the stock of the fancy wispon, all whilst absentmindedly punting the tin pyramid off the graffitied brick wall she’d decided to ‘train’ with (and not because she wanted to fire the funny pistol, that’d be ever so unbecoming of a vigilante like herself). The revolver had a classic wood finishing, engraved with a helix pattern swirling within the carving. Although, the metals clashed with the rustic aesthetic – typical technological accents, characteristic of a wispon, lined the cold surfacing. The drum itself held an electrical ammunition, bright turquoise in colour. Admittedly, Tangle had no clue what the mystery energy actually was. Perhaps some sort of substitute for living, breathing wisps?

Though… the cylindrical glass casing appeared familiar to the lemur. Ripping it from the gun, she held it up towards her eye, squinting. It seemed alive. The cyan lightning bashed and scraped against its container, demanding release. Gripping it even harder, Tangle poised herself, and spotted one of the loose cans rattling across the pavement. She cupped the ammo and rubbed it with her thumb. Scientifically speaking, Tangle really wanted to know what was inside the casing… and, to boot, when in Rome, right?

Curving a perfect pitch and throwing caution to the wind, Tangle over-hand swung the casing into the tin can; this time, she struck true. It shattered into a million, tiny shards, hissing with a voltaic wheeze. The lemur smirked to herself. Sure, she wasn’t much of a trick shot, but hell if she couldn’t hit a fastball, or that impulsivity never served her well. Why settle down with some boring job when she could go about robbing goons of their blinged up weapons?

Whatever train of thought her distraction riddled brain was going down quickly halted once she witnessed the cyan energy reformat itself into a more tangible form. Distinct tentacles warped out of two terrified, blinking eyes. Then emerged a head, flowing into a pointed tail, followed swiftly by a miniature growth on its scalp. A sinking horror wormed itself into Tangle's insides as she stared into the shivering creature’s pained expression. It stretched itself out shyly, backing away from the lemur’s gawping mouth.

Questions raced through Tangle’s head. A Cyan Wisp? The energy was another Cyan Wisp? Even worse, had she been abusing it this entire time? Every careless click of the trigger, every shot… realisation hit as if her previous fastball was battered straight back into her face.

Wasting no time, the wisp darted away to freedom, leaving Tangle alone; to stew, to ruminate.

The horror, inch by inch, turned to boiling fury as the implications of the discovery rushed over Tangle’s being. Of course! How could she be so stupid? Scald’s empty casings, that capsule he flogged, the construction guard’s constant barrage of pink spikes, her own limitless attempts to knock down the tin cans – like this was some sort of carnival game. The weapons, the ammo, the supplies – all of it… was powered by captive wisps.

The revolver clattered to the floor, having slipped out of Tangle’s clasp. She made no effort to pick up her trophy. It was tainted. Instead, her ire drifted to the faces of recent memory. A lobster who trafficked innocents. A swordfish who beat unarmed prisoners. A certain crab who enabled every one of their loathsome actions, who forced her to make a choice that she still hadn’t come to terms with. But it wasn’t her fault, no… it had always been this cancer; this gang that blighted her streets! It was Hoyt, a man who played with his food and killed over petty business. And now, burdened with the knowledge that this scumbag, this piece of garbage, abused wisps for profit? She couldn’t do nothing, not again. How many more wisps were trapped in these cages, smaller than even a capsule, stuffed with no light, no air, no -

She had to stop. The scorching rage was becoming too much to handle, seering her insides with a bleaching twist. A fist punched into the wall, red dust spilling up and across it. Tangle leaned into the impact, doing everything to steady her shaking legs. These monsters had made an accomplice out of her not once, but twice. Enough. The lemur had been fighting with the kiddy gloves, when she should’ve brawled with gauntlets. Gauntlets meant for cracking shells and caving skulls.

Today was Friday, and the sun had begun to set. Hoyt’s meet-up would be starting soon. And Tangle swore she would be there, armed to the teeth, fully prepared and ready to thrash them all until they could barely breathe. She’d paralyse them; give them a taste of their own vile medicine by entrapping them in a prison of no escape.  

For the wisps, for the stoat, for the memory of what the Diamond Cutters stood for.

After all, what else was she good for?

Lanolin sipped her americano, whilst people-watching the world pass her by. The ‘inconspicuous unmarked station wagon (trademark pending)’ was quiet, unusually, after a full day of questioning everyone, and she did mean everyone, in Westward Avenue. The moment had arrived to recharge batteries, caffeinate oneself, and decompress - perhaps even glimpse the sunset through the cracks in the high-rise buildings.

Perpetual driver Surge had winched her seat back, attempting relaxation, but remaining as rigid as a transistor, sparks and all. Her eyes were pinned to the ceiling, flicking about in some sort of disturbed meditation. Calmness was a rare curios for the tenrec, so Lanolin made sure not to disturb.

Glancing into the rearview mirror, Lanolin noticed how Cream had nodded off; her ears having drooped over her face, creating an impromptu sleeping mask. Her snores were soft, wobbly little whistles, almost too cute to handle. Sighing with a fond smile, Lanolin thought of a cursory notion. Tonight, the grumpy sheep might actually do something nice. She started to wriggle herself out of her purple trench coat, taking care not to accidentally stab herself with her cane - which was resting in its usual spot in-between her legs. Surge’s head turned a smidge, both curious about and irritated by the sudden commotion. Ignoring how her knee locked up with that ever-present, dull ache, Lanolin hoisted herself over the back of the passenger seat, taking a moment to drape her coat over the snoozing bunny.

“Tch. You’re pathetic, y’know that?” Surge muttered dismissively, turning her attention back towards the roof of the car. The sheep didn’t care, not by the typical barbs of her partner, not by the sudden chill her wool did nothing to block, not even by how difficult it was to reorientate herself back into a comfortable position thanks to the added challenge that came with her leg. Rather than take the bait, Lanolin chose to instead pull out her notebook - adjourned with both her own, and Cream’s, handwriting.

“Nothing wrong with showing a bit of care every now and again.” She said, before making a risky move and nudging the tenrec’s side. “And don’t lie to me and say you don’t, or you’ll break Kit’s heart.”

“Screw you, Lanolin.” Oooh, her full name! Lanolin never got her full name out of Surge, never mind successfully ribbing her partner into conceding a point. That, in of itself, was cause for concern, but the detective had bigger fish to fry. Literally.

Rudy Mensk was the breakthrough she’d been looking for; though not without complications. Principally, upon taking the stoat to the hospital, they had discovered the man had suffered a brain hemorrhage without anyone’s knowledge. His wife was beside herself upon receiving the news, and Lanolin couldn’t exactly blame her - she was the one who put off going to see a doctor in the first place. The sorry stoat was extremely lucky, but a burning question did flare up once the shock and tears had settled; why?

Lanolin flipped over to the next page, re-digesting the revelations of that night. The answer was simple, but no less disturbing - he’d been beaten half to death. Shaving away his fur revealed deep, black bruises on his skull, his chest. Boot marks imprinted on his stomach, blunt force trauma painted across his face. The pink coat was to blame for missing out on this detail… the wounds blended with his patterns perfectly.

Suddenly, what seemed like an errant call transformed into a lead. A nugget of doubt danced in the back of Lanolin’s head, telling her not to trust the words of a man who, with all due respect… had just been diagnosed with severe brain damage. But it was something. Something that aligned with the previous facts of the case. A harsh beat-down? That certainly matched the methods of the vigilante, though the cutting off of fingers was an escalation that couldn’t be ignored. Potential criminal background? Lanolin conceded that it might be a leap, but Rudy not telling his family about his meeting did raise some red flags. She doubted there was ever a car to buy in the first place. The father had some skeletons dancing in his closet.

This left her with two dangling threads: the fact that the vigilante was a ‘she’, which narrowed the search down to roughly four billion people, and Westward Avenue. At last, she had a tangible location to pick apart, leading the dynamic trio of a psyched up sheep, a grouchy tenrec and a peppy rabbit to a new district, pens and paper at the ready!

Like any rundown part of town, night was when the real nasties came out to play - so here they were. Stakeout number ‘whatever’, Lanolin had lost count. However, she felt it deep in her gut that this time she’d pry out the truth, dragging it kicking and screaming into the light if she had to. Being honest with herself, this was what the job is all about; cracking cases wide open with the crowbar of intuition. Weird metaphor aside, answers were long overdue.

But first…

“Hey Surge, want to grab a takeout?”

The engine roared to life before the sentence had finished leaving her mouth, Surge flashing her chompers that ravenously glinted in the dim light.

“Only if you’re paying!”

The back of the Hoyt’s van was about as uncomfortable as Whisper had ever been, squished between a muscular lionfish and a colourful mantis shrimp. Clearly the budget went towards the shelves upon shelves of wispons, enough to arm a battalion, then the flat benches the squadron of Mariana triggermen were forced to sit upon. The wolf hugged her sniper rifle close to her chest, letting the silencer rest against her collar. She did so not out of protectiveness, or as some sadistic form of reassurance; more simply, she grasped at it because she didn’t want to be rude.

Hoyt, masked up and hanging onto a strap for balance, cricked his neck before clearing his throat. His voice was hoarse from speaking over the rumbling road and juddering cargo. Despite finding the crab absolutely revolting, and not just sapphically either; Whisper gave him her full, undeserving by her own measures, attention.

“Don’t think because we’re playing on home turf means that you’ve got an excuse for sloppiness. Any cock-ups and I’ll chop your ugly blocks off, ja ne?” 

There were nods and murmurs throughout the van. Whisper kept to her namesake, and remained silent, inwardly digesting the lo-down.

“This shipment is hot freight. There'll be two vans. I want you to check the cargo of each, and verify we’re not being jerked about. I’ll handle the money, negotiations, spit in the palm - you get the picture.” Hoyt continued on, hurling out every instruction with bite. “We’ve got enough meat here to have a proper braai, so there shouldn’t be an issue. And if there is, I’ll reiterate for those at the back of the room, I’ll chop your ugly blocks off. Clear?”

“Clear.” Came the choral answer - all with differing levels of gruffness. Whisper, neither gruff, nor intending to follow the commandments, didn’t join the call and response. She wasn’t a child, and she had a reading comprehension level above the criminal himbos she was smooshed between. Hoyt, annoyingly vigilant, clocked Whisper’s silence, and bent down. His smooth shell swamped her view, two sunken maroon beads lasering into her soul. Whisper wasn’t intimidated, though a boozy scent of alcohol and cedar trees burned her over-tuned sense of smell. The crab smoked incense. What a dork.

Whisper’s ear twitched in absentmindedness. Dork with a knife…

“Notice how I left you out, Harbinger? I trust you’ve got your contribution on standby?”

“If everything runs smoothly, you won’t see me, Hoyt.” She responded, tucking her sniper closer to her chest. The mobster wasn’t satisfied with that answer, popping his collar and readjusting his cowl. Was he trying to scare her? …She had a gun.

“Sies, love, that doesn’t exactly fill me with much faith. I’ve done my due diligence, Guardian Angel. You like to perch in a nest and play solitaire for seven hours a day. Am I wrong?”

Whisper visibly bristled, her lips peeling back into a slight snarl. Hoyt took great pleasure in getting under her skin, flashing his eyebrows in a taunting manner. Frustrating. How this middle management level gangster was aware of her previous escapades was not something she wanted to dwell on. Why give this arthropod any more sway, other than the power of a contract? So, filing away the plan to shuck the creep for a later date, the wolf held her tongue and instead leaned into Hoyt’s presence. Equalise the playing field.

“I’ll be up in the rafters, keeping an overwatch. Your vigilante enjoys a climb. That’s where I’ll wait for her.”

And what a long wait it has been.

Hoyt straightened up, defensively checked his chitinous fingers for grime, and chortled breathily. The tail-end of the laugh devolved into fried croak, leading and sensual. “Kill her, and it’ll be ten million well spent. Plus…” His gaze edged up and down across Whisper’s figure, the canine returning the gesture with ice cold focus. “A bottle of my finest sake, Van Ankeren Rice Wine.”

She tilted her head, just enough to express ‘what?’ without having to engage any further. Her stare stayed just as piercing, daring the crab to mess around and find out. Surprisingly, Hoyt returned to standing patiently, like a bus passenger at rush hour, bending with the flow of the vehicle.

“It’s my personal brand. I brew it myself.” He eventually said. “Everyone’s gotta have a hobby, ne? Get it at your local off-licence.”

Whisper sunk back into her tiny crevice of space, between fish and crustacean, with an exhale. “I’ll make a point of it.”

But Hoyt and his, frankly, diabolically bad flirting wasn’t what consumed her thoughts. Her hand trailed across her rifle, feeling the lever, each dip and groove, the grainy stock and the smooth barrel; rising up to the carbon fibre silencer, featuring a hatched texture that Whisper found relaxing to stroke. The gun was one of her few remaining steadfast allies, next to sidearm and combat blade… She prayed she wouldn’t have to use it against her oldest.

The van rolled to a stop, bright sheets of light spreading out underneath the cracks of the door. Hoyt untied his coat, swatting at the sword he always had strapped to his belt, before swinging an arm.

“We’re here. Let’s get this done, and done cleanly.”

For once, Whisper agreed with him.

The moon pasted a sickly white glow, bleaching the withering streets with an exposing gleam. Tangle slunk across the street, bandages already applied and hurting. Her prep work took an hour, and she wouldn’t allow her anger to subside. If anything, it only grew and grew. She made a point to polish her metal crowbar, buffing out every stain and crinkle, until it outshone the moonlight itself. Stealth really didn’t seem that important anymore.

With her own balaclava secured over her nose (similar to Hoyt, who aped who’s style?), and knuckle duster tail fully sleeved up and ready to destroy, Tangle steadied her own breathing. The apprehension committed murder on her nerves. Her beeline towards the construction site, not giving a single crap about who saw her, ended before it truly registered as begun; the lemur barely perceiving the change in scenery. The empty shell of the skyscraper dominated the sky, her final boss’ bastion; Tangle pressed up to the chain-link fence. Picking a protective weave of tarpaulin, she peered through a sliver.

There was that horseshoe crab, at a fold out table, thumbing through cinder blocks of cash. Tangle reckoned about upwards of ten million was scattered on the surface. A couple of parked vans rumbled on standby, their backs opened wide, and empty. Security milled; lionfish, parrotfish, fishyfish (Tangle wasn’t a marine biologist), strolling about the place, brandishing assault rifles, shotguns, pistols. No doubt all powered by wisps, a growl escaping Tangle’s throat. Scum. The lot of them.

Vaulting over the seven foot fence was child’s play for Tangle. She landed silently, and immediately sprinted into the structure, no-one any the wiser that they had been infiltrated. Again. Tangle sideled a leg over a beam, slipping into the exoskeleton like a scalpel. She crept along, careful not to lose balance or entrap herself in the hanging wires. Below her, more guards threaded throughout the floor plan, Tangle watching them like chess pieces on a board. Could she isolate one? Or maybe take two without them raising the alarm? The choices were endless. But before she could drop onto anyone, the famously ear-grating slang of Hoyt rang out suddenly, and urgently.

“The payload has landed! Positions everyone, positions!”

The cursory one thug, two thugs escalated into a small flood of muscle and meat. Scales of silver, rainbow, dull browns and bright yellows congealed together into an ocean of ‘Do Not Engage’. Tangle was slightly taken aback. She anticipated a bit of resistance, not an entire army’s worth of infantry. The plan to go buck wild on the operation had turned suicidal. True, Tangle let herself go both socially and hygienically… but she hadn’t bottomed out quite to the point where jumping down to certain death seemed a smart option.

Swiveling back on herself, Tangle came to discover that the perimeter had been completely and utterly surrounded, a ring of guns and walkie-talkies blocking any notion of a getaway. The ground began to shudder, the structure wobbling underneath Tangle’s feet. Another two vans, incredibly robust and truck-coded, pulled into the construction site, the gates swiftly closing behind them with a CLANG of finality. The lemur hissed in alarm. She was in for the long haul.

Attempting her best sneaky ninja impression (hey, she had the face mask!), Tangle lay prone above the meeting. The level she’d settled on was open plan, with numerous boxes and power-tools propped up at every corner. It unsettled her in a way she couldn’t understand, as if anyone could launch out at her in an instant. The unease got to the extent that Hoyt’s voice came across as extremely odd, definitely one for the therapist, comfort . She wasn’t completely alone and vulnerable, only… she was completely alone and vulnerable. Kicking herself would’ve been on the docket if not for the need to be absolutely statue still.

The scene unfurled underneath her. Behind one of the monster van’s passenger doors quivered a pair of fluffy antennae. The shadow hopped out, revealing himself to be a silkworm. The fuzz that poofed out from his neck made him seem like royalty; conjuring images of Snow White, or the Ice Queen… except as a pimp. He wore a pair of aviator shades, with his wings covering his shoulders like a shawl. Every inch of him was covered with so much fur that his features got lost beneath it. The emerging squadron of bodyguards were not nearly as well-groomed; flies, cockroaches, hornets and wasps clambering out and taking various defensive positions, covering threats and marking weak spots without saying a word. Well-trained tangos, Tangle thought ominously.

Hoyt paced up to the silkworm, hands in pockets but coat open wide - showing off his ‘waki’ as a warning just as much as a bragging right. Conversely, the insect stepped up to the crab, brushing his jacket and patting the bulge under his shoulder - so much for concealed carry. Tension ebbed, the two gang leaders sniffing around each other in a standoff.

“Hoyt.” The silkworm announced, his tone muffled but dripping with tender menace.

“Album.” Hoyt replied, louder. “You’ve lost weight.” The insect, Album, adjusted his shades.

“And here you are, still delusionally believing that your butter knife makes you cool.” He spread out his arms, gesturing for the crab to bring it in. “Always good to see you, Hoyt.”

The hug was brief, and awkward - Tangle cringed. Barely any skin contact, a goofy ‘pat, pat’ to end the encounter; gross, gross, gross. She pretty much had a PhD in hugging, though that degree was falling to the wayside; consequences of her solitary lifestyle.

“Two van-fulls, as discussed.” Album twizzled his white fingers at the vehicles. “One filled with ‘ammunition’, the other at half capacity, but holding the package Don Nacci requested.” Hoyt nodded along, snapping at his subordinates to check the cargo; a shoal of fish scurrying in at his behest.

Album yanked a pocket watch out of his own snazzy jacket, attached via a rose-gold chain. “Is that my money?” He nudged his antennae towards the jenga towers of bills, carelessly left out and on full display.

“Indeed it is. Feel free to count it.”

“Oh, I will.”

Or rather, one of his cockroaches will, the nearest of whom holstered his gun and parsed his way through each stack at a lighting speed. Then the conversation… fizzled out; there wasn’t enough trust between Hoyt and Album to keep acting as if they were buddy-buddy. The two were forced to stand in limbo until their respective goons gave them the all-clear, which, knowing Hoyt’s track record at the very least - wasn’t likely. If Tangle was lucky, they’d kill each-other without even realising she was there.

That gave the lemur some down-time to analyse the information she’d made herself privy to. Album spoke coyly, as elusive as his true appearance below the fuzz and sunglasses. Tangle got ‘ammunition’, there was a jokiness to the tone which gave the game away. Van One had wisps filling it. Van Two piqued her concern, however. ‘The package Don Nacci requested’? Inteeeresting.

A Don; spooky, but irrelevant. Was Don Nacci in the room with her now? On the other hand, the name ‘package’ concealed enough to ignite Tangle’s imagination. This unknown object was, roughly (and if Tangle’s mathematics was correct… she did fail her exams) a quarter of the asking price in total. Oh, what she’d give to steal that away from Hoyt. It’d hit him where it really hurt, since the wretched bully murdered a man for much less. If physically annihilating him wasn’t possible, perhaps she could still come out on top by stealing his product. Maybe even take a trick out of those secret agent films, the series she watched whenever depression reared its ugly head, then she could dangle down with her tail, slip into the cab, hotwire the engine and-

“Stay still.” An order serrated its way through the silence. “This is a .30 calibre sniper rifle.” The ghostly, feminine voice snuck up on Tangle without any warning, sending trills of terror from the tips of her ears to the end of her tail. The cold, plastic indentation of a circular barrel pressed into the back of her neck, though the force was light and half-hearted. Crap, the lemur thought. Rumbled.

“Are you with Hoyt?” Tangle asked, raising her hands in surrender. No sudden movements.

“Yes.” The unknown woman had a hint of bitterness edging around her words, which were picked carefully. They crackled beneath an electronic filter. “If you want to remain alive, then you will do exactly as I say. Understand?”

Tangle wetted her lips, looking for any potential respite. A lifeline had been brandished in front of her, but did she want to make a grab for it under such tenuous circumstances? “I understand.”

“Good. I’m glad.” The voice sighed. The gun remained. “Hoyt has men stationed at every potential exit. Luckily for you, there is a shipping container, dark blue - labeled with Arrivederci Transit. You can’t miss it. Climb on top of it. You shouldn’t have any trouble jumping the gap to freedom.”

“...Why?” Tangle said in confusion. “Why help me? Why not just shoot me now?”

The voice kept silent. If it wasn’t for the weapon holding her hostage, Tangle could’ve sworn the woman had left all together.

“I don’t care who you are. I hate unnecessary cruelty; it’s that simple.” 

The lemur scoffed. You hate cruelty? Pick a better boss. 

“But if I let you go, I’ll need you to do something for me in return.” The silken tone continued. “Forget any prospect of settling up with Hoyt. Whenever you hear of the gang called the ‘Mariana Mafia’, you ignore it. You never return to Westward Avenue. Drop your crusade for justice; it’ll get you nowhere. Keep this promise, and you have my word, you’ll live.”

“And if I don’t?” Tangle tested the boundaries; prodding at a live wire, pushing her luck.

“I’ll kill you. Either here and now, or later. Doesn’t matter when. You can’t outrun me.” The pressure relented by an imperceptible waver. “I’d rather not waste a cartridge, so… Do we have a deal?”

Seeing no better option, Tangle relented. “Deal.”

The gun’s presence faded from the scruff of her neck. Her answer had sufficed… but Tangle was a liar.

Without hesitation, Tangle spun around and grabbed the silencer hovering in the air. She tugged at it, hoping to tear it out of her assaulter’s hands and disarm her. The woman was taken aback, but by no means faltered, keeping an iron grip on her weapon.

Tangle re-positioned herself, shoving into the rifle’s side, clearing herself of the immediate danger. In turn, her opponent stomped and struggled, crooking in her shoulder and railing against the lemur. Thud, Thud, THUD.

A dull pop heralded the first bolt fired from the rifle, the bullet digging into the ground and disturbing a cloud of dust. Tangle’s tail winched around, and pistoned itself into the head of the gunman. Metal met metal as her brass knuckle skidded off a mask, sparks scraping out with every blow.

The lemur held onto the sniper, wrestling the aim to the floor, shoving at it with all her might. A rock-hard pad elbowed her in the mouth, her teeth ringing from the impact, but still Tangle held on. THUD. Another flash of gunfire, another bullet embedded into the wood panelling. The gunman’s boot found purchase on Tangle’s own, stamping down and striking the butt of the rifle into the lemur’s jaw. Tinnitus screeched as the world turned wobbly, the sheer strength of the attack sending Tangle tumbling to the floor.

But she wouldn’t go down that easily. Tangle wrenched the silencer down with her, attempting to pull the assaulter onto the floor. Woefully, the silencer snapped off the barrel, the lemur falling onto her back, her head smacking against the ground.

Staring back at her was the gunman. Dressed in grey military duds, and with a blank ovoid mask hiding her species, she rechambered the rifle with tactical precision. The exposed dark circle of a gun muzzle floated above Tangle’s forehead. The lemur had completely, utterly lost.

This was it. Tangle mourned. This was how she died. Closing her eyes, she braced for the brief stab of pain, and for a cacophonous bang to sing her to her sweet demise.

A sound that never came…Tangle peeled her eyes open again, only to find her attacker in an anxious stasis.

The gunman’s ears had pulled back, flat against her scalp. Tangle saw such distress before, the trademark sign of a canine in agony. A glove stretched out towards Tangle, shaking. The lemur was baffled… What was going on? The gun stayed pointed at her, though it too now bounced in an unsteady grip. Finally, delicate fingers wrapped around her black balaclava, and ripped it away.

Tangle blinked as cold air poured against her mouth. After a beat, the gunman dropped her gun completely, hitting the floor with a muted thump.

“I…” The voice behind the mask started. “I knew it. Tangle… ”

A sickening recognition crawled up Tangle’s spine. 

The canine reached around her mask and took it off. Carelessly, she tossed it aside.

Her fur was the same warm biscotti that Tangle remembered, though it had been marred with scar tissue, some slicing through her snout and some snaking across her eyebrows. But the rest was the same, a little older, a little more tired. The fangs, the ponytail, those beautiful eyes that still captivated the lemur to the day.

Whisper.

Tangle seized a second to digest. Dormant feeling came pounding to the surface. Angry, bitter spite.

… Whisper.

“I had a hunch this was your handiwork…” The wolf smiled a fragile smile that must’ve been years in the waiting. “We can talk later. Right now, we need to get you away from Hoyt.”

She’s smiling…? After everything…?

The nerve pricked Tangle in the most sensitive cockle of her heart.

This reunion was worthless.

Brushing off the demure words with a vengeance, she made a snatch for the sniper rifle, spinning it directly towards Whisper. It was pure instinct, the lemur baring her teeth at the canine. Pale, blue eyes widened in disbelief, flinching at the furious scream ripping its way out of Tangle’s throat. 

BANG.

Empty burger cartons and wrappers surrounded Surge, the tenrec piling them together like a conqueror would their spoils. Lanolin chewed on her own cheeseburger, resting her cheek on her palm, observing the ravenous scene unfurling before her.

“I gotta say, Limp Lamb, free food has to be the best perk of this job.” Surge spat out between mouthfuls of fries. “Flash a badge and they roll out the red carpet for you.”

“Yup.” Lanolin replied absent-mindedly. “I’m sure the minimum wage workers were raring to make… sixteen burgers, two large sodas and a tonne of poutine for everyone’s favourite green gal in blue.”

Surge shot some finger guns at Lanolin. “Don’t forget: no tip.”

“No tip, too. You’re too generous, Surge. Truly.”

Cream was back in the car, snoozing away. Lanolin had bought her a small meal, in case she woke up, but it seemed like the bunny could sleep through armageddon. That left the sheep with Surge… and a difficult request on the tip of her tongue.

“Can we talk about Kit?”

Surge instantly ceased masticating, sending Lanolin the nastiest stare possible. “No, you can’t.”

Regardless, Lanolin pushed. “It’s not my place, I know, Surge. But I’m a detective, I can read people. And it’s so, so obvious you’re worried about him.”

“Of course I’m worried about him!” Surge snarled. “But therapy won’t help him. At all. I told ya once, and I’ll tell ya again - what he’s suffering with is nothing mental. It’s a programming defect.”

“I’m going to pretend to understand what that means.”

“Thanks, but don’t bother. We’re the only two people on the planet who have this issue. Some armchair psychologist picking at his brain will have no effect.” The tenrec folded her arms, put off from her meal. “And before you ask, no I will not elaborate. It’s between myself and Kit. Like I said, I will deal with him. Because no one else can.”

Lanolin played with the bell hung around her neck. She’d conducted enough interviews in her tenure to notice when somebody was lying - Surge was no different. But a good interrogator understands when to press, and when to show solidarity.

“I’m only looking out for you both, that’s all.” She muttered. “At risk of sounding like a dork-“

“Mission failed.”

“-Just know… I’m someone who you can come to, to talk, to vent, whatever you or Kit need. No strings attached… Would you allow that Surge?”

The tenrec wore a conflicted expression, somewhere on the sliding scale between ‘thankful’ and ‘indigestion’.

“Okay.” Surge said, emotionlessly. Lanolin decided to take that as a win, and stopped forcing the issue, slurping some soda to punctuate her point. The tenrec would open up in her own time.

BANG.

A distant, echoey, clap burst out of the quiet, ringing throughout the district.

Lanolin and Surge’s heads snapped to the window. The framework of a skyscraper dominated their view. Westward Avenue’s finest. Furrowing her brow, Lanolin stood up, balancing on her cane.

“Was that a…?”

“Gunshot? Yes.” Surge uttered, a morose look upon her face. Electricity trilled around her, sending blue fluxes of energy across the fast food joint. Various patrons stared at the sudden light show.  “Close by, I reckon.”

She sent a grin over to the sheep, her irises glowing with power. “Shotgun being first-responders?” An open ended question, that the tenrec didn’t wait for an answer for, prepping to zoom out the door; static building up in the soles of her boot.

“With my leg?” Lanolin lamented. “Good luck.”

The sound-barrier shattering sprint instantly stalled, leaving Surge to face-plant into the floor and slide across the tiling. Resting a free hand on her hip, Lanolin couldn’t help but snicker.

“Screw it, hop on my back.” Surge groaned. A trickle of blood dripped from her nose from where she’d bombed spectacularly. 

The laughter died, the sheep balking in irritation.

“Over my dead body-”

Whisper watched the smoke leave the tip of her rifle, the earth-shattering snap of the gunshot rattling about in her head, deafening her to everything except the whine of a blown ear-drum.

She wiped a hand across her front… she couldn’t feel any dampness, the ridges of a bullet hole; no scorching sting or numbing cramp. The wolf’s head turned back towards Tangle. The lemur hadn’t aimed the gun at her; she’d fired into the ceiling, appearing to be just as confused, as if she never intended to fire in the first place. Like that mattered.

For a moment, silence. Tangle’s cheek twitched in fury, whilst Whisper’s brain raced, trying to figure out the angle…

“What the hell was that, Hoyt?” Album. The sharpness in his tone outweighed the concern, an allure of control emanating around the silkworm. Whisper’s sensitive ears clued her into the signature metallic clicks of hammers being pulled back, chambers getting loaded.

“Simmer down, gents.” Hoyt’s boots crunched on top of dirt as he spun around and craned his neck up into the rafters. “Harbinger? Was that who I thought it was?”

Tangle panted, keeping her ire locked onto Whisper. It roasted the wolf, anguish and pain and rage battling it out within those expressive, amethyst eyes. The lemur always wore her heart on her sleeve. Her turmoil was obvious, which left Whisper to feel incredibly stupid in her belief that Tangle might’ve been open to negotiation, if the mysterious vigilante ever turned out to be her. Why would she?

When Whisper ignored her begging.

“Harbinger! Useless brak, answer me!”

By rotating her head almost imperceptibly, in the direction of Hoyt’s calls, Tangle’s intentions became murky. Her tail slithered up a beam, prepping for a… dive, maybe? Something had shifted in Tangle; nevertheless, jumping to Hoyt would be suicide! The canine collected the jumbled words bouncing within her mouth.

“Whatever you’re thinking… don’t.” She gently urged. The lemur spoke through gritted teeth.

“Go to hell Whisper. Why should I listen to you?” 

Whisper didn’t answer, because she knew she had no recourse. Each accusation lacerated wounds long believed to be closed.

“Harbin- forget it. WHISPER!” Hoyt grew impatient. “We’re in the middle of a diplomatic crisis of your making, can you please show my esteemed peers there’s nothing to get so blerrie skittish about?”

“I’m not one for theatrics.” Album whispered, menacing Hoyt’s ear. “I can tell when my chain is getting yanked.”

The deal imploded, that much was clear. Granted, Whisper didn’t care if Hoyt found himself capped, but avoiding a slaughter was priority number one. She shook her head.

“What’s the plan here, Tangle-”

“Don’t say my name.” The lemur choked, slicing off Whisper’s olive branch. “And please… stop pretending. I can’t take it. Stop pretending you care. Stop pretending and do the damn job you’ve clearly been hired for.”

“I’m trying to help you!” Whisper pleaded, trying to keep her voice from raising in volume, lest she blow cover. Tangle whined to herself… which Whisper soon came to understand was laughter.

“Help?! You want to help Whisper? Do the right thing.”

Whisper steadied the sorrowful panic currently thrumming through her veins. “Tell me how.”

Tangle lifted herself up, resignation plastered across her body language, her demeanour.

“Fight evil.” She pointed a finger at Hoyt, who’d uncovered his SMG, shifting between looking up and looking at Album. The silkworm, too, had drawn a pistol. “Fight them. Or don’t fight at all.”

She blew air through her cheeks, slapping her arms on her side as she teetered on the edge of the building. Nothing else to say. There wasn’t nary a peep of a response to be drawn out of Whisper… whatever speech she’d prepared for the lemur died with a whimper. The singular thought whizzing around Whisper was a pathetic acceptance; Tangle was correct… she always managed to cut through to the core of the issue. Past the excuses, and see Whisper for what she truly was - a disloyal mercenary.

“What’s it going to be, Whisper?”

The wolf stooped muzzle rose up in a tremble. With a pistol weighing heavily in her holster, Whisper dared to make herself unreadable, because a choice lay before her. Tangle’s ultimatum buffeted at her conscience… indecision being the constant. But the klaxon had been fired, by the lemur’s own hand. Thinking became luxuriously impractical. Whisper guessed it was Tangle’s master-stroke, in some sense of the word. Betray her employers, or betray Tangle again? After they’d been reunited for five minutes. Somehow, Tangle had this unimpeachable power over her…

“That’s it. I’m done.” Album cha-chunked his pistol, armed it, and lazily aimed it at Hoyt. “Hear that, sniper? No-one double-crosses Album Silk. Back off or else the crab’ll have his brain mashed into chowder.”

“Harbinger, it would be real lekker of you if you made yourself known, now.” The arthropod spat out, remarkably put together for having a gun put to his head. This wasn’t his first rodeo. His ocean-worth of fish thugs had no agency, Album’s insect squad already squinting down their sights and pinning them.

Tangle smirked to herself. “That’s my cue… nice to see you, Whisper.” She swallowed, not a hint of warmth seeping out. Some things never changed, though her ex-friend’s wit morphed from a clever punniness to… resentful sarcasm.

A floppy salute sent itself Whisper’s way, Tangle leaning off and out the framework. One second she was there, next she’d leaped into the fray, the action emphasised by a CRASH of thunder and sheets of lighting spilling through the stagnant atmosphere.

BOOM!

Whisper urgently scooped up her mask, her rifle, dashing over to survey the situation. No Tangle… she’d evaporated into thin air, but a bunch of fish and insects flung about. Hoyt had escaped Album’s grasp, brandishing his own SMG and rattling out gunfire towards… a green tenrec, who happened to be eating the pink bullets like they were cupcakes. A rogue goon had their neck squeezed in her staticy grip, whips of electricity radiating out of the second intruder of the evening.

“KNOCK KNOCK. IT’S THE POLICE, SCUMBAGS!”

And with that classy entrance, anarchy descended upon the construction site.

Chapter Text

Before Lanolin had gotten the chance to protest ‘No, I do not want a piggyback ride, I have too much self-respect to degrade myself to-’, she’d already been swept up onto Surge’s shoulders and hoisted out of the restaurant at a break-neck speed. The silver-lining to having herself embarrassingly escorted by an electric speedster, primarily against her will, was that nobody had time to properly comprehend what they were seeing. A burning comet of static? Unusual, for definite. Unusual enough that the faint outline of wool being whipped about by a tailwind would be met with a shrug of the shoulders.

They’d easily pinpointed the gunshot location as a construction site. It was fairly obvious from the shouting, and proceeded to get even more obvious via the audacious presence of gangs, guns, trucks and money. A preschooler could put together that it was a drug deal gone wrong. What a surprise, criminals couldn’t be cordial.

Surge dropped Lanolin off in a small annex, underneath the skyscraper’s skeleton, designating the sheep as the ‘support unit’ of the duo. Conversely, the tenrec would draw the fire, leaving Lanolin to clean up the casualties, and slap cuffs on them.

A flawless plan, only hampered by a tiny issue… she was only armed with a cane and a taser. And Surge had just left her in the middle of an active war-zone, waved goodbye, and zoomed off to clout heads.

Lanolin primed the taser to stun, and sidled up against a pillar. Wind blew coarsely, and damn if the shivering it caused her didn’t mess up her aim. The decision to gift her coat to a snoozing Cream blew up in her face, and some. If she lived, no more doing nice things on a whim. Hell, she’ll make it her New Year’s Resolution. 

She barely managed to duck into cover when a silkworm, in a long, flowing pimp coat, retreated with two gunmen, a wasp and a hornet. Lanolin dared a quick glance, instantly identifying the insect as Album the Silk, head honcho of a crime outfit called ‘The Nest’. She’d seen his (lack of a) face in the bureau’s Most Wanted index, his appearance reminding her of a ghost or ghoul, with a cold jazz theming. White fur, black glasses - and a distinct lack of ‘soul’.

“KNOCK KNOCK! IT’S THE POLICE, SCUMBAGS!” Surge roared in the distance, followed up by crashes and wallops, garnished with an odd scream or two. So unnecessarily theatrical, the sheep thought.

“Crap, boss, do you think the water-chokers set us up?” The hornet of the duo said, his eyes a similar colour of black to Album’s aviators. Though, to his credit, they were au-naturale, standard bad guy peepers. 

Lanolin gnawed on her bottom lip, sucking it into her mouth. She needed to be careful; or so silent that she defied physics, since The Nest carried real guns and not… a glorified tickle machine.

“Nah, nah. Did’ya see that mammal? She went straight for one of those flopper’s necks! They had to ‘ve followed someone. Either we got sloppy, or the fish did-” The wasp had started to rant, waving her six-shooter about when…

“Would you two shut up for a second!?” Album groused, before settling on an ominously calm tone. “Something’s off.”

Another far away shriek punctuated his words - like an omen of what was to come for Lanolin. She tried to stifle the intrusive thoughts, and instead stay calm - but the methodical way Album aggressively beat his wings, or imperceptibly scanned the space behind those shades, spooked her. But there wouldn’t be a chance he could ever root her out, so long as she kept quiet…

“See that? Burn marks.” He pointed to the floor, black, smoking granules of dirt hissed with heat; a launch pad aftermath. Lanolin side-eyed it… and, yeah, you couldn’t get any more obvious if you tried. Gee, thanks Surge! “The cops broke in from here… ah-ha. Footprints.”

Dread swelled in Lanolin’s stomach. She glanced down at her feet… and then across to the trail she’d tracked from where her partner dumped her. The swears she cussed out didn’t seem dire enough to describe how utterly screwed she was.

The three gangster’s had gone silent, the sheep making peace with the fact that they located her. She couldn’t incapacitate three people at once… the best case scenario would be to electrocute one, boomerang her cane into another, and finally receive a bullet to the neck from the last.

There was an alternative course of action, however; one that hurt Lanolin’s fragile pride… But from her current precarious position, a bruised ego would be the least of her worries. Bruises heal. Death would be a smidge more absolute.

“Kill them.” Album cocked his ivory-plated pistol, because if he was going to kill someone, he desired nothing more than to kill them expensively.

Ugh, if she survived this, she’ll never hear the end of it.

“SURGE!” She screamed at the top of her lungs, throwing away any notion of composure. Dire times called for dire measures. “I NEED BACKUP HERE!”

Observing from her lil’ hidy nook, Tangle breathed in and out - collecting herself from the one, two punch that she’d just been flummoxed with. There was so much to unpack, yet the lemur wasn’t in any position to address it. Whisper, and her baggage, could wait. Agonising over the wolf would not help Tangle with issue numero uno; the Mexican Standoff of her own creation. Airborne vs Aquatic vs… Electrical? Cops vs Robbers? Who cares vs Who gives a crap? No matter which way she decided to refer to it, she could claim ownership as the one who sparked it all off.

Firing the sniper was purely spur of the moment. She’d love to claim it as a major play on her part, but… ‘reuniting’ with Whisper left her seeing red. But regardless of how much she despised that… gun for hire masquerading as her friend, shooting at it in cold blood would be a step too far. And so she missed; half-intentionally, half because the rifle bucked like a mule.

The bang was unexpectedly loud, and under usual circumstances she’d might’ve well pointed a neon sign at herself emblazoned with the words ‘Tonight Only: Tangle the Lemur!’… but a glance at the chaos the gunshot created conjured up its own neon sign, signalling to her the focus was split between gang on gang, and the police. Perfect! Cover to actually do some work. Unintentional genius? Sure, but Tangle prided herself on her guile, and not necessarily on her strategy. Down low, surviving the streets, circumstances change at the drop of a hat, and a clever combatant would be an idiot not to take advantage.

Whatever. Her objective lay before her: the special cargo inside the rightmost van… Tangle really wanted to know what ‘Nacci’s package’ actually was… 

She rubbed her tail sheepishly against her scalp. Maybe ‘Nacci’s package’ should be ‘Nacci’s purchase’ or ‘Nacci’s super secret trump card’. ‘Package’ tickled the infantile side of her sense of humour.

Below her, the voltaic police-woman swan-dived through streams of bullets like an ice skater, elegantly flipping through the gaps and throttling an unlucky trout. Immediately, she swiveled on her back with a slick capoeira kick, punting a boot into the stomach of a lionfish brave enough to attempt a restrain. Each blow, each slug, sent goons flying off their feet, and every time, the green tenrec heartily laughed in their mulched faces.

Tangle found the officer familiar… though she couldn’t figure out why exactly. Apparently, the CCPD were on a superpowered hiring streak. The sheer speed in which the tenrec punished her attackers boggled the mind. If Tangle blinked, she missed another take-down, insects being used as bait to fly-fish their opponents. A grasshopper was thrusted into the arms of a salmon, the two gawking at each other for a brief moment of respite, before their noses were smashed together with a sickening crunch. 

Tangle had to admit, the girl had moxie, but grand theft auto called to her - and the less time she spent watching the better. As lovely as it was to see the bad guys suffering, Tangle understood she wouldn’t be exempt from a walloping if she got caught out in the open.

A sharp nick of pain emerged at the fluffy end of her tail. She swished it absent-mindedly - shrugging off the sensation as psychosomatic. It dangled like a lure, skimming the dusty ground and dredging up stones and gravel and… Two slimy hands latched onto the appendage, Tangle having just enough time to sigh at her own carelessness, before she was yanked backwards.

Landing back-up with an ‘OOF’, the lemur shifted her aching spine to meet the Mariana that, ironically, was smart enough to snatch at the fishing line.

“Hello again.” Ricasso folded his arms above her, his sword snout inches away from piercing her eyeball. “I’d like my revolver back, please.”

Tangle snickered to herself. “Oof, sorry Mr. Sailfish-”

“Swordfish.”

“Same thing.” She snorted. Ricasso’s lip trembled at the audacity of the faux-pas, Tangle pushing the tip of the schnoz-blade away with a dainty flick as the mobster stewed. “I dumped it in an alley ‘cause I don’t need a gun to look tough.” The vigilante scrambled to her feet, Ricasso slowly returning to present, but the moment to strike had passed. Thank Gaia for the gift of her gob.

“Hey, Riccy? That’s your name, right?” Tangle parked herself on the fold out table, the stacks of bills making for a very comfy cushion. “I’ve got a question for ya. Is your nose compensation for something? Like… the longer it is, the smaller your-”

Ricasso launched himself at the cocky lemur, beginning with a carelessly flung right hook. Tangle, in return, snared his forearm with her tail, following the force through and ripping the swordfish towards the ground. Wriggling about like a tuna let loose on a deck, Ricasso rotated and threw a desperate, flailing knee into the vague direction of grey fuzz. The move came as a curveball, knocking into Tangle’s waist and sending her stumbling away from the attack.

She barely avoided Ricasso, as his pointed javelin lunged forward to impale her. The blade swiped above her head, skimming wisps of fur off her ear tufts. Her best play was to grab it, and neutralise the threat, but the circular swishing motions were as dangerous as a helicopter rotor. With a monstrous, cleaving motion, Ricasso sawed the table in two, money blooming out into torn up confetti. Seizing the gap, Tangle sprung off her hands and gained some distance away from the crazed mafioso, who spun around in a heavy lurch; as if he wielded a clayesmore.

The duel screeched to a stand-still; Ricasso staring down the length of his nose, Tangle behind raised fists, orthodox stance. Wrapping her tail up around her, she presented her brass-knuckle front and center. She’d done enough sparring to understand how to counter a blade, and if long-range wasn’t available, close-quarters would have to do. Her own, stretchy flail hovered before her, as she outstretched her free hand, beckoning Ricasso. ‘Bring it’.

The swordfish stepped towards her, tentatively, defensively, seeking an opening. Tangle shuffled in tandem, leading with her third arm (figuratively-speaking, she doubted that this was legal in a boxing ring). Fencing had been a sport she never saw the point of. Now, she wished she paid a bit more attention to the Olympics.

Her rumination came across obviously, her concentration anywhere but on Ricasso’s rapier, welcoming him to make a move. He danced forward, slicing Tangle’s chest, her grubby vest cutting away to reveal more sports tape, saving her from a crippling slash. One point to the rival team; who readily pressed the advantage. The blade came shivving back down, Tangle parrying with her iron sleeve. 

The two matched blow for blow, the clashing of steel and scraping of metal eliciting medieval combat. Clang! Schwing! Clack! Heck, Tangle felt like Robin Hood with the way she riposted the unrelenting attacks - fighting the good fight! She threw a side-kick into Ricasso’s ribs, off-balancing her Sheriff and finally allowing her to seize his long-sword by the nostrils.

The lemur slyly winked at Ricasso, who wrestled in her grip, growling with a sneer. Slipping underneath and rising behind him, Tangle angled his nose towards the floor… and shoved it into the dirt, deep.

How humiliating for Ricasso; to be stuck in such a silly position, bent over and tugging endlessly. His blade wouldn’t budge, the sword in the stone. Avoiding the thrashing limbs, Tangle waltzed up to Ricasso’s ear-hole, crouching down with much schadenfreude.

“This is for that poor wisp.” She whispered. Then she slid away, winded up, and propelled her foot into the side of his inert nose. 

The rigid extremity gave with a disgusting crack, the cartilage snapping in unnatural directions as Ricasso was released from his prison, the force wrenching him free. He plummeted instantaneously, his blade shattered in four different points and flopping with a wet slap. Blood oozed from his nostrils, Tangle savouring the pathetic whimpers of pain she’d squeezed out of the dirtbag.

“I could’ve done worse. Count your blessings it’s still attached.” She kicked him while he was down; the cruelty intentional. These evil bastards deserved everything she threw at them, and worse.

And Whisper worked for them.

Tangle gagged at the thought. Just when she thought the wolf couldn’t stoop any lower.

With Ricasso incapacitated, Tangle refocused herself on stealing the van. The tenrec continued on her warpath, oblivious to the lemur’s altercation. And the van wasn’t a safe respite from the violence either, a random cockroach was slumped over a wheel rim, out cold. A conscious effort had to be undertaken to dodge the gauntlet of ragdolled bodies being thrown about. It was an inversion of some kind; the officer throwing her toys out of the pram, but doing so because it was fun. Tangle shivered to herself; why did the police always attract psychos?!

“SURGE!” A stern, if wavering voice yelled out. The tenrec stopped, and turned her attention towards the direction of the call, Tangle discovering herself smack dab in the middle of the two. However, the terrifying electric officer of death and destruction seemed to stare straight through her. “I NEED BACK UP HERE!”

“Crap.” The tenrec muttered, rolling her eyes, and releasing a stonefish she’d strung up by the ankle. “ON MY WAY!”

With a thundering dash, she hurtled towards Tangle. The lemur pressed up against the van as a burning blast rushed past her. Heat blew into her face. Static crackled across her fur, and ‘Surge’ was gone. It took a couple of seconds for Tangle to realise that her hands were raised in surrender, preparing to plead the fifth in the face of a punch of such magnitude. Yet instead, she was unscathed. 

Tangle noted to herself that she needed to ride her luck all the way to the roulette wheel. How she was standing after… fifty gunman, Whisper, Ricasso and now an insane lightning storm of a cop, kinda vexed her. But who was she to look a gift horse in the mouth? If there was to be a victor of this all-out brawl, let it be her. As Tangle always said, ever since she was a small lemur pup - she prided herself on her guile, and not her strategy.

Hey, it worked well!

So, whilst Tangle snuck into the van’s cabin, foolishly left unlocked, a confidence emerged. Her sabotage was destined to be successful, and the crazies around her wouldn’t be able to do a damn thing about it.

Whisper didn’t have time to process what had occurred. She needed to get out of danger, first and foremost, before the skirmish escalated to uncontrollable levels. Tangle’s philosophy of ‘move fast, break things’ hadn’t changed for ten years, and no matter how much the lemur’s words stung, Whisper would not be left holding the bag. There’d come a moment to reflect, but it wasn’t now.

Except… that officer. Whisper remembered how she avoided flashing explosions and the suffocating scent of a smoking o-zone. How she decided to shank the green menace in a moment of desperation; how her wisps were stolen from her, one by one. She’d assumed that the rogue tenrec died - why else would such an overwhelming presence, with the bravado and gusto and overconfidence, suddenly go radio silent? Nevermind become a policewoman. The tables kept revolving endless, and their roles had reversed; Whisper was the outlaw.

Regardless, the canine had unfinished business - beyond Tangle, beyond her obligations to Hoyt. A gloved fist clenched in frustration; as if one ghost from the past wasn’t enough.

Perhaps she could take a crack at the ‘officer’… Whisper slid her mask over her face - blue, binary overlays blinking into her view. This time, her wisps wouldn’t be in any danger, and the tenrec couldn’t harness a bullet casing. Her black forehead floated in Whisper’s cross-hairs. What came next was simple. Squeeze the trigger, strike hammer against cartridge, and end the problem with ruthless efficiency. When building up to fatal action, Whisper found it easy to switch off her emotion. She’d flagellate herself, alone, after the fact… but never once on the job. This time, however, her conscience was a flurry of contradictions.

The wisps wouldn’t approve. That’s why they ran away from her. Except Blue. She forced him to go. Even after what she did, Blue steadfastly believed the best in her. If those earnest eyes, blinking through tears, saw her now… it’d destroy them all over again. Not to mention Tangle, she’d be putting her in danger too. 

A sigh. The tenrec lives. Whisper lowered her sights.

Turning on her heels, and whipping her tail around her, Whisper hoisted her sniper over her shoulder; biding a hasty retreat into the building. The stairs down to ground zero (a bomb might’ve well gone off) were half-finished, with plain concrete slabs both un-tiled and dusty. No railings were there to save her from a foot placed poorly, exasperated by the lack of any illumination. Her boots echoed throughout the shaft, bouncing off the featureless grey walls.

Flashlight beams darted around the corner, precisely sweeping the room. Whisper’s form shrunk into an overhanging shadow, judging where the lights stemmed from, and whether they were friend or foe.

The circular spotlights emerged from rifle barrels. The rifle barrels were carried by dark figures, imperceptible in the dimness. Whisper crouched lower. Her mask allowed for some semblance of night vision, but the silhouettes remained inscrutable. With confidence, she could say there were two.

An arm thrusted out, gesticulating a tentative wave towards the ground. Hand signals. ‘Move forward’. The two gunmen skittered up the stairs, pressing against the wall, in perfect sync with each other. The wolf had gotten to know the Mariana’s very well - and they weren’t tactical. They weren’t even careful. Heck, they ran around with swords like wannabe yakuza. These two had to be from Album’s posse.

With vigilant stiffness, Whisper led her hand down to her pistol. Her claws scratched around the grip, and the duo continued to push up swiftly. Waiting a moment to steel herself, Whisper plucked the gun. The tinny crock of her unholstering manoeuvre rattled out with a slight echo. Immediately, a hand snapped into the air, the frontmost gunman stilled. ‘Halt’.

Whisper could study them better now, from her dark corner. A spider, and a moth; wings flicking on the latter, an extra pair of arms re-adjusting on the former. Album’s men. They were incredibly close now, and Whisper smelt the musty chitin encrusting the both of them.

The spider spun a gloved palm over his head. ‘Cover me’. The moth fisted up firmly. ‘Understood’; and he kept overwatch on the mid-level of the stairwell. Whisper, meanwhile, counted the seconds, waiting for the correct moment to pounce. One wrong move, and she’d cease to be. All the while, she lifted her pistol towards her chest, her ever-trusty silencer skimming her chin.

The threat now stalked on the same level as her. The spider was stout, but muscular - to be expected of insects. He ran up to the doorway - the same one that connected to the empty construction space, and squeezed himself against the frame. His many eyed-head checked, and checked again, and again-

Emerging from the blackness, Whisper jammed her shoulder into his gun; the unstoppable boogeyman. With a pivot, she knocked the rifle away and hugged the spider close to her. Neither enemy combatant had a clue, her speed inhuman, a blur of biscotti and deadly intent. The moth’s glassy expression startled. Whisper aimed, and fired, just as the gunman lifted to kill. A red dot burrowed into his forehead… the moth’s glassy expression startled again, lifeless.

A racket of bumps heralded the corpse tumbling down the stairs, not that Whisper cared to confirm, deep in the throes of wrestling the remaining spider. His lower arms grappled with her throat, trying to peel her away from him. Whisper stomped down, the rifle clattering out of his grip. Sensing his jig was up, the spider ditched the hand-signals.

“SNIPER UP HERE-” Whisper poked her pistol through a chink in his kevlar, and pumped two shots into his abdomen.

Dazzling cracks of gunfire deafened her, more of Album’s men ascending up the staircase. Whisper propped up the ex-spider as her shield, automatic hails of bullets thudding into him as she hoisted away from the onslaught. The blockade would only work for so long, the dead weight becoming heavier and heavier. 

The mortar barrage stopped. Time to reload.

Whisper punted the spider down the stairwell; a surprise for the waiting wave of thugs down below. A gasp of surprise, and then a thud, prickled her ear. Opportunity nigh, the wolf raced down the stairs, skipping over steps with a practiced recklessness.

One gunman had been pinned by the spider’s body, attempting to writhe his way to safety. Whisper dispatched him without much stress, the force of her pistol shot thrusting the compromised goon back down to the floor, struggling no more. 

Snatching the deceased’s rifle, Whisper blindly fired around the corner. In response, a salvo of bullets shredded the concrete behind the wolf. Her hackles bristled as she dived to the ground. Memories of her training broke through the turmoil of her psyche. ‘Make yourself as small a target as possible.’ Claire once told her. ‘Exhale as you empty an automatic magazine.’ Slinger would chuckle. ‘Pretend they never had a family.' Mimic sneered with frivolity. ‘It’s simpler that way’. 

That last memory arose from the deep muck of her subconscious, unwanted and, at the time, unheeded. The rifle muzzle before her shook, direction gone squiffy. It was like an anvil grinded against her chest. Whisper couldn’t breathe. Her airways clamped shut. Her heart pounded through her ribcage.

No… not now!

Usually, she’d brush off any lingering remnant of her betrayer with ease. Mimic didn’t consume her, not when she followed in his blood-soaked footsteps. In combat, she was a machine, a unmerciful tsunami of clinical lethality. However, that tranquil, professional focus crumbled beneath a soaring howl of panic.

Disorientation. 

Why? She needed to concentrate. Shadows clasped the corners of her field of view. They swirled like vapour, caressed like a mother, subsumed like anaesthesia. 

Guilt. 

Whisper mourned the men she’d murdered. Dark, twitching lumps - corpses; by her own hand. Never to move again. What was wrong with her? Save the agonising for sleepless nights, when their unblinking faces only existed in her dreams.

Survive.

They deserved it! It was self-defence!

You struck first.

The incessant chorus of doubt and confusion morphed into a single voice. Husky, but once playful. Charismatic and cheeky, yet smothered by hurt and sorrow.

‘Whisper… what have you done?’

The tear-soaked form of Tangle, her perkiness drained into a molasses of heartache, reached out before Whisper. Her pompadour drooped, and the lemur’s youthful features were torn up with disbelief. The wolf had seen that face before.

‘How could you choose Mimic over me?’

Tangle dissipated into orange and grey smoke, replaced by an insect decked with army uniform. He slunk out of the doorway he’d previously taken cover behind, rifle thrust toward her.

Whisper’s soul lept, whilst her body completely failed her. The insect snickered cruelly, shifting the gun to his hip.

Acceptance.

Her fingers pulled at thin air - her own weapon had fallen out of her hands.

BRRRR-ACK!

A pulse of gunfire consumed all senses. Where Whisper stalled was the fact that… the insect didn’t shoot.

Instead, scarlet blots leaked the his chest, the liquid combining into a seeping Rorschach of red. He glanced down, rubbed the wounds in bewilderment, and died; toppling forwards, head landing between Whisper’s shaking legs.

“Is this the prelude to some brilliant strategy, or have I missed something?” Hoyt bluntly said as he stepped towards Whisper, sliding his SMG back into his jacket. The canine shivered, removing her mask to reveal a pin-pricked gaze. Her boots were specked with someone’s blood. Whisper zeroed in on the sinister dots. Her insides churned. However, a primed finger flew into halt before her snout, a crisp snap finally drawing her to the horseshoe crab.

“Hey. Don’t ignore me, dog. We’re in the crapper ‘cuz of you.” Hoyt made a point to dig his heel into the man he’d peppered, not sparing a thought for the insect’s friends and family or that he might’ve been a father- 

“Whisper, for Gaia’s sake women, pull yourself together!” Whisper’s muzzle seared with pain as Hoyt back-handed her. Ooh, that certainly brought her reeling back to the here and now; the urge to retaliate with disproportionate brutality snuffed out by the gravity of the situation. At last, her nerves calmed. Hoyt threw his hands out, waiting for an explanation. “What possessed you to sound off your rifle?! Did you need attention? Want me to scratch behind your ear, eh? Aren’t you supposed to be the quiet, silent assassin?!”

The supposed quiet, silent assassin hesitated.

“Misfire.” …It was the best excuse that sprang to her mind. Hoyt’s eyes bulged out of his head.

“Misfire?! You blerrie amateur.” The crab stifled a laugh of exasperation. He wiped the sweat off his brow. “So, no vigilante? Everything’s collapsed because you… misfired?”

…Yep. Sure. Whisper’ll cop the heat for this one, as long as Tangle used the gift, that she presented on a silver platter, and fled before Album found her.

Hoyt lifted her up, Whisper taking a dozen, secretive breaths to steady her nerves.

“Can you still fight?”

“F’course.” Silly question.

“‘Aight den.” The mobster sighed, the relief a snuck sign of his desperation. “Our priority is to get the product outta here. Comms are scuppered, and I’ve just witnessed my entire workforce get decimated by-”

“SURGE! I NEED BACK-UP HERE!”

Hoyt carried on without missing a beat. “By Surge. There’s a name for the list.”

Whisper ditched the spent rifle, instead choosing to present her sniper, if subconsciously because of a desire to prove it still worked. Even though it was a bold-faced lie, to even be associated with a misfire humiliated the wolf. ‘Harbinger’ did have competition. She matched Hoyt’s brisk pace as they stepped outside into an oddly peaceful construction sight. Not a conscious soul to be seen.

“Am I securing the money?” Whisper asked.

“The money is incidental; we don’t need it. Sies, Don Nacci can afford to drop ten mill on a sham service like yours, d’ya really believe his belt is that tight?”

The two vans were polished and speckless. Despite the knocked-out bodies strewn about the place, not one stray shot dented the steel. Hoyt sucked in his stress and arrowed his blade towards the vehicles.

“Ag jislaak, still operational. Now’s your chance to redeem yourself-” His instructions were cut off by the revving of an engine, the right-most van jerkidly reversing out without warning, a comical BEEP, BEEP, BEEP ringing out. Sitting in the cabin was the real Tangle, appearing extremely self-satisfied  in spite of the tired bags under her eyes. ‘What happened to her pompadour?’ Whisper couldn’t help but ponder. The mullet did her no favours. No matter; Tangle was escaping! That meant more to Whisper than she would’ve thought.

The lemur waved at the duo, wheeling out a charming smile mixed with smugness… and never more did Whisper want to scream words of encouragement for such a blazen act of resistance. Some things really hadn’t changed. Whisper could only hope that the elation on her face wasn’t blatant, when sudden sparks sprinkled off a window-mirror. Hoyt rattled off his SMG in alarm.

Not keen to be the odd gunman out, Whisper aimed down her sniper. Through the crosshairs, she saw Tangle’s mood sink to a serious determination. To be shot at by the wolf had to hurt. At least, that’s what Whisper hoped. The barrel traced down to the bumper grill, nothing particularly special about it, as she fired an errant shot.

Tangle ducked down, though she wasn’t in any real danger; Hoyt couldn’t hit the broadside of a van, apparently. Whisper continued to fire wide, fire ‘warning shots’, fire at the air: the vilest of foes. 

The engine rumbled, building up power, tyres squealing with friction, before it careened through the perimeter fence. Gratings and sheets billowed out with the impact, the crunching of weak metal such a sweet noise. Hoyt’s defeated moan was music to Whisper’s ears, as was the van’s acceleration fading into background. It was the soundscape of victory.

Hoyt’s gnarled hand suddenly slapped onto Whisper’s shoulder, sharp claws burrowing into her fur. A token friendly gesture; meant as anything but.

“About that vigilante.” He hissed.

There was little else for Lanolin to do then shuffle out into the open, her taser up in surrender, the other tapping her cane rhythmically. Ideally, she’ll exude an air of security; screaming out ‘the calvary is coming’ to all that opposed her. Oh, how she prayed that the cavalry was coming, subbing the horses for a tenrec.

Album quirked an eyebrow as Lanolin surfaced from the murk, confounded that she ceded without a brawl. The sheep had been written up a couple times for being ‘headstrong’... fair enough. When she wanted something, she went for it. Right now, she had a hankering to live, and if she had to channel her inner caprine and be staring ‘headstrong’ into doom, then so be it.

But she couldn’t pretend that having three guns pointed at her wasn’t grounds to crap herself.

“Hello.” Lanolin leant on her cane like a depressed chocolatier and deadpanned to the best of her ability. “It’s the cops.”

“Boo. Anti-climax.” The wasp woman sarcastically sniggered, letting her guard down immediately. Album squinted, the folds of his face clasping onto his shades. He grabbed the wasp’s rifle and lifted it back up to Lanolin’s level.

“How’d you find us?” The silkworm questioned.

Lanolin chucked her taser behind her, it’d served its purpose as a hand warmer, and sharply inhaled. “Something something gunshot, something something blown eardrum.”

The hornet nudged into his compatriots. “See?! Told ya, the flip-floppers flipped on us!” Album batted the buzzing bodyguard away, pacing towards the sheep in estimation. He hummed and slicked his antennas back.

“Before I blow your pretty, fluffy brains out...” The silkworm sniffed. Lanolin resisted the desire to retort charming man. “I’m sure you already realise, but I’m a careful fellow, and if there’s a leak; I need to plug it tout suite. Tell me - how much do the cops know about our activities?”

The detective tilted her head, pretending to consider, when in actuality she was vamping to the nth degree.

“The Nest? Lemmie think… oh yeah. International drug dealers originating from Apostos. Spread across the continent like the hoard of locus you are. Separate chapters from Shamar, Rosesoirre, Ukoana… though you - Album the Silk, are from the United Federation. Basic as tofu. Diet crime syndicate.”

As Lanolin rattled off her bullet-points, considering whatever information she recalled from the declassified portfolios read on coffee breaks, Album’s blank expressions shivered. Was it rage? Had she hit a nerve?

“Extensive compendium you’ve got in that noggin. Who told you?”

The sheep spied an opportunity.

“Our confidential informant, of course. Isn’t that right… Agent Shiraz?” Dramatically, and manifesting a spotlight to beam down from the heavens above, she indicated to the wasp. Who was she? Lanolin didn’t care. Already, the hornet swung his gun towards his fellow yellow, flying insect.

“Agent Shiraz, I presume?” He accused, wings flickering in trepidation. “I knew you were a rat!”

The wasp, to her credit, didn’t entertain the accusation; instead scoffing. Album lowered his weaponry in exasperation and swatted his palm into the hornet’s tummy.

“The one-time is lying, moron. She’ll say anything to avoid getting splatted into a Picasso!

“But the po-po aren’t allowed to lie!”

Album buried his face in his sleeve, rapidly losing his patience. “Feras, I swear to Gaia. That’s a myth.”

Lanolin jumped in again. “Not a myth. Our Police Conduct Book states we must be truthful, to a fault.”

Album stuttered in bafflement, before hastily turning to his subordinate and over-enunciating his explanation as if he was coordinating a toddler. “This isn’t a ‘one guard tells the truth, one lies’ situation, Feras. Listen to me. Winona has been with me for six years. Agent Shiraz, emphatically, hasn’t; because they do not exist. There is no Agent Shiraz, or an Agent Merlot, Chardonnay or Pinot friggin’ Noir!

Feras quaked on the spot, his mandibles spasming. “Nah, boss, I’m not taking any chances.”

“What-” Album barely registered what was coming next, when Feras switched his gun to single-fire and capped Winona in the knee. BANG!

The wasp crumpled in on herself, clutching her knee in agony. Feras nodded to his boss, exceptionally proud of himself, rifle smoking. Album, not impressed, fumed, wringing and twisting his coat. The gold-plate pistol glinted as the silkworm spun it up and fired, nicking Feras’ shoulder.

“You idiot! Are you so faithless that you’re to believe the word of some precinct bobby over me?! If a detective demanded you dive off a cliff, would you-” Without any polite warning, Album was clonked over the head by Lanolin and her cane, dropping like a bag of cement. In particular, his aviator shades shattered underneath his heavy weight.

Soon after, a scorching blast of wind ruffled Lanolin’s wool, like she’d carelessly opened a furnace. Said furnace skidded across the gritty dirt, skipping to a clumsy stop. Surge pursed her lips as she browsed the three squirming mobsters, her disappointment palpable.

“I thought you needed back-up?” She croaked, almost offended that Lanolin managed to incapacitate a trio of baddies without an AC or DC input. Ignoring her sulking, the sheep cuffed Album with a triumphant clack.

“You took your sweet time, so I had to improvise.” Lanolin defended, with a grunt. “What held you up?”

“Taking out gangsters! Fifty to your trois!”

Lanolin boosted Album back to his feet, the silkworm dazed and mumbling to himself. As much as she’d cherished the banter, she yearned to rub her partner’s nose in her successes, they did have a job to do. Lanolin flicked a switch and let her detective, ‘hard-ass’ mode take over.

“Have you secured the drugs?”

Surge quietly ‘oh-noed’ and zipped back off to whence she came, Lanolin groaning in annoyance. Album’s pitch black eyes were now perceivable, through his broken aviators - not that Lanolin could easily tell the difference. Why did he need shades again? The debate was irrelevant at the end of the day, because the corners of his eyes curled up in amusement nonetheless.

“Drugs? Oh, my sweet summer child…”

“You have the right to remain silent.” Lanolin chided him, keeping a firm hand to steady herself and the crime-lord. Worse come to worse, she’d thwack him with his cane again… or would that be police brutality? Surge wouldn’t care.

Speaking of which, Surge raced back to Lanolin, rubbing the back of her head sheepishly. Lanolin waited for the lowdown… but already expected the worst.

“Well?”

“They’re gone.” Surge said with a shrug.

Album burst out laughing, his inane cackling oozing out to combine with the moans of the two wounded guards, and Lanolin singular, sharp as a tac, curse. Cream would be appalled that she even was willing to sling out such a vulgar word.

“Damn it.”

…Even detectives had their limits.

Chapter Text

Whisper really needed to stop spending her precious time with Hoyt of all people, and whilst she was at it, avoid his vans too. There she perched on the passenger side, neatly balancing her weaponry on her thighs and smoothing off any dirt or grime that had found its way onto the metal; the very epitome of awkwardness. Every now and again, she glanced over to the crab in the driver seat. Usually, Hoyt loved to talk; about his home country of Silirica (a Sub-Saharan nation south of Mazuri, as Whisper discovered), about his rough upbringing and how that justified him being a douchebag of the highest order, or about his obsession with samurai weaponry. Whisper had a full encyclopaedia worth of ‘ Did You Knows?’ about katanas, wakizashi, kanabos, naginatas, nadachis and oh Gaia, she found the crustacean exhausting.

But coming off the back of the disastrous meet-up left Hoyt a little less inclined to flap his gums. In fact, Whisper’s adept hearing clued her into the thumping veins beneath his bald dome. Angry didn’t even begin to cover it. The crab was at risk of boiling himself alive.

He categorically refused to inform her what cargo they were chauffeuring, stating that ‘loose lips sink ships’, as if Whisper was a security liability… which, true, she was, but plausible deniability hovered in her corner. 

In a cosmic sense, the wolf felt glad that Tangle escaped with her life. On the other hand, the lemur was now public enemy number one.  Every Mariana left would be searching high and low for her. Luckily, Tangle happened to be a fantastic climber, and Whisper had every intention to judge a fish by their ability to scale a tree.

Eventually, after a brief tick of the indicator, and a bumpy track, the van pulled itself into a so very typical warehouse for these sorts of after-party rendezvous. Odd Mariana soldiers were scattered about the place, the ones who got away. Some sat on crates, other threw tennis balls against the walls, but all had the underlying aura of nervousness surrounding them. 

Hoyt clunked the engine off, and slid his mask back down his face, revealing his tight-lipped grimace. In another universe, Whisper might’ve called him handsome; though in this very specific universe she’d have to be firstly, straight, and secondly, into irredeemable assholes.

“I’d ditch the mask, Harbinger.” Hoyt grunted, placing his leather duster-coat crumbled on the driver seat, leaving him in nothing but a white turtleneck. “Don Nacci appreciates his contractors to present themselves upfront.” With the best will in the world, Whisper couldn’t give less of a crap about what Nacci desired… but given her current predicament, better play ball. The mask slipped onto her bangs, leaving Whisper vulnerable to an auditorium packed with her potential enemies.

Her boots echoed as she jumped from the cabin to the laminate floor. The shoal of aquatic life that encompassed her all turned their attention towards her, remarking her with suspicion or, at best, neutrality. Presenting front and centre was the kingpin nautilus himself, Nacci. His expression copied Whisper’s own: illegible, whilst his hands hid in his suit pockets. Who knows what instruments of torture he kept hidden in them.

“Van? Singular?” Nacci said, stating the obvious, yet somehow it came across as a threat. He pointed a finger at the lonely vehicle. “Which one is this?”

Hoyt reluctantly rubbed his non-existent nose, unable to meet Nacci’s eyeline. “Erm. Bulk ammo.”

The mob-boss stared up at the ceiling, bathed in a fluorescent light that only seemed to emphasise his sunken and sharp features. He inhaled a breath through a twitching beak. “So, the…” He caught himself, Whisper detecting cards being held close to one’s chest. “The asset. That’s gone?”

“Uh, yes. Yes, that is the case, unfortunately.” Hoyt seemed much more pathetic whenever he shared a room with Nacci, shrinking into his turtleneck and fiddling with the sheath of his wakizashi. Digging down in the trenches of his self-confidence, the horseshoe crab managed to pluck up some courage and looked directly into his don’s sinister, wrinkled eyes. “It isn’t lost though. We know who took it.”

“If the next words that come out of your mouth is ‘it was the vigilante’: I swear on my mother’s grave, I will feed you your teeth.”

Hoyt shut up, closing his mouth in an attempt to rescue his teeth.

In turn, Nacci’s head tilted in Whisper’s direction. “What happened, killer?”

The sarcastic barb irritated her, but nonetheless, she stepped forward with her explanation. “My gun misfired on me. The Nest took that to mean Hoyt set them up. Before I could rectify the situation, Album escalated and negotiations fell apart. Police arrived, further exasperating things. Assumably, the vigilante snuck her way in during the chaos and jacked the van.”

Nacci processed the information, pacing about on the spot, before summoning Hoyt. “Does this line up for you?”

Hoyt’s suspicion of Whisper was obvious… but she knew he had nothing. “Superficially, ja. But something isn’t adding up. Guns misfire, I’ll grant you, but Harbinger uses silencers, ne? I recommend buying a new one, because that klap was loud. S’either that, or you’re doff enough to’ve not secured it on from the get-go.” He mocked her with a rude gesture. “Like I said, blerrie amateur!”

“Furthermore, your one job was to watch for the vigilante, yet you somehow missed her?” Nacci added, a tad classier than the crab. “The sniper. Who had overwatch. Missed an intruder?”

“She missed her shots too. Couldn’t even hit the van.” Hoyt grumbled. Whisper swallowed; this was bad. Her non-existent powers of charisma had to be called upon.

“If we’re playing the blame game, you also missed Hoyt.” She sarcastically snipped, leading Nacci to snap his ire towards his subordinate captain.

“You shot at the van? Knowing full well the cargo? Is there a brain inside that head of yours or can I repurpose it as a wok?” The nautilus whacked Hoyt’s ponytail, coaxing the jewellery to jingle like a wind-chime. “As for you, Ms Harbinger, this incompetence is disappointing.”

Whisper balanced on a tightrope, each response carefully crafted to deflect, deflect, deflect. “Perhaps I’m not as good as you thought I’d be. Perhaps I overestimated myself. Perhaps you shouldn’t have put your faith in me, Don Nacci.”

“Oh, so this is my fault?”

“But I can fix this.” Whisper gulped. The upcoming path was uncomfortable, but also the only way out of the mess she’d placed herself in… for no result other than to receive a scolding from an ungrateful Tangle. Hindsight is twenty-twenty, she supposed. The moment had come to leverage Tangle to save her hide. “I already know the vigilante’s identity.”

That flabbergasted the nautilus, his jaw opening to gawp. Hoyt squinted at her, clearly sharing the confusion. “Come again?”

“Her name is Tangle; we go back. She can be a wildcard, and though I can’t ascertain her intentions presently, I promise you… I understand her intimately. I’ll easily track her down, and bring back your stolen van.” Whisper paused to check the reactions. Nacci stewed in thought, Hoyt just looked befuddled. “Let me make this right. You’ll get your special ‘asset’ back, whilst I get to draw a line underneath this business.”

“Being privy to a name is half the battle. Why didn’t you inform us of this from the outset?” inquired Nacci. He didn’t seem opposed to the idea… so far, so good.

“Couldn’t be sure it was her. Now that I am…” Whisper mimed a slit throat with her thumb. “Feel me?”

The mollusc kingpin remained silent. Whisper prayed that throwing his own words back at him wouldn’t be an automatic death sentence; she was only guessing that Nacci had a flair for the ironic and theatrical. Hoyt shuffled away from his ‘baas’, anticipating an explosion. She hoped his inclination was wrong.

A low rumble eked out of Nacci’s throat, strained as if it’d been rigged up to a thumbscrew. Slowly, the tremors graduated to chuckles, to full blown guffaws.  It disturbed the wolf the manner in which his hands stayed stationary in his pockets, or how his body stiffened up despite the violent wheezing. She couldn’t be certain if she was out of the woods yet, or if this turned out to be a prelude to her execution.

The laughs tapered down to gravely giggles, Nacci closing his eyes and nodding nostalgically.

“I feel you.”

His humour disappeared instantaneously, replaced with a frigid sternness. “So you best be on your way, ‘Guardian Angel’.”

Without waiting for Nacci to bait and switch; Whisper thumbed up and swivelled away from the duo. Striding with artificial confidence, the assassin counted her blessings. There were many scenarios that spun out in her head during the encounter, each ending poorly. But she managed to negotiate her way out of the rut, taking a page from Tangle’s playbook. Either Whisper was more charismatic than she once believed, or maybe Nacci easily charmed?

She hazarded a glance backwards. Hoyt had an eyebrow crooked… the crab wasn’t convinced. Nacci leant with a casual swagger that, once again, gave nothing away. The Mariana thugs watched her as she left, bruised sockets and black eyes attentively following her every motion. Ricasso’s nose drooped over his mouth, the splitting image of a miserable pachyderm. He glared with particular venom.

As the cool air whipped her fur coat, Whisper eavesdropped Hoyt one last time. He had a secretive edge to the tone, but her sense of hearing out-did his shiftiness.

“The cop who bilked us… I overheard a name. Surge? Girly had super-speed, electric powers, diamond hard punches. She’s a problem.”

“I’ll deal with her, Hoyt. Go back to polishing your sword.”

Whisper continued her march out into the chilly night, hugging her weapons close to her. Too bad for ‘Surge’. Label her a hypocrite, Whisper didn’t care; she wouldn’t stand in between the Marianas and that tenrec. Karma was one twisted son of a bitch, whom everyone made their bed with. Philosophically, Whisper fancied herself a fatalist. 

Therein lay the rub, however; for the canine embarked on the difficult task of breaking from the fate she’d bestowed upon herself. Karma wielded no sway, but they could direct. Direct Whisper towards paying a certain someone a visit, and this time around she wouldn’t pull her haymaker; emotional or not.

“So, that’s about the long and short of it, Commissioner.”

Lanolin crowned her finger together, gingerly placing them on her lap. Aside from her slouched Surge, who’d ditched her ashen uniform in favour of a black, torn up tank-top. The tenrec was fortunate that Commissioner Grip was a soft touch – if Lanolin dared to waltz into his office wearing nothing but a t-shirt and jeans, she’d be demoted.

Explaining the bunkum of the evening to the badger wasn’t an easy task. There were many, many gaps in the timeline, biggest of which were the disappearing vans. Surge didn’t have much to say on that teensy, weensy, monumental cock-up; too busy ‘busting skulls’, in her words.

Commissioner Grip listened attentively, covering his snout in a hand. His grandpa glasses glinted as he bobbed along, remarkably accepting. At long last, he cleared his throat. “You lost the… let’s call it product. Disappointing, for certain.” His demeanour opened itself up to the sheep; face no longer obscured. “However, you managed to arrest Album the Silk; which, let me say, is not an easy feat. He’s eluded me for thirty odd years!” He smiled warmly at Lanolin, who giddily fluttered in her seat. “I’m very proud of you Detective.”

Surge shimmied her chair forwards a couple of squeaks, her nose creasing up. “Whadda ‘bout me?! I took out fifty goons.” She batted an angry hand out, almost knocking Cream, who’d entered with a tray of hot beverages and biscuits, clean off her feet.

“I expect that from you, Surge.” Grip mused, with a listless breath. “Not so much Lanolin.”

“Why? Because she’s a pencil pusher, or because she’s a cripple?” Lanolin side-glared her partner. Nice to be supported.

Clasping a steaming mug of tea, the badger sipped and lathered it, and then elegantly dodged the question. Instead, he proposed his own.

“Do you think this meeting is connected to any other cases? Album is one crime lord, and it takes two to tango, yes?”

It was as if he'd directly prodded the wires that connected the synapses in Lanolin’s brain. Idea matched with idea; the sheep suddenly gasped as if she’d broken through the seven seas. Which was a fairly apt description – when the common thread finally made itself known. So stressed about… y’know, not dying, that Lanolin neglected the obvious clue slapping her in the cheek wool.

“The buyers were aquatic!”

Surge had an energy drink by the straw, sucking up the fruity fizz and swallowing with an over-dramatic gulp. Her hand battered up to her mouth, faking abject shock. “No way! You are a racist!”

The comment whipped past Lanolin’s woollen bun, the detective too deep in her mind palace to even counter the tenrec’s dumb ol’ nothing-quips. Undeterred, an equation began to form, much simpler than that blasted Mystery Pool.

Criminal Fish = Vigilante.

“Damn it!” Lanolin cursed, again. Cream was appalled. “Clever, clever vigilante! They’ve got to be some sort of escape artist to duck in and out of that warzone.”

Surge finished off her can and threw it against Cream’s head. Bonk. “Whoopsie. I didn’t see anything, Commish. But I thrashed me some haddock, fried ‘em into fish and chips!”

“We found four bodies.” Grip said, once again leaving Surge to scream into the void. “Reckon it’s your vigilante?”

Lanolin chewed her hoofed thumb. “It doesn’t quite line up with their modus operandi… worse they’ve done is remove a finger. For all we know, that could’ve been this aquatic gang’s doing… but it’s worth pursuing.”

“Maybe you can interrogate the white moth man.” Cream chimed in, handing over a cup of coffee for Lanolin to take a molten swig from. “He was there! And I’d love to sit in on a real interrogation, that’d be so cool!”

“What, so we can play good cop, bad cop, cotton candy cop?” Surge jeered, flumping into her chair, arms folded – giving up any attempts to curry favour.

“Mm. He won’t be very forthcoming, Lanolin.” The badger leant over his desk. “However, I’ll sanction an interview. Dangle an insect to catch us a fish.” He hummed to himself, amused.

“Or vigilante!” Cream chirped, exploding with excitement and almost dropping her tray to the floor. The bunny exuded the same energy of a nuclear reactor and, for once, Lanolin shared the sentiment, buzzing with either caffeine or enthusiasm. She’d lost the difference years ago, namely when she was three.

BRRING!

Grip snatched his landline phone, almost defensively, and swung his rotating office chair away. Lanolin and Surge exchanged looks… the commissioner tended to lean on the slovenly side. Never had they witnessed him move so fast.

“Yes. Yes, I’m quite alright… Ah. Of course.” Grip swivelled back around, pressing the receiver to his chest. Worry sapped away at his mirth. “Please excuse me, ladies. I’m afraid this is a private matter. Let’s circle back tomorrow. Go get some rest.”

He turned his back to the trio. Before him shone downtown Central City, the advertisements flashing his elderly form into a silhouette. “No, I’m still here. Wait until I clear the room.”

The door shut behind them with a lone click. Immediately, the lock engaged, and Grip tugged the shutters down, leaving Lanolin cast out into the cold. Despite the sudden shift in atmosphere, the sheep felt rather perky. Nice to be making some progress for once, instead of rolling a boulder up a hill for eternities upon eternities. Sisyphus had nothing on her troubles.

Surge cricked her neck, rolled her shoulders blades, and stretched out her calves, in slap-dash order. Once she heard the final electrical pop of a cyborg enhancement snapping into place, she pat-patted Lanolin’s shoulder and threw out a peace sign.

“Imma head out. Catch some shut eye.”

Cream pondered to herself, rubbing her chin. “Then why’d you ask for an energy drink-”

“How about you shut your bucktoothed trap for once in your life?!” Surge barrelled into the rabbit’s personal space, lights blinking off due to the fuses being gifted a swift, voltaic demise. Cream just goggled at the tenrec, calmly blinking in confusion and holding herself unintimidated. Then, without warning, she threw her arms around the super-powered officer and squeezed her tight.

“Have a good night, Ms. Surge!”

Surge froze on the spot, stuttering and spluttering like a broken engine. To Lanolin’s awe, the tenrec seemed to lean into it for a moment… before shoving Cream away with her free arm.

“G’night, Frills.” Surge muttered, disappearing into the locker room down the corridor.

Lanolin snorted to herself. “You’re messing with forces you do not understand, Cream.” By some freak fortune, the bunny’s fur remained a pale beige, instead of a fried charcoal grey.

In lieu, Cream rested her clasping hands on the hem of her skirt, an unusually knowing smirk gracing her ‘bucktoothed trap’. “No ma’am. I think I know exactly who I’m messing with. I’ve seen it with Espio… prickly on the outside…” She mimed a fake explosion in her arms, throwing out a bwooosh like the adorable dork she was. “Maaaassive softie on the inside!”

Lanolin ruffled the swirly lock of hair on her apprentice’s head, fondly sniggering along with the teenager. “I dunno…” The sheep sing-songed. “I’m pretty sure the prickles are those quills. And teeth. And choker.”

Abruptly, Cream’s ears stood up like exclamation marks. “ Oh! I almost forgot!” She twirled around and nabbed her mentor’s non-cane-leany hand. “To say thank you for welcoming me on board, Mama’s invited you for dinner at our place in Seaside City!”

Minutely, Lanolin twitched - unsure whether to be gracious or peg it into the cloak-room behind Surge. “Aw, no no. I wouldn’t want to put your parents out.”

“Don’t be silly! They’d love to see you again! Surge is welcome too, even Kit if he feels up to it!” Cream’s pure-hearted beam of sugar and joy once again obliterated her cynicism with a teddy bear’s stare. “You could discuss theories with Papa Vector! Ooo, we’ve got coffee cake too!”

The sheep sighed with a sideled smile. “Thank you, Cream. I’d be delighted.”

Now, Tangle considered herself a humble hero. Happy to keep her name out of the papers, keen to stay low profile. But no matter how much she posited herself as reclusive as a hermit, or as down to earth as a monk, or as reclusively down to earth as a hermit monk - Tangle had to admit…

She was an absolute badass!

The lemur thrusted a boot down on the accelerator, watching as the streets blurred together into a water-colour of neons and unheeded signage. Every so often, she checked her mirrors, hoping that there’d be a tinted SUV chasing after her. Ooo! Or a triad of motorcycles - each one riders swiping at her with blades, ‘cuz that’d be so cool! She’d use the girth of the van to her advantage; shove them off the road and into the canal. Then there could be an explosion that she’d walk away from, without looking. Hell, they’d have to create a movie, which she’d star in, and maybe Whisper…

Brakes were applied, both vehicularly, and on her racing brain. The wheels of melancholy commenced rotation, lavishing her mood in a washed out blue. 

So… Whisper worked with Hoyt; that sucked… that sucked so badly. In Tangle’s head, the wolf had frozen in time - she never aged, she didn’t quite exist . Perpetually stuck in the last moments Tangle saw of her, ten years ago. Underlined by the rictus of frenzied panic on her face, and the way she tucked tail and ran . Fled from the heinous action she committed, like a coward. To be truthful, the crime itself wasn’t what hurt Tangle so deeply… it was the realisation that she could pour all that love and hope into Whisper… and she’d still choose violence every time. When the chips were down, Whisper was a soldier. Those late night promises, shared under stars or sunsets, with the buzz of cicadas or the glow of fireflies creating the perfect romantic setting… it turned out every word that came out of that damn mouth was a lie. Tangle wasn’t even in the equation; that vulnerable ‘I love you’ being another mask the wolf wore.

Tangle trundled to a stop, choosing a dark annex to hide the van. Speeding lost its appeal. The door was spared no mercy as she heeled it open. It overswung, smacking into an errant dumpster and falling off with a clang. To no-one’s surprise, it’d been shot to pieces, peppered with small bullet-holes, triangular in appearance. Pink Spikes. The lemur restrained a snarl.

The upside to losing Whisper in such a manner was that she was immortalised in her memories. There were the bad ones, of course; besides from… that, what she did to Lanolin was unforgivable, but the good times persisted. That summer day on the beach, the night she confessed her feelings to the wolf, creating an impromptu tap routine with the wisps (regardless of the set back of them not having any feet - tap dance found a way!). It combined together into a bittersweet picture of the Whisper she used to know, the Whisper she missed, the Whisper she lost, and perhaps the Whisper who was never real in the first place. Within that stasis, Tangle could pretend that wherever the canine was, she might’ve found happiness, or even redemption.

That theory quickly perished after the revelations of the evening. Whisper was a gun for hire, licked with scars that proved that the… incident wasn’t a solitary tragedy. No, it was the origin story of a lowly henchwoman. The dissonance crushed Tangle. Her variable wispon was AWOL, replaced with lethal bullets. Whisper supposedly loved wisps, often citing dreams of becoming a conservationist… and here she resurfaced to traffic them. Any notion of redemption? Goodbye.

Tangle wrenched the back of the van out. Cold vapour swirled and curled down the steps and into the dingy damp of the annex. The vigilante’s chest was exposed to the frost - thank you Mr Sailfish - leading her to zip up her bomber jacket, glad for the woollen lining that glomped around her neck and torso. Not quite toasty, but an improvement. Another circle caught her eye. A ginormous tear in the grill. Tangle wasn’t exactly a ballistic expert, but that appeared to be the aftermath of a sniper’s shot.

Whisper never missed - she just didn’t - yet this shot was so wide that Tangle could’ve driven a train through it. What was it that the wolf had said? Something about helping her? The contradiction danced about on the tip of Tangle’s tongue. If the best ever marksman she ever knew actually wanted her dead… shouldn’t Tangle be deceased? Could Whisper have been telling the truth?

And if Whisper was telling the truth, and earnestly wanted to save her… why did it matter? What did it change?

Leaping up into the cargo bay, Tangle surveyed the contents. The sight churned her insides. Rows of multi-coloured capsules, writhing and bashing against their contaminants, adorned the shelves. Bandoliers of purple grenades hung off hooks, belts of pink ammunition looped around the grenades, cyan magazines interlocked the belts. Support kits featuring green and white glows neatly threaded across the floor, with hazardous orange bazookas unceremoniously dumped on top. Tangle cracked open a crate with her multi-tool crowbar sleeve, discovering bats, hammers and batons crackling with blue. Red flamethrowers, ivory tasers, yellow jackhammers; the lemur barely stomached the sheer scale of abuse that lay before her. The weapons seemed endless, and each imprisoned an innocent life.

Soon, the rising sun was contended by a rainbow wave of wisps floating into the dawn. Tangle made short work of the ammo capsules, smashing each one with equal rage as the last. Some of the contraptions required a delicate touch. For example, the bazookas had to be disarmed by a brutal swing, then by chucking it in a bin and waiting for the BOOM. Others she could stomp on, and let the energy fizzle beneath her rubber soles. 

Reactions from the wisps varied. Most immediately flew away, Tangle proudly gazing after them as they disappeared to greener pastures. A couple hugged her, or nuzzled her cheek, to show their appreciation. And a couple aggressively swore her off, which Tangle couldn’t really blame them for. Claustrophobia tormented her, she couldn’t begin to imagine how it must feel to be bound and chained to such tiny spaces. Like genies where the only wish they could grant was death… and Tangle conceded that her metaphors required work.

That left ‘Nacci’s package’, which to her utter delight was what had been inscribed across the rim of the casing. She kicked it with her foot… no trip-wires or invisible lasers. Nor did it explode. Boo, dull.

Lifting from her legs, never her back, Tangle took the sleek casing into her arm, waddling out of the back of the van. Since it’d been stripped to the barest bones, she contained no qualms in leaving the vehicle to rust and collect dust. She left the keys on the seat, just on the off chance some rando would find a use for it.

Her trek home was uneventful, as it should be. Flickies tweeted through the morning dew, the sun warming Tangle’s tussled body. Nodding to store-owners pulling up grates, who in turn looked at the bleeding lemur with some concern (but not enough to do anything about, as all good city-dwellers abided), she was overcome with calmness that only arose from the security of a sound victory. Hoyt must’ve been screaming into his pillow right now, and it couldn’t have happened to a nicer guy! The wisps were free, the baddies’ chess board had been launched across the room, and Tangle even claimed a trophy! Once she safely scurried back into her safe haven (slash leaky basement apartment), she could plot her next move. ‘Cuz she was far from done. No, no - Hoyt, Nacci… even Whisper, had more pain coming their way - that was a Tangle Patented Promise.

Rounding the corner of the alley she called home, Tangle whistled a jaunty tune. Parked outside her entry staircase, a black van juddered in neutral. The windows were frosted shadows, leaving her no wiser to the occupant… allowing her whistling trailing off from jaunty to ‘oh crap, something’s ‘bout to go down’.

Aggressively tossing Nacci’s ‘super secret trump card’ to the grubby floor, Tangle prepped herself into a battle pose. The credits to her awesome sojourn against mafiosos and arms dealers hadn’t quite rolled yet. Now, who was her final boss?

The ignition switched off, too casually for Tangle’s liking. Then, a door slam, boots hitting tarmac, and footsteps, broached her ears. Slinking out from behind the van was…

“Are you trying to get me to lose my cool, Whisper? Because you’re doing a stellar job.”

Whisper, maskless, but still suitably militarised, held her hands up in the air. Unarmed. Tangle hunted for any concealed weapons… found nada, and dropped her fists. “What do you want?” She rasped, with as much spite as she could muster. Whisper shook, and reluctantly rubbed her elbow.

“I need to talk to you.”

Tangle tutted to herself, and calculated what the next best course of action would be… coming to a rather disappointing conclusion.

“Aw, man…” the lemur drawled. “Guess I’ll put the kettle on then.”

She didn’t understand why she capitulated… only that she felt an overwhelming need to hear the wolf out… for the sake of her memories of Whisper.

Not for whoever the hell stood before her now.

Chapter Text

“I would say ‘mi casa es tu casa’, but… y’know…” Tangle sighed, holding open the sheet of metal that she pretended was her front door. Behind her, Whisper ducked her way through.

“I’m not welcome?”

The lemur flinched slightly. As for why, Whisper could theorise; even if her old friend re-stylised herself as a hardened street brawler, being straight up rude was never in her character. The only conclusion to draw was that Whisper really, really wounded Tangle something terrible; and that made the canine feel just rotten to her very core.

To distract herself from the ick, Whisper surveyed the room with polite interest. Home sweet home, apparently for Tangle, barely registered as a living space. The sofa, if it could even be called a sofa, slumped in on itself, the cushions tectonically crushing against one another. On top, a pillow, along with some hole-filled blankets. Was this where Tangle slept?! No wonder she had bags under her eyes.

On the furthest side, Whisper beheld a kitchen of one stove, a portable fridge, and a sink that seemingly doubled as a wash basin. The mirror showed a shattered reflection of the wolf, the cracks hastily hidden by polaroids of Tangle, Jewel and various other figures from the lemur’s past. Briefly, it hurt Whisper that she was nowhere to be seen… only for her ears to peel back in guilt. It tracked.

Littered across the space were small Tangle-isms, remnants of the kook beneath the thorny shell. A ping-pong paddle leant against the couch. Odd sporty clothes piled themselves in a corner, yellows and oranges piercing through the washed-out vigilante colour palette. Whisper spied a laptop charging on the floor, flaunting stickers of strawberries and Chao unabashedly. The most upsetting discovery was a purple bicycle, rusting, jammed through the in-betweens of a cupboard and wardrobe. Ignored and unloved, similar to Whisper’s own Variable Wispon.

Not to mention… the wolf couldn’t see a kettle. So, no tea for two.

Tangle footed a loose ball across the floor. Whisper trailed it, and waited for it to bump the tip of her boot. After an anticlimactic ‘boop’, the lemur folded her arms, allowing herself to lean back on her tail as a prop. Her attitude screamed guardedness. The wolf sensed herself being picked apart, physically and mentally. After an excruciatingly long second or two, Tangle finally piped up.

“How’d you find me?”

Whisper tapped the side of her wet nose. “Smelt you.”

Tangle almost broke, what sounded like a strangled chortle was quickly swallowed back down into hostility. “You remember my scent?!”

“It’s more so the lack of a shower.”

Her mouth opened to object… then closed, the lemur proceeding to sniff her armpit. Immediately, she cringed. “Okay. Touché.”

The emotional walls rose back up again, after a brief riposte. Tangle wrangled her face into her best aggressive snarl. “Better question: what do you want?”

To answer, Whisper hesitantly pointed a clawed finger at the black case carelessly abandoned by the entrance; the special ‘asset’ she’d promised to retrieve. “My employers need that back.”

That set off some fireworks in the vigilante. “As I suspected. Hoyt’s lil’ lap dog. What happened to you Whisper? I thought you had some standards!” Tangle bitterly exclaimed, staring down the wolf intently. “Do you have any idea of the depraved things those thugs do?”

Whisper was aware. All too aware; Grandads in display cases sprung to mind, first and foremost.

“They killed a guy over a thousand bucks!” Tangle emphasised, and no, that didn’t surprise Whisper either. “And you aren’t any better. How much do you charge, Whisper?”

Silence. The truthful answer of a hundred k per hit would only stoke the fires. Did that make her better or worse than the Marianas? Eventually, Whisper snuck a plea out.

“Please understand. Whether you realise it or not, you’ve picked a fight with powerful men.”

“I’m not scared-”

“Let me finish.” Whisper said with force. The raising of the wolf’s voice, from barely audible to an average conversation’s level, stunned Tangle. “Hoyt and I have no love lost, but he is backed by heinous people. I’ve seen their organisation; they’re ruthless, Tangle. They will hunt you down, and they will kill you slowly and painfully; unless you pass over that case and wash your hands of the situation. Every second counts.”

“I’m not scared.” Tange reiterated, undeterred. It was like speaking to a brick wall. “Besides, they’ve already succeeded in hunting me down, because you’re standing in front of me. What are the chances this isn’t some ploy? Lying comes so easy to you, after all.”

“Tangle. If I wanted you dead, we wouldn’t be having this conversation. That construction site would’ve been your grave.” Whisper shifted to the blunt approach, because tip-toeing the line of the lemur’s feelings was pointless when Tangle clearly didn’t respect hers. The blunt approach also aided Whisper in hiding how much those insults plain hurt, as her warbling vocal chords discovered. “I am trying to keep you alive.”

The life-line was unreciprocated, left fluttering in a hurricane of spite. “Maybe you should’ve done a solid and sniped me. I wouldn’t be the first teammate you’ve shot. Probably won’t be the last.”

Each word stabbed Whisper like tiny needles of pure agony. The guilt pounded against her skull, but she couldn’t waver. She couldn’t break. “I missed you on purpose.”

Tangle sarcastically clapped her hands together in applause, pressing into Whisper’s space. Her breath was sticky on the canine’s snout, as if her voice had been laced with poison. “Congrats Whisper! Missing when it didn’t matter!”

Frustration throbbed across Whisper’s forehead and she tried to swallow the quaking lump in her throat. Her eyes burned. She felt lacerated, the accusations a whip drawing up bile and regret. A step back had to be undertaken, the purchase unsteady. Regardless, Tangle pursued. “And why are you doing this anyway, huh? Want me to kiss the ring, just for you to stab me in the back again? C’mon, Whisper, we’re both friends here. Tell me the truth-”

“BECAUSE I’M SORRY!”

The broken assassin could withstand no longer.

Gloves suddenly latched onto Tangle’s shoulders, pulling the lemur close.

Whisper sobbed, tears finally leaking unabashedly; eyes wide open and earnestly red raw. “I’m so sorry Tangle! There isn’t a day that goes by where I don’t despise myself! I wish I could take it back! I need to take it all back! A-and I… I miss you!”

Tangle hitched, and sagged in Whisper’s clasp - unable to respond to the outburst. The wolf could barely see her through the salty liquid dribbling miserably down her fur; the marsupial across having devolved into a grey smear. One that relented its attack. Unconsciously, those bandaged hands limply dangled in dismay. “Whisper…”

“But then you came back, and suddenly there was a chance.” The canine cried gently. “A small, minute chance that I could do some good. I’ve killed so many people, Tangle… There's so much blood on my hands! So much! For once, I want to save someone. I want to save you.”

With all her energy expended, Whisper let the lemur go. She padded into the corner, a wounded animal, to scrub at her stinging eyeballs. Unable to recall the last time she cried; nonetheless, it came as a cathartic shock. Neither positive, nor negative, but it was a release.

Meanwhile, Tangle fixated on the carpet. Her brow furrowed with… regret? Fury? Confliction? No matter what bubbled underneath, she remained steadfast.

“I… I’m not handing the case over. I can’t allow those scumbags to win.” She softly murmured. “I haven’t changed much, Whisp… and I won’t be intimidated. Options are either leave without it… or make certain you don’t miss me this time.”

That wasn’t the answer Whisper hoped for… but not an ounce of her blamed Tangle for the tepid response. In some ways, she was proud that Tangle had enough integrity to stick to her guns, in spite of Whisper’s own meltdown. “I’m trapped, Tangle… I have no choice.”

“You do, though.” Did she detect sympathy in the lemur’s voice? Whisper glanced up from her curled repentance, tiny and pathetic, but attentive. “You do. I meant what I said Whisper. Fight evil. Fight them. Or don’t fight at all.”

A tail lassoed around the crate, and pulled it back over to Tangle’s side. An ultimatum. “Don’t bother saving me. I don’t want it, and I don’t need it.” Somehow, the admission didn’t bruise the wolf. Tangle had shifted, her tone mellower but still cold. Stern, even. “What’s more - don’t you dare take my agency away again. And Gaia forbid you burn me twice… but if this is genuine, then there is someone you can save.”

“Who?” Whisper squeaked out, recoiling at the hard-line instructions. The damage dealt to Tangle continued to appear insurmountable; distrust ensnared, whilst apprehension stopped any hope of forgiveness. For her part, Tangle shoved her hands in her pockets and pursed her mouth.

“The reason I targeted Hoyt is ‘cause he smuggles wisps. His entire business is enslaving them as infinite ammo. They’re the ones in need of saving!” She shook her head in disgust. “I honestly can’t comprehend that you’re happy to take his money. The old you wouldn’t have been okay with it. Not in the cold light of day.”

Whisper, upon digesting the revelation, spaced out; choosing to stare into nothingness. That explained why Hoyt was so cagey, or why everyone spoke with veiled codes. “I… didn’t know.”

“Well? There you go.” Tangle said, striding past Whisper and reopening the front door. The room, scarcely ever seeing sunlight, was engulfed in the morning luminance. From where she stood, Whisper thought it made Tangle look angelic. Perhaps she was; at least, one of those biblical incarnations with a mission to complete and a sufferer of no fools. “Talking means nothing, Whisper. I tried talking you down - it got us nowhere. It isn’t gonna go any different now that the shoe’s on the other foot. Instead? Kick their asses.”

A fluffy appendage, conjoined with a scratched metal glove, wrapped around Whisper’s shoulders and winched her up to full height. Tangle unceremoniously ushered the sniffling wolf towards the exit. Briefly, Whisper considered grabbing the case and dashing for the hills… but that’d cement her as a pro-Mariana, bonafide villain. As far as their spat was concerned, Tangle gifted Whisper the benefit of the doubt.

She didn’t intend to squander that trust. Not again. Tangle’s heart gave and gave. Whisper took and stifled. She wiped the mucus from her nose, and resolved herself. What would she do next? The canine hadn’t a clue. Once she had stepped out into the concrete divot of a stairwell - sun beating down on her like judge and jury - she spun around to meet Tangle again.

“Thank you. For this chance.”

Tangle candidly observed her; a true neutral. In one eye, Whisper still saw hate. Shifting across to the other, there glowed something tender. Swiftly, it was lost to the lemur’s newfound sense of stoicism. “Forget thanking me. Just… do the right thing. Until then?”

She shrugged. “What else is there to say? Get the hell off my property.”

A flicker of a smile graced Tangle’s features, before the door slammed in Whisper’s face.

Whisper never expected to be back at the Mariana warehouse so soon. She’d procrastinated for hours on end, circling the entirety of Central City until late afternoon. Now that the shadows had stretched too long to justify any more stalling, she drove the funeral march back to Chez Hoyt et Nacci.  

The group mood had undergone a momentous swing in the direction of productivity, instead of an atmosphere of sulking and feeling sorry for themselves. Forklifts swerved at minus four miles per hour, each carrying crates and barrels to parts unknown. 

Once again, Whisper was regarded with suspicion. An extremely gaudy female sea-slug, bedazzled with azure feathers and swooping arm-capes, gave her the second nastiest stink-eye the wolf had received that day. Whisper regaled her as very pretty… if not for the white bricks she was slicing and grinding with a butcher’s knife.

Ask no questions, hear no lies. Mum’s the word.

The canine didn’t exactly know what her intentions were. The previous conversation with Tangle replayed over and over in her head. ‘Fight evil, fight them, or don’t fight at all’. Part of her desired nothing more than to jump full-heartedly into destabilising the Mariana’s, but the reserved and rational side of Whisper screamed out to cut her losses and bail; thereby proving that she was everything Tangle assumed her to be. Without any tears left to shed, she assumed the path forward wouldn’t be so blurry - but by that same token, the lemur might’ve well installed fog glass over her vision. For all Whisper knew, she could be walking into a pit, the impact slicing glass direct to her irises. But she needed to have conviction, whatever the decision was to be; and she, at the very least, emboldened herself to face the consequences with her eyes open and unafraid.

Hoyt never bothered with niceties, so Whisper forwent hers, bursting into the corner office that she guaranteed the slimy lech held up in. Not a chance he dirtied his ridiculous duster coat with menial labour; no no, Hoyt was a mobster of leisure. Feet kicked up, swords surrounding him like a halo of compensating for something, the crab shuddered as Whisper made her presence obvious. So very uncharacteristic of her.

Lounging on a tuxedo sofa tucked away in the corner was a surprising figure: the pale jellyfish from Nacci’s superyacht. Lume, was it? She appeared as disinterested as ever, twizzling her tentacles through her fingers, and scrolling through a social media feed.

“Hoezit, woof woof. Come on in. Not like the sign says ‘Private’, mos.” Hoyt chided, before attending back to Lume. “What was I saying before I was rudely interrupted? Oh yeah- think y’can you handle it, bokkie?” Whisper must’ve intercepted a strat chat nearing its end.

“Yeah, sure. Anything to get me off that boat.” Lume blew a clump of tendrils away, showing off her elegant, tapered eyes. Tiny dots surrounded their curvature, further accentuating her exotic beauty. “It’s an elegant plan. It glides across the page.” Oh, how the sarcasm dripped like ambrosia from a faucet; the lowest form of wit given a certain panache. “Only omission is when exactly Don Nacci wants this to go down?”

“Wait ‘til sunset. I’ve got it on good authority that they’ll be the only one in the house. Then you and your sister can, in layman’s terms… ‘do ya thang’.” Hoyt fired off a couple of finger guns. Pew Pew. How the hell is this guy in any position of authority?! Whisper already thoroughly diagnosed the crab as a nutjob.

With the conversation running its course, Lume pushed herself up to slink over to where Whisper hovered in the doorway… and stood still. Lazily, she texted without even glancing at the screen. “Excuse me.”

The wolf stepped to the side, ignoring how Hoyt sniggered to himself, allowing the moon jellyfish to go on her merry way (or as merry as theoretically possible for someone as dour as Lume). At last, Whisper had Hoyt to herself.

Yay…

“Strange. I didn’t expect to see you again so soon, not unless you’d obtained that asset we discussed?” Hoyt dropped his short legs off his desk, skimming his swivel chair out into the open. “Wow. Must mean you have deep pockets.”

“I need an explosive.”

The arthropod wavered, palms frozen in a megalomaniacal tenting pose, as if that added anything to his gravitas. “...What?”

“Tangle’s locked it in a safe. Can’t break it open without heavy duty tools. An organisation of your calibre surely has some C4 squirreled away, and if so, you wouldn’t miss it.”

Whisper could detect the gears grinding in the chasm of Hoyt’s vacuous skull. The stank-faced hunch continued unimpeded. “So, ‘Tangle’ is…” He trailed the last word out to infinity, inviting the wolf to fill in the blanks.

“Dead.” She lied.

Hoyt instantly sprung to his feet in rapturous cheer, almost expected to click his heels together or burst into a musical number. “Lekker! Finally, some good news! How’d y’do it? Bliksem to the throat? Choked her out? I hope you knifed off that ruddy tail, Don Nacci needs a new scarf!”

“C4?” Whisper put her foot down. “Or better yet, an Orange Wisp?”

Too busy revelling in a victory he had no part in (or even existed, but Whisper would never spoil his high spirits), Hoyt neglected to read between the lines, frivolously shooing her out. “Our wisp supplies are in Depot W. Have your pick, we’ve got thousands of the lil’ buggers.”

The wolf shut the door behind herself, leaving Hoyt to party alone. That was… surprisingly easy to pry out, though she tried not to ruminate over what would happen once Tangle inevitably made her next appearance; her fib was a house of cards primed to collapse at the lemur’s whim. Furthermore, she’d just gone all-in. Whisper tended to employ the risk-free approach, but playing this treacherous game opened the flood-gates to fill what was once a dry reservoir of adrenaline.

Passing by aisles of illegal narcotics, gambling equipment, guns, more guns, gold, jewellery, blood diamonds and… construction supplies (she guessed they did have a facade to keep up), Whisper eventually stepped into the titular Depot W. ‘W’, as it turns out, stood for ‘Weapons’, and not ‘Wisps’, as the sign so helpfully pointed out. Once again, Whisper contended with the fact that the Marianas were simultaneously the most dangerous, yet somehow ludicrous criminal organisation she’d ever encountered. Granted, she figured they made certain their books were in order, if cooked to oblivion.

The inclination that she was dealing with a bunch of imbeciles dissolved the moment she lay her eyes upon the stockpile before her. Reaching up into the ceiling, and swallowed by the stark fluorescents, was the biggest collection of wisps Whisper could’ve conceived; or otherwise the most sadistic display of a rainbow fathomable. Capsules were crammed next to capsules, colour-coded wisps sorted off into the distance, so much so that even her own sharp vision couldn’t see the end. Red, Orange, Yellow, Green… Whisper’s heart broke into a billion pieces. It was hard not to see her own lost troupe within the sorrowful gazes of the entrapped creatures… Whisper pined for the days where her friends’ glows comforted her during dark times.

With wisps covering one side of the depot, Whisper flipped her study to the opposite end of the aisle. Wispons, as far as the eye could see, along with glass containers that she assumed were the actual bullet casings themselves. Without needing much inspiration, Whisper marched towards her instrument of choice, and a very familiar one at that.

The wolf dusted a hand over the long nozzle of the wispon. True, it was nowhere near as technologically advanced as Smithy’s design, but the muscle memory would serve her well. A wispon bazooka, her signature from way back during her time with the Diamond Cutters. As a cadet, she took to it very quickly, and she couldn’t deny that the weight felt right in her grasp. Her beloved mentor once called her ‘bloodthirsty’, albeit in jest. If it wasn’t such a prudent look into her future, Whisper might’ve once laughed. Well, retribution was knocking, time to wield a rocket-launcher with dignity once again. Funny how circles come full mulligan.

Before she had her translator, Whisper communicated to their small posse of aliens using sign language. Selecting a random Orange wisp (partially because none would ever come close to her Orange), she rapped a knuckle on the glass of its capsule. Two droopy eyes peeked up at her, bewildered by the wraith-like, apparent apparition before them. Whisper wiggled a cupped palm between herself and the wisp: ‘Me, You’. She patted the bazooka, and then mimed an explosion; the wisp nodding along. It was pretty self-explanatory. Finally, she jammed her thumb in the approximate direction of the loading bay, the escape route. The surrounding wisps were engrossed by Whisper’s signals, eventually starting to bounce about in their cages; egging on their lucky comrade to wreak havoc with the wolf. Steadfastly, its determined stare was all the confirmation that Whisper required, as she nimbly bapped the capsule open.

By now, the cornucopia of wisps had gained an inkling of what was about to take place, an excited tension overtaking the previous blues. Whisper took a knee, balancing the bazooka on her shoulder. The holy-ordained Orange wisp swam around her for a moment, before imbuing the weapon. Through her gloves, she could sense the metal beginning to heat up, a tell-tale sign that the rocket was primed and ready. The Variable Wispon was fitted with an advanced cooling agent, so it never warmed to the touch quite like the classic bazooka did. Admittedly, being the safety pin between a weapon brimming with barely tamed power, and the raw destruction of a rocket unleashed, was an addictive sensation that the slightly psycho aspect of Whisper relished. It made sense that her previous, bubbly self gravitated towards Orange Wisps and their explosivity. Bubbles also went POP after all.

She was delaying the fireworks. All it took was a stray Mariana to round the corner, and her cover would be blown to smithereens, rather than the capsules. Aiming down the sights, Whisper understood she danced on the precipice of a momentous choice: stick with her status quo, or destroy it for the sake of a second chance.

The answer resounded, as the wolf launched the burning projectile into the ceiling.

KABOOM!

The shockwave rippled out of the locus point, shattering the lights, tearing through steel and plastic. The shards rained down like twinkling, scorching stars, as the wisp storage shelves started to tilt backwards. A slow and deliberate, but mighty CRASH deafened all as the towers collapsed in on themselves. From the wreckage arose balls of prismatic light, which then formed together into an overwhelming tidal wave of wisps, each barrelling and loop-de-looping their way to an exit, whether it via the newly formed cavity in the ceiling, or the windows blown out by the sheer force of the explosion.

A translator was useless, since Whisper already deciphered what their ecstatic, chirping cries meant: FREEDOM!

As beautiful as the moment was, the wolf couldn’t stay to savour it. She ran, sprinted towards the exit; shoved Marianas to the floor, if they weren’t already occupied with gawking at the liberated typhoon of energy rushing over them like the Aurora Borealis.

Outside, she leaped up to the side of her parked van, a joyous grin on her face. The wisps spiralled into the sky, blending with the blue to transform into a transcendent constellation that could be seen for miles around. 

Hoyt stumbled into the open, soot caking his features, the tips of his coat doused in flames. Upon making eye-contact with the smiling canine, he seized up and put two and two together. The crab’s utter disbelief was the most delicious schadenfreude, Whisper absolutely making a meal from the gaping void that replaced his mouth. Her crazed giggle punctuated a cherry on top to this well-deserved humiliation.

“I QUIT!”

And she didn’t even check to see his reaction. It held no importance. The canine dived into the van, revved the engine (barely heard over the pandemonium she doled out - little ol’ her, who would’ve guessed it?!), and spun up mud and dirt as she bolted away. 

The only remnants left were the burnt tyre marks, challenging the Marianas to follow her into a new future - a future where Harbinger died, and the Guardian Angel was reborn.

Chapter Text

It was in Lanolin’s family’s nature to nit-pick. She’d oft attempted to resist that urge to be pedantic, but it called to her like an overly shrill siren-song sung by a mermaid named Karen. So, to no avail, she snipped and sniped at non-issues until she felt a modicum of control return to her existence. Did this make her an unlikable and exhausting presence? Yes. Did she have a green, electric excuse permanently latched to her hip during the billable hours? Also, yes. Would that fly tonight? No. Because she’d been invited to dinner and thus had to… Lanolin restrained a shudder… be sociable.

So, as she dragged her feet up the driveway of The Chaotix Detective Agency (plus a new three-bedroom extension), Lanolin allowed herself one rant. Who cares if Surge or Cream actually warranted a lecturing?

“Gaia, the sea salt chaps my lips. My tongue is as dry as jerky – you live here, Cream? What’s with the name, anyway? Seaside City? Why is every major settlement on these forsaken islands ‘Something’ City? Oh, we live by the sea: Seaside City. Oh, we’re geographically centralised: Central City. Oh, oh, silly me, I didn’t grow up in Riverside. I’m River Village, born and raised-”

“Yo, Fuzzbucket.” Surge cut in. “We’re off the clock, so I ain’t gettin’ into trouble when I tell you to shut the hell up.”

Lanolin would’ve happily challenged the tenrec’s contempt, if it weren’t for the front door swinging wide open to reveal the waiting arms of Vanilla the Rabbit. A split second later, Cream glomped into her mother’s embrace.

“Mama!”

The duo twirled around in a circle, Cream’s legs flung out akimbo and somehow avoided weed-whacking the well-tended shrubbery surrounding the porch. After the merry-go-round, Vanilla bent down to her daughter’s level and whispered something unintelligibly. Words meant for Cream, and only Cream. As much as it was a tender and loving display, it left Surge and Lanolin to awkwardly pose as background extras.

Doing as a detective does, Lanolin analysed the woman. She’d only met Vanilla a handful of times – but she’d be remiss to admit the resemblance to her daughter was uncanny. They shared the same brown locks of hair, same round facial structure, same sense of dress. However, where Cream was stout and frizzy – Vanilla was taller and more elegant. Obviously, she lacked the youthful buzz and freckles, but all considered… there wasn’t much of a debate of who was whose progeny.

“Hello Lanolin, my dear.” Vanilla’s dulcet, motherly tones snapped the sheep out of her investigative stupor. “How have you been? You look wonderful.”

Even with the cane?

“Very well, Ms. Vanilla.” She bowed her head, letting her wool bounce. She hadn’t tied it up as tight, so her poofiness was on full display. “Thank you for having us.”

Vanilla giggled. “My absolute pleasure. It’s the least I could offer, considering you took my little angel under your wing.” A couple of steps behind, Lanolin could sense Surge starting to crack up. Cream playfully shoved her mother’s side; ‘stop embarrassing me, Moooom!’

“And you must be Surge.” The elder rabbit continued, taking Surge’s gloved hand in her palm. She performed a quick scan – the tenrec’s idea of casual dress manifested in a lot of spikes and no sleeves. It seemed Vanilla disapproved, but of course she was too polite to even fathom raising the point. “Cream has told me lots about you in particular.”

Surge casually skimmed her foot across the floor, too cool for school. “Aw shucks, she really didn’t have to… What’d she say?”

Lanolin sighed to herself… Desperate, much?

“That I ought to wash your mouth out with soap and water.” Vanilla closed her eyes and smiled sweetly, tilting her head asunder; all whilst pulling her daughter in close.

Surge’s grin remained plastered on her face, while her soul vacated her body. Point made and taken surprisingly well. Vanilla lightly gestured for her guests to follow her inside, contrasted by Cream skipping past without any hesitation. Another difference, Lanolin surmised; slow and steady verses a bundle of enthusiasm.

They journeyed through the main detective office, immediately turning left into a cosy corridor lined with flowers, photographs and ninja stars. “I just wanted to double check; I’ve made dinner for nine… except, upon a recount, I believe someone is missing?” Vanilla’s shovel talk had been swapped out for newfound concern, as she halted just before what seemed to be a sitting room, if the sofa arm sticking out into the frame was any inclination.

“Right.” Surge said, disappointment evident. “Kit was meant come along, but unfortunately he didn’t feel up to it.”

“Her younger brother.” Lanolin added.

“He’s poorly.” Cream further tacked on as an addendum, earning her an acidic glance from the tenrec. Proper manners and etiquette be damned, Lanolin understood that Surge wasn’t above following through on her threats, despite the presence of the girl’s mama.

“Is that Lanolin the Sheep?” A crocodile, lounging on the aforementioned sofa, chortled. He sprang up to meet the incoming party, dropping his knee to squeeze Cream and sticking out a hand to meet the sheep’s own. Vector appeared remarkably similar to his younger self, given he had to be pushing past thirty by now. His rugged sense of style somewhat survived domestication, but the headphones were gone, as was the gold chain. Tellingly, it’d been replaced with a thinner silver necklace, with a wedding ring dangling as the centrepiece. The biggest change was the glasses, the reptile now wearing square spectacles that just screamed ‘Dad’. “Good to see ya! How’s the detective biz going?”

Lanolin returned the handshake, swallowing the pain of her fingers being crushed into a pinata.

“Doing well!” She chirped. No matter how much cynicism sucked up her good will, she always had time for Vector. “Career is going nowhere. I’m overworked, underpaid, treading water, about to drown, I almost died. Love my job. Love, love, love it!”

Vector guffawed. “Welcome to the club. Don’t say I didn’t warn ya!” Cream, still hugging his waist, unwilling and unable to let go, laughed out loud.

“You didn’t warn her!”

“Sure, I did! She knew me ten years ago, that should’ve been enough of a turn off!”

Lanolin quietly chuffed to herself. She recalled many an evening, littered with empty coffee cups and noodle boxes, where she and Vector teamed-up on Restoration paperwork. For her, it was duty, but Vector helped out of the kindness of his heart. Tangle and Whisper never aided her with paperwork, nor did she ever want them to. Tangle, because she’d get distracted too easily, inevitably do it wrong, and require Lanolin to fix it anyway.

And Whisper, because she shot her in the leg.

Meanwhile, Vector regaled her with stories of catching criminals, with due process. She liked that last part. If it went her way, Lanolin wouldn’t care to destroy Eggman’s vast army of robots and call it a day. Rather, she yearned to throw the book at him. That was justice. Vector thought in a similar way, though he placed emphasis on the mighty dollar as much as the rule of law. The Chaotix were private, Lanolin was public sector. Neither seemed greatly appealing, now that she walked the walk and talked the talk going on five years. She would’ve shaken Restoration Lanolin by the scruff of her neck – ‘Don’t do it! Go be an accountant!’. And Vector would one hundred percent agree with her; like Cream said: they were in debt. Which reminded her… speaking of the other Chaotix?

“Are Espio and Charmy about?”

“Oh, sure they are. Charmy is probably off watching those human cartoons with the funny hair and those stupid attack names. And our in-resident ninja is doing the taxes.” Vector explained, thumping on the wall; one, two, three. “ESPIO. GUESTS! …AND NIECE!”

From somewhere deep in the house, an even deeper voice echoed out. Calm, and without any contractions… yup, sounded like an older Espio alright. “One minute. I am about to finish itemising our income.”

“Why don’tcha put our income down as zero, and come join us in the sitting room?”

“Because that would be fraud.”

“So let’s be frauds tonight, and fixers tomorrow. Live a little, Espio!” Vector wiggled his head in disbelief, shooting a knowing smirk to his stepdaughter. Typical Espio, rigidly carrying out his duty, in spite of his own enjoyment. Notably, Lanolin never remembered the chameleon joining her and Vector on their late-night paperwork adventures. He would be found meditating in the indoor garden instead, focusing his mind around tax laws, it seemed.

At some point, Vanilla stealthily disappeared back into the kitchen, Cream following in tow. Lanolin smelt something delicious simmering – for too long she subsisted off of microwave meals, and the promise of a real meal triggered her to salivate. Vector crashed back onto the sofa, crumpling up a newspaper as he did so (as if he couldn’t get anymore Dad). Lanolin joined him, which left Surge to check out the family trinkets with false interest. 

Resting her cane at the foot of the sofa, the sheep sensed a dip in the momentum. Turning, she caught a twinge of sympathy in Vector’s demeanour as he stared at her knee. “Still bad, huh?”

Great, so she was doing this again. “It looks worse than it is.”

“Doesn’t matter; it ain’t fair. You were only performing your duty, and here you are, ending up with the brunt of the consequences.”

“Not really. I would think that the person whose brains were blown out might’ve been the one who got the ‘brunt of the consequences’.” Lanolin muttered lightly.

“Fair comment. But anyhow, I’m sorry. I should’ve caught her. For your sake. You were so brave that day, and I was distracted.”

“Whisper only gets herself seen when she wants to be. If Sonic the Hedgehog couldn’t catch up to her, what chance did we have?”

Surge inserted herself into the conversation, albeit briefly. “Screw that blue douche. He sucks.” And as quickly as she came, she faded back into the familial menagerie.

“I suppose. It’s a stain on my professional record.” Vector groused, a dark melancholy swirling behind the glasses. Soon after, his eyes brightened up once again, and the boisterous croc was back. “You’re such a stubborn girl! And I mean that in the best possible way; persevering through so much crap. Chief example would be Cream!” A playful rib to the side, another hearty guffaw.

The clanging of pans clued Lanolin where Cream slinked off to. Not even back for ten minutes and she was already helping out where she could. Despite the bunny’s constant sugary sweet prodding, Lanolin would never, ever place her anywhere near the toilet of her estimations, as Vector so prudently put it. 

“She’s been an absolute gem. I’d have her on permanently if I could.”

“Cream would be over the moon to hear it. The way she speaks about you, it’s like you hang the stars. Most of her phone calls are spent gushing about Ms Lanolin, detective extraordinaire!”

Urgh. Indigestion stirred in the sheep’s stomach. Fluttery pride and fondness bounced together. In the back of her mind, Lanolin cringed. Meant to be the hard-boiled gumshoe, a pessimist, snark upon snark; feeling any form of… optimism was alien. But Cream’s, albeit black and white, sense of right and wrong triumphed over Lanolin’s grumpiness and Surge’s everything.

“If she’s the future… then it’s very bright indeed.” A compliment?! Gaia, she must be sick. “Don’t tell her I said that- not yet… I need to keep her on her toes.”

Vector chuckled. “You haven’t changed a bit. Ever the strategist.”

“I concur.” A creaky floorboard ushered in the presence of Espio, palming a laptop like a sacred tome. Unlike his… brother? Step-father? Co-habiter? - the chameleon gained some noticeable changes with age. An extra two prongs on his casque fanned out his forehead more. His horn was also longer… the two combined making him look a bit like a triceratops. Even his magenta hue paled, which contrasted his newly acquired yellow kimono very nicely. (And of course he wore a kimono, Lanolin would’ve been disappointed if he didn’t.)

“We are in the red again, Vector.” Espio tapped the screen pointedly, coaxing the crocodile to put a finger to snout and hush-hush.

“Later. If our dinner parties get a reputation of you alone blubbering about finance whilst drinking boxed wine, then you really do deserve the status of ‘party-pooper’, mi amigo.”

The ninja exhaled. Espio acted serene, but Lanolin could see through him - stress creased his eyelids. In fact, stress creeped everywhere in the household. Vector’s scales were dried out. Vanilla’s hair was streaked with grey.

Finally, Espio turned to the sheep with a neutral expression, as shinobi don’t smile. “Lanolin.”

“Espio. The kimono suits you well.”

In response, the chameleon smoothed out the creases in the silken fabric, the pride in his delicate movements abundantly clear. “Thank you. Likewise. You look healthy.”

“She ain’t healthy.” Surge barked out, wiggling the five decorative thimbles she’d childishly slipped onto her fingers, stealing them from who knows where. She’d done such an amazing job fading into the aether, that Lanolin forgot that the tenrec was in the room. Bravo, Surge; keeping quiet for thirty seconds. “She ain’t healthy at all. For Sweatershop to function, she needs an IV drip with nothin’ but caffeine and smooth blend roasted beans!”

Espio didn’t exactly have a response for the green mammal before him, though cursorily he glanced down at the glinting shark-teeth, and then back upwards to the maniac bearing them. Even worse, her invitation to shake a thimbled hand hovered in limbo. Dear Gaia, it pained the sheep to watch. Was this Surge’s idea of social grace? …Lordy, she sucked worse than Lanolin did.

“I thought she wasn’t healthy ‘cuz she got kneecapped by a gangster?” Further escalating the tournament of poor conversation starters came a question from a brighter, half-broken, half-squeaky voice, belonging to the one and only-

“Charmy Bee!” Vector’s cry of offence shuddered the crockery and rattled the picture frames. In response, the teenaged insect rubbed the black fuzz-cut bashfully. Lanolin wasn’t upset; Charmy had his filter removed at birth and an out of pocket comment was inevitable. He was the same hyperactive kid, through and through. Leaner, maturer, sure; and also saying the first thing that popped into his head. The lack of impulse control conjured questions on how he hadn’t stung anybody yet.

“Sorry. Crossed a line there.” Charmy sheepishly said, battering his wings as if trying to shrug off the mistake. Espio and Vector’s blood-shot stares continued to roast him, unimpeded.

Perhaps that’s why the bee fidgeted so much. His hands wrung over themselves, or ruffled his hair, or plucked at his sleeves; exuding a generally skittish vibe. Lanolin waged that Charmy had reached the ‘can’t talk to women’ phase of development - why else would he avoid her eye-line as if he was at risk of being turned to stone.

“Aw, no Kit?” He hummed absentmindedly, checking any possible hiding spots half-heartedly. “Dang, I was looking forward to meeting him… I thought we’d hit it off.”

Surge noticeably tensed up at the mention of her brother, twisting her mouth to the side. “Do ya enjoy taking apart gaming computers or painting miniatures?”

“Yeah! I’m collecting the AstroTemplar Secutor for my Gladiator Trifecta Metarex Army!” Charmy buzzed, swooping up into Surge’s business. The admission, coupled with a bumbling insect pressing into her breathing space, rattled the tenrec… who did well in suppressing the electric shocks. Eventually, she trilled out a light wheeze.

“That’s a shame, kid. I should’ve pushed a bit harder for him to leave his friggin’ bed… He’s desperate for a friend.” She tutted, mulling a fair distance from planet Earth; her thoughts clearly elsewhere.

Miles away, in Central City, a blue fennec fox fiddled with a screwdriver. A graphics card lay in bits and pieces, sorted across his desk in a methodical spread. Kit, in his infinite boredom, wanted the component to run a smidge smoother, and for it to keep itself cool and well-ventilated. He’d already perfected the design yesterday, building it on from his GPU, soldering the circuit-board, etcetera etcetera - but it wasn’t like he had anything better to do with his time.

His bedroom was clean, if overly-sanitized. Occupying an entire wall, his computer of three screens rumbled and juddered away; as powerful as a muscle car’s engine, if not more than. The only light emitted stemmed from the screen-saver of a rushing waterfall, the spout beginning on the leftmost monitor and crashing down to the right side. Work in progress figurines, modified beyond recognition, littered about the place; on guard and on duty protecting the young man’s brittle psyche.

Kit really wanted to go with Surge. He really, really did! But he didn’t trust himself. Somewhere, rooted in his brain, was programming. Vicious, evil code installed by a vicious, evil man, compelling him to do vicious, evil things. The best way he could describe it was a bulging, breaking locker. Behind it were thoughts of harming bypassers, or drowning the world in cold, frigid water, or to protect his guardian (like she needed any protection?!) They pounded at his reason, begging to be let out and wreak havoc. On his own, in the dark, he was strong enough to hold the locker shut. Outside told a different story. He’d succumb; do something violent, and be thrown into a dark cell permanently.

Better to stay inside. 

Above all else, he’d probably just bring the mood down. Why anyone would willingly stay in his presence confounded him. Surge only tolerated him because she happened to share in his misfortune…

His ear twitched to a clicky jiggle at the front door, past his room. Speak of the devil, and she will appear. Kit glanced at his digital clock, peering past the dead pixels; resultant from water-logging. 7:39… didn’t it take an hour to get to Seaside City?

Anxiety suddenly erupted within him, not unlike the thunderous riptides he held dominion over. Something must’ve happened! She could be in trouble!

“Surge?” Kit stumbled off his chair and bounded to the door. “Ma’am? Are you okay?” He heard the front door swung open with a dry croak. CLUD. The radiator halted its arc. He waited for the cacophony of stomping boots, or the comforting grumbles of his sister… but nothing came. What was wrong?!

His hand trembled above the doorknob, suddenly feeling a magnetic repulsion stopping him from heading out to meet her in the corridor. Breathing hastening, Kit quivered - panic, panic! Why, though?! It’s only Surge…

The closed bedroom door jangled before him, as if Surge was checking for a lock… which he didn’t have. That made no sense? She lived here, why would she forget the floorplan of her own apartment?

Unless… 

A sickly sweep of terror dug into his fur coat…

Unless that’s not Surge-

CRUNCH! The hinges burst off the frame. Kit yelped, and scrambled backwards, as the door splintered apart. From the darkness, a hand, white and gelatinous, thrust itself onto his snout, clamping and muffling his scream. Tendrils of water spewed out from the fennec’s backpack, flailing to no avail. A searing white sheet of pure light emerged from the clasping palm, and consumed all his senses. It was like he’d been hit by a flashbang. Tinnitus rocked, burning nothingness blinding him to everything.

A force shoved him to the floor, pinning his throat as he weakly battered at the intruder, swatting at beads and slimy tendrils. Thuds, vibrations; another pair of feet strutted towards him… Kit could feel a body shuffle down beside him… followed by disgusting, sticky tentacles wrapping around his upper arm. Then, a prickle… and then a stab.

The dazzle faded from his vision, Kit barely made out two heads - whitish gold, and a sparkling purple. Numbness spread from his arm, crawling across his body. It sapped his strength, his will to fight. The hard planks of wood beneath him dissolved into a floating cushion, whilst blackness superseded everything; he swam through molasses. He felt drowsy.

“Hey sweetie…” The purple smear whispered. “Try to relax, okay?”

Kit didn’t want to follow her advice… but he couldn’t resist. Unconsciousness beckoned him into its comforting embrace.

“That’s right… Well done…The hard part is over.” The voice continued to drone on with the kind warmth of a care-giver. The last thing he registered was a cold hand stroking his bangs, calming him into the nothingness of sleep.

“Miss Vanilla, ma’am, madame - compliments to the chef.” Surge, already having devoured most of her vegetable stew, eyed up the bubbling pot and ladle that sat smack dab in the center of the dining table. Thoughts of a second serving were not unique to the tenrec either, Lanolin was nowhere near full either.

Vanilla curtseyed, a habit that rubbed off on her daughter, satisfied with the ecstatic reactions her cooking nourished. No need to reply, her cooking spoke for her.

Vector placed his cutlery down with a clatter. “This. This right here? This is why I got married.”

“And because you love Mama.” Cream fumed, battling her tiny hands against the crocodile’s hide - it wasn’t very effective. A large claw gently petted the bunny rabbit into submission.

“You know I love your Mama… I just love her cuisine more!”

Steam blew out of Cream’s ears, as she leapt up bash her step-father’s grey matter out. Undeterred, Vector roared with laughter, and soon enough the little rabbit devolved into giggles too.

Lanolin tucked her napkin out, and dabbed the corners of her mouth. The etiquette her mother insisted upon came hard-baked into her being. Suffocating, upper-class nonsense. A bit like the measured gestures that Espio undertook - she guessed that ninjas and aristocrats were similarly repressed.

“I was wondering if I could pick your brains on a case?”

“Depends. Are you billing us hourly, or more-so contractually?” Espio responded… Lanolin failed to come up with any retort. Was that a joke or-

“That was a joke, by the way.” Espio’s face didn’t shift in the slightest. May he never pursue stand-up comedy. “Pick away.”

“It stands to reason that Seaside City has a lot of aquatic residents?”

“Indeed. They mostly congregate around the coast, for obvious reasons.”

“Cool. Have you encountered any… say, gangs consisting of fish folk?”

Espio and Vector shared a glance - psychically rummaging through each-others memories. Twenty years of working in sync had its pros.

“There’s a fair few. They tend to be quite insular.” Vector said - ignoring Surge’s “You’re a racist too!” running gag that definitely wasn’t becoming old. “We dealt with The Pirates of the Setting Dawn… an internationally wanted crew. These numbnuts moored up in the dock, claimed sanctuary. Didn’t take obviously, ‘cuz we arrested them for- well, for piracy.”

“Remember Abyss the Squid?” Espio pointed out, using a kunai to gesticulate and causing Vanilla no shortage of stress. “Eggman contractor. She worked solo, however.”

Lanolin shook her head, none of these names lined up. “We’re on the trail of a vigilante… she’s been beating up members of an arms dealing ring - who happened to be of aquatic origin. So far, we’ve encountered the aftermath, lots of lower level dealers. But none of the upper brass. Would you know of any…?”

“Arms dealers, huh?” Vector rubbed his chin. “Erm… Escobar the Puffer. He got whacked. Uh… Piccola the Oarfish, she’s a confidential informant - so I shouldn’t have just said her name- forget her. Hoyt the Horseshoe Crab… he’s gone quiet.”

The reptile might have well been suggesting nonsense - as nobody seemed especially noteworthy. Lanolin tried one last potential lead. “Known associates of Album the Silk, and The Nest?”

Silence overtook the dining room - members of the more cold-blooded inclination sifting in a brainstorming session…

“Who?”

“Forget it, nevermind.” Lanolin deflated. “We’ve got an interrogation with Album on the books, I was hoping we might get a head-start. Something tells me he’s one to enjoy mind-games; thought I’d nip that in the bud.”

Charmy’s silence was most unlike him, the kid extra invested in swirling his stew in a figure of eight. His antennas twitched and twisted into nerve-wracked shapes. “All this for a vigilante? Couldn’t you just… let her go?”

Lanolin rested an elbow on the table, trying to sympathetically let the idealistic bee down softly. “Unfortunately not. She’s inflicted grievous bodily harm on the victims. If we allow that to slide… Gaia only knows what sorta flotsam and jetsam will emerge from the cracks.”

Unconvinced, Charmy grimaced. “Who cares. They’re arms dealers, they deserve it! I mean-” He chuckled airly to himself. “That Scald the Slipper dude sounds like a piece of work! He earned a thrashing, in my humble opinion.” The teenager placed his spoon down, as to rest his case.

…

“Who said anything about Scald the Slipper?” Lanolin inquired. Protecting the bee’s innocence, all of a sudden, didn’t seem that important. Suspicion replaced it promptly, as the sheep leaned across the table. “Charmy. How do you know about Scald the Slipper?”

Charmy’s eyes were as big as the dinner plates surrounding him. Very faintly, Lanolin heard an ‘oh, crap’ hiss out of his lips. “I-Uh. I- read about it in the news.”

Surge perked up too, though she was more confused than anything else. She struggled with rubbing her brain cells together on the best of days, but she caught onto the contradiction snappily. “News embargo, kiddo. It’s not in the papers.”

Another potential escape route slammed shut in the poor insect’s face. He stammered and choked on his own words. Slowly, he tried to get up from the table. “May I be excused-”

“Charmy. Answer the question.” Vector interrupted, very stern, and very angry.

He breathed in deeply. “Am I in trouble?”

“Yes.” Cream decided to join in on the Annual Grilling of Charmy Bee, causing Lanolin to put a hand up to halt the attack.

“Not necessarily. But I would really like to know how you got that information.” Okay, maybe it was prudent to inflict a bit of pressure. “As in… immediately.”

“Alright, alright!” Charmy waved his arms in defence. In the seconds it took for him to collect himself, Surge’s mobile phone started to ring along to a peppy tune that ran at odds with the heavy atmosphere. A short intermission later, she rolled her eyes.

“Kit. I’ll be back in a moment.” Nobody acknowledged her as she stepped in the backyard, too invested in whatever Charmy was about to spill. Lanolin felt it in her stomach. A massive bombshell was pending. She allowed the teenager to stop shaking; since the bad cop had just exited the table. Whatever this was, she’d wait.

“I got a call from someone… she wanted a favour, the whereabouts of Scald the Slipper, as to, y’know- erm… give him what was comin’ to him? I-uh… I obliged.”

Espio pinched his horn in abject horror. “Charmy. Why didn’t you tell us?”

“She needed it to be a secret!”

“Who, Charmy?” Lanolin stopped herself short of throttling the kid. “Who?”

Charmy squeezed his eyes shut, tears threatening to drizzle out from his eyes. Reluctantly, as if the word was cyanide, he drew out a name… painfully slow and meandering. Chaos, it was there. Say it!

“Tangle.”

Lanolin felt as if she’d been struck in the face by a frying pan… Tangle?! Thrashing thugs within an inch of their life, cutting off people’s fingers?! TANGLE?! The lemur? Sunlight incarnate; her vigilante?!

“You’re joking.” That was all Lanolin could muster up, but Charmy’s shaking head confirmed it.

“I’m sorry!” He squeaked out, before swooping out the dining room, and retreated into his bedroom; a clunk rippling from above them.

Lanolin slumped down in her chair. Her knee had started to incessantly throb; she tried her best to ignore it. Cream’s mouth hung open like a grouper. Vector balked, Espio angrily polished his kunai, Vanilla vanished out to the kitchen to do the washing up. Vaguely, Lanolin heard Surge screaming, but it must’ve been in her head. So many voices rang across her subconscious, with not a single one making any logical sense. Tangle?!

“Um.” Vector began, awkwardly probing the tension, that would not break in the slightest. “At least one of us was helpful?”

The sheep had sunk back into detective mode, piecing together a jigsaw that would not fit. It left Vector to pick up plates in absolute silence.

“Lanolin. I need to talk to you.” Surge popped her head back into the dining space. Her stare was pink with rage, but Lanolin took no heed of it. She had more than a vegetable stew to digest. “Right now, Lanolin.”

“Give me a moment-” The detective was cut off by Surge rushing to her side, burning up oxygen and nitrogen, freaking out a chameleon along the way, and zooming outside again.

The first clue that something was really wrong was her mobile phone, smashed to a pulp on the ceramic tiling. The second clue was that Surge was crying, then doubling over in pure fury, sparking with fear, then back to sobbing, to borderline tearing her vocals chords apart in an irate frenzy, electrocuting the grass to a crisp-

“Surge, take a deep breath.” Lanolin put aside Charmy, Tangle, her breakthrough. She’d never seen Surge in such a state. It terrified her. “What happened?”

“Kit! They kidnapped Kit!” She whimpered, digging her nails into her fur until red dribbled. “THE BASTARDS!” The agonised shriek deafened the sheep, as static zapped her wool and spittle splattered onto her muzzle.

The revelation hit Lanolin even worse than the prior slug to the chest. A numbing chill seized her muscles… the chorus of voices now jeering at her, telling her that this was her fault.

That settled it. They were not staying for desert.

Chapter Text

‘Tis back-breaking labour; being a vigilante. ‘Vigilante’. Weird word, Tangle thought. Her family had some Spagonian ancestry running through their blood, so maybe she could claim the gobbledygook as her own mantle. Tangle the Vigilante!

Kinda generic…

She lugged her prize, the black case belonging to Whisper’s employers, up the stairs that she supposedly called her front porch. Reaching the grubby street-level, she dumped it again, stretching out her back. Nacci’s package was heavy, and the events of the day had thrown her spine for a loop.

How about Tangle the Mover? There are certainly more illegal boxes in need of ‘relocation’. Or noses in need of ‘dislocation’. …Nah. The nickname seemed too high concept – she wasn’t advertising long distance haulage. Okay, scratch ‘Mover’ off the list.

Didn’t she overhear Hoyt naming Whisper ‘Harbinger’? That, or ‘useless brak’; she didn’t have a Silirikaans dictionary parceled away in the piles of junk she’d amassed over the years. The ‘Harbinger’ moniker matched the wolf pretty perfectly, by Tangle’s estimations. A fore-warner of tragedy. It just so happened that the tragedy was a self-fulfilling prophecy, by Whisper’s own hand. Not the Reaper himself, but the one who ushered you towards his bony grasp.

As she ripped off the packing tape, Tangle admitted; her feelings around the canine were completely in flux. For so, so long, she coped by shoving her conflicted emotions into a box, put that box inside of a safe, lashed it with chains and locks, soldered the hinge shut, changed the combination to Pi and sunk it into the muck of her subconscious. And it worked!  …Sorta?.

Of course, Whisper returning to her orbit, without even the courtesy of a warning first, annihilated that strategy tout suite. Witnessing what had become of the wolf - mercenary, scarred hitwoman, serial killer – pained Tangle so much. It was like talking to a parasite puppeteering the skin of her old friend; pretending to be the woman that the lemur missed, when in reality there was nothing behind its smile. However, there was a tiny, microscopic silver lining to their construction site encounter: it confirmed that the good natured, loving, tender Whisper was dead and buried. This… ‘Harbinger’ only remained. At last, Tangle could put her latent wistfulness to rest.

So… how dare she! How dare she appear before her, cap in hand, begging for Tangle’s co-operation, to further the agenda of milquetoast thugs.

Even worse… how dare she break down in tears. How dare she live in regret! How dare Whisper the Wolf, that good natured, loving, tender girl; how dare she still live! After everything she’d done, after everything she’d put Tangle through… a glimmer of the lemur’s love still breathed.

Tangle crunched the packing peanuts into an angry ball of stress, only to throw it down her stairwell. She’d pick them up later. 

A vindictive part of her thought: Fantastic! Suffer, you wretched liar. That’s what you get for the pain you’ve inflicted on so many people!

But that wasn’t in Tangle’s nature. It was an aspect of herself that she tried to smother throughout the years, to make her mission easier, but she naturally believed the best in people. And now?  She couldn’t see a monster; instead, she saw a pathetic creature who despised what it’d become, whose consciousness battled with its actions, someone who hurt others not out of sadism, but because that was the pit they’d thrown themselves into and a rope never appeared.

The anguished wails, the way she heaved over with each sob, the fact Whisper’s eyes were wide open. Tangle couldn’t deny it; the wolf was genuine.

Oh, how the lemur despised her for that. Oh, how her happy-go-lucky, younger self cheered. Oh, how a psychiatrist would have a field day unpicking the sheer scope of cognitive dissonance rattling around in that brain of Tangle’s. The book would have to be rewritten.

Truth be told, Tangle didn’t know how to feel. On one hand, she’d been incredibly charitable by sending Whisper off on a purity test; a quest she had no clue whether the wolf would even take up. There wriggled a doubt that there was a sniper crosshair hovering smack dab on her forehead, and the lemur’s own idealism signed her death warrant. But if she entertained the silly notion that Whisper came to her in earnesty? Well… she’d have a conversation. Because on the other hand, a noble deed does not undo ten years of betrayal. Tangle didn’t know if she’d ever be able dredge up forgiveness… but provided Whisper came through on her end, perhaps… 

Perhaps… there might be a road where both their turmoil is put to bed. Ever utilitarian, Tangle would have to admit - that’s a victory for justice, however small.

Tangle the Ever-Merciful. Now she sounded like a table-top cleric. Pass.

All she could do was wait for Whisper to play her hand. Back into the heavily fortified vault went the canine, Tangle turning her focus onto the content nestled in the unpacked bubble-wrap and styrofoam. So much build-up! The anticipation was almost too much to bear! Her trophy, her prize: Nacci’s super secret trump card! Viola, a flourish of plastic uncovered Tangle’s reward!

Except…What was it?

Two rolls of cabling, and six, plastic rectangles? Otherwise bringing to mind oversized chewing gum and some dental floss for a giant? Tangle groaned, and slammed the crate shut again with whelmed aggression. CRUNCH! That’d show it for being boring. Hell… she eyed it again, before booting it off tumbling along the alleyway. Following it up with a frustrated suplex move, or a roundhouse kick of minor irritation (whichever was cooler) appeared the natural next step, when Tangle halted her elbow drive mid-slam - teetering on the balls of her feet. Whatever was in this box; it was enough to send Hoyt into a tizzy and demand Whisper, an assassin, retrieve it for him.

Flipping the beaten box back open again for a closer inspection, she selected the top-most stick. Giving it a twirl, flipping it from one palm to the next - Tangle checked the label.

No label. Just a yellow triangle, with a tiny circle with cracked beams around it like a sun, alongside bits of detritus spinning out from the locus point and holy crap she was holding an explosive.

Immediate butter-fingers; Tangle dropped the bomb back into the box, wincing in panic; waiting for the boom. Only, there was no boom, keeping in line with the disappointing wash-out that was the package… they must’ve been inert. Which reasoned… Tangle trailed her finger over to the coils of cabling; those were detonators.

For what possible purpose on Gaia’s Green Earth did Hoyt, and this Nacci dude, need special grade explosives for?! Weren’t they arms dealers? What sorta of black market salesmen are you, if you can’t get access to the big boys? Upon further reflection, Tangle knew for a fact that Hoyt sold explosives. The flounder she incapacitated before Scald was slinging volumes of C4, nitroglycerin, dynamite, TNT - he was the explosive guy (at least before she… well, flattened the flounder even further).

Tangle understood her strengths very well - street smart, emotionally intelligent - so she already realised that logic puzzles were a certain weakness of hers. Lanolin helped her, back during the Diamond Cutter days (the team going two-nil in success rates, maybe the name was cursed?), teaching her to split the clues into smaller chunks, and thread them back together…

Here she goes… Tangle rubbed her temples: Hoyt sells explosives, so Hoyt shouldn’t need to buy explosives, which means these explosives are special explosives.

Tangle the Logician! On second thought, it seemed to be a very standard conclusion… Tangle of Standard Intelligence! Gee, now she was mocking herself.

Pensively closing the crate again, Tangle scratched the nook of her ear. See, the responsible thing to do would be to sink it into the river; allowing the dampness to defuse it for her and automatically ruining any scheme that the villains were cooking up. However… the lemur slipped out a sinister, little snicker. It would be a waste of perfectly adequate pyrotechnics. She’d have to play it smart, and be careful to avoid any casualties, but if she had to come to blows with Hoyt and company… then why not? Why shouldn’t she utilise the spoils of war?

Non-lethally, bearing in mind. Tangle the Non-Lethal. As if that’d strike fear into the hearts of her enemies.

A screech of squeaky brakes, trundling into her ally uninvited, startled the lemur out of nickname consideration. Headlamps blared, silhouetting the pitch black van ominously. Carefully, she nudged the explosives behind her, curling them with her tail, defensively. Whether or not she was in for another fight, who knew?

Then, the lamps blinked off and the engine ruddering ceased, leaving only the calm skitter of loose cans blowing the breeze. Tangle skimmed her tongue over her fangs in anticipation. She’d already figured out that it was the wolf; the question being which version?

Whisper nimbly hopped down, holding… what looked to be a wisp bazooka? A incisor poked out of her mouth, a content smile on her lips. Raising a hand smudged with soot, she waved at Tangle.

“H’lo.” It was soft and sweet, like the lemur remembered her to be. “It’s done.”

Tangle let her tensity fade, but she squeezed her prize close to her. The faintest jump of joy rushed through her. “You freed some wisps?”

Whisper nodded vigorously. “One better, I freed all of them. Shot a hole in the roof. Hoyt saw everything.” Her prideful grin wavered slightly, and then drooped into a grimace. “Oh Gaia… Hoyt saw everything.”

Briefly, Tangle scoffed at the display, stepping towards the canine, who’d started to stare off past her and harshly into the consequences of her actions. Naturally, Tangle felt elated by the news… so much so that she didn’t care enough to mull over whether it was another lie or not. Whisper’s reaction, probably wracked with self-preservation, was hilariously ironic to Tangle; regardless of her own processing of the revelation, this wasn’t something to be ashamed of!

“Whisper.” Tangle chuckled, despite not wanting to let the happiness show too obviously. “You can’t lament a life of wrong choices, and then feel bad when you decide to commit to the right one.”

“Is… is that what this is?” Whisper’s delicate voice was tinged with hope. 

“You tell me.” Tangle shut her down, albeit for the first time seeing Whisper as… Whisper. She’d forgotten how nice it was to speak candidly to the canine, but doubt continued to dance on her reasoning. Give an inch and they’ll take a mile. Tangle reprimanded herself, keep your emotions in check. “No, seriously. Tell me everything.”

Whisper glanced up at the rooftops and behind her back. Her tail wrapped around her legs shyly. “Do we have to do it here?”

Selecting a can and rolling it under her foot, Tangle gave some pause. Many inquiries were on the tip of her tongue, and she guessed she and Whisper were long overdue a catch-up. Whatever that catch-up was to look like, be it scorn or regret. But before that…

She stretched her tail down the stairs, squirrelling the casing away in her den. After release, she turned to the wolf with what she tried to twist into a neutral expression - as to hide a brewing excitement that Tangle knew was dangerous for her own survival.

“Wanna grab a drink? I know a place.”

There was a distinctly western vibe to The Girder and Mallet. Not in aesthetics, the joint was about as ragtime as Tangle was well-to-do. The chosen soundtrack leaned towards metal, and you’d be hard pressed to find a classic saloon tainted by graffiti on their booths. ‘Romeo’ and ‘Ursula’ had their first kiss here, so the inscription bequeathed. How romantic! Snogging through smog and sagging plaster.

No, the western vibe came from the patrons. Each one an outlaw, bandito, or desperado; Tangle counted herself amongst their ilk, circumstantially. Luckily, if she ever degraded to their level of criminality, she now had an assassin to put her down. As if it’d come to that, her attention-deficient brain demonstrated ten times more self-control than Whisper did.

Regardless, à la spaghetti western, everybody turned and stared at the lemur and wolf standing in the entrance. No waist high paddles for Tangle to punt open with gusto, but kicking the door in - boot akimbo - achieved the same effect.

“Take a picture, gents. It’ll last longer.” she griped, a sly grin of ‘I’m too good for you and you know it’ wrung into her features. Without much fanfare, the various thugs went back to their smoking, booze and medium to high roller poker games. It was only Tangle; trying to make herself look bigger, showing the door what for.

Whisper, tense enough as is, scanned the room. Tangle recognised the habit from back when they were younger, the wolf couldn’t enter a room without giving clearance. Even worse, she appeared a bit irritated by Tangle drawing attention to herself. Chaos, as if she had the gall!

“This ain’t the Way of the Dragon, lemur. You can stop the pose now.” Marshmallow sniped from across the floor. Tangle quickly came to realise that she was just… axe-kicking the air. Gingerly, Whisper placed her hand on the out-stretched leg, and pushed it down.

Tangle’s footsteps were confident - peacocking across loose tiles, settling at the bar. The act wasn’t to impress Whisper - absolutely not - but you had to have a certain braggadocio to hang it in the dive bar, else you’d get picked off. Meanwhile, the bison bartender carried on wiping down his surface, ignoring her efforts. “Are ya gonna pay ye tab, or is that a dumb question?”

“Yeah, eventually-” Tangle swept the comment under the rug. “Cheap whisky, if you please.” She tapped the bar, before nodding to her wolf companion. “And whatever Whisper wants.”

“Glass of water.”

“And a glass of water!” The lemur jumped onto the stool, Whisper awkwardly following suit. Marshmallow seemed perplexed, analysing the canine instead of actually doing his job. Snap, snap; Tangle tried to get his attention. “Yo, Marshmallow. We’re thirsty.”

“Whisper?” The bison thrust himself nose to nose with his figure of interest, cigar smoke blowing across her snout with every inquiring huff. “The Whisper? The girl you always moaned about six shots in?”

Ah crap, she forgot she told him everything. Curse you, liquor! “Yeah, and? Can I start with one shot?”

“The lost lenore? The girl who ruined your life, broke your heart and, I quote, ‘murdered any sense of justice left in your soul.”

Whisper stared at her feet, twitching in obvious guilt. Tangle resisted the compelling case to punch Marshmallow in his stupid, blocky jaw; slamming her tail onto the bar to try and nudge the conversation back towards ‘alcohol, please’. “Geez, when did you get a perfect memory?”

Marshmallow puffed on the cigar held between his gummy lips. “Why do you become a poet as soon as vodka sneaks its way into your system-”

“BOOZE. NOW.” Tangle snapped, checking on Whisper. She hadn’t moved, lost in thought and avoiding everyone’s eyeline. The scars on her muzzle crinkled uncomfortably. After a brief stand-off, Marshmallow raised his hands in false surrender and paced away, making some ‘typical woman’ comment under his gravelly breath. Douchebag.

Resting on her elbow, the lemur recovered from a social headbutting against a bovine. “Sorry about him, nobody likes Marshmallow.”

Whisper glanced back up again, befuddled. “Marshmallow?”

“Yeah. Marshmallow.” Tangle shrugged. The wolf slowly acknowledged, and aimed her nose down to her lap again. Keen to let the conversation die… but Tangle wasn’t going to let her off that easy. “So… Harbinger, huh?”

“...Yes.” Whisper sighed. She wasn’t unfurling from her tiny ball of remorse, but at least she responded. That’s a start.

“Can you fill me in?” Even if Tangle was prodding Whisper into opening up (an act which her younger incarnation would’ve whole-heartedly steered away from), she reckoned it wasn’t an unreasonable ask. Tangle needed to understand who sat beside her. Whisper swept her head upwards, now wistfully blinking at the ceiling.

“I kill people for a living. I’m good at it, and it pays well.”

“Okay…” Tangle trailed off. The admission sounded plain wrong coming out of Whisper’s mouth, even if it wasn’t much of a surprise. “Say I wanted to become a hitwoman… how would I get into it?”

For a microsecond, Whisper peered at the lemur, conflicted. “After I… self-destructed.” Is that what she called it? “I had nothing. The wisps left me, I couldn’t afford food or water, no shelter. I should’ve died.”

Tangle listened intently. It was curious, learning about what was running parallel whilst she was practically catatonic in the aftermath.

“I was contacted by an unknown entity, asking me to assassinate some random business owner. Apparently corrupt, but I couldn’t know for sure. They were offering too much cash for me to refuse, and I’d already bloodied myself…” Whisper hoarsely laughed, so bitterly. “What was one more? I followed through, and this person kept sending me contracts. I committed to each. Bought guns, equipment, my van. One kill became two, then four, then hundreds. I’ve lost count.”

“Wow.” Tangle’s disdain was unmissable. To her, killing was such a hard line, that Whisper admitting to it so flippantly disturbed her slightly. It even scared her - what sort of creature would clinically slaughter everything in its path?

The answer was Harbinger. And the gulf between Harbinger and Whisper was wide, but not deep. Two sides of the same coin; a killer and a victim in equal measures.

“My reputation became too great. The media dubbed me Harbinger. Eventually, I cut off my ‘angel donor’, tried to grab back some control, and they didn’t make any effort to secure me. Ended up existing in a loop of receive contract, meet client, kill, get paid, repeat.” She quietly inhaled, and held. Tangle could sense the sea of deceased marks flooding through  the wolf.  “I doubt it’d make it any better in your eyes, but I am picky with targets.” Whisper clenched a claw. “I don’t kill innocents, and I don’t work for criminals.”

Well, that didn’t track. A massive crab shaped shadow loomed over her. “What changed?”

“You.” The response was candid. “I saw it was you.”

A whisky appeared in front of Tangle. She gripped the tumbler, and took a sip. That disgusting burn needled the cockles of her heart once again. Warm, yet painful. “You should’ve kept out of it.”

An ear flick, a considered hum. “Maybe. Then again, I’d just be off murdering some other sorry bastard. You’ve always been a guiding light, Tangle. I strayed, gave into myself, when I should’ve stayed in your glow. “

“Fat load of good that does us now.” Tangle remarked, jiggling the ice cubes. “Heck, I don’t think it’s something that we can come back from. I left the optimism behind me.”

Whisper knocked back some water, swiftly, as if she’d choke. “Clearly. What about you, Vigilante?”

“I dunno, I guess I stumbled into it too. One day I saw a mugging, and intervened. The goon towered over this girl, and I thought she looked like Jewel. Guess it…” 

Tangle rubbed her glass, feeling the coolness radiate on her fingers. “Guess it gave me purpose again, fighting for those who can’t. Though, I’ve got higher aspirations than back alley interventions. I’m aiming to destroy Hoyt and his gang. Then onto the next.”

“The Mariana Mafia.” Whisper snarled. “Evil.”

“Right. The Mariana Mafia…” Mafia?! Oh damn, she really was punching upwards. “Come to think of it, who’s Nacci?”

“The Don. Vile man. Reminds me of Mimic; soulless sociopath. Hoyt’s a point of contact, paper tiger, bark n’ no bite. Nacci; he’s the figurehead. Want to hit them where it really hurts? Aim for the nautilus.”

The lemur ruminated for a moment, watching ice melt into the brown, thick liquid. She’d learnt much running as an illegal crimefighter: chiefly when to seize an opportunity, no matter how bizarre the circumstances. “Are you done with them?”

Whisper smiled to herself, lost in a memory. “Yes. I’m done. I wouldn’t be surprised if I’m on the top of their hit list. It’s no matter. If they come my way again, I’ll end them.”

Internally, Tangle cringed; talking Whisper down from killing folk once again. A part of it must be inherent to Whisper’s psyche. History never repeated itself, but it sure loved to rhyme. “Let’s not do that. How about, instead… Maybe…” Gaia, she couldn’t believe she was about to ask Whisper this, of all people. “We help each other out?”

“Me?” Whisper evidently thought the same thing. “I’m a lost cause, Tangle. I don’t deserve forgiveness.”

“This isn’t forgiveness.” Tangle sharply retorted. Again, reminders of Whisper’s actions parroted against Tangle’s reason - she was a killer by trade. That, by Tangle’s definition, was unforgivable. “You remember the phrase: the best time to plant a tree was ten years ago?”

Whisper didn’t respond, but she was enthralled.

“The next best time is now. So let’s take down Nacci, and finish what we’ve started.” Tangle fisted the table, the thud muffled by the wet drinking mat that had never been cleaned. “You’ve got insider knowledge, I’ve got explosives. I wanna wipe this organisation off the streets, and for you, Whisper?”  She pointed a very intended finger, jabbing it into the wolf’s ribs. “We can’t escape the past, but we can fight for a better future. Remember? That was what the Restoration was about.”

Tangle performed solo for so long that the notion of a team-up seemed unfathomable… but seeing Whisper hold back her gratitude, the lemur understood that this sorry, miserable canine was another person who could be saved. She always had to try; it was in her blood.

And if she could avenge Whisper? That terrible day, ten years ago, perhaps may be mended, and everyone could heal.

“M’kay.” Whisper hushedly murmured. “If you’ll have me. What’s next?”

“Hold on a sec.” Tangle began, sliding off her swivelly stool. “I need to pay.”

Pacing up to a random poker game, in the throes of all-ins and on the edge of a dead man’s hand, Tangle gave the players a little wave.

A vulture spoke up, with gap-filled grit. “What do you want, bitc-”

Out of the blue, a fluffy tail smacked his head into the table, sending poker chips flying out. The dealer, unfettered, placed the river card: ‘Queen of Diamonds’. The beaten bird’s chair folded on top of him, Tangle stooping down to ruffle through his feathers. She plucked out a wallet, discovering three hundred bucks! Nice. That was rent sorted.

Whisper gawked at the image in surprise, and also with the tiniest sliver of amusement; her glass of water left long forgotten.

Tangle grinned. “Don’t worry. That was Trevor. Nobody likes him either!”

The moon pulsed blue gloom into the alleyway, extra bright tonight. Tangle stumbled, having one too many drinks; Whisper propping her up entirely unprompted.

The boozed up lemur’s suspicions had settled. If Whisper really wanted to, she could snuff her without any trouble. Seeing that Tangle now made out the outline of her home through the buzz, the wolf’s intentions must lay elsewhere. In the morning, she’d pretend that her vulnerable drunkenness was another ploy to game Whisper, when in reality… the hang-over blame was on her and her alone.

Tangle slumped against the railing of her stairs, crude iron fixtures suffering from rust and tail-abuse. “Thanks, Whisp. Y’didn’t have to walk me home.”

“I parked outside your house?”

“Truuuue!”

Whisper’s cute fur was blurred, her form swimming up and down and down and up - even in her state, Tangle saw the hesitancy plaguing her very own ‘it’s complicated’ relationship.

“Why?” Whisper eventually hiccuped. “Why are you giving me a chance? You should hate me.”

Oof. That sobered Tangle up, like a bucket of Arctic water laced with razors.

“I… think there still is hate.” She admitted. “For who you were, what you did.” 

Whisper winced, fiddling with her keys and planning a get-away. That won’t do, so Tangle patted her shoulder with her soft flail of a tail. A steadfast sign of her confidence. 

“But maybe I’ll like the Whisper who at least attempted to be better. That’s up to you. You gotta give yourself a chance too, ya dig me?”

The wolf’s mouth edges barely eked into a smile. “I’ll see you tomorrow then? Think up a plan?”

“Yesiree! I’d invite you to sleep in, but you might kill me whilst I’m out.” Tangle tried for a joke, ignoring how most comedy is based on truth. Whisper lightly snickered, kinda fakely, but the lemur took it as a win nonetheless.

Tangle the Victorious. Damn it, she’ll just stick with Vigilante. If it ain’t broke, don’t fix it. As Whisper ducked back into her van, Tangle took a clumsy step down the cobble stairwell. Left foot first, don’t fall now-

“Excuse me, Tangle the Lemur?”

Tangle lazily craned her neck towards the moon, meeting the voice in the middle. It wasn’t Whisper’s, too self-assured for it to be her. So, to her inebriated shock, she discovered it came from a sheep wearing a purple trench coat. She supported herself with a cane, familiarly stiff. Like a higher up… because she was higher up.

Giggling at her pun, Tangle took in the figure behind her… leading some reflux to erupt in her throat.

The green tenrec officer, with her fangs barred and hackles raised with electrical intensity. The police hunted Tangle down.

Before her instincts told her to run, sudden recognition flushed Tangle out - the sheep’s identity swiftly returning to her.

“Holy- Lanolin?!”

The sheep, long lost Lanolin, nodded and held her cane close to her pelvis. Bashfully apprehensive or preparedly shrewd?

“Hello Tangle.” She stated, with some sadness but mostly stone cold. “You’re under arrest.”

Chapter Text

Tonight, the ‘inconspicuous unmarked station wagon (trademark pending)’ wasn’t living up to its namesake. Surge supercharged it with the premium gas, allowing the machine to unfurl its hidden wings and barrel down the highway at Gaia only knows how fast. Lanolin spent the entire journey squeezed by the g-force, praying for no speed cameras, no errant officers, no sudden obstructions. Not because she’d find herself in serious trouble, being a detective flaunting the rules so flagrantly and all, but rather any interruption would fling an innocent Kit into further peril. Nothing was more important than intercepting these kidnappers.

The abductors were kind enough to provide an address, no doubt so they can float their ransom in a controlled environment. Lanolin knew the tactics, understood the tricks. Surge described the voice on the other end as ‘insultingly chirpy’, like a ‘bimbo stumbled into terrorism’. It left the tenrec foaming at the teeth; nudging Lanolin into becoming the reluctant back up. Surge’s negotiator, because she, in this heightened state of blistering rage and terror, couldn’t form coherent sentences. Lots of swear words, mind, but not a lot of sense.

They didn’t tell the Chaotix. True altruists, the family would drop everything to help, and Lanolin didn’t want them dragged into their mess. It wasn’t fair on them, and she wasn’t putting anyone else in harm’s way – Protect and Serve: that was her oath. This promise included Cream, who was more than happy to stay over at her parent’s. She’d rope her in later, if at all. The bunny was not equipped to handle a hostage situation. She’d probably try and bake cookies as some naive attempt at an exchange.

Eventually, they pulled into the coordinates: a bombed-out warehouse, seemingly abandoned – if not for the loose flames licking the outskirts of the trees. Debris cluttered the dirt and gravel, still singing with heat. At the hanger doors, there resided a slap-dash checkpoint consisting of a swordfish and a stingray (who held a bayoneted rifle, living up to his species), both standing upon their arrival. Now, Lanolin didn’t want to cast aspersions, but it rapidly became obvious who they were dealing with. Just an ‘aquatic gang’, these guys were not.

“I’m gonna kill them.” Surge seethed. The steering wheel’s rubber had melted into slop, where her gloved hands gripped it.

“No. You’re not. You’re going to keep calm, and we’re going to get Kit out of there.” Lanolin gently chided, placing a hand on the tenrec’s back. She was garbage at comforting people, and even now, static prickled her fingertips. “Let me do the talking.”

The sheep approached first, staring daggers into the swordfish. He had a splint lining his snout, wrapped in bandages. Regardless of how damaged he appeared; he strolled with the confidence of an experienced mafioso. Through crusty wraps, he sniffed.

“Arms up. Any weapons?”

“No weapons.” She’d keep schtum about the fact that Surge practically was one herself. Press the advantage, even despite the criminals already knowing the tenrec’s powers; construction site punch up withstanding.

“I see a spark of lightning, the boy bites it. Agreed?” The swordfish ordered, feeling Lanolin’s wool for any concealed tools. Maggie had become a house-wisp, so she guessed he wouldn’t have his hand bitten off for disturbing her sleep. Small mercies for a man who absolutely deserved it. All the while, Surge burned with palpable fury, but nary a fizzle of electricity flickered across her being. She was holding back so, so, hard and the sheep was so, so proud of her.

“We’ll do whatever you need us to. Just leave Kit out of it.” Lanolin replied as serenely as the circumstances allowed. The jerking of the swordfish’s nose pointed them into the dilapidated building.

“So long as we have an understanding. Go on in. And show respect.”

Surge snarled quietly as they passed the guards. “Bite me, you son of a bitch.”

Lanolin squeezed the tenrec’s arm, whilst they moved through the threshold. Anything, anything, to keep her on the straight and narrow. Up above them, a craterous maw, lined with teeth of girders and sharp, twisted metal, swallowed the ceiling whole. Moonlight shone through the gap, exposing the duo in a celestial spotlight. Around them, broken stock cases, upturned forklifts, shards of glass. Post-apocalyptic. What could’ve possibly…?

“Take it in, ladies. For this is what I’ve called you here to solve.” A nautilus emerged from the muck of darkness, flanked by two jellyfish, one a bright white and one a smooth magenta. He was more muscular than his slender compatriots, and his humourless gaze chilled Lanolin to her very core. Especially paired with that crude smirk. Masquerading life, but dead inside.

“Don Nacci Mariana. Save the intro, I already know who you are.” He pointed at Surge with a gnarled, shingled index. Next, his pupils swatted over Lanolin’s figure. “But you? You, I don’t.”

“Detective Lanolin. CCPD.” Full credentials, full title. Don’t mess with the sheep!

…Please?

Nacci acknowledged her with an unimpressed tut and gestured to his gelatinous friends. “Lume.” The white jelly nodded stoically. “Gloome.” The magenta jelly beamed a sweet smile, waving with her entire body.

“Alright, jackasses.” Surge snapped, stomping a foot forward, interrogatively. “We’ve broken the ice. Where the hell is Kit?”

Immediately, Lume and Gloome’s tentacles spread out in defence. White dots brightened with a stark glow, whilst purple tendrils dripped with a slick mucus.

“Careful, officer.” Nacci scolded in icy jest. “These beauties are my bodyguards for a reason. Lume can blind you with bioluminescence, scorching your retinas to dust. And my lovely Gloome can…”

“My venom is anaesthetic!” Gloome giddily threatened, cutting across her boss and twirling her whip-like cirrus like a skipping rope. “I can put you to sleep with one tickle! No sweat!”

Lanolin restrained a twitch of disgust. Why so peppy? You kidnapped a child! She fanned her palms down to de-escalate the stand-off, and pushed Surge behind her. The twin jellyfish didn’t budge. That’s fine. Lanolin had negotiated under harsher conditions.

“With any luck, circumstances won’t turn ugly.” Her practiced speech was stable. Training told her to appear approachable, friendly even, and she hoped this nautilus would reciprocate. “We’ll begin with what you need, and then we’ll counter. I’m not leaving until we’ve come to some sort of an agreement, and Kit is back with us. What say you?”

Barely, Nacci squinted at her, grinding his teeth together. His cold grin stayed a rictus, chuckling out a sinister noise; paradoxically laced with gravel and treacle. 

“You’re entering this with the wrong mind-set, detective. I’m not here to strike a deal, this isn’t a negotiation.” He insultingly quirked an eyebrow… enjoying his honeyed words. 

“Rather, you are mine. You will do what I so command thee to do, and you will commit to it with grace and decorum. I say jump, you say ‘which bridge?’. I say heel, you bow your head to grovel. I say kill, you make a fist, and you pummel until there is nothing but a red smear left on the pavement.”

Throughout the speech, Lanolin could sense Surge vibrating. The air was thick with static energy, sweltering heat radiating off the tenrec. Her powers were pounding at the gates, begging to be let out and reduce the villain to the red smear he so desperately craved. Again, the sheep found herself rubbing the small of Surge’s back, in equal measure trying to sedate the waiting beast and support a colleague in the claws of extreme agony. Upsettingly, it looked like Surge’s cybernetics were tearing her apart from the inside.

Nacci, observant, slid behind Gloome, placing his hands on her shoulders and creating a buffer between him and certain death. If the purple jellyfish had any qualms, she didn’t make them known. The nautilus, now safe, continued his pitch.

“I bet you’re weighing up the options. Considering whether or not you can tear through my girls, kill me, and still make it back to Seaside for dessert?” Lanolin felt an uneasy wave wash over her… he knew? Even Surge, ever so briefly, ceased her growling.

The nautilus shook his head, sickly tentacle dreadlocks spinning out to slice the air, victorious. “Negative. That won’t happen. Because if such a silly notion crosses your brains for but a second, make no mistake…” His shell slipped down over his eyes, hiding their cruelty in favour of shadows and a glinting tooth. “I will have your precious fennec dissected. Hoyt, care to demonstrate?”

He pointed up, up towards the gigantic hole. Lanolin stared at the opening, watching as a sandy horseshoe crab approached the rim’s ragged edge. He dragged a lanky splash of blue. To Lanolin’s horror, it was Kit. Ears yanked back, mouth gagged, and neck exposed to a sleek blade threatening to slit his throat, but undeniably him. The teenaged fox looked terrified, but couldn’t wriggle out of the clasp of the bandana arthropod.

Surge’s choked sob of distress heralded the end of her self-control, leaping forward. Lanolin barely snagged her top-knot and heaved her back to their side of the room. 

“No, Lanolin, please! We can take ‘em!” The desperate wailing stabbed the sheep’s heart. Surge was someone who stood so strong. A pain in Lanolin’s ass, a constant barrier to tranquility, a ticking time-bomb in many regards. Never did she believe she’d ever see her partner devolve into panicked bawling, biting and tearing at her hand in a futile effort to escape.

“Eh. A tad overdramatic of me, I’ll concede.” Nacci hummed, lavishing in the scene he’d orchestrated. It went beyond apathy, or sociopathy. The nautilus was revelling in the misery. “But when life gives you lemons: embellish.”

Mustering all the strength she could manage and pushing past the intense burn crackling out of her knee, Lanolin hoisted Surge away, dumping the tenrec on the floor. Before she had the chance to stand back up again, the sheep pressed the tip of her cane into her partner’s chest, forcing her to stay put.

“Okay. Okay. Threat heard loud and clear.” Lanolin whispered, scarcely raising her voice in case that counted as a move against the nautilus. “What are the terms?”

“Don’t agree Lanolin! You stupid bi-” Surge cried out, before the cane thrusted her back to the floor. Lanolin studied Kit, high on the roof. He ended his struggle against the horseshoe crab, and instead he appeared… resigned. Wind whipped at his loose hair, where his gripped ears couldn’t. Priority number one was to get that sword off his neck; no matter what. Nacci was thrilled to oblige.

“Us gangsters, we love ourselves a ‘snatch and ransom’. There is an art to it; for what is art other than the means of sending a message? I wanted Ms. Surge to walk away. Who needs electric shenanigans added to their daily cocktail of complications.” He readjusted his tie with a cocksure smirk.

“However, plans change. I’ve lost a big chunk of my empire thanks to that hole in the ceiling, and concurrently, some of my newer endeavours have stalled. Pivotal moments, I say, require a pivot. So, I’ll use your expertise instead.”

All-powerful, Nacci clapped his hands to klaxon off his demands. “Three targets. A worrisome vigilante who stole my product. Tangle the Lemur.”

An errant vein throbbed in the sheep’s temple. Tangle, oh Tangle. She only just received the lead, and it’d already unraveled spectacularly.

Lanolin didn’t let her own anger show… but it was so typical of Tangle, stirring up trouble. Of course she’d be connected to this case, of course the mob wanted her head on a pike. It dredged no shock in the sheep.

“Target two?” She inquired, wrestling to keep Surge pinned.

“The casing of specialised explosives that she pilfered. I need that back, no excuses.”

Explosives?! Tangle and her reckless behaviour always caused her no-end of headaches… This wasn’t an exception. Nacci held up three fingers, punctuating his final point.

“Last, but by no means least: Harbinger. Whisper the Wolf. This assassin alone is responsible for the destruction of one of my most valuable depots. If you’re yearning for further motivation, have a gander around you. She’s an utter traitor, through and through; retribution can only manifest with a bullet to her skull.”

Lanolin’s knee twinged at the unexpected mention of Whisper. Any association that arose from that name was accompanied by feelings of disgust. If the walls could talk, they’d repeat the many verbal lashings that she’d admonished onto her very own treacherous Diamond Cutter. Admittedly, she’d read reports on the mysterious Harbinger, and long deduced it to be the wolf, but she never pursued it. Why would she? Seeking revenge for her knee, or retribution for the events that eventually destroyed the Restoration, was pointless. It saved no-one. Pragmatism always won out.

But now she couldn’t afford to be pragmatic. And it appeared as if Whisper couldn’t help but backstab every person she came across, even if it was a scumbag mob-boss and his criminal ilk.

Those two. Tangle and Whisper. What are the odds? Ten years, and she still couldn’t escape their combined idiocy and disregard. Now she, Surge, and especially Kit were paying for it.

Whisper was a thorough and bonafide villain, there’d be no guilt in handing her over to Nacci. Tangle… Tangle gave her some pause. No doubt her intentions were noble; Tangle wasn’t a bad person, just careless. Could Lanolin disgrace her station, and carry out the whims of this evil mollusc?

One look at the fear on Kit’s face solidified her resolve. She’d have to feed Tangle to the dogs. The lemur bounded her way into vigilantism with both eyes open. Kit did not. 

Lanolin’s breathing slowed to a crawl, the momentousness of her decision seemingly generating its own gravitational pull. Time zeroed in past the jellyfish, past Surge, past Kit and the sword, and squarely on Nacci.

The wrinkled smirk, the unbothered slouch. His sugary smooth vocals. Hate. Hatred, for when he spoke. “Bring them to me alive, and I promise no more harm will befall dearest Kit.” 

He glanced off, before hiding another chuckle. Lanolin, a herbivore, felt capable of ripping his artery out with her teeth; that’s how much of this hatred swirled within her. A feeling she hadn’t been afflicted so heavily by since Eggman.

“Well.” Nacci finished. “No more harm other than what’s already befallen him.”

Surge bit at the air, but Lanolin overpowered her. The sheep couldn’t tell if it was defeat ravaging the tenrec’s body, or if she herself was projecting her own detestment of the nautilus onto her partner instead. Too much was happening to be sure.

“Do we have a deal?” Nacci said snidely, creeping past the bell of Gloome’s head to tower over the proceedings.

Creakingly, Lanolin met the dark eyes of the nautilus. Not many notions raced through her head, save another vow. He’d get his, she swore, he would get his if it was the last thing she did.

But without any more cards to play, the detective simply nodded her head. Agreed, signed, subjugated.

Instantly, above them, the blade was withdrawn from Kit’s throat. A sigh of relief was unavoidable for Lanolin but tempered by him being dragged away from the lip of the crater, disappearing into captivity once again.

“Thank you, detective. We’ll be in touch.”

Before either Lanolin or Surge understood what came next, Lume outstretched her palm, fingertips buzzing with light. Gloome, meanwhile, waggled her jazz hands inspididly. Bye, bye! A ditzy, brain-dead beam contrasted by reserved determination.

“Say cheese.” Lume muttered, completely without humour. Then, an all-encompassing flash, followed by the tendrils of sleep chauffeuring Lanolin off the conscious plane.

They’d awoken inside their station wagon, unharmed and unhindered. Lanolin could’ve sat and ruminated over what the exact purpose of knocking them out was, when truthfully it was gangsters doing as gangsters do. Unmitigated power plays, designed to make you feel small.

Nacci wasn’t missing a trick. Lanolin felt tiny.

The task that lay ahead wouldn’t be straightforward. Pinning down Tangle was like trying to catch a bar of soap - she would just slide out of grasp. And Whisper? Whisper, already predisposed to drifting, could be anywhere. Lanolin’s jurisdiction went only as far as Central City, so she’d have to start there… and if the harvest yielded no fruit? Favours would have to be called, as well as prayers that no-one questioned why.

Surge was as silent as a nunnery, a far a cry from the tenrec’s typical antics. Especially since you’d be hard pressed not to describe the tenrec as ‘godless’. But the drive-back was quiet, the locker room stop peaceful, and even as Lanolin parsed through the precinct’s address book, Surge remained mum. Apart from ‘okays’ and ‘mhms’, Lanolin couldn’t be one hundred percent sure that the cyborg hadn’t fried her innards from the stress. She stared and stared, the sole remnant of any distress being a slightly ruffled brow.

Lanolin couldn’t worry about Surge, not when hostile reality demanded attending to. Her rummaging through the registry was an opening salvo. The sheep flicked half-heartedly, expecting that neither Tangle nor Whisper would set roots down in Central City. Even so, it couldn’t hurt to peep. Failing that, there was Spiral Hill as another location to scout. She’d have to put in a request to their local law enforcement, maybe cite it as part of her ongoing vigilante investigation and…

There she was. Clear as day.

Tangle the Lemur, 3533 Prezzel Street.

To suggest it was good luck, in light of the current proceedings, would be a ridiculous assumption… but heck, Lanolin would take it.

“I’ve found Tangle’s address.” She scrawled it down in her notepad, pushing aside the uneasy feeling of inching closer to condemning someone. Kit, do it for Kit. “Let’s go and get this over with-”

“How does that boot taste?” Surge spoke a full sentence, and it was one that caught Lanolin completely off-guard.

“I’m sorry?”

“I could’ve beaten him. Two girls and a gimp. He would’ve had to blink… but you gave him exactly what he wanted.”

“Let me stop you right there.” Lanolin groused, striding up to stand over Surge, who remained immobile and despondent. “Did you see that knife on Kit’s neck? Do you think it was for show? I saved his life!”

“Cool.” The distance didn’t hamper Surge’s sarcasm. “So I guess that’s that; we’re a mob boss’s toy. Crooked cops on a mission.”

Lanolin hissed at that last description, because it wasn’t true. “Get the hell off your high horse, Surge. You know it was the only possible way to keep Kit alive. And don’t act like you’re suddenly on the side of law and order. As if you could care any less about morality - you’re just pissed off that I denied you a fight.”

Surge straightened up to look Lanolin dead in the eye. “Yeah, I’m pissed that you let that jumped up asshole strong-arm me. There were other options, we didn’t have to play their game, but you were too scared of the possibility-”

“Please. I’m positive you’d switch your tune if your surrogate brother had his throat slit. I’m not sacrificing your loved one on the off-chance you might sneak in a left-hook. It was untenable, you ungrateful imbecile.”

“Oh, but you’re willing to sacrifice Tangle?” Surge snapped. The accusation hung in the air, suffocating Lanolin with the implications of her decision. Surge pounced on the opportunity. “You were friends. You told me you were friends. Makes me wonder if Lanolin, incorruptible cop, would let me die for the sake of appeasing a criminal.”

Lanolin scoffed. Apples and oranges. “That entirely depends. Would you switch your place for Kit’s?”

The tenrec didn’t respond, folding her arms defiantly. Would you?

Lanolin shirked the responsibility, shoving the car keys into Surge’s shaky hand. Her sigh was heavy, unwilling to admit that her partner understood her better than initially thought.

“Are we doing this, or not?”

“Hello Tangle.” Lanolin gripped her cane, bracing herself to shatter the sparkle of nostalgic recognition that glowed out of Tangle’s being. It took Lanolin a moment for her own image of the lemur to catch up with the drunken, dishevelled hobo swaying before her dirty house in a ditch. No pep, no bounce, no giddy hug. Jury’s out whether that made what came next any easier to swallow. “You’re under arrest.”

Tangle shifted herself to the side, her tail knotting and thrashing behind her. “I’m doing fine, thanks for asking. Under arrest for what exactly?”

She wasn’t slurring her words. Seems like Lanolin exuded a sobering forcefield, and through the haze, the sheep noticed that Tangle was hurt. True, it’d probably sting a bit to meet an old comrade, only to be detained by them.

“Six counts of assault, six counts of grievous bodily harm, four counts of destruction of property, five counts of trespassing.” Lanolin rattled off the rap-sheet without any pomp, catching Tangle rolling her eyes.

“‘Course you managed to stick trespassing in there. I should’ve known you’d become a cop, Lan. Bet you make out with the code of conduct so your Saturdays are less lonely.”

Tch. There’s that smart-ass mouth. Lanolin fished in her pockets and brought out the cuffs, setting them in Surge’s hand.

“Restrain the tail. It’s wily.”

“Affirmative.” Surge dully responded. Her battery must’ve disconnected from her body, thanks to the stress, slovenly pacing her way over to block Tangle’s escape, sans her traditional crackling sneer. The lemur, effectively boxed in, resorted to the last tool in her annoying kit. Her mouth.

“Oh, hey.” She gestured at Surge. “You were at Westward Construction! Robo-cop!” Disorientated, she jerked her tail in Lanolin’s direction. “What are you doing chasing me down? Heck, lemmie point you towards some actual baddies. I pay my taxes, don’t waste them on me.”

Surge hesitated, glancing at her partner as if to say ‘Huh?’. Lanolin couldn’t leave any gap for Tangle to exploit, so she jumped in.

“You broke the law. The reason why is irrelevant.” Her scathing rebuke was as much one against herself, the detective trying to uncover any justification for this particular crusade. Kit. The justification was Kit. “What’s more, why don’t you leave the teenagers out of your illegal campaigns. How dare you make Charmy complicit.”

Tangle’s babbling tapered out, disappointed. She shook her head, cursing quietly. “Damn it, kid…”

“Surge, arrest her.”

“Aw, c’mon Lan! Is this any way to treat a friend?” Ooo, emotional manipulation. Big up to Tangle, she’d matured into a utilitarian at last. Too bad Lanolin was already compromised.

“I’m not your friend.” Lanolin spat. Tangle clammed up, sidling away from the heavy stomps of an electrified tenrec’s boots. It scalded like venom to burn the bridge, so Lanolin began the Miranda Rights to lend some legitimacy to the charade, despite the numbness of her lips. 

“You have the right to remain silent, anything you say can and will be used against you in a court of law. You have the right to a lawyer for advice before we ask you-”

“Hands up.”

Lanolin’s wool wobbled as she snapped her head towards the silken, tinny demand. That tone was etched into her memory, the sound of…

Whisper, the masked-up reaper, holding a compact submachine gun. The safety was off.

“Holy crap. Whisper, no!” Tangle gasped, her arrest grinding to a halt. The verbal slip rocked Lanolin’s world… bubbling fury replacing sorrow.

“You’re working together?” Lanolin stuttered in disbelief. “After… after…”

It shouldn’t feel like a betrayal. Gaia knows Lanolin was betraying herself… but Tangle, past the tears, past the hurt, succumbed to that wolf again?!

“I reiterate. Hands up.” Whisper repeated herself, in the same soulless cadence that once ravaged Lanolin’s body. The detective’s knee pounded with pain; the memory of scorching cyan shots, that seared the joint and melted her bones, creeped out of the throb. Surge, in tune, registered the sheep’s rising temper, appearing almost nervous. As she should be. Concrete ruptured from the pressure of the cane.

“You’re with her?” Lanolin quivered, wrestling her desire to yell until her throat was hoarse. In spite of herself, she directed her ire back towards Tangle… giving her one chance to retract, to side against the woman who’d wounded her so. 

Tangle spent a moment in consideration, before nodding once, decisively.

That was it. That was the last straw. Her patience crumbled.

“After EVERYTHING? My knee. The infirmary!” She screamed, clenching and tugging at her wool. Grammar failed her, coaxing a pure stream of pent-up energy to spill out. “I can’t walk because of her. She ruined everything, Tangle! She killed… she murdered-” Lanolin couldn’t say his name; the guilt was too overwhelming. “And you’re… I vouched for you - and this is… this is how you repay me?”

“Hey Flufflump, I can’t believe I’m saying this, but you need to take a chill pill.” It was Surge, leaving Tangle unattended, shyly approaching the convulsing sheep. The illusion of cool as a cucumber Lanolin melted before her and she didn’t have the means to combat it. Her attempt to mediate earnestly stumbled when-

“Don’t move. So help me, I will finish you both.” Whisper, somewhat shakily, barked out. Surge stopped dead in her tracks. Her gums peeled back to growl, but that was as far as she pushed.

Lanolin swirled about in her own vortex. So much emotion crashed over her, that trickles of salty liquid emerged from the white wool. Beyond the misery, it was just so hilarious, Lanolin heaving out a tortured, insane laugh. 

“It makes so much sense! Screw me, right? Tangle loves to kiss her black hearted stain of a partner- who cares if she is the Harbinger, who cares if she destroyed everything I held dear, so long as Tangle has her girlfriend-”

“That is not what is happening!” Tangle vaulted her iron grating to latch onto Lanolin’s shoulders, shaking her silly. “Sakes, as if! I haven’t forgiven her for what she did, Lanolin. I promise. We’re working together to take down the Mariana Mafia! If that somehow means I’ve let bygones be bygones, then Hell, guess I’m a softie. We’re only giving criminals their retribution. That’s as far as it goes.”

“Screw you, Tangle.” Lanolin coughed. “There’s a criminal behind you, and she is overdue her retribution.”

Tangle’s face spelt devastation, as her steel-vice grip lessened. She bit her tongue, pupils shifting from focus to focus, flitting and fluttering in shame and panic. “You don’t know the full story.”

“I do, Tangle. I live it every day.”

“Tangle.” Whisper’s voice serrated through the drama, while the wolf herself kept her aim true and steady. “Go into your flat. Pick up the casing. Put it in my van.” Her orders were to the point, and with a small amount of doubt, Tangle followed, leaping back down into her apartment.

“Officer… Lanolin.” Whisper began, the sheep sensing regret. “She’s telling the truth.”

“I couldn’t give a flying f-” Lanolin stopped herself short of swearing. Her mother beat that out of her, despite Whisper earning every cuss in the dictionary, and then some. “You’re the liar. You lie.”

“I’m sorry. For it all.” The wolf murmured, her ears flattening against her head. “It never should’ve happened.”

“There it is again. Lies. Chaos, they never end! How do you do it?! You might be able to wrap your mushy lemur around your finger, but I’m stronger. Consequences of your parting gift.” Lanolin seethed back. Surge, stranded in the middle, had no clue what to do. Whisper’s gunpoint was too strong a check to manoeuvre out of. “If you’re really sorry, turn yourself in.”

“Can’t do that.”

“Because you’re a coward.” 

Whisper didn’t argue.

Tangle eventually emerged, dashing to put the casing… Nacci’s casing, in the back of the van. A stark reminder as to why Lanolin was here, but she didn’t care. He was correct. Utter traitors, through and through.

“Tangle.” Whisper started again. “Back pocket, my keys. Turn on the ignition.”

“Whisper, we can’t leave it like-

“Don’t argue. There’s time for that later.”

With great effort, the lemur snatched the keys from Whisper, and clambered into the cabin. The engine kick-started to life. Quivering at the wheel, Tangle appeared to be in the throes of sickness.

“We’re taking our leave now.” Whisper contained a sense of finality about her. “Don’t follow us. You’ll see what we’re trying to do, in time.” Her SMG stayed upright as she hopped up to hang off the window of the van. True to history, her aim was impeccable. Lanolin didn’t interfere, having long caught onto what the plan was. Whisper slapped the black door. Go, go, go.

Tangle winced, and pressed pedal to the metal, wheels screeching, dust billowing as the van skirted out of the alleyway and onto the main street.

Surge jogged up behind her, confused. “What the hell is happening?”

They were getting away, that was what was happening. Lanolin pulled her partner in by the collar. “If they escape, Kit’s a dead man. I’m not letting that happen.”

Sparks sizzled and popped as Surge digested the full picture. Nacci had them over a barrel, and debating past and present didn’t aid in alleviating their ailment. Lanolin didn’t exactly enjoy stoking the flames of her partner, but upon seeing those cyan irises light up with determination, she had to admit. How fortunate that Surge was on her side. With a vainglorious snarl, the big sister cop prepared herself, folding into a runner’s pose… and BANG. She was gone in pursuit.

Lanolin took a moment for herself, wiping tears from her cheeks. What came over her? She never lost control of her temper, never. How she felt was always invalid, unimportant. No time to cry when there were criminals to catch, and a friend to save.

And a mob boss to satisfy… Did that make her any better than the damn dog? As Lanolin limped as fast as she could to her own vehicle, she came to a very harrowing realisation.

For the first time in her career, the answer was unknowable.

Chapter Text

Whisper felt her van rev itself with a great wheeze, the machine ratcheting up the MPHs steadily. Fifty. Sixty. Seventy. Seventy Fiiiive. Ough, wince inducing. 

Tangle could tack on speeding to that bloated list of charges, though not without good reason. The wolf had done the maths during some of her more lonesome nights, and the concurrent life sentences that awaited her weren’t exactly her ideal retirement. Of course, she likened her existence to a prison cell, but the assassin preferred to keep it metaphorical. She was repentant, not stupid.

Wind whipped at her ponytail; her claws dug into the mirrors whilst her feet held onto about a couple of inches of grip. The step wasn’t a steady purchase, so it was on Tangle to not swerve her into oncoming traffic. Cars honked and skidded away from the biscotti hanging obstruction as the driver careened them down the slip, transitioning over to the Central City ring road. Through her left ear, Whisper heard the comically drawn out ‘brrrr’ of a window sliding down, revealing the panicked lemur behind the wheel.

“Is all you know escalation, Whisper?” Tangle gasped, switching view from the carriageway ahead of her, and the blow-dried form of the wolf beside her. “You’ve just made us public enemy numbers one and two! We’re interchangeably screwed!”

“Was it escalation, or saving your rear for old times sake?” Whisper shouted over the breeze. With a one-handed click, she spun the safety back onto her submachine gun, sliding it back onto her chest holster. “Keep her steady, I’m coming in.”

Coming in? Maybe more so elegantly slapping her stomach over the window’s threshold, her legs kicking out behind her. She wasn’t even halfway in when her ears pricked to a distant crackling; like the rushing of a waterfall, but singed on the edges. Abandoning her swan dive into the passenger seat, Whisper threw her neck out to check behind her, and she didn’t like what she saw.

Blinking between the vehicles burned a comet of cyan light, barrelling towards them with violent intent. The woman centring the billowing ball brought to mind uncomfortable recollections for Whisper, reminding her of the one time she was soundly thrashed, her wispon shattered, and her pride wounded. She knew that officer was familiar!

“F’course, f’course.” Whisper muttered, as she undid her safety once again. No rest for the wicked.

“Uh- Guh! What is that?” Tangle called out, spinning the wheel to avoid an elderly driver.

“Do you recall that one tenrec who beat the living hell out of me and stole the wisps?”

“The electric one, right?” There it was, the rising dread, terrified reminiscence.

“Well. She’s chasing us.”

Tangle slammed her head into the horn, the muffled scream mixing in with the honk. Some commuters took the hint and changed lanes. The flaring dot jumped and darted closer and closer; dashing on top of roofs, underneath trucks – recklessly switching from the outer line to the hard shoulder. Whisper squinted down her sights, letting her mask do the calculations for her. She could take the time to aim on her lonesome, but a moving, voltaic target was… tricky, even for her.

“Whisper.” Tangle sharply interjected, shattering the sniper’s concentration. “Don’t you dare.”

Blinking once, Whisper weighed up her options… and no, she couldn’t find a scenario where this officer wasn’t due to be riddled with bullets. Did the lemur want to stop the Marianas, or not? Supermax prisons didn’t tend to be an appropriate launchpad for mafioso takedowns.

Decision made, she inhaled through her teeth. Sorry, Tangle. 

“Just focus on the road.”

The first burst of gunfire ricocheted off the cement and dredged up sparks. The tenrec dodged readily, continuing her rush. Whisper could make out her expression now. Sharp fangs bared, eyes bloodshot, fists pumping with each momentous stride. The maniac was gaining on them.

Rather than question the series of events that led to this insane psycho joining the police force, Whisper sucked in a breath. Her hand steadied and the crosshair marked its target, hovering around the tenrec’s chest.

BRRRACK. She squeezed the trigger, a bloom of gunfire bucking her arm out. This time, they hit with a vengeance, the officer peeling backwards from the impact. Tumbling and rolling over herself, the electric aura dissipated as the green officer ragdolled into the horizon, before fading out of view.

“Oh Gaia, oh Gaia. Did you- Whisper, what did you-”

“BUS, TANGLE!” The wolf yelled, proning herself flat against the van as a double-decker whizzed past her snout. She briefly smelt the cigarette smoke, and grimy, gum-ridden seats. Once clear of the publicly funded threat, Whisper took a moment to recombobulate herself. “Where are we heading?”

“I’ve got a general idea. Provided we don’t die; six more exits.” Tangle stuttered, sliding over to left then back to right. Whisper sighed; okay, good. She had a destination in mind. There’s nothing worse than fleeing for the sake of fleeing. Inevitably you’d run into a dead-end.

Suddenly, a blue rush sprung up from underneath the road-side, landing on the top of the van with a thud. Whisper spun herself around, and above her, haloed by the street lamps, was a sneering tenrec, standing tall; completely unimpeded by the turbulence.

“Officer Surge, nice to meet ya! Can’t say being shot in the tits is a pleasant way to say hello, but y’know what? You’re speaking my language anyway!” She smirked, her grin assured and confident. Seconds mattered to a monumental degree, Whisper falling back into her quick analysis. Electric powers, extra spikes… oily, neon liquid dripping from the peppering she’d been delivered just moments before. To the wolf’s shock, the bullet holes began to seal themselves, vivid lime fur replacing the wounds like a spider’s web.

Healing factor. Duly noted.

Despite the odds swinging dangerously into the opposite direction, it did allow Whisper a modicum of flexibility. Caring not for proper recoil control, she swept her SMG around, a whip of bullets impacting Surge and prompting her to stumble… but only minutely, the smoking black remnants of Whisper’s attack hissed off the tenrec’s forearm. She’d body-blocked the assault! Obviously, it must’ve  tickled her, since she let out a light-hearted snicker. 

“Ah man, Whisper! You ain’t livin’ up to the legend, mon cheri.”

A gloved hand seized the scruff of Whisper’s camouflage attire, Surge hauling her up onto the top with a heaving shriek. The wolf smacked onto the metallic grating, crumpling the surface with the blunt end of her muzzle. The innards of her mouth rang like they’d been struck by a gong, her vision beginning to double over. She tasted tangy iron on her tongue. The weight of the tenrec pressed down on her, as the tell-tale flicker of an incoming electric shock eked into the corner of her view. Snarling with effort, Whisper’s fingers closed around her loose SMG, blindly firing the magazine into the general direction of the threat, until it went clack, clack, clack.

Without checking to discover if her desperate spray succeeded, Whisper swivelled an unrestrained leg into a side kick, connecting with soft flesh, and then hard titanium. Ow. Upon reorientation, the canine came to realise that the combo yielded absolute bupkis. Instead, she watched as Surge’s skin closed the third array of nicks and scrapes, whilst her free hand grabbed at Whisper’s flailing knee. With a yank and a twist, the hitwoman was pinned.

Surge’s toothy smile briefly faltered. “That was a hella awkward reunion; you and Stressball. Look, I ain’t got the beef that she has, but if that was… uh…” She scratched her chin, Whisper sensed the clockwork in her brain tick-tocking away. “Y’know, remorse? Maybe start by dropping the weapon, and surrendering peacefully? You’d be doing me a massive solid. Which, by the by; an offer like that coming from me?! Damn, I’d take it!”

The tenrec’s fist dangled in mid-air, sprinkling light like a broken fuse, waiting for the wolf’s answer. Whisper’s lower eyelid twitched. Awful chummy, for someone who could snap her leg like a twig. Not to mention, Surge didn’t even remember their original Central City scuffle! That alone made Whisper want to settle the score. The 0-1 hung over her head as a professional embarrassment, and the wisps deserved some payback in turn too.

So, as a resounding no, she pistol-whipped the officer with the butt of her SMG. Surge recoiled, and a flash of offence appeared for a split second. Then, the grin creeped back with a shrug. “Alright. This works for me too.”

The waiting knuckle sandwich crashed down onto Whisper’s nose with a nasty crunch, followed through by a jolting locus of pain spreading across her body. Wracked by defibrillator punches, Whisper’s heart skipped and jumped with each palpitating pulse. Surge charged up for a second pummelling, and there wasn't much the wolf could do but brace for the hurt.

Even so, Whisper felt herself jerk over to the side. Not by her own volition either, Surge had been forced to release her hold in order to steady herself too. Lurching all over the shop, Whisper discovered the van was drunkardly swinging from side to side - unable to keep a straight line. Moments later, a stripy, grey blur burst out of the blue like a hydra, latching onto Surge’s primed wrist and tugging the tenrec back into a time-out. No wonder the steering devolved into chaos; the humorous image of Tangle, squatting in a cyclist’s stance, manoeuvring her tail whilst wrestling with the wheel, flashed in Whisper’s mind. Tangle couldn’t concentrate on one thing, let alone two. A multi-tasker, she was not.

However, it seemed neither was Surge. Her attention switched from smacking Whisper till her nostrils swelled shut, to trying to rip the restraining, fluffy, cuff off her arm. Here came Tangle, settling up on covering each other’s butts. Whisper understood it was her turn to pounce. Maintaining a careful balance, she rose, smearing the dripping fluid from behind her misaligned mask. Then, she drew her knife.

Surge had figured out that tails conduct electricity, sending a thrilling shock down the appendage. A desperate yelp emerged from the cock-pit, before the van hurled itself into the protective barrier with a tremendous SCREECH. Miles of steel grating scraped past Whisper’s, a lethal cutting edge similar to the one she clasped in her mitts. Her opponent face planted into the chainlink, re-emerging with criss-cross cuts across her muzzle. The moment was nigh, as Whisper sprung onto the cyborg.

Immediately, she stabbed her knife into Surge’s chest, pushing until she felt the tip scrape against something solid. The tenrec retorted by sucker-punching Whisper with a right hook, liberating her of her mask, before merging the swing into a head-butt that sent the wolf flying. Whisper barely managed to hold onto the roof’s surface, claws scratching for survival. Surge glanced down at her torso to discover a combat blade sticking out. The van centred up again, leaving her space to get back to her feet. Meanwhile, Whisper scrambled to recover her advantage.

A siren blared, a red and blue light strobing in pursuit. Lanolin had managed to catch up to them, having placed a police LED onto the roof of a four-by-four station wagon. She snatched a microphone from her scanner.

“Pull over the vehicle!” Her voice echoed across the motorway.

The van lurched forward with a couple of extra horsepowers. Tangle wasn’t planning on giving in… so neither should Whisper.

Surge unsheathed the knife from her chest, the gaping gash already healing itself. Regardless, the tenrec cringed in pain: feet unsteady, off-kilter. Whisper tried a final salvo. Tucking her shoulder in, the wolf tackled Surge. It felt like ramming herself into a boulder, but the boulder gave; Surge stumbled backwards and over the windshield, disappearing from sight.

BUMP. BUMP.

Whisper twisted herself to see tenrec roadkill, flattened by tire rubber. Instantaneously, Lanolin slammed on her brakes to avoid getting her partner pancaked for a second time. Already, Surge quivered, rising up again as if it was nothing. No time to waste. Whisper hopped down the sunroof, and found herself sitting next to Tangle. The glass in front of them had a suspiciously cyborgian shaped crack denting the view.

“I just… ran her over!” Tangle cried out, pupils shaking in fear and panic. Poor Tangle; the lemur thought she killed Surge. Ruminating on the ethics of murder… when she should’ve been looking ahead at the big rig thundering towards them.

Whisper leapt over Tangle’s body to steer them to safety. The horn of the truck blasted past them. 

“She’s fine. She survived.” Whisper consoled her, ignoring how both their furs were sticky with sweat. Tangle refound her focus, but she still appeared shaken and stirred.

“How do… how do you know-”

The inquiry was cut off by their bodies being rocked by sudden inertia.

It was like the brakes had been applied, except Tangle’s foot was flat against the accelerator. The engine screamed out, clunking and spluttering, but with nowhere to go. Something, or rather someone, was tugging them back.

“That’s how I know.” Whisper rubbed her wounded forehead, as she’d skimped out of the airbags. “Don’t let up.” 

Without a moment to spare, the wolf ducked through the divider and into her living compartment. Before her, she could see the rear-doors bending around the indentation of a fist. BANG. BANG. Surge was breaking her way in, one punch at a time. Whisper almost had to admire the tenacity.

“YOU ARE NOT GETTING AWAY FROM ME!” The tenrec yelled from behind the barrier. Whisper slid her gun rack open. “I CAN’T LET YOU! EITHER I BRING YOU IN CLEAN, OR I BRING YOU IN RAW!” She’d dropped the friendly rival act after one too many setbacks - this was the Surge that Whisper was familiar with. Angry, cruel, spiteful; unable to accept defeat.

As Whisper selected her instrument of retribution, the tenrec finally broke through the metal, ripping the door away with a crazed growl. With only one hand, she was holding back the entire van from driving away. Her eyes sparked with a special kind of ire; emotional rage. Whisper had seen the expression on her own face many times.

In the distance, Lanolin could be seen speeding back into the fray, ready to catch them. There was no more time to buffer with, the wolf had to act now, or else. Whisper rolled a tooth over her lips, ignoring the blood that continued to seep down into her mouth. She had enough of the chase, the noise, and tensed herself up in preparation, for heavy in her hands was…

Surge’s fury melted into shock once she noticed the weapon that Whisper brandished up in her business. A semi-automatic shotgun, loaded with slugs.

“I win this time, tenrec.” Whisper sneered, sending her nemesis off with a two-fingered salute.

BANG!

Surge’s body creased back into itself as the bullet slammed into her chest. The cyborg, turned projectile’s, flight ended with her crashing directly atop Lanolin’s car, who was unable to dodge the danger this time around.

In turn, Whisper’s own van rocketed off as soon as Surge’s grip was released. The sheer momentum they’d built up almost sent Whisper out the back with them, but luckily, she hung on.

“WHOA!” Tangle shuddered in the front seat, their surroundings meshing together into a sludge of speed. “We’re on the move again! Does that mean…”

Whisper watched as the station wagon thudded into the side of the road. Surge remained cradled by the gnarled metal of the bonnet, out cold. Elsewhere, Lanolin stumbled out, blood pouring from her wool, staring off with a bleariness that could only signify a concussion.

“Correct.” Whisper pumped the shotgun, which spat out the spent cartridge with a victorious che-chunk. “We’re in the clear.”

The journey moving forward was much, much calmer. They’d left Central City behind, about an hour and a half ago, and instead the unlikely duo travelled along a woodsy road. Evergreen trees cuddled the night sky; small critters skittered in the undergrowth. It was nice and peaceful. It reminded Whisper of home. Not that she recalled much of her childhood, her parents died when she was a pup. They called a cosy cabin their abode, it, too, surrounded by pine-trees and shrubbery. Hunter, scavengers; Mom and Pop. Her earliest memory was of her mother, teaching her how to aim a rifle. The bottles lining the wall stood no chance against Lil’ Whisper the Wolf. She got every last one of them.

So lost in her memories of yesteryears, the canine didn’t even notice Tangle pull into a gas station.

“Runnin’ low.” The lemur muttered. “If I fill, can you pay? I’m not exactly swimming in moolah.” She added that last part with a bashful smile.

“Sure. As if I’m having you go out of pocket for my petrol, Tangle. I can afford it. I’ve got more money than I know what to do with.”

Tangle faltered for a moment, her eyes shifting off in shame. It occurred to Whisper that the murder and mayhem blood money might not sit well in the vigilante’s stomach. So, as she hopped out of the van, an idea popped into her head.

“Can I buy you a strawberry milkshake?” Whisper asked… awkward courtesy a given.

The lemur’s face glowed something tender, before it squeezed into a pout. “Depends if the strawberry milkshake is covered by a contract or not.”

“It is. But Régne the Kingsnake was a nasty piece of work. Don’t lose any sleep.”

As Whisper turned tail to pace into the shopfront, she managed to hear Tangle surprised “Holy moly, that was you?!” before the bell overpowered the revelation. The aisles were chock full of unhealthy treats, and tinny elevator music ‘ba-ba-bada’ed from a solitary speaker; the rotary fans adding to the percussion.

Before she liaised with the firefly manning the till (he looked one lullaby away from a Sandman’s slap), Whisper decided to pit stop in the toilet. It was suitably vile, as she expected, the rim stained with… she understood full-well what it was stained with, but she wasn’t interested in the biohazard lurking in the corner.

Wiping the grime off the mirror with her elbow, Whisper studied herself. A dried red crust caked her muzzle, stemming from Surge’s unrelenting rhinoplasty; the wolf was fortunate that her mask took most of the damage for her. Speaking of which, her mask was gone, most likely shattered on a strip of Central City tarmac. Somehow, she couldn’t bring herself to care. It was an ugly hunk of scrap anyway.

As she scrubbed away the aftermath of her brawl, Whisper found herself thinking… What was she doing, really? Picking a fight with the mafia, wrestling with the police. Lanolin’s accusation rang in her head. ‘If you really are sorry, turn yourself in’. She’d just spent so much energy, and whatever remaining goodwill she had with the sheep (read: nul), to escape capture, only to start ruminating over turning herself in! Silly, right?

The complexity came to be that… she was sorry. Genuinely, from the bottom of her heart, she was sorry. For every single death, every hit, regardless of if they deserved it or not - if she could pluck the bullet out of their body, and never fire it in the first place. She’d do it in a heartbeat.

Was that because she thought killing was wrong, or because she regretted what killing turned her into? Whisper struggled with absolutisms, and she happily branded herself a hypocrite. She didn’t even hesitate to attack Surge, despite Tangle’s protests. How committed was she, truly, to redemption?

That’s if there existed a path to redemption in the first place. She could become a monk tomorrow, relinquish her weapons and vow silence, she’d still be meditating on top of a pile of corpses. How many became too many?

Maybe she should’ve just turned herself in and face the consequences. Put an end to a life not well lived.

But that felt like a cop out. An acceptance that a killer was all Whisper was and could be. That thrummed as the standard reasoning for most of her hitwoman career. She, herself, didn’t believe she warranted another shot. Yet, for some reason Tangle did.

Fair, it’s clear the lemur continued to hurt - and Whisper doubted any forgiveness would be bestowed upon her. However, as the wolf stared at her reflection in the dank mirror, she realised: she hated herself.

Tangle hated her as well, hated Harbinger. But there was another Whisper, locked beneath years of regret and self-immolation, lamenting for release. The sliver of Whisper that loved life, who fought for her friends and a better future. She missed that Whisper. Clearly, Tangle missed her too. 

Trailing a finger across her scars, the assassin came to comprehend a morsel of gold. Ever since they were inflicted, Whisper regaled them as a permanent branding of the murderer she’d become. In some ways, they dominated her face. Patchy splotches of pink tissue mauling the dark brown of her muzzle, and white creases slicing through her eyebrows.

But there was more fur than there were scars. 

A soft, cream coat that was distinctly her’s. Completely Whisper’s. Fuzzy and silky and kind. Her ideal self, her younger self. The one who worked proudly as a Diamond Cutter. The Guardian Angel. The loving partner to an amazing, charming girl. A hero.

That fur, that face, that person; it blotted out the scars of Harbinger, overpowering and radiant. She was always there… she never left.

Maybe there was no path to redemption for Harbinger.

But for Whisper the Wolf? There might be, if she’d only stop sabotaging herself. How that’d come to be, the wolf had not an inkling. She just knew she had a choice.

Smother the soldier. Embrace the hero.

Perhaps then Whisper would hate herself less.

Perhaps then her existence wouldn’t wrought misery and sorrow; akin to the sort she lavished onto her allies with a simple moment of weakness. No longer would she let the downward spiral she prompted define her trajectory.

Steeling herself, Whisper strode out of the toilet, the finest location for soul-searching, and proceeded to the firefly teller. For the first time, she felt remarkably normal.

And to her pleasant surprise, Tangle accepted the strawberry milkshake.

“I’m glad you remembered. My favourite flavour.” She off-handedly said, with great fondness. As if Whisper wasn’t a killer, but a friend. It felt lovely to be considered one once more… even fleetingly, and despite the totality of her actions.

The repentant canine, silently watching Tangle slurp up the pink whip, only desired one thing in return. Yes, it’d be hard work. A goal she might not achieve. But it was a task that she’d dedicate herself to. Because it was the only way to rebalance the karmic, cosmic scales that Tangle, in her faithfulness, tipped out of balance.

She desired for everyone to remember Whisper the Wolf again, and let Harbinger rot where she deserved.

“Gosh. I haven’t been here in years. I wonder what’s changed?” Tangle spoke to herself, as they drove past the sign.

Spiral Hill.

The bridge, crawling up the side of the titular mound, was adjourned with Mediterranean tiles, tinged by yellow and sand. Whisper noticed the difference in texture - smooth, like they were riding on air.

“This was your plan?” The wolf inquired, the van trundling along underneath the archway. The curvy, uninhabited streets twirled out before them; streetlamps twinkling. “I’d hazard that Lanolin will guess you’d flee to your hometown.”

Tangle shook her head, smiling at the sights. The bakery lived and the salon had expanded into the next storefront over. There was a new restaurant that Whisper didn’t recognise, distinctly Spagonian. Tally that up to seven total restaurants in Spiral Hill. The village was doing well for itself.

“That’s the trick though. I moved out. There’s theoretically nothing tying me to here.”

Whisper quirked an eyebrow. “Theoretically?”

“Yeah, because there is someone who I’ve got ties to. Whether she’ll want to see me is anyone’s guess, but… it’ll buy us some time.”

As the lemur gently pressed the brakes, and Whisper’s bombed out, completely at odds with its rustic surroundings, borderline heap of van rolled to a stop, the canine immediately knew who Tangle was talking about.

“I’ve been meaning to visit her, I just…” Tangle sighed. “I’ve left it too long.”

The Mineral Museum, closed up for the night, proudly stood aside them. The front windows were pitch blank, signalling ‘Come Back Tomorrow!’ but an orange, homely light buzzed out of the upper floor balcony. That gleam was the real attraction. Whisper placed a hand on Tangle’s knee, and she allowed it to stay there.

“Nothing ventured, nothing gained.” Whisper said, hoping to inspire some confidence. “If you’re worried, approach it quietly.”

“Quietly… got it.” Tangle pumped a fist, before sending the window down with a SCHWOOP and honking the horn with a BEEP BEEP!

“HEY JEWEL! YOU ALIVE IN THERE?”

Whisper facepalmed. Tangle hadn’t changed; not really. Stoic, mature, damaged; for sure, but the same careless goofball that the wolf fell in love with. It stood to reason, if the universe felt generous, maybe Whisper hadn’t changed as much as she thought she had either.

And that was a comfort, in these trying times.

Chapter Text

“That sounds… awful!” Cream exclaimed, tapping her foot along each step of granite she sat upon. Lanolin didn’t have much of a choice other than to inform the bunny on some of the circumstances surrounding her head injury. Bandages compressed her wool, remnant from where her forehead bashed into a steering wheel. It left her total appearance to look generally off-balance. An explosion of white floof on her left, egg shaped wrappings on her right. Embarrassing, to say the least.

They perched on the steps of the Central City Police Station, a grand building consisting of purely window panes and modernistic stylings. It was outfitted with an open floor plan, to really drive home the idea that Big Brother watched you, way, way up in his glass tower. Lanolin believed it to be an absolute waste of tax-money. The detective department was under-funded, and hey, she worked out of a cubicle surrounded by other cubicles – she didn’t even get the benefit of the sunlight.

At the very least, she had Cream, who was about as invaluable as they come. Espio dropped her off (kimono-less, Lanolin guessed it was an evening dress), and he didn’t exactly pry into why the sheep and tenrec disappeared the night before. Best explanation he came up with was that they hated sticky toffee pudding. Meanwhile, Cream already grabbed a steaming cup of joe, nestled in a thermal, for Lanolin to drink upon arrival. Just too sweet. Cavity inducing.

“I can’t believe Tangle would run. That doesn’t sound like her at all.” Cream mused, watching the bustle of Central City pass her by. “And with Whisper too?”

“Mm.” Lanolin neglected to inform her of the aquatic aspect. Best for the rabbit to assume this fitted in as part of the vigilante investigation. “That wolf is a bad influence.”

Cream fiddled with her necktie, looping it across her fingers like a snare. She teetered on the edge of the step. “Did I ever tell you the time she aimed her wispon at me?”

Lanolin choked on her coffee. “She what?”

Her apprentice smiled and waved off the concern. “It’s fine. I knew she’d never harm me.”

“Regardless! How old were you?”

“Six.”

“Six?!”

Cream burst out laughing, her legs wiggling as she rocked along with her chortles. Then, she clammed up – a morbid grimace telling of unpleasant thoughts. “It happened during the Metal Virus. Her sights were on Eggman, ready to kill him… so I stepped in front.”

Lanolin stared at Cream, unable to detect an embellishment. The Metal Virus stood tall as the single most traumatic experience of Lanolin’s life, never mind a baby Cream’s. How she managed to stay so rosy-cheeked and smiley attested to the bunny’s character.

“Her heart was broken. She’d just lost Tangle and… I didn’t want her to lose anything more.”

“Chaos.” Lanolin knocked her head back as she mulled over the information. Whisper was seconds away from blowing Cream’s head off. Young, innocent Cream, who, at the time, had just been made an orphan! “So, Whisper’s always been like this.”

Cream tilted her head in confusion. “Like what?”

“Emotional. Unable to control herself. Willing to shoot a child to get what she wants.”

“No, ma’am. You misunderstand me. She didn’t. She wouldn’t. Because deep down, I know Whisper is a good person. The universe has just been really cruel to her, cause and effect with a side of tragedy. There’s no doubt in my mind that would wear someone down until they make a really silly misstep.” All the while, Lanolin wanted to interject and tell Cream she was wrong, or naive, or of bad judgment. But instead, she let the bunny continue. For some reason, earnesty stymied her tongue.

“And, no, I don’t believe Harbinger is who she really is. She’s done some terrible things, but… I guess she’s always struck me as complex, even as a kid. I’d love to talk to her again… she babysat for me once – we played dolls and afternoon tea.”

The thought of the cold-blooded assassin Harbinger babysitting for Cream utterly rocked Lanolin. How could Vanilla be so irresponsible?!

But… the sheep had to concede that Whisper did have a softer side, buried underneath the unemotional guise and lethal edge. She’d be lying to herself to pretend she never noticed it. Cream, however, provided a… unique perspective on the wolf; one where her crimes were tragic mistakes rather than evil actions. The concept was chilling to Lanolin, so she sipped her coffee to warm her insides up.

Even if that was true, it wouldn’t save Whisper. It was far too late for that now.

“There you are detective! I’ve been looking everywhere for you!”

A remarkably irate voice rattled the duo. It bounced across the concrete pillars like an aggressive ping-pong ball, landing back at its progenitor. Commissioner Grip, despite those librarian glasses and tweed coat, bore a look that could kill.

“Do you want to explain to me why you caused a three-car pileup on the bypass? Or why Surge is currently in hospital? Or why Album the Silk sat for two hours, waiting for his interviewer to appear, only to speak with a brick wall instead? He has grounds for release now! Police misconduct!”

Throughout the entire tirade, Lanolin shrunk deeper and deeper into her wool. She’d never seen her superior so furious, ever. Sure, she witnessed him annoyed, irritated, distracted, and Surge was not immune to his teacher-like scolding. But this? This was a new wheelhouse.

“Commissioner. There’s a reason for… for all of that.”

“I would hope so. You better pray that your concussion was inflicted before all of this nonsense, else your rear can stay on the street.”

The detective struggled to her feet, skidding her leg over to hover defensively before Grip. Cream remained prone, choosing to pick fascinating clouds to study instead.

“Well.” Lanolin began. Don’t mention the Marianas, don’t mention Kit. “We managed to pin down our vigilante. Tangle the Lemur. The suspect fled the scene, we pursued. Unfortunately, she had the help of… The Harbinger.”

Grip, outburst mostly passing in favour of a more… simmering anger, listened intensely. His piercing gaze could’ve shattered his rounded specs. Eventually, he groused, shoving a shaking hand into his pocket.

“The Harbinger?” That stirred him something fierce, his fangs bared. “You encountered Whisper the Wolf?”

“Yes. She and Tangle are in cahoots.” Lanolin internally slapped herself. Cahoots?! Really?!

“And… instead of calling for back-up, instead of waiting for an arrest warrant, instead of showing some basic common sense – you decided to chase them?”

Eurgh, she didn’t like her intelligence being questioned. Lanolin felt herself get defensive. For a brief moment, the sheep swore she saw a flicker of her mother in Grip’s passive-aggressiveness.

“I had Surge with me.”

“Surge is at the infirmary with a slug-round implanted in her lung!” He rubbed his forehead in panic. “That’s not how we do things, Lanolin. Patience and due process. I thought you knew better.”

“I apologise, sir. Circumstances forced my hand.” Lanolin pleaded, but not too desperately. The game was to not set off any alarm bells within her present company, in spite of how bad the explanation seemed. Grip squinted, scrutinising his subordinate - Lanolin could only cross her fingers that she didn’t appear too brain damaged. Unfortunately, the head dressing wasn’t exactly helping her exude the ‘I’ve got my marbles together’ panache that was expected of Grip’s detectives. The badger wasn’t buying what she’s selling, instead, he slammed the metaphorical door in a salesheep’s face.

“Circumstances… such as?”

Ah, there’s the question she hoped to nimbly dodge. 

“Personal issues.” Lanolin stated, matter-of-factly.

The poor excuse bewildered Grip enough that his nasty boss attitude died unceremoniously. He gently took his glasses off, in supposed recoil, sighing as he plopped down next to the Lanolin. So, refuge in audacity did work, the sheep noted as she lowered herself next him.

“I’m sorry. I shouldn’t yell. It’s very unbecoming of me.” He murmured, drawing out a cloth to polish his spectacles with. “When I have to put out fires, it tends to err on the side of the usual suspects. Not my best detective.”

Guilt panged across Lanolin, akin to the sonar Grip probed her with. He understood Lanolin too well. Everyone seemed to understand Lanolin too well; it was beginning to frustrate her.

“I’ve got lawyers nosing into everyone’s career files, requests for discovery, Album demanding bail, and legally, I’ve got no recourse but to give it to him. Notwithstanding the fact that the suspect is now on high alert. Did you think of any of this before you hopped in your car?”

“...No, sir. My judgement was impaired.” Lanolin hung her head in abject shame. “It won’t happen again, I swear. None of the consequences occurred to me at the time. All that mattered… was catching that vigilante. I didn’t mean to shove you into a legal minefield.”

Grip chuffed to himself, briskly shaking his head. His moustache flapped in the light breeze, a cape for someone who Lanolin regaled as a hero. “You needn’t worry about me. My papers are orderly. It’s you I’m worried about.”

“I’ve dealt with lawyers before.”

“Lawyers are like ticks, Lanolin.” The commissioner snorted, gentlemanly. “They suck their fill, and drop off in search of their next meal. I’m aware you are capable of defeating lawyers. Rather, if Whisper the Wolf is involved with the vigilante, then I’m afraid I can’t sanction the investigation any further.”

Immediately, Lanolin shot up like a rocket. Her knee screamed at her for the sudden pressure inflicted. Ignore, ignore.

“Sir. No. That’s not- you can’t!”

Grip chewed a lip, sterner than before. “I can. And I must. Harbinger is an international criminal. That’s the territory of G.U.N, or Interpol. Not a local police officer. Chaosforbid, if you ended up dead… I wouldn’t be able to forgive myself.”

“I’ve worked with Whisper. I’ve worked with Tangle! They’re not unknown quantities to me - we’ve done special missions together!”

“See, you’re convincing me even further. It’s personal to you. Do you trust your judgement, in the face of the woman who hurt you so?”

“I do.” No umming or arring; Lanolin was certain.

“As is your right.” Grip said. “But I don’t.”

Cream’s awkward glare swelled up, so much so that she switched from the clouds to her shoes. Lanolin’s protests feebly perished, weak utterances slipping out of her mouth in lieu of an actual argument.

“It’s already clouded your sense, Lanolin. In good conscience, I can’t allow this to go on any further. I’m closing the case; you’re to let them go. I’ll put in a call to G.U.N. They can handle the dangerous assassins.” Grip stood, and brushed his tweed of dust and pebbles. He turned to re-enter the headquarters, when Lanolin made a grab for his sleeve.

“Sir, please! It’s too important-”

“Decision made.” Grip barked. “Stand down, detective.” His return to a once-in-a-lifetime anger was enough to silence the sheep’s pleading, as if she’d swallowed her last objections via a chop to the throat. Grip’s mouthline quivered, disappointment and confusion wiggling out a sine wave, before he quietly spoke. 

“This is for your own good Lanolin. Trust me.”

The badger retreated back into the building, grumbling to himself as he did so. Lanolin was left out in the cold, with only the soundtrack of honks and beeps from impatient taxi-drivers filling the silence. Cream circled her thumbs around each other, glancing at her mentor every few seconds. Upon each peek, the rabbit saw hooves clench further and further into a fist.

“Hey, Cream. You’ve got a decision ahead of you.” Lanolin spoke, with so much strain that the sheep worried it might crack. “Because I refuse to let this go.”

The bunny sidled up beside the sheep, worry caking her demeanour. “B-but… the commissioner said…”

“I don’t care.” Lanolin snapped, refusing to make eye-contact, instead burning her focus on the area where Grip used to be.

“...Lanolin.” Cream picked each word very deliberately. “You could get into serious trouble. Your career! Are Tangle and Whisper really worth it?”

“Absolutely.” The detective grinded her teeth. “I’ve made up my mind. The choice now lies with you. Either you go home and stay out of the crossfire, or you remain as my apprentice and help me. A detective seeks the truth, they seek justice. They don’t dance around bureaucracy. And those two deserve every bit of justice I can throw at them.”

Cream shifted from Lanolin over to the rotating doors of the bureau. Clearly, she was considering option three: ‘tell the teacher’. It became obvious she required further convincing.

“Do you want to be a detective, Cream, or a stooge?”

“A detective!” The rabbit answered instantly, though doubt laced her youthful features.

“Then let’s not waste any more time.”

Lanolin rocked her head over her shoulders, gesturing for Cream to follow her lead. As the sheep took careful, measured steps down the stone staircase, she left the rabbit alone; to stew, to ponder. There wasn’t any need to look back and check, Lanolin figured out which way the girl would swing. Moments later, a small presence eventually joined her side. Tiny and nervous, and scared.

Further guilt rang through Lanolin’s body. What sort of mentor was she… forcing such a cruel choice on such a wholesome person? Criticising Whisper for aiming a gun at the bunny’s head when she herself…

No.

This was different. Whisper wouldn’t get away… not again. If Cream didn’t understand that justice was what being a detective was about, then she wasn’t fit to serve in the first place.

Lanolin would slap cuffs on the both of them: Tangle and Whisper. Vindicate herself, the Restoration, and her biggest failure - of whom was currently worm-food six feet under.

And for Kit, too. Of course. How could she forget?

Sometimes, circumstances slotted together a little too nicely.

The sight of a bed-ridden Surge gnashing and raking her teeth across an unfortunate nurse practitioner didn’t surprise Lanolin in the slightest. She was unrelenting in her attempts to tear out of the restraints placed upon her, and her electric field fried the heart monitor into a swing rhythm. Even her quills were dangling about as loose blades threatening vengeance upon anyone daring to wear scrubs. It would’ve been the first time Lanolin had seen Surge au naturale, if not for a Christmas party that ended up spinning out of-

“I don’t need surgery!” She snarled at the bear currently pressing her down. “Grab a scalpel and dig it out, I can handle it!”

“Ms. Surge, please.”

“I’ll do it myself if I have to!”

Lanolin cleared her throat, Cream swaying beside her. The tenrec’s rodeo-bucking halted, as she flashed a toothy grin at the duo. Though, she was unable to hide the melancholy that laced her movements, losing to Whisper must’ve knocked her confidence something fierce.

“Oh, hey Airbags. Crash a plane into the lobby?” Surge glanced down at the rabbit, and groaned her head into her pillow. “Ugh. And hello Cream. Yo, Lan, you better not have told her about Ki-?”

“No.” Lanolin quickly intercepted, but despite her efforts, the bunny’s ear pricked up.

“Kit? What about Kit? Is he okay?”

Surge’s (somewhat misplaced) mirthful facade faded. She wriggled down into her sheets, staring up at the ceiling. “He’s in a bad place, at the moment.”

Cream clasped her hands together in sympathy. “Oh dear. Mentally, physically?”

A twitch from the tenrec, before a sigh. “Don’t push it, Fussbunny. It isn’t any of your business.”

Retreating away from Surge’s bed, Cream pouted her lips together in embarrassment, defeated by one mocking nickname. Lanolin gave a small nod of acknowledgement to the nurse, who’d decided that perfection was the enemy of good enough and left his patient alone. He ducked behind the curtain, leaving the trio some privacy. 

So, in heavy silence, the sheep, the rabbit, the tenrec, and the alkaline scent of bleach and antibacterials, stood in each other’s company. However, the Cream-shaped roadblock in the room stopped any out and out discussion on Lanolin’s next move.

Not that Surge was exactly in a healthy enough state to pursue it any further. Her healing factor actually ended up harming her more than benefitting her. Where Whisper’s slug thudded into Surge’s lung, the wound fixed itself around it - leaving a thick chunk of metal nestled in her organs. Despite her exuberance, Lanolin heard Surge wheezing with effort and her breathing shallowed. It’d take a surgeon to remove the bullet.

A notion occurred to Lanolin. With this talk about healing factors, she remembered the blade on Kit’s throat… theoretically shouldn’t he be able to heal through the Mariana’s attacks and force a stalemate?

“Isn’t Kit installed with similar capabilities as you, Surge? We actually might have some leeway-”

“Nope.” Surge interrupted. “Why’d you think I lost my cool? He was designed to be a support unit, not a tank.”

Cream’s brow further furrowed at the conversation fluttering around her, but she didn’t pipe up. Lanolin, cursorily, side-eyed her apprentice. She was keeping to herself, which was very un-Cream like. A fleeting worry that she pushed the rabbit too far crossed her mind, but she sidled it swiftly enough.

Surge wriggled at the incision of an IV drip that she didn’t really need and scooted herself up in bed. “So, what’s the situation? The quacks might’ve well thrown me in a padded cell, for all the context I’ve gotten since I woke up.”

“Tangle and Whisper have escaped. HQ is in chaos. Album’s receiving bail.” Lanolin started, reluctantly. The more she listed, the more she understood how much they’d messed up. Not by wrecking their structured base of operations… but rather Lanolin hated that she tipped her hand too early. Hunting down the Harbinger and her vigilante would be ten times harder now that their guards were up.

She should care that Album, crime lord, could be freed on a technicality… but she didn’t. Not when Whisper still strode unshackled.

“What’s more-” Lanolin twirled an uncompressed sprig of wool, emerging out of her backward ruminations. “Grip’s forbidden us to pursue the case any further. Cites it as ‘too dangerous’.” The sheep air-quoted her superior with a trite bitterness. Meanwhile, Cream balked; too respectful to diss anyone above her station.

To that, Surge just scoffed. “Right. As if that’s gonna stop us.”

“He hasn’t a clue on the actual mess we’re in.” Lanolin agreed, pulling up a plastic chair to carefully seat herself next to her partner. “Forget what the chief says. We’re bringing that wolf exactly what she’s earnt.”

“Yeah. And for…” Surge trailed off, eyeing up Cream, who’d folded her arms in the corner. “For him too.”

Lanolin bobbed herself along in accord, not even listening to Surge proper. That prompted the tenrec to raise her voice, slightly edged by the sheep’s disregard.

“Is Cream with us now? Can’t exactly imagine her turning rogue.”

Both adults lasered in on the teenager. She shuffled across the floor, fixated on the sanitised laminate, before nodding, clearly unhappy. Satisfied enough, Surge relented, whilst Lanolin smiled at Cream - thankful for her tenuous support. The sheep would defend her if push came to shove, she wasn’t like Whisper and Tangle, she wouldn’t drag her apprentice down into the dirt with her.

“I guess,” Surge said, mostly to herself. “That makes us vigilantes.”

“I guess it does!”

Sweeping open the curtain, a leathered-up horseshoe crab burst into the space; Lanolin immediately clocked him as the sword-bearer. Hoyt, was it? How the hell did he weasel his way in?!

“Room for one more?” He snickered behind his mask. Surge sparked, and squirmed in her bed, but winced once a mechanical snap ratched out. Her hand clutched her chest in pain.

“Hey, hey. Don’t stand on my behalf, sweetheart.” Hoyt ushered her down, before pointing a chitinous finger at Lanolin. “You too, Lanolin. Sies, I wouldn’t want to put Mary’s little lamb out of sorts.”

In turn, Lanolin closed her hand around her cane; a quick bash against the head oughta do the audacious thug in. Hoyt obviously detected the tension; he unwrapped his coat to reveal both sword and SMG. Immediately thinking better of engaging, the sheep sneered at the crab; fuming at the absolute gall of this man. Who was he to waltz on into their business as if he owned them? Besides the fact the Marianas did, regrettably, own them.

Hoyt spied Cream. She’d dashed to Surge’s bedside in a blind panic, hiding behind the infirm officer - even though the tenrec wouldn’t be able to help. It might’ve been a comfort thing, or it might’ve not mattered, depending on the mobster’s intentions.

“Hoezit, lassie.” Hoyt waved at the rabbit. “Looking for fulfilling part-time work?”

A protectiveness rose within Lanolin, as she struggled to her feet to meet Hoyt face-to-face. She was taller, yet the way he peered up at the sheep screamed out an assured dominance. It must’ve had something to do with the scabbard his loose hand covered. A threat wrapped in a warning.

“Cream.” Lanolin said, without inflection. “Leave.”

The rabbit shook her head, her ears flopping about. “No way!”

“That is an order, Cream.” Lanolin restated, with force. She never distracted herself from the horseshoe crab before her, not even as Cream relented. The bunny stepped out and away from the danger - checking back one last time, before running away.

Once she was certain Cream was safe, the scurrying pitter-patter petering out of the wing, Lanolin backed away from their guest, shoving her hands into her trench-coat. 

“What do you want? Come to threaten us again, scumbag?”

Hoyt laughed, strutting about as if he owned the place. “Heavens, no. Don Nacci doesn’t even know I’m here! I’m like a spectre, drifting among allies and enemies, no one any the wiser to my machinations-“

“Get to the point, asshole!” Surge growled from her position of helplessness. If she was able to walk, there’d be no question that the crab would’ve already had his shell shucked and crushed.

“Jawelnofine, I’ll skip laying the pipe.” Hoyt planted his feet. “I’ve got a proposition for you. But first, a question.”

Detective and partner neglected to respond, opting to remain quiet and goad the crab to continue. The silent treatment did not deter him. “Suppose you were to deliver Harbinger and the ring-tail to our doorstep, what would be next to happen?”

Lanolin felt her snout wrinkle. “I suppose your faction would hand Kit over, and we all go about our lives.” Even as she said that, the sheep sensed it became a lie as soon as it left her lips. Detectives are trained how to spot a loaded question, after all.

“Yeah, and you’ll ride off into the sunset together on a rainbow unicorn.” Hoyt smirked, rolling his eyes. “What sort of doff do you take Don Nacci as?”

“A ‘doff’ who honours his word?” Surge attempted to winch herself up, but her affliction kept her weakly sucking air through her nose instead.

“C’mon. Even you don’t believe that kak. Show a bit of empathy and put yourself in his shoes. He’s blackmailing two cops. In what universe is he ever cutting you loose?”

Lanolin scryed for a counter that didn’t exist. Hoyt had an iron-clad point. The first thing she planned to do, once their deal was honoured, was to apprehend Nacci. The nautilus must’ve foreseen that Lanolin was a stickler for equilibrium; as if he’d leave himself so vulnerable.

“He’s… a liar.” Surge murmured, as it began to sink in how deeply they were screwed. “Damn it, Lanolin. This is why you shoulda let me destroy every last one-”

“You’d be dead.” Hoyt said. “You’d all be dead. Don Nacci ain’t a rube. Ever heard of snipers? Tch. Darling, please. It takes a lot of gees to bark that drivel wearing a hospital gown.” To further the insult, he snatched the chair from beneath Lanolin, and swiveled it around, because he was the type of try-hard gangster that lounged on a chair backwards, the sheep guessed.

“When he says you’re his, you’re his. It’s how he got all of us. The Mariana Family is an organisation built off of quid pro quos that’ll never come to fruition.”

An aspect to pluck at, Lanolin reasoned. The crab spoke surprisingly candidly, so chances were she’d be able to dig a nugget of an advantage out of him.

“Your Don has got blackmail on you?”

Hoyt looked at her as if she’d asked the dumbest question in the world. “It’s more so I owe him. You’re a smartie stekkie, how’s your Geography?”

Lanolin parsed through her knowledge on foreign accents - Hoyt being a mainlander in origin meant he called one of the continents his home, if that slang was anything to go from.

“You’re Silirikaan.” The sheep answered. Hoyt snapped a finger in confirmation.

“Ding ding. Silirikaan, born and bred! To my infinite misfortune! Now, let’s see if you aced History?”

“Silirica is infamous for its human and islander rights violations.” Lanolin barely needed to think. It was a country that the Restoration used to send aid to.

Hoyt clapped slowly. “Very astute Sherlock. Yes, I spent my childhood in a government facility. Us horseshoe crabs, we’ve got a very special power, for better or for worse.” The insipid humour drained from his aura, replaced with a forlornness. Not that earned him any sympathy from Lanolin.

“Liquid gold.” He flashed his wrist, picking at a vein. “Our blood has a very specific protein that detects bacteria and toxins. Invaluable for vaccines, pills, injections.” Surge glanced at her own drip, Hoyt acknowledging it bitterly. “I’d wager that most of the medicines in this hospital are washed through the blood of my people, so you’re welcome. Everyday, six o’clock, my masters drained me until I had enough left to stop myself from keeling over. Then, in the afternoon, they took a second load. By nightfall I was so weak that I’d pray I never wake – just to spite the bastards. Bear in mind, I was seven.”

“And let me guess.” Lanolin interjected. “Nacci saved you from the institution?”

“He takes in wayward aquatic souls like myself. You mammals don’t care about us. You drink our water, we breathe your pollution. Don’t get me wrong, I’m not a very nice man. I’ll indulge in a spot of revenge, in place of sense. But… debts. Feel more like chains, don’t they? From my position, these chains are spiral shaped, so to speak, ja?”

Surge and Lanolin shared a look at each-other. The sheep could see the tenrec was computing the implications, and even she had to admit that Hoyt stumped her.

“Both your badges ‘dere. They’re ankle weights withholding ya - gotta act proper, gotta work for the good of the people. Blerrie exhausting, I don’t know how y’do it, when you can cut a corner with some naughtiness.”

“Quit exposing the pros of a lower lifestyle. We’re not switching sides!” Lanolin snapped.

“Maybe you’re not.” Hoyt agreed. “Point stands, we all have guillotines hanging above our necks. It might be our occupations, our family, our pasts; doesn’t matter. It’s a rich tapestry of gettin’ pounded down by the establishment. However, there is relief. The trick is to pay off the executioner!”

Now Lanolin could see what the mobster angled for, he was transparent, and pathetic. Time to wrap this up and carry on searching for the dog and primate.

“How much for Kit?”

Hoyt held up a hand. “Hold your horses, detective. Money is of no object. What I’m asking for is a favour. You might even end up cleaner than before.”

The sheep inhaled, trying not to brick the arthropod’s shiny dome in with her cane. He enjoyed this debate a bit too much for her comfort. Surge, similarly, seethed, evident by her blankets beginning to smoke.

“Don’t stop your ‘special’ mission.” He joked. “We still want Tangle and Whisper; as an example, blah blah. Rather, when you find them, I want ‘chu to tell me first.”

That… confused the detective. “And why would we?”

Hoyt shifted off to the side of his seat, appearing a bit flustered. “I’m in the doghouse. I introduced Don Nacci to Whisper, I failed to secure the package from Tangle. I’m on thin ice, ne! If I was the one to bring in the traitor, and the vigilante… maybe I’ll regain my standing. Hey, it makes life easier for you two. T’only need to be bloodhounds - I’ll do the difficult job of ensnaring ‘em.”

Surge, with a drained heave, kicked her legs out of the side of the bed, ripping a loose restraint off her shoulder. Standing straight, she pushed her IV over. The sack popped as it hit the floor, Hoyt’s ‘blood’ oozing into a puddle at his feet. A defiant display of petulance.

“What do you want in return?” Surge warbled, through the agonising tremors of her injury.

Hoyt met her, placing a hand on her shoulder, pulling the tenrec in until their foreheads knocked together. “Your unwavering support, when the time comes for a cabinet reshuffle. Don Nacci can’t stay the boss forever. Do you catch my drift?”

Lanolin hissed to herself. What a treacherous piece of garbage! 

Surge, however, gripped his hand and shook it once - it looked like she wasn’t delegating to her partner for decision making this time round. Satisfied, Hoyt gathered himself to leave, but Lanolin was not nearly as happy.

“And Kit?” She added. Hoyt was already withdrawing through the curtain when the words stalled his escape. Turning with the urgency of a sloth, he met her challenge with a shrug.

“Perhaps squeeze your own heads out of the guillotine first, before worrying about others?”

He popped his coat, hiding weaponry behind a drawstring bow, and disappeared behind the green, synthetic weave of the hospital curtain.

Surge swayed on her feet, and suddenly collapsed. Lanolin caught her as she fell, ignoring how she thrashed against her support with flailing limbs. It yielded nothing but further scraping from the bullet, causing her to make a pitiful whine of pain.

“Let go of me, Lanolin!”

So, Lanolin did exactly that, dropping Surge atop the shallow lake of IV fluids coating the floor. The tenrec coughed out a tragic gasp, after a moment of recuperation.

“That changes things. Right? We got a guy on the inside.”

Lanolin could hear the pleading in her voice, the hope that Hoyt was somehow a noble ally, and not an opportunistic thug. Credit where it’s due, his presence did give Lanolin a smidge more manoeuvrability. Sell Hoyt out to Nacci? Or work with him, to save Kit? Decisions, decisions.

He was correct in one regard. Her badge held her back. She balked at the thought of Grip, a man who she held in such high esteem, cowering in fear from the concept of Harbinger. The sheep knew Whisper better than anybody, and the wolf didn’t scare her. 

Hoyt’s proffer altered nothing, Lanolin’s head-space was in the same place as it was before he bombed his way into their predicament. She’d bring Whisper to heel: with or without Grip, with or without the backing of the CCPD, and with or without Hoyt.

True, everyone had their guillotines hanging over their necks. A poetic summation from a guy who spoke in an unusual tongue - but he misinterpreted Lanolin’s position. If there were to be executioners, she vowed to be the Harbinger’s sweet retribution, and the Vigilante’s come to Jesus; in the name of everything they’d destroyed.

So immersed in the newly born revenge fantasies, Lanolin didn’t notice as Cream slinked back into the room, the concern palpable, but her suspicions even stronger.

“I saw him leaving. Who was that guy?”

The rabbit was ignored. Surge sat in the dampness, bringing the puddle to a slow boil. Lanolin tried to shove down the sickening blanching that stirred in her stomach. She desperately needed to stop wheeling and dealing with criminals… and these new, dark emotions were so intense.

Was this how Whisper felt about Mimic? Chaos, was Whisper Lanolin’s Mimic? So hated that sense evaporated into rage at the thought? Lanolin believed herself more temperate than that, but perhaps she read herself wrong.

Whatever the case, her feelings were valid; they weren’t going anywhere. Best lean into those feelings; pragmatism remained a bastion.

Detectives seek justice. Hoyt held the door open for Lady Liberty, in his selfish scheming. It was only fair that Lady Liberty schemed right back.

Chapter Text

Immediately, Tangle knew she jetsoned off on the wrong foot. Maybe don’t scream out for your long lost buddy at one o’clock in the morning, especially when you’re trying to make up for eight years of absence. The lemur’s social skills plummeted once she left Spiral Hill. As it turns out, moving out of your home-town – leaving the comfort of friends, family and acquaintances – in favour of an unyielding metropolis meant that your words tended to twist itself into knots more than your tail did. How would you even introduce yourself to your new neighbours? ‘Hi, hello, I’m here to become a recluse. May I borrow some sugar, please?’. 

Ew, gross. Tangle quickly gave up on attempting to create genuine connections with Central City dwellers. Quite the opposite, in fact. The only way to make any headway, in the big city, was to be as obnoxiously headstrong as possible. To her chagrin, Tangle had the headstrong part down since she could walk. Obnoxious? Eh, she was a primate of acquired taste.

Point being, her nerves triumphed, leading to obnoxious and headstrong putting in an appearance over polite and taciturn. Even worse, to earn an exasperated facepalm from Whisper? Gaia’s most socially awkward creature? Yikes. 

From the upper balcony of the Mineral Museum, the fuzzy glow of a night lamp snuck its way out behind the drawn curtains. Upon Tangle’s magnanimous yell of biblical proportions, said lamp was subsumed by a stark, whiter light, flicked on by a switch. Moments later, the floral fabric twitched once. And then came a stillness that settled the night once again.

“Oh, Tangle… You made her get out of bed.” Whisper giggled. Undeterred, and willing to own her gob, the lemur jumped out of the van and onto the smooth pavement. Mission control (Tangle’s brain) ordered her to approach calmly, with a dignified grace. The locomotion department (Tangle’s legs) didn’t quite get the memo, as the lemur wibbly wobbly strode her way towards those familiar, blue doors.

She didn’t hear the heavy boots of Whisper following her – and maybe that was for the best. Start by reeling Jewel in with a bit of the ol’ Tangle charm before sucker punching her with Ms. Assassin For Hire. And so, with a swallow of saliva and a shaky hand, she went to rap on the wooden finish.

Only, there was no rhythmic knocking. Her knuckles swished at air. Instead, the space had opened up to reveal a short, pearlescent beetle in a pink night-gown. Jewel’s arms were crossed, her eyes were baggy, and her scowl cut Tangle in place she didn’t even know existed. Despite everything, the insect looked remarkably similar to how Tangle remembered her to be. Her antennae were longer, tapered with a rosy-gold sheen, and her carapace now grew down to her shoulder-blades, but generally her face remained untouched. A tad less rounded, a smidge more angular, but that was to be expected with age. Crow’s feet trickled out across her features, and she wore glasses. Beyond a doubt, her pal was stressed with a capital S; why else did she look thirty-five when she was barely past twenty-six?

It took a moment of awkward silence for Tangle to realise she was staring, and that Jewel was staring right back. Tangle had shouted, Tangle had roused her from slumber, Tangle should initiate!  So… say something, dumb dumb!

“Hey Jewel. Nice bathrobe! Brings out your glasses.”

Oh, dear Chaos. Abort! ABORT!

“Eight years, Tangle.” Jewel said, rather plainly. “For eight years, you haven't called. You never wrote. You didn’t exist. And for all that, you have the absolute audacity to rock up to my place, unannounced, at…” She checked her wristwatch, hissing in frustration. “Half one.”

Tangle attempted some jazz hands, hoping to magic up some forgiveness. “Ta-da… and just like that, I reappear!”

“You stink.” Jewel retorted.

“Some say it’s fragrant.”

“What have you done to that van?”

“It’s on loan.”

“And… the hair, Tangle. A mullet does not suit you.”

The lemur kicked a couple of stones littering the doorstep of the museum, these minerals not exotic enough to be bestowed a plinth inside. In some sense, Tangle admitted she had a roasting coming, because she did kinda up and vanished for almost a decade. Like, yeah, not cool. But that fact didn’t make the barbs any less painful.

“Yeah, I get it. I look like crap.” Tangle grinned to her best ability. “Does it matter, really?”

“Well, I’d rather not get stuck to you.”

That further didn’t compute in the primate’s brain. She wasn’t sticky. Sweaty, she’ll grant, but sticky? Tangle glanced at Jewel, the scowl was gone, in favour of a weirdly neutral expression. A quirked eyebrow, a slight curl to her mouth. It really unnerved the lemur, who couldn’t help but tap her feet and rub her arm – unable to stand the uneasy tension. Agony! Was Tangle in trouble or not?!

To answer, Jewel suddenly tackled Tangle into a tight hug, squeezing as if her friend would disappear again if she let go. Whilst the beetle barely made it up to the waist, it was enough to push all the air out of the lemur’s chest. There was that unassuming strength that Tangle remembered. Glomping face-first into the bomber jacket, Jewel’s glasses were knocked askew by the embrace, and Tangle could feel the indentations of a smile. Just like that, all of her worry vanished in the familiar comfort of her best friend forever.

“I’ve missed you so much.” Came the beetle’s muffled voice. Tangle found herself returning the hug in turn, wrapping them both in a tail cocoon of unconditioned fluff.

“I’ve missed you too, bestie.” Tangle felt like she had to restrain the tears. Her voice was low, quivering with emotion. “I’m so sorry. I’m so, so sorry. I should’ve made more of an effort.”

Eventually, Jewel peeled away and hovered up to meet Tangle at head-level. Two dainty hands clasped the sides of her friend’s head, tenderly wiping away the sadness forming. Which was then promptly followed up with a full-frontal slap. Ow!

After the assault, Jewel swam back and puffed her cheeks out, fuming mad. “You absolutely should’ve! I thought you went A.W.O.L! Do you know how many nights I’ve laid awake wondering what on earth happened to you? Oh-ho, and then you wake me up on the one night I’m actually asleep?!” Taking a deep breath, Jewel managed to fix her specs to balance on the tip of her nose. Just like that, the fury dissipated into a veneer of joy.

“Anyway, that’s enough of a grilling from me.” She smirked, before recoiling in mock revulsion. “You look like you’ve been dragged through a hedge backwards. Come on in, you’ll like what I’ve done with the museum.”

Tangle almost absent-mindedly bounced her way through the frame, when she paused. She twiddled her fingers in nervousness, and her tail lashed out behind her – flicking into abstract doodles of hesitant energy. Reunions and tea would be lovely, but there was an illegal canine to address first.

“I’ve got another person with me.”

Jewel didn’t even blink. “They can come in too.”

“Yeah, but… I’m warning you, it’s-”

She was interrupted by stomping footsteps of her plus one slowly, who approached from behind, echoing ominously from the van. Jewel poked her head out to the side, as to spot her second guest, when her mouth dropped open in mild surprise.

“Ah.”

Whisper padded up a couple more steps, before waving bashfully. Her demeanour was awfully similar to when she first met Jewel. Shy, hiding within herself, appearing small and non-threatening. Tangle’s first thought, way back when, was ‘cuuuuute!’. But now? No matter how hard the wolf tried, the scars emanated a different aura. Very much not cute and more so terrifying.

“H’lo Jewel.” Whisper greeted, attempting a face that didn’t appear morosely threatening. 

She failed, but not for a lack of effort.

The beetle didn’t respond for a moment, shifting a look over to Tangle that screamed indecision. Putting her to ease the best she could, the lemur nodded. Whisper was a-okay! For the most part… if Jewel ignored the ‘architect of your career-ending scandal’ aspect of dearest Whisp.

So, plucking up a dutiful manner, Jewel buzzed her way over to the wolf and grasped her palm with a great gentleness.

“Hello Whisper, dear. It’s been a long time.” There wasn’t a tinge of distaste in Jewel, just pure hospitality. The assassin had no idea how to react, her eyes were burnt to the floor, her muzzle twitching into a pained grimace. Jewel studied her up and down, taking in the wear and tear, as well as the melancholy that radiated from Whisper’s being.

“Life hasn’t treated you very well, has it?”

Whisper bit a lip, withholding a burst of emotion. Silently, she shook her head, wincing like a scolded puppy. She teetered on her backfoot, evidently anticipating being turned around, when Jewel tugged on her wrist.

“You’re welcome too, provided there’s no weapons. That’s my only condition.”

“No weapons.” Whisper’s admittance was tiny, barely above a tremor of air.

Jewel glanced off, steeling herself. For some odd reason, she constantly checked the upper balcony, as if she expected someone to be there. Eventually, with a light flutter, she landed back on the floor and gestured for the duo to enter behind her.

Tangle couldn’t restrain her happiness, eagerly following her friend with gusto. Whisper dithered, but eventually slunk her way inside, too. If Tangle were to guess, it was not the reaction that the wolf expected, but in the lemur’s own mind, it was pretty par for the course. Jewel always gave her full self to people who really didn’t deserve it, enough that it could be considered a character flaw rather than a boon. Especially if the folks helped turned out to be the ones who forced her to resign as Director of The Restoration. Tangle still had yet to apologise for the mess laid squarely at the beetle’s feet.

It was pathetic, really. So guilty, that she severed contact. Wasting eight years that she could’ve spent supporting her friend. Well… she’d arrived. She’d rectify.

By firstly wringing out all the juicy Spiral Hill gossip! And… asking for a big, big favour that she in no way had any right in requesting.

Yep, that sealed the deal. Tangle the Lemur was a bad friend… Time to retrofit! There were eight years to make up for. Whilst she’d become jaded with age, there existed not a doubt in Tangle’s mind that this was a challenge she’d tackle with the entirety of her heart and might. 

Be obnoxiously headstrong, in other words.

To say that the Mineral Museum had undergone a transformation would be an insult to the ugly ducklings and hungry caterpillars of the world. The shelves of geodes almost reached the second floor, each labelled and sorted via a bizarre classification system that far outdid Tangle’s own comprehension. There were abundant gemstones and metal ores. Filling out the main floor lay the extra special exhibits; unique iterations of geological happenstance that appeared closer to fine art than simple rocks and boulders. It took all of Tangle’s willpower not to press her nose up against the glass and marvel at Jewel’s collection.

“Do you like it?” The insect curator asked, already grabbing a rag to polish a casing.

“Do I like it? Jewel, this is amazing!” The lemur marvelled. She examined a peridot that somehow merged with a vein of lapis lazuli, creating a swirling vortex of stone titled ‘Tidal Pod’. “How did you manage to find all these? Gee, some of ‘em must be worth thousands!”

The beetle smiled with pride. “I had some excellent help. My husband is a geologist, specialising in gemology. He managed to snag them on his expeditions.”

Tangle hypnotised herself with the lime green and azure curves. They blended together so perfectly, like interlocking, liquid clockwork, working in harmony to create the most elegant beauty conceivable. How was that even possible?! Congratulations to Jewel’s husband, he clearly-

“WHAT?!” The lemur spun back around to meet her friend, who was fluttering at her desk and switching on the lamp. “Husband!?”

Jewel nodded, leading Tangle on with a wry grin.

“I- jeez. Wh-how could I, b-but! Husband? My bestie got married?” Tangle skipped and stuttered into a hilarious beat-box; Jewel couldn’t help but stifle a laugh.

Whisper came in to save the lemur. “Congratulations Jewel. How long?”

The beetle presented a ring, with a glistening diamond adjourning it. Very conservative, not at all flashy. It suited Jewel perfectly.

“Five years this fall. I almost can’t believe it.” She blushed to herself, swooning over this mysterious suitor. “We’ve been together seven. Seven years since Jasper came along to sweep me off my feet. We met at a convention, both speakers on the same panel! Fate is a funny mistress.”

“He sounds like a fine gentleman. I’d love to meet him.” Whisper bowed her head slightly. Jewel responded by shaking her own.

“I’m sorry. Jasper’s currently in the Sovereign Kingdom. Lecturing at Camford University, would you believe! Another time, perhaps?”

Tangle felt like she was being pounded by bombshell after bombshell. She stared, forlornly, all around her. At the life Jewel had built for herself. There existed so much pride in Tangle; her childhood friend was soaring, but at the same time?

She missed all of it.

She missed her BFF’s wedding.

“Oh… I.” Tangle couldn’t meet Jewel’s warm gaze. It was like all the words she wanted to say dissolved on her tongue. There weren't enough ways to apologise. ‘Désolé’, ‘Scusi’, ‘Perdone’ - none would cut the mustard. Assaulting Jewel with an intense, scrummage of a hug was the only appropriate response that Tangle could fathom, the embrace tight enough to elicit an ‘eep’ from the beetle.

“Jewel.” She whimpered into her friend’s collar. “How can I ever- I… I can’t even begin to- I’m such a rotten… GRRaaGH!.” She ripped at the fur on her cheeks, stumbling away. “I’m the worst! I’m gonna kick my own ass! How could I- stupid Tangle! Stupid, STUPID!”

Jewel zipped up to her, hushing the lemur, with some panicked urgency. “Ssh. Not too loud. It’s okay. I never blamed you. You had a lot going on-”

“No, I didn’t. I was lounging around feeling sorry for myself whilst you-” Tangle suddenly gasped, rattling the cases. “We pinky-promised to be each other’s bridesmaids!” Oh, Tangle had screwed up, royally. She broke a pinky promise. Eternal damnation awaited.

“Hey. Hey… Tangle, I’m not mad. I was worried about you. And I didn’t even have a bridesmaid - that spot was reserved for you. You’re safe, no promise was broken!” Jewel intended to comfort the lemur, but all it did was make Tangle sick.

“Aw, so I ruined your special day, on top of everything else?!” Tangle spat, clawing at her arms. Her tail was whipping about like a frenzied flail, threatening to smash the priceless casings. That tracked, Tangle made everything worse!

“Tangle, it was a wonderful day. My only regret is that I couldn’t share it with you.” Jewel’s smile had sadness etching its corners, a slight warble that gave away the tragedy of Tangle’s selfishness.

“Please forgive me, Jewel…” 

“I already have! Like I said, I was worried about you!”

“Why?” Tangle asked, ignoring the amnesty in a vortex of self-loathing. “How? How can you forgive me? I abandoned you!” She almost wished that Jewel would scream in her face, tears splashing onto the nice tiling. Tangle had no excuse, she was scum-

An arm wrapped around Tangle’s shoulder, and to her surprise, it wasn’t Jewel’s. The beetle hovered several feet away, looking utterly heartbroken.

“What was it you said to me?” Whisper said, pulling Tangle in close. Despite the kevlar, Tangle found herself enveloped in comfort. Just like old times. “Best time to plant a tree is today?”

“Whuh?”

“You’re here now.” Whisper hummed, her breath tickling the nape of Tangle’s neck. It sent trills down the lemur’s spine, enough that she lost focus on what Whisper was saying. “You’re not going anywhere, correct? Time to make new memories. Be present in each other’s lives again.”

Jewel tilted her head in agreement. “She’s right, Tangle. I can’t deny, it was awful not having you around. Not knowing where you were or if you were okay; whether you were happier without me or…” Trailing off, Jewel recentered herself, cupping her hands around Tangle’s. “I figured something kept you,  but… but I never believed that something to be malice. Seeing you again has been such a gift - don’t ruin it by being a mopey lemur.” There was a glint of playfulness in her tone. Who else but Jewel could make cheeky remarks and still plead polite innocence? She took Tangle’s disappearance in stride.

And what the hell? Getting a pep talk from Whisper?! Tangle, reluctantly, withdrew from the wolf’s presence, moving to knock her forehead against Jewel’s; an action that they’d performed since they were kids.

“I’ll make it up to you.”

“Darn right you will.” Jewel joked. “You can start by cheering up. There’s so much to bring you to speed on. I can’t wait!”

Despite the outpouring of forgiveness, that, in honesty, Tangle couldn’t quite understand, she remained dour. Even as their heads left each other, even as Jewel hovered a hand to the lemur’s waist as comfort, Tangle still felt like the worst villain the world had ever seen. A complete home-wrecker, despite their pristine surroundings.

It came as an irony that Whisper stepped in again, arguably the actual villain in the equation. Though… Tangle started to believe that to be true less and less. Villain… Such a strong word - Whisper was nowhere near it. Her ‘villainy’ was about as diluted as elderflower cordial. Bleh!

Regardless, Tangle sulked over by the iron catalogue (the limonite was in season, apparently), leaving Whisper to do the heavy lifting. It wasn’t quite the arrangement Tangle had imagined, but she was grateful for it nonetheless.

“I hate to put you in a difficult position.” Whisper began, focusing her attention on the skylight, instead of the beetle. “But we didn’t just drop by impromptu.”

Jewel flashed her eyebrows, halfway between a knowing eye roll and hint of acknowledgement. “I figured. I somehow doubted Tangle and yourself are galavanting about on a camping trip.”

“Mm. Moreso a hunter-prey situation.”

“I hope you’re the hunter.” Jewel muttered, the mood suddenly underpinned by anxiety. Her head constantly swivelled up and over to the second floor balcony: her living quarters. Nobody was there. Jewel seemed glad.

“Most people wouldn’t wish for me as the hunter…” Whisper mused to herself, before snapping back to attention. “Unfortunately, no. We’re the ones being chased.”

A sudden curse slipped out of Jewel’s mouth. Hands on hips, she prepared a throttle. “Tangle the Lemur, have you brought danger to my doorstep again?”

Before Tangle could plead her case, Whisper intercepted. “I wouldn’t say so. We’re fugitives… and - I assume - that Tangle’s plan was to lie low here. If you’d allow it.”

Tangle’s guilty grin sweated in the ire of Jewel’s annoyed stare. Things were different, but somehow exactly the same.

“Did you kill someone?” Jewel asked Whisper. The wolf took a second, but ultimately shook her head in denial. There was an ever so slight prideful smirk that graced her fang-toothed mouth. Attagirl Whisper! No murder!

The curator switched back to Tangle. “Will my family be put in harm’s way?”

“No, absolutely not. No. No way.” The lemur responded, waving her hands. “Unless police brutality is back on the menu… which I doubt. ‘Cause it’s Lanolin.”

Jewel flinched, pinching her brow. “Lanolin? Really? What did you do to tick her off?”

“Vigilantism.” Tangle said.

“Plus ten years ago.” Whisper added, sadly.

The beetle nodded, not even responding. She rolled her tongue in consideration whilst she hummed to herself in thought. Her pupils kept swishing up to the upper floor, then back down again to crease her eyes up further.

“You’re lucky.” Jewel sighed. “I’m on friendly terms with Lanolin. I can plead ignorance if she arrives, and she’ll believe me.”

Tangle and Whisper looked at each-other. That easy? Though, one important detail Tangle just had to know.

“Was she invited to your…?”

“Yes.”

“Damn it.” Tangle went back to brooding, this time trickling her finger along the windows like she was in a telenovela. Her hands yearned for a rose to pluck at. She loves me, she loves me not.

“Does that mean we can stay?” Whisper turned to Jewel, who was observing the melodramatic lemur with humour and eyebrow askew.

“Yes. You can stay. I’m not selling out my Tangle.”

Launching across the museum like a jet turbine, Tangle leaped into Jewel’s arms, spinning her around.

“Thank you, oh thank you! Jewel, you’re the best!” The lemur giggled whilst they twirled.

“I’ve got a couple of stipulations.” Jewel whispered, once the windmill slowed to a stop.

Tangle released her, sheepishly. That made hug number three. Was three too many? Was that a stupid question?

“Sure thing!” It couldn’t be too bad, right?

“You need to sleep down in the museum itself. I don’t want you inside my living space.”

Oof. That stung. Tangle pouted as if it was some big betrayal, but she knew better than to bite the hand that feeds. Jewel had her reasons; she always did.

“Yeah, sure. Whisper and I’ll make it work - but can I ask why?”

It appeared some nervous habit, Jewel once again focusing on the balcony, before huffing with some relief and returning her attention to Tangle. “It’s nothing important. You two are just a bit… rough and tumble, and I want to protect my valuables.”

…Yeah, that made sense. What possessions of Jewel were annihilated by Tangle? It started with the tricycle, rolling down the rocky side of the hill. Then Jewel’s really fancy fountain pen; hey, not her fault she ran out of Q-Tips! Her ears were black for weeks! Not to mention that malachite she dropped - Jewel’s horror stuck with her to this day. Y’know what? Yeah, good on you Jewel. Set those boundaries! The last thing Tangle wanted was to swing into her apartment and smash another gemstone, or family heirloom - she was ever so good at it after all.

Whisper performed one of her stiff curtseys, a gesture of gratitude. “I’ll move some of my things out the back of my van. I’ve got sleeping bags, bedding.” A thought occurred. “Is there somewhere I can hide the van itself?”

“You can park it around the back.” Jewel said, before she sniggered. “You’re better off scrapping it though. Let me guess, Tangle drove.”

Hey, Tangle was standing right there!

The laughter shared - even those quiet, whistley chuffs from Whisper, made Tangle so joyful! The emotions had been turbulent and she still had a ways to go - but at least, it felt like the old days. Tangle hated to admit, she was a very nostalgic person; she missed Jewel’s company. She even missed Whisper’s steady calmness. The wolf was like an anchor for her, during those Restoration days.

“Mommy?” A young voice chirped from way upstairs. Jewel instantly seized up, spinning around to the… tiny head of another beetle, this one a reddish-orange, duller in colour - but that face was all Jewel’s.

“Gio! Back to bed, sweetheart.”

The child ignored the instructions, instead battering his wings, and unsteadily floating down to their level.

The implication dawned on Tangle.

Oh. My. Gaia!

“You’re a Mom too?!”

Gio, Jewel’s son, nuzzled his way into his mother’s side. He didn’t look any older than five, but those bright peepers gazed up at the adults with a childish curiosity and buckets of awe.

However, Jewel looked frazzled, like her secret had been blown. “Yes, this is Gio… say hello Gio.”

The young beetle waved quickly, before latching back onto Jewel’s dressing gown. Tangle, stars abound in her expression, bent down to the kid’s level.

“Hi Gio! I’m Tangle, and this is Whisper!”

Gio lit up, suddenly, as if Tangle was some kind of trigger word for him. “Tangle? Auntie Tangle?”

A gawking lemur met her friend up halfway, before clamping a mouth over her mouth to stifle a squeeee. Gio, a lethal unit of cuteness, slid in for the kill, squeezing Tangle in a very polite hug. It was enough to K.O the lemur from adorableness.

“He knows all about you.” Jewel said. There was a definite motherly protectiveness in her now, especially towards the known bodycount of the duo. The older beetle had shifted over to block Whisper from direct interaction. The wolf, with dignity, despite being snubbed, took the hint and backed off. 

Jewel frowned, and thought better of it, gesturing Whisper to return, but still kept a careful watch on her child. Said child’s hand reached out to grasp at Whisper’s cheek fluff.

“Can I, Mom?” Gio was a very well-behaved young man, Tangle had to note. She always knew that Jewel would be a stellar parent, and the evidence lay before her. Unimpeachable.

“Only if Whisper is okay with it.”

That answer meant nothing in the grand scheme of things, as, without waiting for permission, Gio went straight into hug Whisper too. He wasn’t scared. To Gio, Whisper was as innocent as innocent could be.

“You’re very soft, Ms. Whisper.” Gio stuttered, overwhelmed by the fleece.

Whisper bit a lip, holding herself back. She only had to glance at Jewel, who despite her hesitancy, gave her blessing.

The canine embraced the child right back, her arm’s clamping down with a careful tenderness. Tangle noticed the wet splotches of tears dribbling down Whisper’s face, her whole body shaking and trembling. Gio didn’t see her as anything more than a new face to greet, someone to unleash a bit of love onto. Young purity, uninhibited even in the presence of a woman corrupted by her own demons.

It must’ve been the first hug that Whisper received in forever, and she was unwilling to let it go so soon.

“Well. You’ve met my valuable.” Jewel smiled, much more at ease. “You might as well join us upstairs too.”

Chapter Text

Tangle forgot that Whisper snored. Like a damn earthquake, magnitude ten! Each snort rattled the crockery neatly lined up on the kitchen counter, shook the picture frames and single-handedly murdered any chances Tangle had of shuteye. The wolf draped herself across the sofa, wrapped up in a militaristic sleeping bag, with a speck of drool leaking from her agape snout. She did not look peaceful in slumber; she looked borderline cartoonish. But that was… kinda sweet? Tangle mused to herself as she watched whom she previously called her love. She wouldn’t have guessed that this was the same girl who delivered nothing but sorrow onto herself, and everyone else.

The advantage of being bright (tired) eyed and bushy (greasy) tailed was it gave the lemur the opportunity to snoop. The living room had many secrets to find. She spied a wedding portrait of Jewel and a grasshopper: Jasper. What a catch! Handsome, in a nerdy way. Their antennas were twirled together as they kissed. Further along lay another picture, of baby Gio, smiling shyly at the camera. Adorbz. There even was a photograph of herself, featuring Tangle and Jewel pressed into a cheek-to-cheek hug, knee high in the ocean. With a start, Tangle realised it to be the same photograph that she’d taped to her mirror, way back in Central City.

Jewel was never that far away, it seemed.

Otherwise, precious gemstones in cases. A pink salt lamp; Tangle would be flabbergasted if Jewel didn’t own one of those. There were many diagrams, demonstrating the chemical make-ups of different minerals, hung about the wall. A bookshelf, containing fairy-tale stories, and academic papers written by one Jasper the Grasshopper, with a foreword from Jewel – too cute. In the corner, a filing cabinet collected dust. Within it, Tangle discovered tonnes of Restoration paperwork that her friend had squirrelled away.

A thought panged her… but hesitancy stopped her search.

Should she?

Reluctantly, the lemur flicked through to ‘W’. ‘Whisper the Wolf’. Front and centre, slotted neatly, was the casefile on the… incident. Tangle glanced back at the canine, who still snorkelled through her saliva. It felt a bit violating to peek, but at the same time? Reality, as it existed, violated common sense.

Most of the accounts were written up by unknown investigators. Ralston the Tiger, Shonee the Retriever – ‘Joe Police’ and ‘Peter Detective’. The victim’s name was, bizarrely, redacted, and the autopsy itself? Very spotty. Tangle found her own testimony – pretty much three ellipses and a dial tone. Eesh, not her finest hour.

Lanolin’s statement was well put together and strong-willed, despite being delivered from a hospital bed - bearing a knee melted into its own socket. Then came the play by play of the day in question; Tangle turned her nose up in revulsion. There were barely any details surrounding the events. A whole lot of ‘we believe’ and ‘sources say’, but no concrete facts. It occurred to her, however, that Tangle was the only person who could’ve told the entire story. She endured every torturous second, whilst the other two present either ran away, or… well- died.

Tangle slipped the file back into place, making sure to wipe the DNA evidence off with her tail (a completely pointless endeavour), and sighed to herself. No wonder the Restoration fell apart. Tangle refused to speak out, utterly rocked by despair and submerged in a non-verbal malaise. There was nothing else Jewel could do but resign. Somewhere, Tangle had read the next Director dissolved the entire organisation, so chalk that up as another thing to blame the lemur for.

And, unfortunately, Whisper too. But… at least the wolf knew she’d done wrong; self-aware enough to experience remorse. That put her leaps and bounds above Eggman, Starline, Mimic, Hoyt… and that dangling complication flip-flopped Tangle’s reason. She desperately wanted to forgive… but, even as relatively normal the circumstances now were, Whisper still betrayed her that day. Not to mention the body-count. Unfathomable.

It felt a bit odd waltzing around Jewel’s sitting room in nothing but a vest and boxers, so Tangle decided she was hungry. Not that the ravages of starvation ailed her, she… just didn’t want to be in the same room as Whisper. It was too painful. Even if sleeping Whisper was, quite frankly, hilarious.

She shut the kitchen door behind her with a soft click. The curtains flapped in the wind, privying Tangle to a wonderful view of the sun slowly rising over the horizon. Rolling hills, dotted by the odd tree, illuminated by a gorgeous orange glow. It painted the entire room in a vibrant, citrus light.

“Seriously Tangle, you need a shower.”

Tangle’s tail frizzed up as she swivelling around to loosely kick at the sudden intrusion. Jewel sat at the table, steaming mug of tea wafting by her side. It appeared she never retired back to bed; she wore the same dressing gown and slippers, as she tapped away on a laptop. Work, perhaps?

“Jeez Jewel, don’t scare me like that!”

Jewel snorted. “It’s my house, I can do whatever I want.”

“That… is true!” Tangle grinned. “You’ve made a lovely home for yourself. Thank you again by the way.”

“Don’t mention it…” The beetle took a sip of her beverage, before her smile faded away. What’s more, she glanced at her laptop and prepared herself. Tangle knew that look… her stomach began to sink.

“With respect, I had to do my due diligence.” Jewel murmured, before turning her laptop screen towards Tangle. “Were you planning to tell me about this?”

The lemur leaned across the table to read the fine print. She wished she hadn’t, as the dreadful wash of resignation twisted her heart in knots.

It was a newspaper article, with the picture of a young kingsnake, greyed out in memoriam. The headline read ‘THE HARBINGER KILLS AGAIN, CORRUPT EXECUTIVE ASSASSINATED IN HER OWN OFFICE!’. Jewel scrolled the mouse down a couple of ticks, revealing a police sketch of a wolf. Almost Whisper… but off by a hair. Small mercies.

Tangle swallowed, mouth dry. Her vision tightened, Jewel suddenly feeling eons away from her, as she tried to think of some decent excuse. The light at the end of the tunnel seemed very dim indeed. Tangle had nada, nary an explanation on why she ran with Harbinger, after everything that occurred. She’d done wrong by Jewel, and she’d done wrong by little Gio especially. Reckless endangerment, thy name is Tangle.

“I’m sorry.” Tangle winced. “We’ll pack our things up and get out of your hair. You didn’t agree to harbour an assassin and her dirtbag ally.”

“Did I say that? You can stay.” Jewel answered, confused.

Tangle, equally confused, stuttered to herself, trying to find any answer that rectified the inconsistency. Momma beetle, defend your son!

“But Gio.”

Jewel considered to herself for a second. “Whisper isn’t going to hurt Gio. She doesn’t have it in her. I can tell.”

“I mean- yeah, I agree. B-but she’s…” Tangle lowered her voice to a hiss, as to not wake the wolf in the next room over. “She’s a murderer. Straight up. Like, I’m not okay with it, and I’ve dropped the vendetta. How can you be so blase?”

“I’m not okay with it.” Jewel said, matter-of-factly. “Heaven only knows I’ve thought this over very carefully. And so far, from what I’ve seen of her… I feel safe. Tad uncomfortable, maybe, but safe.”

“…I guess, but still-”

“Tangle, you make it sound like you want me to kick you out. I’m well-aware she’s… done some very bad things. I still said yes. Partially because you trust her enough to commit to whatever it is that you’re doing.” 

After another sip of Earl Grey, Jewel’s wings battered in absent-thought. “What are you doing?”

“Dismantling a crime syndicate.” Tangle threw the answer away like it was nothing.

The beetle blinkered for a second, before getting up and twizzling the faucet on. Her attention remained transfixed on Tangle as she filled up her kettle. “That has to mean something, right? That’s unequivocally good.”

“Lanolin doesn’t think so. Lanolin wants me in chains, pickaxing boulders, ‘cuz I roughed up some scumbag wisp traffickers.”

Jewel set an extra teacup down in front of Tangle. The tinkle of ceramic brought forth memories of time spent together in the Restoration head office.

“With all my love to Lanolin, she is the most blatantly black and white puritan I know.” Jewel snickered, and started pouring. “She’d have an aneurysm if she found out I dared to have this conversation… maybe appropriately so, but regardless. If you feel secure in Whisper’s presence, then so do I. I trust your judgement.”

Tangle focused in on the boiling water splashing against her teabag, aromatic brown liquid filling up to brim. The steam singed her eyebrows. It soothed her.

“You are such a contradiction sometimes, Jewel.” Tangle chuckled to herself. The tea was sweet on her taste-buds, if a bit scalding. “As soon as I saw that kid, I thought we were through. But I’m grateful you believe in me, despite… Y’know.”

“Clamming up? Disappearing for eight years? Not saying goodbye? Dropping in with Whisper? The mullet? You’re the contradiction, Tangle.” Jewel’s words were pointed, prodding, but her smile gave away that it was friendly banter. Friendly banter that hit too close to home. Tangle’s ears tapered.

“I’ve never had the chance to apologise to you… as the Restoration Director, you ended up kicked into flames, and I kept quiet as you burned.”

“Oh, charming.” Jewel interjected with a giggle. “I don’t know if dirt has muddied your eyesight, but I’m pretty sure I’m still here.”

“Har-har. No, but in all seriousness. I’m sorry. I was so wrapped up in myself that I neglected to support you.”

Jewel gracefully nodded. “Apology accepted. And, for what it’s worth, you were dealing with so much… witnessing a man die at the hands of your own partner. I wish I could’ve supported you.”

Tangle pivoted right back into glugging hot tea, anything to avoid those unpleasant memories. Don’t get her wrong, she was eternally thankful for Jewel’s hospitality, but something just didn’t sit well in her stomach. Beyond a weird protectiveness that arose since Gio called her Auntie, and how calm Jewel was in the face of a killer…

A repentant, self-loathing, very familiar, killer.

“I got nasty when I first reunited with Whisper. All I could see was a beast who… Gaia, it was terrible, Jewel. The blood, the sound, the smell, it’s all I could remember her by. It annihilated my girlfriend; in my memories, in my thoughts. This monster was the only thing that remained. And I hated the creature so damn much!”

Jewel spun her teaspoon in neat, little circles. Coaxing, but on Tangle’s tempo. Her question was hushed, a tinkling stream washing away her friend’s burdens.

“But?”

“But, I was wrong. She’s not a monster. She’s just… Whisper. Same person, different lenses.” Tangle swallowed some tea, still slightly too hot - it singed her throat. “And I don’t know how to feel about that. How can I reconcile the death and destruction, with the girl I love? The one who never left? If I move past that day… doesn’t it do every last one of us a disservice? Especially him?”

The beetle hummed. Distant. She stared out her window at the sun, now half-mast past the tree line. The peaceful orange light stayed its course.

“I don’t know Tangle. I wasn’t there. It’s something you have to decide for yourself.”

Then, Jewel frowned, as if her tea contained something unexpectedly crunchy. A tentative idea must’ve popped into her head, since she measurably leaned forward to query.

“Maybe I can help if you tell me what happened. Spare no detail.”

Tangle hitched her breath. Bile churned. “I can’t…”

“You don’t have to. Just a thought. It’s only that you’ve carried the weight on your shoulders, alone, for ten years, Tangle. Sharing might lighten the load.”

Closing her eyes, Tangle rubbed at her sockets… and met Jewel’s gaze. In it, she saw no urgency, no probing; simply a friend concerned for a friend. Tangle felt very silly. Why had she wasted those years, separate from her bestie, when a talk might’ve been all she required? A decade spent in a funk, for what?

Can’t expect Tangle the Lemur to be logical. 

The lemur plucked up her courage, shocked she even needed to. Facing down gangsters? Done and done. Climbing towers? A fun time. Recounting a story?

Petrifying.

“Okay. I’ll tell you. But only if you’re ready? I could accidentally change your mind about Whisper.”

“Or maybe l’ll finally see what you see.” Jewel gently said. “I’m all ears, Tangle.” 

The room had a newfound chill to it, so Tangle clasped the mug close to her chest. Her heart pounded, louder than any snore or child’s cry fathomable.

“I thought it’d be a normal day…”

As far as Tangle could be concerned, it was a pretty normal day. The sun gleamed through the skyroof, and the floor below thrummed with excited energy. From the Diamond Cutter office window, it seemed as if nothing could go wrong. The picture-perfect Restoration a-bustled!

So far, Tangle sat alone. Whisper was a late-riser, so her absence surprised no-one. Lanolin had some paperwork to complete. The lemur, in a very charitable mood, even offered to help.

“What, so I have to do it all over again?” was Lanolin’s reply. Not even the sheep’s grumpy attitude deterred Tangle; but hey-ho, if it meant skipping out on boredom with a pen for boredom in a pen? She’d take it. Being cooped up in the office was much better than being trapped in the grasp of standard process and bureaucracy.

Even Duo hadn’t shown up yet, which bewildered Tangle. Usually, he made a point to be prompt, on-time, chirpy and ready to go. A feline after her own heart. Initially, he’d been kinda of a drain for her - like he intruded on something special she, Whisper and Lanolin created. At the same time, he’d proved himself willing to throw down, and so his presence grew on the lemur. On rare occasions, they’d chat about nothing in particular. Sometimes, he’d even ask after Whisper. If it was an attempt to form a harem, it came across as particularly bone-headed. In an endearing way.

Still, the answer was no!

Tangle tried out different tail-yoga poses, as she waited for her comrades in arms. Her appendage proved to be adept at balancing in ‘tree-pose’ (lying on her back so her arms, legs and pompadour drooped like a willow). Once that got dull, she counted the individual lights, above her, until her corneas burnt with technicolour blobs.

Ooh, she could check in on Jewel? Or, actually… no, she shouldn’t. Besides the fact her visit would be when Lanolin inevitably put in an appearance, the honourable director was in an important meeting! With a business dude, big coat, green fur. Weird vibes. ‘C.O’ - as per the visitor book. The notion of annoying her bestie drifted out of her mind, instead transfixed on pressing the buttons on the microwave. ‘0001’, ‘0002’, ‘0003’.

“Where’s Duo?”

Whisper’s voice snuck into Tangle's ear, jolting her from ‘0004’. The wolf slammed the door behind her, looking very tense.

…More tense than normal. Her girl had no chill. And she loved her for it! Always vigilantly protecting her, keeping a watch for danger-

“Tangle.”

The lemur hadn’t realised she’d pulled her girlfriend into an embrace. She couldn’t help it; so fluffy! Eventually, she let her go - typically content to receive a bashful blush and maybe… maybe a lil’ peck. But Whisper’s eyes were wide open, her irises burning with an icy focus. She ignored all affection lathered upon her, cluing Tangle in something was seriously off.

“Have you seen Duo?” Whisper repeated.

“Uh… no Whisp, just me and my thoughts.” Tangle scratched her head. Whisper wasn’t that close with the cat. She’d confessed one night that he reminded her too much of Slinger, and she ‘felt like she was talking to a zombie’.

Immediately, Whisper swivelled on her foot and marched back towards the hallway, her cloak fluttering open like a blossom. It was then Tangle noticed her wispon was armed. Tangle quickly nabbed the canine with her tail and pulled her shoulder back. Perhaps the wrong move, as the lemur dodged a gnashing jaw.

“What?” Whisper suddenly lashed out, snarling and flashing her fangs. “What do you want?”

Tangle took an unconscious step back. Whisper never snapped. Never, never.

“Uh.” The lemur nervously chuckled. “What’s… got you in a mood?”

The wolf stared for a moment, before she shook her head and pivoted in the direction of the door again, leaving Tangle feeling very cold. Cast-off. She considered leaving it, when five balls of light, the wisps, flew out from under Whisper’s coat to block their caretaker’s exit. Pink and Cyan folded their arms, like tiny bouncers, angrily reprimanding Whisper in a language no-one could understand. Only Blue seemed… non-irate. They nodded their head in Tangle’s direction, begging for her to be let in.

Tangle watched Whisper’s ponytail shudder. A sigh left her partner’s muzzle, as she turned to Tangle with an uptight grunt.

“Promise me you won’t tell.”

“Is this about the make-out session on Lanolin’s desk, I told you - I ain’t proud of-”

“Not that!” Whisper blurted out. “It’s- I. Read this.”

A crumpled parchment got shoved in Tangle’s hands. The edges were torn by Whisper’s claws, but the scribbled note was legible.

‘You’ve been infiltrated. Duo is not to be trusted’.

Nobody had signed off on it, but it was written on official Restoration stationary. Tangle furrowed her brow, before screwing the note up and chucking it in the waste-basket. Whisper growled at her, immediately diving back to rummage about the bin.

Seeing her partner in such a state of distress upset Tangle greatly. She’d hoped to do that whole ‘compartmentalisation’ thingy, where you put the triggering thoughts in the garbage. Clearly, it didn’t work.

“It’s a prank Whisper. Not a particularly funny one.” It was the only explanation that seemed logical to the lemur. Though, the only snag was that she couldn’t think of anybody who’d be so cruel to her beloved Whisper.

“It’s not a prank.” Whisper panickedly smoothed out the creases, before pressing the note deep into her chest. “I… he could be… what if he’s…”

Don’t say it. Don’t say his name.

“Mimic!” Whisper cried, hoarsely. So much agony came tied to that name. It stabbed frigid pin-pricks of repulsion across Tangle’s body each and every time the bastard’s name was uttered. It made her want to cry, but she couldn’t. She needed to be strong for Whisper.

“Whisper. Look at me.” Tangle attempted to cup her girlfriend’s cheek. Whisper wriggled out of their clasp. “Look at me.”

She tried firm. She tried caring. But Whisper was always unreachable in such a state. Frenzied fear and infernal fury battled across her features, when they should be calm and unblemished. Whisper was so pretty, but that serenity ended up ravaged by the tentacles of that evil, evil man.

So, Tangle shot for the tried and true.

“He’s not here Whisper. It’s some jerkoff messing with you. Hey, I’ll find out who it is, and I’ll kick their butt myself. Then we’ll expel them from the Restoration, and I’ll find a movie. One of those spy flicks you enjoy, ‘kay? We’ll cuddle, and you can forget about that crusty calamari douchebag.”

“What if he hurts you?”

Tangle stalled on the spot. The wolf’s gaze was so full of terror for Tangle, that she yanked her stripy girlfriend’s head in close, and clutched it against her heart. A bulwark, protecting the lemur from any errant bullets or stray blades.

“He’s not- he’s not going to-” Tangle faltered and floundered. She could sense how Whisper shivered. Then, a stillness; a tremor of finality. Tangle glanced upwards to witness tears flow from the corners of Whisper’s eyes. Pure love radiated from her resigned smile; from her shining, wet pupils. She teetered on the precipice of something.

“Mmph?!”

Whisper pulled Tangle into a passionate kiss. It was soft, yet vigorous, the wolf’s gloves holding onto the lemur for dear life. With her eyes wide open from the shock, Tangle didn’t exactly kiss her back. Unexpected gestures of affection didn’t tend to have a page in Whisper’s book of courting. Still, Tangle took it in with a shy firmness.

Eventually, Whisper withdrew and rested her forehead against the grey primate. Tangle, turned a blushy mess, didn’t have the wherewithal to console Whisper, when the canine whimpered quietly.

“I love you.” Whisper vowed. “And I won’t let him hurt you.”

Just like that, she sprinted out of the door. Tangle didn’t have a chance to yell for her to stop, to wait.

The lemur stumbled down the staircase, gliding over every other step in her rush. Settling down onto the Restoration’s main plaza, she caught her breath. Whisper couldn’t be seen in the crowd, or lurking in any of the shadowy awnings, or within the shrubbage. Fifty-fifty chance that either the wolf was still too stealthy for her partner to locate, or Tangle arrived early. Skipping balconies via skillful tail lassoing had its advantages.

In the distance, Lanolin carried a stack of papers, avoiding the various groups of people. A second, tilting tower wobbled next to her. The purple legs struggling underneath gave Duo away, helping out where he could.

Thank Gaia. Tangle sprinted her towards the two, comprehending a bit too late that her speed to momentum ratio derailed out of whack.

BUMPF!

Papers went flying out and away from Lanolin, the sheep landing on her rear tail. Duo didn’t fare much better, losing his balance and tilting backwards, whilst his paper skyscraper demolished itself. Tangle gasped, and tried to nab what she could; it didn’t spare her from a patented Lanolin scowl.

“What the heck Tangle! I just sorted these out-”

“Someone’s rattled Whisper - she’s gone doo-lally crazy!” Tangle blubbered out, stopping the hard-lesson before it even started. Duo steadily got to his feet, nursing his forehead with an aimless grin.

“But Whisper’s so stoic! There’s no way she’d lose her cool!” He happily yapped, shifting through sheets in the meantime.

“You’re her girlfriend, Tangle.” Lanolin muttered, as she too brushed herself off. “Go kiss her or something. Hell, you suck each others’ tongues out on my time anyway, so why are you bothering me with this now?”

Internally, Tangle groused at the dismissal. Don’t tell me how to relationship, Lan! But there was a time and a place to beef with her co-worker.

“No no! It’s…” Tangle gulped, shifting a quick peek over at Duo. He wasn’t any the wiser. “It’s a M.I.M.I.C situation.”

The cat briefly shivered, but regained his cool soon enough. Meanwhile, Lanolin opted to roll her eyes. It absolutely infuriated Tangle.

“Mimic?”

Tangle nodded vigorously, as Duo twiddled his thumbs, expecting a backstory dump. Not that Tangle believed he should be privy to such sensitive information.

Apparently, Lanolin did.

“He’s a shapeshifter, Duo. Whisper hates his guts, and keeps thinking any random schmo is actually trying to murder her.”

“For a very good reason!” Tangle growled. See, this. This right here. This is why she didn’t trust Lanolin with her secrets.

Lanolin shrugged her shoulders. “Well, if you enlightened me on what this ‘very good reason’ is, maybe I could help some more. Because, from where I stand, she looks paranoid.”

Yeah, because Mimic killed her friends and family! Tangle had to bite her tongue, focus on the task at hand.

“Listen, somebody’s got it in her head that Duo is Mimic. There’s this note, and Whisper worked herself up over it and-”

She clammed up for a second. Doubting Whisper seemed like such a betrayal, but she’d just seen how erratic the wolf had become. Frankly, Tangle didn’t know how far she’d go, and she didn’t want to find out either.

“I’m worried she might do something rash.” The lemur stuttered.  

Lanolin pondered, appearing much more serious than before. “I see.”

“I can go hide for a while.” Duo assured, bouncing from one foot to another. He looked ready to bolt at a moment’s notice. “Whilst you calm her down?”

“Sure, I’d love nothing more, if I can even find her.”

A rustle emerged from the bushes, Whisper slinking out like a damn wraith, as if heeding her girlfriend’s summons. For what was traditionally a sign of safety, her mask’s singular eye glowed menacingly. With the wispon in her grasp, she dragged it across the floor with an agonising scraaape.

“Blow my cover, why don’t you… thank you Tangle.” The wolf muttered under her breath. Frigidly unemotional. 

“Whisper.” Lanolin greeted, flatly. “Want to explain what’s upset you so much, because your girlfriend isn’t making much sense.”

Whisper completely ignored her higher-up, too busy concentrating on Duo. Gone was the pep, instead he quaked in his boots. “Hey, Whisper… I was just heading off.”

“Why leave so soon, Duo? Why flee if you’ve got nothing to hide?” Whisper’s voice was low and threatening. In the five minutes since Tangle saw her last, it was like a switch had been flipped. No love, no compassion, just a machine.

Duo backpedalled away, freaking out. “La-Lanolin… Do something!”

Lanolin immediately sidled her way in front of the cat, arm stretched out to save him from a would-be predator. At the same time, Tangle knew where her priorities lay, running up to her girlfriend to also body-block. She reached a hand around the barrel of the wispon - it was hot and primed - and pushed it down into harmless territory.

“Whisper. Take a breath. Let’s talk about this-”

“NO.”

The strained roar shook the entire plaza. On-goers stopped to rubberneck. Such a noise from Whisper was unheard of. Behind a mask, Tangle couldn’t tell what her love felt, even as the wolf’s head turned towards her almost robotically.

“I’m tired of the uncertainty. It’s him. I know it’s him.” Whisper’s iron focus returned to Duo. “I smell the fear. Mimic reeks of it. And so. Does. He.”

She punctuated each bitter snarl with a twist of the nozzle, a click of a valve, and a chambered energy being loaded.

Tangle shook her head, chief negotiator. “That’s your intrusive thoughts winning, Whisp. You’ve…” She lowered her volume, attempting to be tender. “You’ve armed your gun, baby. Of course he’s gonna crap-”

“Chaos, this is ridiculous.” Lanolin faltered, shattering the tenuous peace. “What’s your evidence, Whisper? A note? Get a hold of yourself! We’re soldiers, you can’t-”

“You are not a soldier! I am!” Whisper growled. “You’re a secretary dressed in camo, ordering me about without a clue on what it’s like to truly suffer. To lose everything you ever cared about!”

Lanolin scoffed, matching the canine with a nasty grimace. That had to have stung, but Tangle didn’t worry too hard. The sheep built herself up into a tough gal, she’d get past it.

In fact, the insult coasted across the lemur’s head, since she’d been sniped by a different kind of barb.

No, a part of Tangle’s heart ached at Whisper’s words… because she stood right there, right next to her! Whisper hadn’t lost everything! But Tangle understood it to be just words. Words could hurt, and words could heal.

“Whisper, listen to me-” she began. 

For naught. The wolf ripped Tangle off of her, like a violent, vicious animal. Her wispon tilted up, pointed directly at the quivering cat. He shrunk behind Lanolin, who stood steadfast, lording over the canine. Their leader’s sneer was a mixture of disdain and disappointment; antagonising. Tangle’s blood pumped, thumping against her temple… Whisper would not take it well. She’d been frosty to Lanolin on the best of days.

Yet, even though thoughts of leaping into the fray hopped about her brain, Tangle couldn’t move. She was mesmerised by the disaster unfurling before her.

“Move aside.” Whisper ordered, her aim steady.

“No. Stand down.” Lanolin barked. She didn’t move. “Or else.”

The world stopped revolving. Time stood frozen. The sun’s gleam blinded Tangle to the scene, the heat stickied in the air. No one spoke. Not a sound slipped out.

Whisper jerked her gun downwards.

BANG.

A cyan screech of light erupted from the wispon, striking into Lanolin’s knee. The stench of burning wool, of cauterised blood, of smoke and gunpowder, reached Tangle’s nostrils. For a moment, Lanolin remained upright, though not without a look of pure, flinching shock blistering her features. Tangle’s attention travelled downwards, and she almost vomited at the sight. Orange embers curled around where Lanolin’s kneecap should be - caked with a black crust of… flesh? Burnt skin? Vapourisation formed a cavity, and bone melted into the wound.

Then, a piercing scream. Tangle couldn’t pinpoint exactly where it came from, but sudden chaos descended upon the plaza. Volunteers ran for their lives, doors shuttered, grates came crashing down.

Lanolin twitched on the spot, faint. “You shot me…? Whisper… you- you shot me.”

She crumpled like a sack of meat, thudding onto the floor.

Cyan un-imbued Whisper’s gun, the wisp staring at the carnage before them with pure horror. Their appendages shook, shielding their eyes, horrified by what they’d done; unable to even comprehend the sizzle and hiss of the bubbling gape.

Whisper wasted no time. Duo scurried across the tiles, but he was no match for the wolf’s relentless, stomping approach. Tangle attempted to reach out to her girlfriend… but her legs felt like goo, melting into the floor; a slurry of intent stifled by the- She cried out in disbelief. Her vision swam and bobbed, her skeleton reeling as if a grenade exploded next to her.

The wolf yanked Duo back by the scruff of his scarf, and dragged him kicking and screaming back into the undergrowth. He gargled, strangled by the chokehold, but his eyes met Tangle’s. Begging for rescue.

As she finally managed to reach her feet, Tangle pawed her way across the brick wall, following after her wolf. She didn’t know who she was rescuing at this point… a dull ache thrummed across her being; the cacophony merged into a tinny buzz. The only sound that cut through the droning, pounding hum, was the choked cries of Duo, and the teary, heaving gasps of Whisper.

Tangle vaulted into the unknown. The foliage coaxed around her like hooded judges, rustling upon the edge of an act that would shatter worlds.

Swatting away the last of the palm leaves, Tangle burst out of the green and into the dingy, maintenance annex. Gardening tools leaned against the dirty walls, stabbed into bags of mulch; numerous, and endless. A sea of weaponry scattering the aftermath of a battlefield. The beams of sunlight were stifled by the leaves, allowing only the fuzzy flicker of cheap fluorescents to illuminate the concrete overhang.

Whisper panted with exertion, her cloak hunching up and down. Her silhouette read as monstrous, baked and bleached in pale light. Duo, for a second, wrinkled his nose in disdain, but that quickly dissipated once Tangle entered. Panic swiftly replaced it.

“Tangle! Help me!” The butt of a wispon slammed into his jaw, sending him peeling into the wall.

“Keep quiet.” Whisper hissed into his ear, shanking the barrel tip into his chest. He raised a hand to object… but his glove shook, and eventually fell. The wolf, keeping him pinned, turned her head to Tangle. At last, acknowledged. 

“Walk away, Tangle.”

“No.” Tangle stepped forward. “No, I can’t, Whisper. Let him go, and we’ll- we’ll talk.”

Whisper chuckled, lightly and forlornly. “In for a penny, my love. I…” She glanced inwards, guiltily. “I shot Lanolin.”

“Lanolin…” Tangle repeated, reeling from the image. Her poor leader. No matter how they butted heads, they were friends. “She did not deserve that, Whisper.”

“I know.” Despite the mask, Tangle sensed her vision hardening. “He does, though.” The barrel pressed firmer into Duo’s torso. “If he’d just drop the act, we could skip the speculation and head right to the execution.”

Duo swallowed. He stammered out curt syllables in dread. “Exe-Ex-Execution?!”

Tangle took another step forward. Whisper didn’t react.

“No execution, Whisper. Even if he is Mimic, which he is not-”

“How are you so certain?”

“It doesn’t matter.” Tangle challenged her. Firm. It rattled the wolf ever-so-impercitably. “He is, he isn’t, it makes no difference. You’re talking about cold-blooded murder, Whisper. And- and I can’t allow it.”

Whisper craned her neck, rolling it towards the heavens. “Why? Because he deserves amnesty? That him ruthlessly selling out my family somehow warrants him a cell, with a bed and bookshelf and three meals a day?”

Tears began to well up in the lemur’s eyes. How could Whisper be so blind? So foolish? “No, idiot! Because I love you!”

That stirred something within Whisper… she reached up, and delicately removed her mask. Upon that face burned bewilderment, her own tears beginning to mat the silky white around her lashes.

“Because…” Tangle tripped over her words. “If you do this, you’ll have to live with it for the rest of your life. And I know what’ll happen. You’ll agonise, you’ll hate yourself and… and I love you too much for you to inflict that upon yourself!”

She threw a hand out to Duo, illustrating the point. “He’s an innocent man, Whispy. Don’t do it, don’t throw everything away. Don’t choose Mimic. Don’t let him win.”

Whisper’s snout tilted down to the floor, her expression scrunched up in deep, deep thought. Finally, she spoke.

“Counterpoint…”

“Whisper, no.”

“One kill is all it takes. One bullet, one life. The life of a murderer - the scales are more than balanced.” The wolf’s muzzle twitched and stirred, the gravity of the words playing havoc in her mouth. She sounded tiny, and small. “Then… I’m finally free. We’re finally free from his insidious stalking. His constant, looming shadow. I’m exhausted, Tangle. Always checking over my shoulders, scared he’ll hurt you.”

She sucked in a breath. “It ends now. Because it is him, and I can prove it.”

“Whisper.” Tangle forced a desperate plea out. It felt like autopilot - and she long tossed the manual. “It’s him or me.”

The wolf stopped dead in her tracks, staring woundedly at her girlfriend. Tangle stared right back, pinpricks shaken with emotion, the details blurry from the salty liquid.

“It’ll be for nothing.” Tangle pleaded, desperate that this would be the one hail mary that’ll get the love of her life seeing straight instead of red. “Don’t do it. Please! Please, please… don’t do it.”

Whisper looked away, then back at Tangle. The smile was half-cocked and wistful, a fang poking out.

“You’ll see.”

The wispon lit up with a pink hue, as Whisper spun and clenched the rifle to her shoulder. The telltale sound of the motor whirring screeched out.

“WHISPER NO-”

Duo himself recoiled. “NOT LIKE THI-”

BANG!

A singular spike penetrated his forehead, the sheer force ratcheting him backwards. THUD. A sickening squelchy crunch echoed throughout the hall - as a blossom of sanguine red splattered across white. Duo’s eyes opened wide with surprise, but there existed nothing behind them. He seized up… and slowly, he slid to the side and crumbled away. Dust billowed once the dead weight slapped against ceramic. Then, silence.

Silence… except the drip, drip, drip of leaking blood.

Tangle’s hands hovered between clamping over her mouth, and covering her stomach to wretch. Her jaw hung open, pressure building in her throat - desperate to scream, to wail in agony. Nothing came out but a breathy squeak.

Whisper had soaked herself in blood. It stained her fur and clothes. Despite that, she wore a serene expression, like shackles had been lifted off her neck. 

“Just watch.” She hummed. “He’ll change back.”

Tangle shook her head, unable to wrench her eyes away from the corpse.

“No. No, no, no, no…” She repeated the mantra over and over, praying for some sort of do over. The only rhythm the universe provided was that incessant drip, drip, drip.

The wisp floated out of their capsules. When did they leave? Who’s to say. Each stared blankly ahead - except Pink, who curled into themself, trying to ignore the harsh reality.

Whisper’s face dropped further and further. “He’ll change back…” The confidence disappeared… doubt clouded around her.

“Please. Change back.” She asked, politely.

Duo declined.

The wolf’s arms flopped out, and dangled limply at her side… The animation rushed out of her. She met Tangle’s gaze, meanderingly, as if she waltzed through a dream.

“I…” She trailed off, appearing more bewildered than anything else. Sniffing once, wiping her nose of red, she approached Tangle; gingerly, palm outstretched ready to console the panicking lemur-

“Stay away from me!” Tangle swatted Whisper’s hand, leading the wolf to withdraw. The lemur shuffled backwards, her heart hammering in time to the drip, drip, drip.

“Tangle…” Whisper’s soul crashed back into her body… she stared at her damp, crimson gloves. “Tangle, I…”

Tangle never noticed how sharp Whisper’s teeth were, how her deadly claws could shred flesh, how her jaw just waited to clamp down around her neck. A predator; she was prey.

For the first time in her life, Tangle understood what undiluted, uncompromising terror felt like. Her fur prickled, her tail wrapped around her body, her legs gave up the ghost. Whoever this figure was before her, it tormented her. An endless void swirled where once stirred love, and it snaked its vile clutches under her skin.

“Don’t hurt me…” Tangle whispered to the beast.

The beast opened its mouth to titter sweet nothings, swaying on the edge of comfort, but ultimately… it retreated away. Its blue irises glazed over, utter misery stealing away whatever triumph arose from its kill.

“I’d never hurt you…”

A lie.

Tangle grasped her head in her hands, praying upon whatever higher powers that be for the monster to just leave her alone. She couldn’t bear to even look at it. She wanted it gone.

Eventually, heavy, weighty boots began to slink away. Unsteady and off-beat, dazed. Tangle no longer sensed its presence, and she felt stifling relief for it.

She lay there, numb to everything except that constant drip. Locked up, a prisoner to her own atrophy, she waited for a couple of minutes, or hours, or years. At some point, someone found her and her good friend Duo… but Whisper had since departed.

Only when she was hoisted into the sturdy grip of a crocodile and carried away from the grizzly scene; only then… did she comprehend what she had lost.

Tangle sobbed, for there was nothing else she could do.

As Tangle finished her recount, Jewel sunk back into her chair. The tea congealed over, for it had gone cold, the beetle too engaged to even waste her time drinking flavoured leaf water. The lemur, for her part, threaded her hands together. Story over. Exuberance left the building ages ago, Downcast took up the mantle for Tangle.

“Wow.” Jewel breathed lightly, hiding her mouth. “I had no idea… I-” She held back her warbling voice. “I can’t believe… Oh my Chaos, Tangle!”

She swept over to her side immediately, throwing her arms around her friend. Tangle didn’t reciprocate, she didn’t even lean in. Instead, she placed a listless hand on the nook of Jewel’s shoulder. That was enough.

“I wish you told me!” Jewel exclaimed, squishing her pearly cheek up into Tangle’s mullet.

Tangle smiled, indebted to her bestie, as always. “If I’m being honest, I suppressed it for years. It came flooding back one night, as I was trying to sleep.” She cast off an eyebrow raise, trying to act flippant. “Didn’t catch a wink.”

Jewel, reluctantly, released her. “To have that bottled up inside you for so long…” Her antennae slicked themselves back across her shiny carapace.

“Worst part is…” Tangle mused. “I still don’t understand why she shot Duo. Obviously, she thought he was Mimic, that isn’t the part that’s stumped me. More so… I poured my heart out to her, and I… and I… it meant zilch. For girlfriends, isn’t that like the deepest betrayal possible?”

“That’s not what it sounded like to me.” Jewel said, rubbing circles into the small of Tangle’s back. “Quite the opposite in fact.”

“What do you mean?”

“Well…” Jewel clearly rehearsed what she was saying before she vocalised it. “I think she pulled the trigger because she loved you, and she was too scared to lose you. I suppose… the risk was worth it to her.”

That gave Tangle pause. Briefly, her heart fluttered, but she quickly stamped it back down.

“So does that make it okay? Murdering an innocent man because he might’ve hurt me?” She queried.

“Oh Gaia, no.” Jewel demurred. “But it is a lesson I’ve learnt over the years. Sometimes… sometimes people do the worst things for the best reasons. Whether that nullifies the action, or has no bearing on it; that’s up to you.”

Tangle sat on that nugget of wisdom. Gaia, what would she do without Jewel?

…Run around aimlessly as a vigilante and end up in drunken fights at the bar. That answered that question rather swiftly.

Otherwise, the problem of Whisper still didn’t have a solution. Regardless of which direction she swayed, it clogged her throat with reflux, and gargled icky butterflies in her intestines. Forgiveness? Maybe not…

Acceptance, though?

Tangle barely obscured the smile crawling across her lips. The sun hung high in the sky, hours having passed since the initial sit down. Jewel, with a jump and a start, forgot that Gio had ‘Lil Spiral Sprites Soccer’ practice, dashing out to pull him out of his bed. (Tangle hoped it happened to be a racecar bed… for no reason.)

It left Tangle with some quiet, to ruminate to herself with. She felt strangely at peace. The flashing, traumatic memories of Duo’s corpse, and the bloody lupine beast gasping beside him, caused no fear. No panic.

Forgiveness? Or acceptance?

The answer eluded her, even as Whisper clumsily wandered her groggy way into the kitchen. Without her ponytail, her hair hung down her back; curls and flaps and wavy bits sticking out in random directions. She announced no greeting, bar the ding of the kettle, and the tinkle of coffee and sugar.

The wolf, mug in hand (for the No.1 Geologist - i.e not her), pointed a clawed finger next to Tangle. Permission to sit at the table?

Without even a moment of doubt, Tangle scooted over, allowing Whisper to clumsily plop herself down. Though, not without a tired groan! The drowsy wolf folded her arms, and rested her muzzle on top of it.

Tangle spotted her tail wagging. Whisper wasn’t so slick, she thought with a giggle.

No objections ran through the lemur’s head. She happily enjoyed the company of a sleepy, grumpy canine. The word ‘killer’ had, briefly, been erased from the dictionary.

“Have a shower, Tangle.”

“I’m gonna!”

Chapter Text

“Ms Surge, I really don’t think it’s wise to exert yourself so hard after your surgery.” Cream teetered off to the side, as ‘Ms Surge’ wound up her cybernetics. Hoisted up on the tenrec’s shoulder was a breaching ram and oh, how she yearned to put it to use. The electricity smoldering the air alone could power half of Central City. Not that one would necessarily need to; the light of late afternoon more than made up the difference. A hundred solar panels, or one supercharged tenrec?

“See me sweatin’ Flossy?” Surge growled. “Appreciate the concern but zip it. Let me concentrate.”

The bunny turned back to plead with Lanolin, who perched on the last step of Tangle’s grubby staircase. She’d thrusted her cane into the ground, like an old master would their spear. Her free hand defeated that aura, since she rested her chin off an elbow. Antsy, yet bored beyond hope. Praying that Tangle’s apartment bore fruit.

“Ma’am.” Cream insisted.

“Let her have this, Cream.” Lanolin sighed. “This isn’t any different to punching up your pillows when you’re mad.”

“Um. No? I talk to my family, and we figure out how we’re feeling.”

Oh lord. Lanolin bristled. Did this rabbit have a stripy bag of candy-coated solutions for all of the detective’s troubles? Shut up. So much misplaced disdain; she had to keep on reminding herself that everything Cream suggested came from a place of concern.

Didn’t make it any less annoying.

Surge, meanwhile, spun her arms round and round, building up lots of angry momentum. The loose sheet of scrap, that Tangle christened a door, wouldn’t stand a chance.

“SCREW YOU!” Surge howled at the inanimate object. Seconds later, she released the building riptide.

CRASH. The ram punctured the metal with a crisp, tinny snap, providing a swift hold for the officer to rip it off its hinges. Further abusing the poor door, Surge hurled it skywards, aimed at the alley wall. It clattered and twirled, until eventually, it rested still. The tenrec seemed exceedingly proud of herself.

“And stay down!” She snickered to herself, clapping her hand of the rusty tetanus she’d coated them with.

Huffing, Lanolin arose with some difficulty. “Who’d you imagine this time?”

Expecting an answer of ‘Vigilante’, or ‘Harbinger’, instead she got- “Stupid crab prick. And his stupid mask, and his stupid sword and stupid, stupid face…” Lanolin jolted as Surge kept parroting stupid this and stupid that, as her partner trudged her way into Tangle’s apartment.

The detective, eager to follow, set forward with a clack of her cane, when she felt herself yanked back into the concrete divot. Cream had grabbed her by the string of her trench-coat, and her face could conjure a thunderstorm. Which… slightly unnerved the sheep.

“Yes?” Lanolin rotated off her dead knee, bending down to Cream’s level. The bunny had crossed her arms in defiance, leaving Lanolin to guess whether or not her gesture was accidentally condescending or not.

“Stupid crab pri…” Cream caught herself. “Stupid crab dude?”

Lanolin bounced her eyes to the space which Surge once inhabited. The tenrec wrestled with many faults, chiefly including the lack of brain to mouth coordination. The sheep nervously gave as much confirmation as she could.

“Stupid crab dude.”

“Okay?” The snappy retort informed Lanolin that Cream believed jack. “Who is stupid crab dude? Why has he got Surge upset?”

Lanolin tilted her head, quickly formulating a lie in the time it took to appear as if she pondered the question. Cream observed better than initially thought; cotton might not be the only thing stuffed between her two temples.

“That was… Hoyt. He’s a detective in a different precinct.” Half truth, half lie? Lanolin, again, needed to work on her skills of misdirection. Maybe she could get a pointer or two from Whisper, after the gavel came crashing down on her skull.

Cream’s eyelid tweaked, irritated. “A detective? Different precinct? Then, I didn’t have to leave, did I?”

Crap. True.

“He swears like a sailor. Thought your mother wouldn’t approve.”

“Ma’am, we work with Surge.” Cream immediately racketed the lie back in Lanolin’s face, which began to show cracks. The awkwardness, the sudden attitude from a usually placid bun, the pretty definite way that Cream ran circles around her… Lanolin couldn’t help but cringe at herself. She never admitted she excelled at ‘mistruthing’.

With a hiss, Lanolin straightened up again. Her knee seared with pain; psycho-symptomatic, or over-exertion? It gave her something else to focus on, beside the hurt stare that Cream afflicted her with. That, somehow, burned worse than her injury.

“Let’s join Surge. I’ll teach you how to use an evidence baggy.” Lanolin nodded her head back towards Tangle’s filthy abode, taking a back stride in hopes of ending the interrogation.

“I know you’re lying to me, Lanolin.”

The sheep froze on the spot, but couldn’t stand to look back at the bunny. She suffered from a nasty pit in her gut, and it stabbed her like a stitch. Cream’s tone held steadiness, but it also coarsened with prying thorns.

“Something’s wrong with you. Running from Pa’s place, disobeying Grip, the crab man… it’s not normal. I don’t know whether you believe me to be some sort of imbecile, or whatever. Maybe I am stupid, but I’m not blind.”

Lanolin met her protege by hunching off her cane. She felt all the weaker for it. Part of her cursed that damn wolf for her current state, but the other side knew this was her own doing.

“Why would I ever think you're an imbecile? You’ve been an absolute powerhouse.” 

Flattery might work?

Cream stomped her foot, not out of petulance, but more so frustrations beginning to boil over. “Then stop misleading me! I want the truth, right now! Don’t blow me off, don’t side-step or bend it. Who was that man, what did he need? Else… why am I even here!?”

As the teenager caught her breath, Lanolin couldn’t help feeling slightly undermined. That was the boss in her speaking… and she understood how her abrasiveness tended to be a failure on her part. Spiky Lan was impenetrable by design, and she really didn’t like people slipping through her defences. Cream danced on their threshold, however. Acting prickly wouldn’t help, the rabbit would instantly clock it as a blatant charade. Trained too well by a certain sheep, hoisted from her own petard.

By that same token though… she wasn’t in a position to tell the truth.

At least… not the whole truth.

“You… understand what Whisper did to me, right?”

“Of course I do!” Cream snapped back, before withdrawing a tinge. “...Sorry. She’s responsible for your disability.”

Lanolin sagely nodded, before hoisting herself back down onto the steps. She brushed the dust off beside her, before patting the brickwork. Cream, calming herself down, accepted the invitation.

“I was content to just let Whisper rot in my memory. I could’ve spent my time chasing her… but a nagging notion told me I wouldn’t ever find myself anywhere near her again.”

Cream placed her hands on her lap. She listened attentively. Those ears weren’t purely aesthetic, after all. 

Lanolin continued. “I don’t even hate her for my knee. ‘Course, I don’t love her for it. I’m never running a marathon, I’m not climbing mountains, I can barely drive. I ended up barred from any further fieldwork. And that’s okay, I’ve made my peace with it; it might’ve not meant to be. But that’s not the problem.”

Lanolin blinked her gaze towards her shoes, dredging up a name she’d failed so badly. 

“Did you ever meet Duo?”

Cream shook her head.

“Figures. He wasn’t with us for long. But, he always had a joke up his sleeve, and an impeccable work ethic too. A little socially awkward, but it made him all the more endearing to me. And…” Lanolin choked up. “Whisper blew his brains out. Without any mercy, on a mere suspicion. She trusted this… note, more than me, more than her own friggin’ girlfriend; so, she murdered him and ran.”

Her fingers curled around her cane, gripping it, strangling it. “If I somehow could’ve stopped her, if I showed initiative and blasted her to kingdom come, maybe Duo would still be with us. I… can’t help but feel his death is partially my responsibility.”

Cream rolled a bucktooth over her lip. “You can’t change the past, ma’am.”

“True, but that’s why I’m dedicated to making certain Whisper faces a horrible future.” Lanolin said, darkly. “For Duo. I have that chance now.”

Cream shivered to herself. “By… putting her on trial?”

“Yes. On trial.” Lanolin murmured under her breath. “Tangle too. She should know better than anyone, yet she’s gone crawling back to Whisper. That makes her an accomplice after the fact, and privy to whatever punishment awaits her lover.”

It seemed the tension rattled Cream too much, as she quickly shifted away from the sheep and back into the stairwell. Her necktie twirled in knots around her thumb; her ears raised in mild alarm. Eventually, she swept a nervous hand through her brown hair-do.

“I… suppose that makes sense. At least, in regards to Grip. But… what about Hoyt?”

Lanolin raised her head to stare blankly at her apprentice, without mincing any words. Emphatic.

“A detective from another precinct. He swears like it’s going out of fashion, and I didn’t want you in his presence. That is it.”

Cream’s worry melted away. Instead, she squinted at her superior with a cold, inquisitive pout. Despite how it flustered Lanolin, she kept the eye contact ironclad and consistent. She wouldn’t be the first to balk, to give in to some little girl’s suspicions.

“I guess that is it.” Cream said. “Thanks for telling me.” With the sarcastic needle in tow, Cream marched into Tangle’s apartment. To do what, exactly? Lanolin hadn’t bestowed her any orders… but, at the very least, she guessed she’d won this round. Tip-toeing around Cream wouldn’t be easy, but she required all the manpower she could muster.

Solely to drag Whisper to justice, and avenge the numerous lives she’d ruined. Then, the rabbit would come to comprehend the elements at play.

In exchange for Cream, Surge stomped out to meet Lanolin again… which immediately reminded her of the  more pressing issue of Kit. That’s why she pursued Whisper; for the sake of an innocent caught in the crossfire. Not for thematic resolution; like Duo… her aligning interests were in the wrong place at the wrong time.

In the tenrec’s hand wiggled a flip phone, a replacement for the one she smashed at the Chaotix’s.

“Guess who.” Surge spat. Lanolin didn’t answer, just following up with a shrug. Ask dumb questions, win nothing answers.

Her partner rolled her eyes, before creasing up into a stressful grin. Loose bolts of light flickered around her, threatening to fry the phone.

“One Ms. Gloome the Jellyfish.” Surge royally introduced. “She has Kit on the line.”

Huh. If only actual detective work was so easy.

Kit truly held no clue as to where he currently resided. It’d been one burlap sack after another, briefly followed by having a knife held to his throat, before the burlap sacks returned with a vengeance. These thugs were hardly gentle either, despite how the purple jellyfish tried to soothe him. She sang Mina Mongoose to him, while he was tied up in a trunk.

His final destination seemed to be some sort of storage room. No windows - go figure - but there were solitary lighting strips lining the sleek skirting. It brought to mind his PC, the edgy fibre-glass aesthetic incredibly prevalent. Either he’d been kidnapped by a gamer, or a post-modern freak. Neither exactly striked him with fear, he’d flamed worse people in his FPS lobbies. That was neither here nor there.

What really unnerved him was how his abductors managed to checkmate him so totally. They were aware of his cybernetics, pressed a blade to the chink in his robotics, plus not a drop of water in sight. The cruelty outstanded him; the fox was parched.

There existed little to do but curl up in a ball, and wait. Wait for Surge to come save him.

He’d try himself, but… no. One small slip, and his entire dam of self-control would shatter. The notion terrified him - that he could rip and tear and annihilate with mere H20, or even his own hands. A feral monster bubbled within him, and not of his own volition. To indulge would be to admit that evil man - Starline - still had his filthy grip on his brain. The platypus already defiled his body and innocence; he would not let him take his mind.

Even if that meant fading away, in a tiny room, for eternity.

Kit hunched his knees up into his forehead, suppressing a sob. Except, he’d been drained bone dry; no tears came out. He missed Surge. He wanted a hug. He wished he’d gone to the dinner party; he’d be home again, safe and sound.

“Heya sweetie!”

Oh Gaia, not her.

Kit curled into himself even more. It strained his skeleton, but he’d be content to endure it until Gloome, his primary caretaker and resident ditz, left him the hell alone. One eye peeked out behind his bangs, spying how the mauve stinger lady held a tray in her bedazzled hands.

The scent of bacon and pancakes wafted under his nose… plus, orange juice? Liquid? Was she even dumber than he thought?

Gloome flashed a genuine smile, setting the tray down with a clink and clatter. “You looked hungry, so I thought I’d rustle up some grub for you!”

Kit focused on his citrus weapon… he could fashion it into a spear and thrust it into her vapid neck. If he could manage to pierce the numerous necklaces dangling, that is… The bigger hurdle came from within. His stomach grumbled, begging for sustenance! His throat felt as dry and coarse as a desert. Eventually, he snaked a hand around the cup, and took a deep swig. Sweet acidic nectar, and traditionally he fancied himself an apple juice kid.

“Thirsty?” Gloome giggled. Kit shot her the stink eye. What do you think?

“You can go now.” Kit mumbled, in between sips of fresh OJ, trying not to give away how refreshing it was. The bacon pancakes looked exceptionally appetising too, but like hell he planned to scarf them down in front of his captor. That right had been put aside for Surge, and Surge only.

“Aw. Don’t be like that. You needed some num-nums! Heck, Mr Nacci doesn’t even know I raided his pantry!” Gloome fiddled with her tentacles, plopping herself down in front of the fennec and crossing her legs. “I don’t like how nasty he can be. ‘Oh, staaaarve him, Gloome’ - Why, sir? - ‘Because I’m a moooobster, Gloome, I can’t be seeeen to feeeeed him, Gloome!’”

That elicited a sideways glance from her hostage, who perked his head up in confusion. Was she… was she having a conversation with herself?!

“Oh.” Kit whispered. “Thank you?”

“You are welcome!” Gloome beamed a sunshine ray that repulsed poor Kit… but not enough for him to cease tucking into the meal she’d prepared for him - out of the kindness of her heart? Minor suspicion aside… famished did what famished does.

The fox smacked and snacked away. The bacon tasted amazing. The really expensive sort, with lots of juicy fat coupled with a crispy crunch. Not to mention, the pancakes were so fluffy - Gloome managed to fold maple syrup into the batter, and Kit hated that he loved it. All the while, the jellyfish seemed content to just watch. Like a weirdo.

“Do… you want to talk about anything?”

“Hm?” Seriously?

“You seem down. Wanna chat? I can bring a television down; watch a movie. Don Nacci likes his rom coms.”

“Aren’t… you supposed to be a hostage taker?” Kit asked, through a mouthful.

“No, I’m trying to instigate Stockholm Syndrome.” Gloome said, dead serious… before she burst into insipid laughter, fanning a hand. “Just kidding, just kidding!”

She sighed to herself, almost dreamily. “Even if you’re a gangster, it doesn't mean basic decency has to go bye-bye.”

Kit pursed a lip, mid-chew. “Can you let me go then?”

“Ah ah, negatory!” Gloome wagged her finger. “He’d kill me… and my sister.” At that admittance, her tapered eyes glazed over, her smile ever so slightly straightening up. “I love Lume too much to put her in jeopardy.”

“You have a sister too?”

“Yeah! Lume’s the cool gal who blinded you! She’s all I got left.” The jellyfish admitted, leaning back on her arms. “We’d do anything for each-other. Kidnap a kid, par examplé - I’m not suuuper proud of it. I’d let you go if I could. But it beats dying… her or I.”

This jellyfish was a tangled knot of contradictions. Super duper friendly, yet worked for the mafia. Cherishes her sister dearly, yet is forced to put themselves in the crosshairs of this Mr Nacci. Complete moron, yet has a moral code.

“I don’t get it… why work for ‘Mr Nacci’ at all?”

Gloome hummed to herself, rhythmically tapping her chin and doing herself no favours when it came to exuding intelligence.

“Circumstance? Nobody cares about us ocean refugees. We weren’t visible, so who cares, am I right?!” Gloome sadly chuckled. “During the war, the Doctor dumped so much pollution into the sea that it poisoned my whole village. Everyone ended up really sick; me, Looms, Mom and Dad… we got better. Our parents… didn’t.”

She rubbed her gelatinous knees, sticky mucus dripping off with every skim. “We drifted as teenagers. I even had to pull a couple tricks.” She briefly stopped, swallowing hard; jittery. “That was, until Don Nacci took us in. And now we’re criminals! Boxed in! Hip hip hooray! But, beyond that… I only break the law for Loomy; she’s my everything, my world. Like your sister is to you, I imagine?”

Kit nodded, shovelling down the last of his pancakes. It didn’t even touch the sides.

Gloome scooped up the plate. “Love is a powerful emotion, sweetheart. It drives people to do anything… to stoop to any level.” She tilted her head, loose, jewelled up tentacles clacking together like a newton’s cradle. The gravity of her words sunk in. “From what I’ve heard, your sister is working really hard to free you. She even took a bullet for you! Badass! Ha-ha! That’s love, Kit. You won’t be here for much longer, I promise”

The young fennec felt strangely reassured by the jelly’s earnesty. His heart sparkled with a weird flutter. The inner battle that flummoxed him made much more sense… he loved Surge - enough that he locked himself away from the world as a means to protect her. And… and she loved him right back, in her odd, Surgey way. His skin felt all fuzzy, as if he’d just received one of the tenrec’s staticy hugs, reserved only for him. Despite their relationship originating from purely unnatural means, and by some measure being forced into siblinghood - that didn’t make their love any less real.

“Took… took a bullet?”

“Mm?” Gloome had spaced out, returning to Earth and smacking her gooey cheeks. “Yeah! High-speed car chase! Lanolin told me all about it - we keep each other updated. She’s very concerned about you, too.”

Even Lanolin? Kit cupped his spiked wrist-bands. Dang… he really was wanted, by Surge, by Lanolin. Desperately, more than anything, he wanted to thank them. And to tell Surge something really important too.

Nothing ventured, nothing gained.

“Can… can you call Surge? I need to be sure she’s alright.” Kit requested, putting on his best puppy-dog eyes. Gloome, despite everything, appeared to be a sweet-heart deep down, maybe the power of cuteness would break her?

For a fleeting second, Kit glimpsed reluctance in his air headed caretaker. Shifting instantaneously, the jellyfish hissed, and placed the tray on a loose box of very expensive wine. Quickly, she pressed her bell to the door, listening, before locking it with a snap. For a moment, she stood still. Taking more time to study her surroundings, one finger to her lip to hush hush. Once satisfied, she pulled her phone out.

“Okay!” She softly said, hiding a grin. She was breaking the rules, and there came to be a thrill to it. “But I do most of the talking, alright?”

Kit didn’t smile… but immense relief floated over his body otherwise. This jellyfish… wasn’t too bad. For a mobster kidnapper extortionist, anyway.

Gloome kneeled down next to him, and let him punch in Surge’s number.

“Put it on speaker.” She winked.

Surge nimbly blocked off Cream’s field of view; the bunny scoured the basement apartment for clues by rummaging with her feet, or booting with her feet, or dragging with her feet. Her hands glued themselves to her pockets - teenage angst in full force, and occupying her attention.

“I kinda regret destroying the door.” The tenrec remarked, giving the all clear. 

At that, Lanolin pressed the receiver to her ear, trying not to sound too upset. Gloome, and her absolute bubbliness, rubbed her wrong way. Enough friction to set her wool aflame.

“Lanolin speaking.”

“Hiiii queen!”

Ugh. Gross. Revolting even. 

“Hello Gloome. What’s the occasion?”

Surge copied a grumpy rabbit, and shoved her hands into her pants, prancing up to force her ear into Lanolin’s face. She’d forgotten to brush her teeth, thanks to the overwhelming stress she carried. Sympathies aside, her breath could’ve wilted plants. The ensuing endurance test for the sheep would be the greatest challenge she’d ever overcome - next to Whisper, next to The Marianas, next to…

Lanolin tapped the speaker mode on. Surge backed off. Victory.

Gloome sing-songed down the microphone, this time with a glorious bit-crunched melody. “I’ve got a lil’man with me, and he’s hankering to speak to a special some-oooone!”

Lanolin glanced at Surge, placing her hand to cover her own microphone. She mouthed “Trap?”.

The tenrec shrugged. Valuable input, thank you Surge.

“Is this some kind of trick?” Lanolin asked, back to Gloome.

“Absolutely not! I’m putting my gelatin on the line for this; for a pick me up! For everybody! What can I say except… you’re welcome!”

Lanolin tried not to throw up. “Why?”

“Because I’m not a complete douche-canoe like my boss is. Does there need to be a reason?” Gloome chirped, a little shuffle echoing down the line. Her voice seemed a bit more distant. “Say hi, Kit!”

Surge bounded up to the telephone, hanging off the silence, hands hovering around the receiver.

“H-Hi. Hi guys.” Kit stuttered out. Recognisable instantly. His voice balanced the throes of puberty. Apparently, the cybernetics stifled his growth and-

Surge snatched the phone out of Lanolin’s hand, borderline throttling it. “Kit! Kit! How are you doing buddy? Are they treating you well? Where are you?”

“I’m… I’m okay. Gloome’s been surprisingly decent.”

A faint “aw shucks” trilled out, which Surge completely ignored.

“Good… that’s good. Thank Gaia.” She scrubbed tears out of her eyelashes. Lanolin offered a supportive palm on her shoulder, a friendly squeeze. Surge didn’t shove her off, nor did any electricity ravage their personal orbits. “This… this call is off the books?”

“Yeah.” was Kit’s simplistic reply. “Gloome’s being… nice.”

That was a foreign concept for Lanolin. Usually, criminals tended to be spiteful beyond measure.

“As for where I am…” Kit hesitated. There arose a squeaky slap, of Gloome’s rubbery knees sliding across the floor.

“Keep this on the down low.” Gloome whispered. “I don’t like this kidnapping, nasty nasty stuff; I want it to be over as soon as possible. ASAP. Schnell, schnell…" 

C’mon Gloome. Don’t leave us hanging, Gloome.

Lanolin snuck out her notepad and pen, ready to capture this cheeky leak. Gloome, well and truly, had become the patron saint of idiocy.

“We’re in Don Nacci’s house.” Gloome squeaked out, excitably. “That’s all I can say, or my cirrus is on the high-way to a jellyfish salad. Those are real, by the waysies, look it up!”

The pencil scribbled, and Surge inhaled a breath. Just a tad closer to rescue. Lanolin rolled her shoulders, her wool hanging less heavily off her head.

“You keep strong, Drippy.” Surge quivered, uncharacteristic softness spilling out of sharp teeth. “I’m so proud of you. You’re doing fantastic.”

“I’m sitting in a cell, Surge. It’s nothing compared- Didn’t you get shot?!”

“Bullet was taken out three hours ago; I healed up, now we’re on Tangle’s trail.” Surge puffed her chest out, where earlier a debilitating shard crested her insides. “No time to rest, not while you’re in danger.”

Kit went silent, besides a very faint crackle of interference.

“Ma- …Surge.”

“Yeah?”

“I-I… I love you. Thank you. And Lanolin too.”

Surge’s tense energy evaporated from her being. She brought a single finger up to hold in a… weeping? A laugh? Lanolin, from her angle, couldn’t quite see the tenrec’s face.

“I love you too, Kit. Me and you, against the world. Always.”

The fennec, too, simmered with a barely restrained sadness. “I wanna go home. I miss you.”

“I miss you too… but I’m on my way.” Surge’s attitude changed in an instant. “You hear that Gloome, you heartless creep?! I’m coming for you, I’m coming for Nacci! I’m gonna rip your dumb blonde head and stick it on the bonnet of my moped! Picture that, Gloome! PICTURE IT-”

“That’s enough from you.” Lanolin plucked her phone back into her palm. Gloome seemingly brushed off the threat, airily giggling as if her head could never become a fifty cc’s ornament. Maybe Lanolin should remind her… 

“You’re playing a very dangerous game, Gloome.”

“I know, I know. But everyone deserves a bit of kindness. Even your enemies.” Gloome assured. 

Lanolin paused, ready to tell Gloome she was absolutely bonkers… Some enemies are too far gone to deserve kindness. What a milquetoast and tasteless lesson to come from a lowlife hostage taker! But for some reason, Lanolin couldn’t refute it. She didn’t like how it rang true, if but a granule.

That was before the aggressive rattle of a door slam blew up the microphone.

“Glooms, you’ve been down here for ages.” Evidently Lume, if the droll monotone was anything to go by.

“Oh, hey Loomy! Just finishing up!”

Another lull in the conversation, Lanolin feeling like a fly on the wall to an domestic about to begin. She could almost picture the standoff - Gloome caught red-handed. Lume gawking in disbelief.

“What the actual hell are you doing?”

“It’s nothing. We said nothing.”

“Are you crazy?!” Lume shouted, scrambling over, getting louder and louder. “Do you know what he’ll do to us?!”

“I’m aware. I thought Kit deserved it.” Gloome responded, with confusion. What a ditz.

“Oh my Chaos. What am I going to do with you?” Lume sounded as if she was on the verge of a breakdown. “Hang up.”

“Lume-”

“Don’t care. My Gaia, Glooms. What would Mom think!?” The older jellyfish snapped, distressed. 

“Mom’s dead-”

“As will you be too if you don’t hang up! I’m not being left on my lonesome because you feel sorry for a hostage! Life isn’t one big fairytale, Gloome! Most of the time, the evil king wins, and the evil king will murder you, and I love you too-” 

A tense moment of silence, which Surge shifted awkwardly through, ready to pounce on the phone again. 

“Hang up. Now… please.” Lume begged.

Kit, instead, spoke; taking the situation into his own hands.

“Bye Surge.”

The line clicked dead, the screen switched to black.

“Well…” Lanolin started. “That’s more than I needed to know about Lume and Gloome’s relationship.”

Surge frowned, clenching and unclenching her gloves. Light sparks danced off her cuffs, burning up her uniform. “Do you think that Lume’s gonna spill?”

Lanolin shook her head. “No way. That’s a big sister doing what a big sister does. Protecting.”

“Eugh… I don’t like how complicated this is becoming, Lan.” Surge tilted her head into the slices of sunlight that spilt through the stair’s railing. “I kinda feel bad-”

“Don’t.” Lanolin sniped. Best to keep things fairly adversarial, else her morals were at risk of collapsing in on themselves. “Our priority is hunting Tangle down. Let those two hash it out between themselves. I’m checking on Cream.”

The sheep, after much delay, finally entered Tangle’s home. The state of it - messy, illogical, rundown - suited the currently pursued lemur like a tailored tuxedo. Albeit, if the tuxedo was crafted out of bin linings and chipped buttons. Cream performed a decent job at organising the dump. Unwashed piles of clothes go here, cheap electronics go there.

The apprentice presented her work with a prideful bounce. “This seems pretty ‘Tangley’, if you ask me! But it’s no match to my Mama’s skills of housekeeping!”

“Sounds like your Mama is a crappy feminist.” Surge ribbed. She heartily laughed… the only one to.

Lanolin swept the room, looking for something the rabbit must’ve missed. “Any clues? Vigilante evidence?”

“Just the files Charmy gave her. No hit-list, or conspiracy board. Her laptop might contain secrets, if we can jailbreak it. Other than that…”

The sheep patted Cream’s head. “Nicely done. Nicely done…” Disappointment rang out again. How come a mafia, with its underbosses and soldiers, was easier to get in contact with than Tangle, who used to respond to a text within seconds, baffled her. Now, with the existential threat ‘lumeing’ (hah) over them, Tangle suddenly had the ability to scrub her place clean of leads! Frustrating!

But was that Tangle… or Whisper?

Surge chilled over by the sink, checking herself out in the cracked up mirror. “Hey Yarnstrings, have a gander at this.” She prodded at a group of laminate pictures.

Before she could even move, Lanolin, once again, ended up held back by Cream. The habit really began to grate on the detective, especially because she already knew what the question would be, sixty years in advance.

“Who were you and Surge talking to?”

Her patience spent to the last dime, Lanolin batted the bunny’s arm away and gave her best trite answer. Why be obtuse? They both knew she was lying.

“Whoever you want them to be Cream.” She puffed, hobbling up next to Surge. Of course, she sensed the angry laser-beam of disapproval, and heard the petulant huff. It yielded no reaction - quite frankly… Lanolin stopped caring. “What have you got?”

“Look at this dumb picture!” Surge snickered, picking the polaroid off the wall. Tangle, in a bathing suit, with Jewel. At the beach. Lanolin recalled that day… she didn’t get an invite. But, to be honest, she was a bit of a jobsworth. She would’ve said no and still stew about it anyway.

However, the more she stared at the picture, the more connections she made in her head. Kit’s tired pleadings repeated endlessly, like a battering ram against the gate of a breakthrough.

I wanna go home.

Go home.

Home.

Riverside?

Not her own home. 

Tangle’s home.

Jewel’s home.

Spiral Hill.

Lanolin swiped the polaroid, key evidence for the prosecution.

“Bingo."

Chapter Text

The van, her home, for better or for worse, creaked as Whisper stepped aboard. It’d suffered much abuse at the hands of electric menaces and Tangle’s inability to stay her course. With wing-mirrors smashed off, the black paint peeling to reveal the cold undercoat beneath… missing a back door. The wolf counted her blessings that she had a warm place to sleep the night before – because her feet might’ve jutted out into the elements. Thank you, Jewel. Whisper didn’t deserve such kindness.

The task that lay before her antagonised her, not morally-speaking – it’s only that it ran counter to every single one of her base instincts. Sliding open her gun-rack, she surveilled the brutal chunks of metal that had since transformed into extensions of her being. They were the only way Whisper ever made an impact on the world; if by taking away, slicing a tree of life down by its trunk.

A couple of hooks were empty. She’d lost one of her sub machine guns in the scuffle. That’s okay. She had a spare; she wasn’t precious. A knife had also been left embedded in the chest of a certain tenrec. Luckily, there existed a drawer full of them. Short knives, long knives, knives with prongs, knives with clean edges – machetes, karambits, utility knives, a butter knife. Yet, instead of replacing the empty sheath on her belt with one of the litany, Whisper slammed the toothy compartment shut, before padlocking it.

Baby-proofing.

She grabbed her assault rifle, and yanked the clip out, tossing it in another lockable case. After flicking a lever, the gun opened itself up to her – barrel, stock, chamber. She disarmed it with a snap and chucked it back on its plinth. One down.

The shotgun fired exactly one bullet. It’d done its job. Whisper broke it down into bits and pieces. Flashes of the red shells assaulted her sense, sneaking past the gun-metal grey. A finger plucked one out; the wolf studied it between thumb and forefinger. A little squeeze, solid – lethal.

Choking hazard.

Her second SMG didn’t last much longer. Five pistols perished to a dismantling. This? Better than therapy – Whisper noted. A cleansing experiment. Vulnerability pricked at her reason; she made herself weaker with each gun slain. Exposed to any danger that swung in her direction. A terrifying occurrence for someone who’d made many enemies.

Except… she did have Tangle with her. And that fact made her feel all giddy inside. For years, she thought she’d never see that precious face again. Her gorgeous amethyst eyes, her plucky smile – weathered with age and sorrow, yes… but undeniably Tangle.

Gaia, it made Whisper want to commit to pacifism. Just to show the lemur how much she cared. The wolf long forgot what the rushing blaze of passion even felt like. So used to the dead, empty void – having the chasm filled once more twizzled butterflies into a frenzy. Embers crackled, warming her frigid insides - she finally sensed her heart beating again.

Suddenly, she’d gained someone to lose. Nacci, and Hoyt, that twerp, subscribed to the same soulless philosophy as Mimic. They wouldn’t show mercy just because Whisper found sensation returning. It wouldn’t mean they’d pry their hands off their triggers. In fact, it’d only embolden them to squeeze.

So, she left a solitary pistol and silencer in her glove compartment. The bolt action rifle remained, just in case. Behind lock and key, Gio would have a very hard time getting to it – and that, for now, was all that mattered.

However, before she slid her weapons to condemnation, her gaze caught her Wispon. Smithy’s prototype, her trusty sidekick… It glinted in the dim light of day, begging to be noticed.

Gingerly, she pulled it out of the forgotten corner she’d dumped it unceremoniously, and placed it on her desk – swiping away any loose contracts, mugshots, ammunition orders, that littered the workspace. Whisper blew across its surface, dust billowing up and stinging her nostrils. 

“Hello, old friend.” She sang to it, rousing it from sleep. It activated with a splutter, oily discharge dripping from its barrel.

So many memories. Some good, some bad. Her weapon of choice, for better or worse. Where once its filaments roared with colours – orange, cyan, blue, green and pink – it now lay dormant. 

Whisper sighed as she remembered the wisps. She missed them, so, so much. Cyan coming down with the zoomies. Green practicing their cold reading, in an effort to remember Claire. Pink and Orange racing each other. Blue sitting on her lap, just being present. How could she have treated them so badly?

Forcing Pink into killing him. Cyan scorching Lanolin, unprompted and unfairly…

Lanolin.

Chaos, there’s a stain that’ll never wash. Out, damned spot – the wolf reasoned. But, you cannot salvage a flower after you torched it with fire… and Whisper paid for the consequences now and forever. Lanolin had every reason to despise the wolf, and Whisper wouldn’t object either. Hell, she despised herself. Lanolin had competition.

A part of her questioned why she fired upon her, that dark day. Admittedly, Whisper never quite saw eye-to-eye with Lanolin, but they were allies. Not steadfast friends, not yet anyway. The wolf sadly smiled to herself; the irony tickled her. Was it her unhinged mental state? So frustrated that Lanolin would, apparently, protect ‘Mimic’, that she took the shot? 

Maybe? …Maybe not.

The ugly truth was that there simmered partial resentment, too. Whisper, suffering through active combat, risking life and limb everyday against the infernal doctor; her allies dying not in a blaze of glory, but a whimper brought on by someone she trusted whole-heartedly… Whisper had seen it all. So, who was this… civvy (Whisper hated how she viewed the term as a derogatory), ordering her about, espousing schoolyard lessons to her. Smacking Tangle with a paddle! Lanolin had no right to be such a stickler, a hard ass… or plain rude at certain points.

The disdain was completely baseless. Whisper found herself to be pathetic. Lanolin had values, she had morals, she’d suffered the same war as Whisper had: Lanolin the Sheep was a good leader. Very much a Smithy. Whisper, in the end, was so much more like a Mimic. She would never be as upstanding as Lanolin, or as steadfast in her convictions as Lanolin. And so, she shot her. To prove a point? 

Maybe? …Maybe not.

The reason why, ultimately, mattered not. Whisper did it. A fact, unbreakable. But she was so sorry, and sorry was a meaningless placidity. Now Lanolin was on their trail, and Whisper couldn’t bring herself to fire back. Not any longer.

That’s why she disarmed herself. To protect Gio and Jewel, sure. But if the token gesture got through to Lanolin that she wanted nothing more than to throw herself upon her mercy… let it be. Some actions are unfixable – but like Tangle said… the future was in Whisper’s control.

One notion nagged her. A certain chat with Lanolin, where the walls were erected and the drawbridge closed upon any true companionship between the two. Whisper didn’t try at all to fix that. She should’ve tried so much harder.

Her hands stroked her wispon, feeling the grooves and divots, as she reminisced.

By the flicker of a lonely desk lamp, Whisper swept into the Diamond Cutter’s communal office. An ‘office’ in the loosest of terms; it was more a break room than anything else, but it was theirs. Herself, Tangle, and Lanolin. The Diamond Cutters.

The revival still fresh, Whisper remained conflicted. Their little scouting rendezvous turned into a complete disaster, but more importantly, the wolf didn’t have a good grasp on Lanolin yet. She liked her, but at the same time? Very inflexible… and flexibility is a must in their line of work. Not because her girlfriend’s tail was the most flexible thing in existence… that’d be bias. 

She loved bias. She loved bias so much.

Regardless, when Whisper entered - the last person she expected to see was Lanolin, at a desk, scribbling away. Initialling like her life depended on it. Briefly, the sheep startled at the intrusion, Whisper had this uncanny ability to slip in and out of any room without making a peep. Great for awkward social situations, such as these.

“Oh. Whisper.” Lanolin rubbed her head. “What are you doing up so late?”

The wolf was dressed in a tracksuit and a vest, the closest approximation to pajamas she owned. The light chill of the A/C floated across her shoulders and down her back - tapering off a lightly swishing tail.

“Couldn’t sleep.” Two thirty in the morning. Fairly typical for her to be awake at such an hour. Lanolin? Not so much. “Paperwork?”

“You know it.” Lanolin snickered, resigned.

Without asking, Whisper grabbed the empty coffee mug and took it over to the counter. “Do you take milk? Sugars?”

“Splash of milk. Thanks, Whisper.”

“My pleasure.”

For herself, Whisper plopped a herbal tea bag into a ceramic and slipped into silence. Lanolin’s head tilted back down to her work, leaving only the gentle scratch of a fountain pen, and the watery juddering of a kettle coming to boil.

Once the beverages were made… Whisper thought about high-tailing back to her room. Snuggling with Tangle was a delicacy she savoured every second off, and right now, she treated such fine dining like a run-of-the-mill fast food joint. But, upon returning the sheep’s mug back to its rightful owner, she paused. Studied how Lanolin’s bags had bags under them. How each signature got a little sloppier than the last.

“Go to bed, Lanolin.” Whisper tried her best friendly smile. She needed a lot of practice. “I’ll take over for you.”

Lanolin chuffed to herself, glancing up at Whisper like she was nuts. “You don’t have the authority to sign this off.”

The wolf frowned, trailing her vision across the papers. “We’re all Diamond Cutters.”

“This isn’t Diamond Cutter work. This is general admin, and I’m about four hours off a deadline - so either leave or…” Lanolin abruptly stopped. She tutted at herself. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean that.”

The sheep leaned back in her chair, casually hooking a leg over the other like it was nothing. “I appreciate the gesture, Whisper. But this is something I need to do.”

Whisper shrugged in defeat. “I suppose that’s fair. Just remember, when the Cutters end up with our own paperwork to fill out, we’ll split it, three ways- 

“Actually, I’ll be in charge of all of that, too.”

The straight face staring back at Whisper bewildered her, and she couldn’t help but tilt her head - question the logic. Never had she seen someone so allergic to help.

Lanolin tapped her hooves together, decisively. “I’m the leader, it’s my duty. I wouldn’t want yourself and Tangle to be distracted from what really mattered; fieldwork, training, missions. You know the deal, you lived it.”

“That’s very thoughtful, Lanolin, but I don’t think that’s fair. Let us help.”

The sheep signed off another sheet without taking her eyes off Whisper. With the other hand, she slurped a sip of coffee. A glug of defiance, of ‘checkmate, now I’m caffeinated!”.

“Mm, pass. I know for a fact that Tangle did not sign up to do paperwork.” Lanolin trilled out. “She’d be bouncing off the walls five minutes in.”

The need to defend her girlfriend surged within Whisper. Usually, she protected her honour against angry robots.

“I don’t think you’re giving her enough credit.” She said, firmly. “She wants to help you, we both do. And when the time comes, she knuckles down and pushes through. It’s something I really admire about her.”

Lanolin squinted, before waving off the concern. “That’s nice. It isn’t changing my mind.”

Okay…? Whisper was really trying to make friends here! Tangle made new connections as easily as she breathed, and the wolf desperately needed to leave her comfort zone; learn how to be social again. It’d become her new focus upon rejoining the Restoration. Yet, here was a prime specimen, ready to be befriended and she outright refused any gesture of goodwill. Why be so difficult?!

Lanolin must be a similar creature to Whisper, that’s for certain. And like Lanolin, Whisper felt herself in the throes of frustration.

“I’ve run solo half my life… it doesn’t achieve much.” The wolf mused, opting to take a seat opposite her superior. “Why are you so averse to us helping you out?”

To that, Lanolin just rolled her eyes. “I’ve already given you the answer, Whisper. You’re too stubborn to accept it.”

Says you! Whisper's face didn’t move a muscle, but internally she slammed her forehead against the emotional barrier. On the outside, though, she sipped her herbal infusion to calm the nerves flaring. All the while, she stared intently at Lanolin. Just a small appearance of her irises, peeking over the rim of her cup. 

That slight opening the wolf’s eye slits was enough to… shift Lanolin’s mood. Not obviously, but the sheep’s pen rested on its nib, halted mid-stream. After an intense moment or two, she exhaled through her pink nose, tipping the pen over. Black ink splodged across the table.

“Look. I…” Lanolin started, hissing as she attempted to clean the blotch. All she did was dye her arm fur a hazy grey. “Some things are better left unsaid. You should understand - it’s your namesake.”

“My parents called me Whisper because I didn’t cry as a baby. I think that was the first clue that something is seriously wrong with me.” The wolf sidled off to her side, resting her chin on her palm. The barest hint of a smirk graced her lips.

At the word ‘parents’, Lanolin froze. Hands shaking, wiping more black liquid across her fingers. “How are your parents… do they approve? Of you?”

“They’re no longer with me.” Whisper admitted, dryly. “Died in a flash flood.”

“Oh.” Lanolin’s ears pressed against her head. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to-”

“S’fine. Long time ago. I barely remember them.”

An ugly laugh broke out of the sheep’s throat. Like she desperately tried to push the sound down, but it snuck its way through the tightest of gaps. 

“I would be so lucky.”

Whisper frowned, tapped her mug with a dainty claw. “That your parents would be dead?” That seemed… harsh. And, despite her intuition telling otherwise, a bit tasteless.

“Gaia, no… No. That I could forget them. It’d make my life so much simpler.”

The boss sheep shrunk into herself, the bluster sinking out of her, deflating into the chair. Whisper straightened up, a tinge of concern, and a sprinkle of curiosity, telling her to press.

“Why would that be?”

Lanolin opened up her mouth to answer, but nothing came out. She reconsidered… and proceeded anyway.

“Not many people know this about me, Whisper. I’m telling you this in confidence.”

Whisper zipped her mouth shut, and threw away the key. A small wink to follow through. Lanolin eased herself, leaning across her desk - paperwork ignored and crumpled.

“My family… is aristocracy. Mega, mega rich. Rich enough that I shouldn’t want for anything in my life.” There was almost shame in the sheep’s admittance. Whisper couldn’t see the issue. It wasn’t Lanolin’s fault she was born into money.

“I don’t tell anyone… because- I don’t need their judgement. That somehow, I’m less equipped to deal with everything because Daddy’s got his credit card, and Mommy knows the President.”

Whisper nodded along. Interested to see where it was leading to.

“And… I love my Mom. I do. But she’s… stern. Constantly ordered me about in an effort to be ‘proper’. Always have to put in appearances. Stand up straight, nose high. Talk clipped, no contractions, speak to the person on your right during the starters, then your left during the main. Don’t get muddy. Don’t go outside to play with the other kids, you’re meant for greater things!” Lanolin’s tone rose with irritation. “Smile, even if you don’t want to. Study hard. Learn Latin, learn piano. And if she ever caught you slipping…”

Lanolin mimed a back-hand. Whisper furrowed her brow, looking away.

“I never, ever had a choice. Not until I put my foot down, and joined the Restoration.” The sheep snorted at the entire charade. “And just like that. I’m cut off.”

“That’s… an awful thing to do to your daughter.” Whisper murmured.

“Lucky she’s got three more, then.” Lanolin grumbled. Her being shuddered with hurt - and Whisper felt herself share in that pain. “You’d think she’d be proud. I’m actually doing good! Making an impact. No longer just a damsel, I’m an honest-to-Chaos warrior! But… I guess not.”

Whisper stood up to place a hand on Lanolin’s shoulder… the sheep tensed up, only to slowly slink away from the grasp, leaving Whisper squeezing at air.

“So… that’s why you need to let me do this, Whisper.”

Huh?

Lanolin looked up at Whisper, like she’d recoiled from a scolding. “My entire life, I’ve had no agency. No way to prove that I’m capable. But for the first time ever, I’ve made a choice, and it gave me a chance to actually make something of myself! If it means sitting and signing paperwork until four am, I’ll do it. If it means leading a strike team, I’ll do it. If it means cutting off my family because they’re too up their own asses to support my choices, I’ll do it. Me. Lanolin. On my own. These will be my achievements. Mine alone, each an exhibit to show the world I’m not some prissy princess waiting to be married off when I’m eighteen. I gotta do it!”

Her voice cracked, the corners of her eyes shifting to a tender pink. “I need to do it, Whisper. And you and Tangle will… mess that up. I’m sorry.”

Whisper swallowed some more tea, as she digested the explosion, one that she was completely ill-equipped to deal with. Only a single response circled her mind, and before she could stop herself, it slipped out.

“That’s the most ridiculous thing I’ve ever heard.”

Instantly, the tears shrivelled up, Lanolin snarling to herself and jumping away from Whisper’s presence. “I knew you wouldn’t understand. Damn it, why’d I-”

The wolf laughed, not in spite of Lanolin. The humour was too apparent to not at least giggle at. Airy, little huffs, coupled with a shaking head.

“No, no. I’ve been exactly where you are… for different reasons, yes. But I get it.”

Lanolin pouted, embarrassed by her outburst. Her mother’s words must’ve ran deep.

Whisper tried to grab Lanolin’s hand, to show no hard feelings. The white hoof proved elusive. “Doing things on your own… might sound empowering. But it’s a miserable existence, and eventually you’ll crack under the pressure of your self-expectations.”

“Are you saying I’m not able-”

“No, Lanolin. You’ve already proven yourself time and time again. To do what you’ve done, in such little time, is amazing. The only person you need to make proud is yourself. And from where I stand? She’s done it.”

Lanolin seized up, unable to respond. For someone whose wool filled up the entire room by sheer volume, the sheep seemed awfully small. She scrubbed her nose.

“There isn’t any shame in asking for a helping hand. I learnt that from Tangle, and my life has been better for it.” Whisper said. “So… go to bed, Lanolin. Get some rest, I’ll take over from here. And when we inevitably get dumped with paperwork after a mission… we’ll both help out. Me, Tangle and you. The Diamond Cutters.”

It was bizarre to even call themselves that. The name stood sacred in Whisper’s mind - yet no religious objections rose to stop the christening. The Diamond Cutters, alive and soaring once again.

The wolf’s extended a palm, waiting for Lanolin to accept it. Excited to see the headway she made, looking forward to the grateful smile on the sheep’s face. Whisper had come so far - Tangle would be proud. Heck, Slinger would be popping champagne.

“No.”

Whisper’s smile faded, as that short, snappy utterance sunk in. Confusion; alarm bells rang. It felt like a knife to the gut.

“No?” She repeated. 

Lanolin shook her head. “No. I don’t think you do understand, Whisper. After all, your family aren’t alive anymore.”

The canine’s brain short-circuited, muzzle drooping in surprise. She closed her hand, withdrawing the offer… it dangled by her knee. The sheep smiled, somewhat sympathetic despite dealing a devastating blow.

“But it’s a kind thought, Whisper.”

With that, she picked up the latest piece of paper, stroked in her initials, and moved onto the next. Conversation over, back to work. And back to bed with you, Whisper.

Downing the last of her tea, Whisper placed the cup on the counter, and strode back towards the doorway. She didn’t know how to explain it… her snout was numb, like it’d been slapped. In some ways, she had. A new challenge approached: withholding the nasty sneer that threatened to ravage her features. She’d been wounded.

“Hey, Whisper.” Lanolin’s voice rang out. Whisper turned to meet her, halfway into the corridor. A smattering of hope pierced the sod.

“Mm?”

“See you tomorrow at ten. Clay pigeon shooting.”

Whisper stared at the sheep, before smiling. Fake as all hell, but Lanolin had suffered enough.

“Sounds like a plan.”

“You alright, Whisper?”

The sound of Tangle’s worry tugged Whisper back into the van. The lemur stood in the back, hanging off the edges, her outline shone brighter by the mid-afternoon sun. The wolf noticed she’d dropped herself back onto her camping bed, tinkering with her wispon, screwdriver in hand.

“Yes. I’m okay. Jus’... pondering.” She sniffed the air, the fruity scent of chemical strawberries wafted into her sensitive nose. “Did you shower?”

Tangle’s heavily conditioned, and newly poofy, tail pointed at the wispon, whirring away on her lap. Her face lit up when she realised what it was. “Hey! Ol’ reliable! Does it work?”

Whisper picked it up by the handle, thrusting it into her shoulder and aiming down the sight. Upon squeezing the trigger, she felt the latch release and some steam hiss from the tip. If there’d been a wisp powering it, her van would’ve been destroyed. 

Oh no… she’d have to start her assassin business all over again.

“Works so far as it’ll shoot. But, without any wisps; it’s useless.” Whisper patted the circular barrel, proud of how she’d managed to rev it up again, with the ten years of rust coating its inside.

“Yeah? Still. Good to have it…” Tangle grinned, and gestured outside. “Gio’s itching to explore inside your van, have you secured the dangerous stuff?”

“He’s more than welcome.” Whisper nodded, depowering the wispon by twisting a valve. Tangle banged the side of the van.

“The queen doth bestow you to ent-AH!” She squawked in her best Sovereign Kingdom accent. Butchered - but the immediate scrambling of a tiny orange bug, and his tired mother, clued Whisper to the game being played.

Gio fluttered about in awe. Peering over the desk, bouncing on the cot springs. He zoomed about in absolute heaven.

Jewel folded her arms next to Whisper, shooting her an inquisitive look. “Are you certain you’ve got everything?”

“F’course. Just don’t let him near the glove compartment.” Whisper answered, watching the young boy dart about her living space. To her, it was a miserable box of wasted years. To Gio, it was the coolest adventure-mobile known to mankind.

“Ms. Whisper, what is that?” Gio buzzed up to her display board. His hands closed around an old mask, with a glinting scope and complex innards. Tangle ‘oooh’ed in regret. Jewel went to pull her son away.

“Not that, honey.” She was stopped by Whisper, whose corner of her mouth eked up into a miniature grin.

“It’s okay.”

Gio placed the mask over his face. Too big, it dropped off, Whisper nimbly catching it before it clunked against the floor. The beetle whimpered, he couldn’t wear the awesome mask, but he quickly recovered; eager to find out more about the new interesting item. The wolf rubbed the metal until it reflected the cheap fluorescents buzzing above them.

“What is it?” Gio asked again, boundlessly curious.

“S’my mask. I used to be a hero, like Tangle is. I wore it on my secret missions.” She whispered that last part, letting Gio into a truth everyone already knew - but he giddily wiggled his head in his hands. So, so cool!

“Why aren’t you a hero anymore?” He asked, bouncing on his tippy-toes.

Whisper faltered, not knowing how to answer that question without shattering the sweetheart’s innocence. She looked at Tangle, who gritted her teeth, and Jewel, who wore an expression of ‘don’t you dare’.

“Because I’ve been bad, Gio. I was mean to a very nice man, and I hurt one of my friends. So don’t be like me, okay? Be more like your mommy, or Tangle.” Whisper patted his carapace. What a gross, gross simplification… Gio just appeared befuddled.

“When I’ve been bad… I always say I’m sorry. Why don’t you say you’re sorry, Ms. Whisper? Then you can be a hero again!” There was so much earnesty spouting from his chirpy little voice.

“Oh, Gio.” Jewel sighed, sadly. Too pure for this world. “Sometimes sorry isn’t enough.”

Tangle disagreed with that sentiment, bustling further into the room. “But it’s a start though… because you are sorry, aren’t you, Whisper?”

Whisper stared at her mask, lower lip wobbling. “More than anything.”

Sorry she’d wronged Lanolin. Sorry that she took her cry for help as an insult. Sorry that sorry wouldn’t begin to cover it.

Sorry for Duo.

“I don’t think they’ll listen to me now.” Whisper bemoaned, placing the mask back on its rightful spot, overwatching the room. An auditor of Whisper’s mistakes, a holder of her cherished memories.

“I think you should try, Ms Whisper.” Gio said. “Find the very nice man and tell him you're sorry.”

Tangle cringed. Duo ain’t hearing any sorrys. She twisted her tail, giving herself a chinese burn while she was at it.

Jewel, meanwhile, hushed her son, and stepped down to scoop Gio up into her arms. The young boy rested his head on her shoulder, Jewel having to dodge the twitching antenna swanning around her vision.

“He’s not wrong. There might be something in it for you, Whisper.” She simpered. “The ‘very nice man’ is… resting nearby. Perhaps visiting him will give you some peace of mind?”

Gio agreed vigorously, like he’d been smacked into a bobble-head, practically vibrating in his mother’s grip.

Whisper’s ear flicked in consideration. “Maybe. Maybe not…”

Jewel closed her eyes, content. “Thank you for indulging him. Now, I think it’s time for mister man to have his lunch!” She bobbed out of the van, ignoring Gio’s ‘awww’, leaving Tangle to rub Whisper’s back. After a minute of comfortable silence and unconscious scritches, the lemur piped up.

“Damn, that kid. I love him.” Tangle chortled. “Anyway… plans?”

Whisper didn’t respond, eliciting Tangle to rub her mullet with the peak of her tail.

“I reckon we’ve got a good twelve hours on Lan. We need to find some sorta way to calm her down, make her see some sense.”

“It doesn’t matter. Lan won’t accept it. Nor do I blame her.” Whisper finally wheezed out, defeated.

“Well. That’s not helpful, Whisper.” The lemur grunted, kicking her foot in a seesaw motion. “I’m not-”

“Is there a flower shop in town?”

Tangle buffered at the sharp shift in conversation. “Uhhh… yeah. Couple of blocks, ‘Good Juju Florists’. Why? Are we giving flowers to Lanolin? Girl, Lanolin would haaaate that. Something tells me-”

“Not for Lanolin. Lost cause. No… I- I want…”

Whisper’s words perished in her throat. Guilt had its stranglehold, and it wouldn’t relieve her. Not now, not never. Except, when Tangle rubbed her hand - just enough to coax her to finish her sentence, despite the turbulence. 

Thank you.

“I want to give them to Duo. To say I’m sorry.”

Tangle thought, grinding her sole into the van’s floor. Then, at last, she smiled that pure, plucky smile again. Whisper drank it in, savoured the white flash of teeth and gentle curvature. All for her.

Worth it, every time.

“Let’s do that, then.”

Chapter Text

Whisper had only ever been to one funeral: her parents’. Memories were hazy; after all, she was about five years old at the time - but she did distinctly remember the scent of flowers. White roses and yellow tulips, arranged around a shared coffin, with the sleeping faces of Mommy and Daddy nestled within them. Whisper recalled her confusion at the sight. Why wouldn’t they wake up?

Everyone wore black. She didn’t recognise a single guest. At best, random strangers came up to hug her, tell her they were so sorry. Eventually, she started to cry, because she thought that was what was expected of her.

When they lowered the coffins, Whisper couldn’t see beyond the mourners. She teetered to glimpse the bizarre ritual… because, in her young mind, her parents were just off on a little sojourn. She wanted to wave them goodbye, so she could look forward to an extra big, wolfy hug when they returned.

A lion noticed her efforts, and hoisted her up onto his strong shoulders. Whisper reckoned she could see for miles - resting her tiny snout on his mane. He smelt like oil and sandalwood. He made her feel safe, even as Mom and Pop disappeared into the ground, never to hug her again. Even as he shed his own tears, unabashedly.

She never got the chance to give Smithy, her godfather, a funeral. His body, alongside that of surrogate brother Slinger and big sister Claire, was unsalvageable. Too many pieces to pick up… Whisper couldn’t stomach the sight. After recovering the wisps, she lit a vigil at their base… and it didn’t seem like enough. 

How do you sum up an entire man, who’d raised you, trained you, loved you, with a candle? How do you represent all of Slinger’s wisecracks, or the nights where Claire soothed you to sleep with her soft lullaby? Candles are inherently temporary, they eventually melt into goo. The flame flickers, and snuffs out - leaving only the memories of when warmth licked the air.

Flowers… flowers worked. She’d do right by Duo, at least once, with the same bouquet of white roses and yellow tulips that consumed her parents' brown, biscotti fur. Where she was once too innocent to understand, or too traumatised to properly pay her respects… she’d succeed here. The cat deserved as much as Smithy did. Maybe, haphazardly, she honoured the Diamond Cutters both old and new.

So, Whisper pressed the floral bundle close to her chest, breathing in that sweet scent of finality. Tangle trudged beside her, the duo travelling up a woodland path. The cool breeze batted their fur and rustled the oaks encroaching the sky - the trees wrapping together into a thick, verdant tunnel, only smatterings of light reaching the dusty dirt. Every so often, Tangle would bat her tail into a branch, or trailed her palm across a bush.

“Something to do.” she’d said. Whisper wouldn’t interrupt her.

It was difficult to simply walk; an assassin lived on a constant edge. T’was their curse. When Whisper glanced up at the canopy, she could pick out fifteen odd locations to build a sniper nest. The shrubbery was the perfect nook to lay in wait - blade out, ready to strike and stab and disembowel. Whisper had made it worse for herself, because for the first time in forever, she was unarmed. No gun. No knife. Just a bouquet. Feeling metaphorical, she might’ve well brandished an olive branch as a club, though that’d defeat the purpose of an olive branch.

Even with her brawler, hoodlum partner by her side, the journey was underpinned with anxiety. 

The flowers reeked of death.

“Did you go to Duo’s funeral?” She said, after the quiet became too much to bear. Usually, Whisper wouldn’t speak for speaking’s sake, but she wanted to block out the rustling undergrowth, and the ethereal threats that didn’t stray amongst them. “I hope it was a hero’s send off.”

Tangle didn’t look at her, instead striding along at the same pace as she’d always had. Her hands stopped fidgeting, though. That meant she was thinking. Whisper learned to notice the little details that made Tangle Tangle. Old habits died hard, or never died at all.

“If you're asking me if we shot flaming arrows into a ship at sea… no.” Tangle murmured. Whisper didn’t even know how that lemur’s brain even came up with such a particular image - but it charmed her nonetheless. “In fact, there wasn’t any funeral. His body sort of… vanished.”

“Oh?”

“Yeah…” Tangle grimaced. “Police came, zipped him up… apparently; I wasn’t there, obviously. They bussed him to the station and never released him. This whole grave thingy is the first time I’ve heard of it. When was he buried? I dunno.”

Ten years of illegality pricked at Whisper’s sense. “Sounds like a clean-up.”

“Uh-huh?” Tangle appeared befuddled.

“When you…” Whisper reluctantly mimed a gunshot. Tangle got the picture, tutting. “Sometimes, it turns messy. I tried to be as efficient as possible. Bullet to the heart, sniper to the head, strangulation-”

“Thanks Whisper, you can stop now.” Tangle shot her a shame-inducing wince.

“But if you needed a body to ‘disappear’, you’d call clean-up. They’d scrub the scene of DNA, clear any blood or mucus, and dispose of the corpse. For a fee, ‘course. It’d be like it never happened.”

“Yeah… except it shouldn’t have ‘happened’ in the first place.” Tangle griped. “But, this isn’t your organisation of evil janitors, or whatever. This is the cops we’re talking about.”

“Stop the presses, the police are corrupt.” Whisper joked, though her tone remained flat. “You wouldn’t believe the amount of police chiefs I’ve been hired by, or hired to kill.”

Tangle failed to respond to that, though she obviously could believe it. Her hands retreated into her bomber jacket, almost defensive in the way she hunched herself over, unwilling to engage any further.

Whisper might’ve been too candid, the angel on her shoulder begging her to drop it. She just about slunk back into the uncomfortable silence when Tangle hitched up in breath. The wolf looked down. The lemur hadn’t stubbed her toe.

“Why were you so adamant that Duo was Mimic? Enough that you… ignored me?” The question was laced with a delicate vulnerableness. One that made Whisper’s heart sink into a regretful syncopation. She killed Duo, crippled Lanolin… but she’d wounded Tangle too. The one who’d always been there for her. Ungrateful dog.

“The pieces seemed to line up…” Whisper admitted. “The note triggered my fight or flight, but… I had my suspicions already. Showing up out of nowhere, for a start. His fur was the same colour as Mimic’s skin, and his face appeared too similar to Slinger’s to be a coincidence. He wore gloves… but everyone wore gloves, so I dismissed that.”

A deep sigh heaved out of Whisper’s nostrils. “I… I don’t know. I was so sure I was right… the temptation to act on it became too great.”

Tangle, whilst still plodding along, turned statue still. Miniature quivers in her expression gave away how much she was thinking. She squinted, studying a painting that didn’t physically exist - but it didn’t stop the intricate brush strokes from consuming her whole vision regardless.

“What if you were right?”

A flash of panic. Whisper’s claws clenched the flower stems, crinkling the paper. She didn’t want to be right… she really, really did not want to be right. Else…

Change the subject.

“I… believed I was keeping you safe.” The wolf whispered. “That’s why I dismissed you… What a foolish mistake. But the thought of losing you, to Mimic, controlled me. Clouded my reason so badly that it never occurred to me I’d guarantee losing you anyway…”

Whisper withheld herself, holding back the tsunami that would overwhelm the lemur. So much to say, to atone for; so much emotion to expel. 

“It was always me. My baggage, my paranoia, my weakness. Never you, Tangle. Never, never you. I threw you away like it was nothing, when you made me the happiest wolf I’d ever known. I barely recognised myself; I was so, so in love.” 

Tangle stopped walking, turning her face to Whisper’s. Its features were rough, battered against stormy cliffs, hardened to granite. But the amethysts still shone.

“I loved you with every fibre of my being, Tangle.” Whisper didn’t even realise she’d opened her own eyes. Blue cobalt peeking past the cracked sandstone, marred by fissures of scars erupting across its surface. By no small miracle, her irises survived Harbinger.

The lemur blinked once, breathing lightly. Her fingers curled and danced in the absence of anything to pick at.

“Loved?”

Past tense? Was that the query? There wasn’t an answer that would suffice the question… though she desperately desired to scream NO! But the wolf knew she didn’t deserve to love Tangle, when she had kicked her to the curb in favour of pathetic, bloody vengeance…

Hell. She loved the idea of killing Mimic more than she adored Tangle. Whisper grinded her teeth, drew her fangs along her tongue until she tasted that rich iron. Words failed to explain how much she loathed herself.

But Tangle patted her shoulder… let her fingers linger for a second or two, before slipping them off. Her smile… Oh Gaia, her smile. No teeth to stun Whisper this time, just a tight-lipped raising of her cheek. Sympathetic, despite everything the canine had done to her.

She understood. Somehow, Whisper knew she understood. Maybe not forgive… but the lemur stared at her with the same gaze she wore when they were together. Intensely focused, as if Whisper reigned supreme as the most interesting thing in the entire universe. For that, the assassin loathed herself a little less.

In the distance, a large gate loomed over them. Tall, yet stalwart, decorated with metallic vines that tendrilled against the gratings. Defending its denizens from chaotic intrusions. Only peaceful rumination would be granted passage.

Below it, a sign. ‘Silent Creek’.

Tangle placed her hands on her hips, her tail flicking and swishing behind her. Apprehensive.

“You ready Whisper?” She asked. “He’s waiting for you.”

Only, introspection drifted across Tangle’s demeanour. A thought had captured her again - what was it? Whisper could guess, but the lemur’s spontaneity, unreadability, came to be a trait that the canine treasured.

Whisper glanced down at the white roses and yellow tulips; breathed in their honeyed aroma. They smelt like soap: cleansing, washing anew.

“Ready.” The wolf said, with a determined nod.

Whelp.

Duo’s grave was… tasteful. Grey marble. A simple, boxy design. Tangle ran her finger across the inscription.

‘Duo the Cat, Beloved Ally, Loyal Friend, Always’.

The lemur nodded in agreement, stretching up from her crouching and nocking her spine straight. It figured, epitaphs always made the deceased out to be absolute saints. She pondered what might’ve been written on Eggman’s grave.

Nothing nice, she hoped.

Whisper stood in the distance, plucking up the bravery to confront her victim. Barely, Tangle could make out the brown fur beyond the numerous stone graves, neatly arranged. A truly huge willow tree gently swayed, spreading its drooping leaves over the entire cemetery - protecting those who rested from intrusion. The tinkling of a stream mixed with the breeze. ‘Silent Creek’, indeed.

Returning to Duo, Tangle scratched her chin. Something felt wrong… just fake, about the whole ordeal. Whisper’s reasons for suspecting the feline rattled about in her brain, and Tangle couldn’t exactly dismiss the idea; that Duo was Mimic. She grasped at straws, so she could emancipate Whisper from her actions. Sakes, as if the solution would be so easy. Tangle needed to stop looking for excuses to absolve the wolf, no matter how much she yearned to.

Still… if it were to be the case…

There wasn’t any due for the dead to be found within Tangle. She sort of… accepted that she could be a disrespectful whelp, and at the same time admit Duo didn’t deserve to be so heavily scrutinised. He was murdered for Gaia’s sake! If Tangle became a restless spirit, and she got to watch her own court proceedings, the last thing she’d want to see is a lawyer arguing Eggman’s innocence because she might’ve been a sleeper agent, activated by the utterance of ‘strawberry shortcake’.

What was she thinking about, again?

“Thank you for giving me a moment.” Whisper derailed Tangle’s train of thought, appearing out of nowhere.

“Agh-du, wha-” Tangle yelped with eloquence and dignity. “When did you-?”

“Jus’ now.” The wolf’s voice swept across Tangle’s soul, like cherry blossoms. Beautifully precious. Letting it speak for itself. “You seem occupied?”

“Me? Nah. No.” Tangle skillfully deflected, waving her off with the tilt of her tail. “Can’t a gal admire the stonemasonry? Look at that marbling! Like wagyu!”

Whisper raised an eyebrow. “Wagyu is a type of steak.”

“And don’t you just wanna go-” Tangle, lacking any better option, bit down on the corner of Duo’s grave. “Om-nom-nom!?”

What the actual hell, Tangle…

The wolf buffered a tick or two, before smiling. “I see what you’re trying to do.”

“You do?”

“Yeah.” Whisper tilted her head, allowing her bang to bounce across the tip of her snout. “You’re trying to lighten the mood, before I… talk to Duo.”

Tangle’s grin strained against her embarrassment. Okay; sure!

“I warmed him up for ya.” The lemur stepped back, allowing Whisper the space she needed. She’d workshop her graveside manners when the stakes were a tad less… morbid. Chaos, she sucked at this.

Carefully, Whisper placed the bouquet at the foot of the grave. For a moment, she remained prone on one knee - fixated on the flowers. A nail picked at a tulip, shifting it across to nestle in between two roses. She repeated the process; moving flower to flower, spreading their petals outwards. White, yellow, white, yellow… Tangle understood what Whisper was trying to achieve.

The wolf stepped back, and clasped her gloves together. Her tail wrapped around her leg, as she bowed her head. No other intruding sound could be heard besides the shaking of the willow, and the relaxed rushing of the water stream. Tangle felt herself getting antsy… but pushed herself into stillness. Her insides desired nothing more than to explode, but she told them off - don’t ruin the moment.

“Duo.” Whisper began. Her eyes stayed closed. “I… I know my words are meaningless. My words won’t bring you back. My words won’t make up for unfathomable damage I’ve done. To everyone; to my friends, to my family… but especially to you.”

Tangle glanced at the wolf. She hesitated, shaking ever so slightly, before pressing onwards.

“I think about you everyday. How, in spite of your bravery, your kindness - I treated you as a villain. You were a friend, a companion; yet all I could see was a monster, puppeteering your skin. There was nothing you could’ve done to change my mind - and that is the most unfair part. You never had a chance. I never gave you a chance.”

Whisper lifted her head towards the sky. “The easy answer would be to blame Mimic. He incessantly hunted me, threatened me. Surely, that justified taking your life?” She hoarsely laughed, shaking her head. “Of course not. I killed you, because I am a miserable, soulless person. I robbed you from us. I robbed you of a future. Because I was obsessed with my past. Obsessed with a man whom you had nothing to do with.”

All the while, Tangle stared at the grave. Pictures of Mimic’s skeletal snicker arose, where she should’ve imagined Duo boundless optimism. Disturbingly, the two began to merge together. A cat dripping with tentacles. An octopus with feline whiskers. Constantly blending and altering - morphing. Why couldn’t she banish the gelatinous image out of her mind’s eye?

Whisper paused for another moment. Her voice ocellated like glass about to shatter. “I’m sorry. I’m so deeply, deeply sorry for what I did to you. There is no coming back from it, so I will bear your cross until the day I die. And I know that will never be enough… but from now on, my every waking moment will be dedicated to trying. Trying to reach as close to ‘enough’ as humanly possible.”

She placed a hand on the grave - outpouring all of her grief into the cold slab. “It’ll be a fruitless endeavour… but it is what you deserve. I hope… if there is another side, you’ll be willing to accept whatever scrap I can offer. Until then?”

Her glove slid off the grave, hovering between the re-arranging the flowers again, and clasping her throat.

“Rest in peace, Duo.”

Silence echoed out. The vow hung in the air…

SHLICK.

The tenuous quiet was absolutely shattered by the scraping of dirt. Tangle thrusted a shovel into the ground, tearing apart the grass surf, wrenching the mud out and over her shoulders. Whisper gasped, mortified.

“Tangle! What are you doing?!” The wolf almost shouted. Mouth dropped in shock.

The lemur completely ignored her, continuing to dig and dig and dig-

“I can’t live with the uncertainty, Whisper. I’m settling this once and for all.” She growled out, heaving with every nick of sod and scoop of the shovel. The tool laid about, propped against a random grave, practically begging for her to find the truth.

“Stop it! You’re defiling his grave. He’s not Mimic, we know that-”

“We don’t know for certain, Whisper.”

Whisper covered her eyes, stumbling away from the burgeoning hole. “I don’t want to know Tangle, please… please stop it!”

Internally, Tangle scoffed at the role reversal. Why should she listen to Whisper’s pleadings, when opening up the grave, discovering Duo’s true identity, was ‘for her girlfriend’s own good’? A taste of her own medicine, a dosage of the pain she’d lathered upon Tangle… excuses, excuses. Spiteful lemur.

CLUNK.

Tangle struck wood. Sleek, varnished and rotting. She could hear Whisper whimper behind her, as she raised the shovel up and crunched it into the coffin. It splintered around the spadehead, crackling as Tangle prised it open. Red velvet lined the shards; she was close.

Throwing the shovel asunder, the lemur braced herself. The small gap she’d created beckoned her to rummage. Her hand floated above, before diving in. 

She cringed, feeling something dry and flaky. Cloth withered to rags, something for Tangle to tug at. Travelling upwards, she felt a limp wrist. Further up again, woolen stitches.

Yanking skyward, Duo’s hand finally burst into the light. Decayed, anorectic, just matted fur and paper skin stretched over bone. The vibrant purple faded to a muddy indigo, flecks of white and rouge peppering his arm like shag rug.

Most importantly, his hand was covered by a glove. That gave Tangle pause. That was what threw doubt into her mind. She’d never seen him without his gloves. They’d never received an opportunity to check. Now…

Tangle wrapped a finger around the hem of the glove, and tore it off. Duo’s hand fanned open, flexed in the dying light of day.

At the sight, a freezing wash of clarity soaked Tangle’s body. The corpse’s wrist gained the pull of a black maw - heavy, sucking out the glow of day, leaving only a void in its place.

Suction cups. Across the tips of his fingers, and lining his palms. Revolting, sticky divots. The signature of a traitor.

Swallowing hard, Tangle threw the hand back into the Duo’s grave…

Mimic’s grave.

Disgust peeled in her stomach, churning and biting. Snarls bubbled in her wind-pipe, but refused to be given form. Tangle swallowed again, to stop herself from spitting on the body. The entire time… that bastard. Dead all along. Tricking her into mourning him.

Tangle checked back on Whisper, eager to see what the reaction would be. The vindication, the triumph. She was right. She got the evil scumbag!

But Whisper swayed… catatonic. Her eyes were anywhere but on Tangle, or her mortal enemy. She instead searched within, for an anchor, or a notch to hook herself onto. She searched for something that didn’t exist. 

Mouth slightly agape. Arms skimming the air. Nose twitching.

“No…” Tangle had to strain to hear her breathy cry; so, so quiet. “Oh no… please Gaia, no…”

“Whisper?” Tangle met her, shaking her shoulder, trying to bring her back onto the ground, from the stifling headspace she’d resided. The wolf’s gaze regained clarity, slowly, inchingly, looking at Tangle. Tears welled in the corners, her bottom lip creasing up in utter despair.

“I could’ve stopped…”

Tangle pulled herself in closer, trying to discern what Whisper was saying. “What? What was-”

“I COULD’VE STOPPED!” Whisper wailed. 

Birds flapped away, the dead roused. Nothing blocked the deluge of tears dripping down her cheeks, as she buried her head in her hands. She sobbed, shaking with each heave torn from her threat, clipping and snagging across gravel and sorrow. 

Then, she screamed, muzzle raised towards the heavens. A wolf howling at the moon, but the howl was ravaged with anguish and suffering. Whisper screamed and screamed until her voice failed her, trailing off into a scratchy hiccup. The sobbing began anew once more.

Tangle heart pounded. She hadn’t a clue what to do… Whisper experienced her moments of emotion - but this? It seared straight to Tangle’s very core. Tentatively, she reached out to the wolf. “Hey… hey Whisper, it’s okay-”

“I KILLED HIM!” Whisper batted Tangle away, wrapping her arms around herself and collapsing to the floor.

“Yeah. Yeah, you did.” Tangle tried to put her thumbs up. “Good! May he rot-”

“No… no, no, no.” Whisper gasped for air. Her claws raked across the gravel. “I- I… I could’ve stopped at one. Instead… instead I- murdered hundreds more! Tangle…” The wolf weeped, spittle dripping from her snout. “Tangle, please… please tell me! Why didn’t I stop? Filth. I’m filth. I massacred thousands because… I thought- I thought I’d already debased myself. I thought I was just like him- when… I wasn’t! NOT YET!”

Suddenly Whisper latched onto the straps of Tangle’s jacket. “But now- NOW… I’m just as depraved as Mimic. I didn’t kill him… I became him! I thought the only path forward led down into the abyss when I could’ve climbed back up- back into the light. Back to you.”

Tangle sank down to Whisper’s level, trying with every inch of herself not to break down with the wolf. Coughs and wheezes and gags burst from Whisper’s throat. She stared pleadingly at Tangle, defeat and desperation written across her face - tarnished by wet fur and gnashing teeth.

“I disgraced myself into a serial killer, Tangle… when I could’ve stopped at him! Just him.” She hyperventilated as another despicable notion struck her. “W-why?! What have I done to myself?!”

That was it. Tangle couldn’t stand another second of this flagellation. She had no answer for Whisper. No magic solution to the distress… but she could ease her. That was in her control.

Her hands wrapped around Whisper’s back, and dragged her in close. The canine was limp, like a sack of cement - damp and choking on her misery. Tangle pressed her head into her chest, and kept it there, embracing Whisper with all of her might. Squeezing her, hushing her. Taking care, taking charge. Through the fabric of her jacket, Tangle could sense the sobs, the blotches of liquid, the muffled cries. Delicately, she stroked the back of Whisper’s hair.

She performed such an act whenever Whisper had a panic attack in the past.

Tangle remained stone-like, looking into the distance, as she rubbed Whisper’s silky locks. Let the threads slip through her fingers like sand. The wolf continued to wail into Tangle, in the throes of absolute agony.

“Ssh. I’ve got you, Whisper.” Tangle held back her own tears. “I’m so sorry… I’m so, so sorry.”

And she was. Genuinely. What Whisper contended with… Tangle couldn’t even fathom. The guilt must’ve been all-encompassing. Soul-shattering. Potentially fatal.

The lemur didn’t let the wolf go. She doubled-down. Wrapped her tail around themselves, creating a cocoon of comfort and safety. A weighted blanket to soothe all ills. Tangle compressed firm, and stayed tense. With her ex secured, she just let poor Whisper cry.

“I’m not going anywhere, Whisper.” Tangle sighed. “I’m not going anywhere…”

She battled her own self-loathing; forcing the revelation on the two of them. She should’ve just left well enough alone. Tangle’s lip warbled, so she grit her teeth hard. Be strong. Be the rock for someone in pain. What Whisper did, or became, or devolved into - irrelevant. The wolf needed help. By Gaia, Tangle was going to deliver. 

The wind swept over Tangle’s mullet, bringing her senses back to the here and now.

Time had lost its meaning. The lemur didn’t know how long they’d spent curled up together, but, at last, Whisper emerged from the jacket. Eyes raw, but grateful. The last tears slathered off her cheeks, and dappled into the dirt.

“Thank you…” She said, vulnerable. Like a child. 

“Anytime.” Tangle smirked, attempting to assert some normalcy back into the atmosphere. Pointless - the air was alight with the knowledge things were irreversibly different.

Whisper wiped her nostrils with her sleeve, sniffing and composing herself. 

“I… where do we go… from here?”

Tangle looked up at the willow tree. It swayed the same as it had before their arrival. 

Nothing changed.

“Do you still want to stop the Marianas?”

Whisper nodded, so Tangle smiled.

“Well… let’s not keep them waiting.”

Hand held out, Tangle hoisted Whisper to her feet. The wolf hadn’t fully recovered, she teetered on the edge of vomiting. Not that the lemur could blame her, not one bit. She’d wager Whisper’s lungs were scorched by the battlefield that stirred within her.

Mimic’s hand splayed itself across the tip of his coffin. Funny, how he continued to ravage Whisper’s psyche ten years on. He’d probably giggle if he knew how he’d pulled the wool over everyone’s eyes. He’d probably whoop and cheer if he saw how he’d successfully corrupted his young comrade into sharing his lonely, miserable attitude. Whisper spent the past decade alone and isolated.

…So had Tangle. She cut off Jewel, ran away from Spiral Hill, abandoned all allies in her vigilante pursuit.  

Even in death, his self-centred beliefs spread like a plague - forcing everyone into a quarantine of their own making.

Stepping down onto the coffin, Tangle felt the panelling bend around her boots. Stomping on the dead man’s palm, she kicked it back into the black pit that it deserved. Whisper watched, holding her jaw in her hand, steadying her breathing - no expression on her graceful features.

Tangle bent over to where Mimic’s decaying skull approximately lay. She only had one passing gift for the deceased.

“You’re wrong.”

And just to embellish the point, she spat a glob into the dirt. She wasn’t perfect, she’d resisted the urge enough. “Burn in hell, bastard.”

Lifting herself back onto firm ground, Tangle was overcome with a surge of energy - a spike of adrenaline. Their joint mission gained new perspective, new purpose. Her fists clapped together, as she grinned from ear to ear with pure determination.

“Me and you, Whisper. Together.” She chirped. “We’re going to teach a fish how to drown.”

Whisper, momentarily touched, wavered on the spot.

Then she launched herself into Tangle. A hug for a hug. The wolf’s claws dug into Tangle’s back, bracing so tautly that she managed to prickle pain - but Tangle trooped through it. Chin on Whisper’s shoulder, the lemur clenched her tail, ready for action. Those Marianas wouldn’t know what hit them.

“That was real swell.” A gruff voice rang out. “Been a while since I’ve seen such heartfelt emotions… oh wait, no it hasn't! I put soap operas on in the background whilst I do actually important crap. You two’d be the perfect stars!”

Tangle and Whisper separated, spinning around to locate the source of the jab. A flash of green balanced on top of a cross, Tangle locking eyes with a burning, electric tenrec.

Surge.

Her smirk was the cockiest it had ever been, but that stare spoke to one desire… revenge.

Doing away with any warning, Surge clicked her fingers. A flashbang of white radiated across the graveyard, dazzlingly bright. Leaping up into the air, the officer barrelled towards the two with lethal intent.

“You ain’t escaping me this time, drama queens!”

Chapter Text

“They ran me down with a van, Semi-Skimmed. Ya think I’m just gonna let them walk all over me like that?”

“By the sounds of things, they drove all over you instead.”

Surge flinched at the rabbit, whose face betrayed no emotion. Just a blank slab of dryness. Where had bubbly Cream disappeared off to, and how come her twin was such a dick?

“Why are you sarcastic now?” The tenrec warbled, turning her attention back to a chunk of ore. Its random flecks of raspberry pinks twinkled in the muted lighting. “Stop it. You’re messing up the group dynamics. Lan’s the sarcastic one, you’re the happy, sugary tripe trope, and I’m-”

“The douchebag. Got it.”

Immediately, Surge swivelled towards Lanolin, pumping her arms out to force the sheep to ‘behold’ the audacity of their apprentice. In those plasma-ravaged eyes flexed pure exasperation – ‘like, what the hell’. Lanolin barely acknowledged her, instead tapping her cane in sync with her thumping foot. Jewel was taking her sweet time.

“Maybe you shouldn’t have played Aborted Suicide Cult for the entire trip up here.” Lanolin murmured, mostly to herself.

“Excuse me, Aborted Suicide Cult is a fine, fine band.”

Cream sighed. “If you like the sound of dentist drills digging into screaming children. Oh, is that the abortion part?”

Keen to let her partner and her ward hash out their music tastes, Lanolin surveyed the various gemstones on offer. Even she had to admit that Jewel’s renovation paid off. Last time she visited the Mineral Museum, it portrayed itself as a very ‘mom and pop’ type establishment. There was little rhyme or reason to how the exhibits were laid out, and generally the decoration hovered around thirty years out of date. 

Now, everything had a section; partitioned off neatly. Beyond simple rocks gleamed geodes and veins and the purest carats of gemstones. The beetle even redid the lights. Instead of blitzing the entire floor with sunlight, each display case gained its own custom rig – designed to emphasise their gorgeous inhabitants.

Lanolin stopped in front of ‘The Nested Diamond’. She beheld a shining, red stone, hoisted by two stacks of obsidian, forming a haphazard archway. Lacking anything better to do, she read the description:

‘Discovered in the Soulmouth Ravine, Shamar – the Nested Diamond is a curious specimen. Red diamonds are exceptionally rare, due to the circumstance behind their formation. Tremendous pressure is required; enough to bend the atoms themselves in a process called plastic deformation. Coupled with the existence of its obsidian stacks, it is theorised the Nested Diamond originally formed in the mantle, until tectonic action eventually pushed it towards the surface.

The bizarre nature in which this gemstone is suspended has led to many superstitions. The Soulmouth Ravine, in local folklore, is believed to be an entrance to the Underworld. As such, the original owner of the piece, King Mamdouh Al-Eazim (1845-1931), revered the Nested Diamond as a ‘bloodied soul’, caught in the snare of ‘Iblis’.

Other interpretations have described the obsidian hands as offering the diamond as a ‘gift’ for ‘Light Gaia’. Others take a more sentimental value, the gemstone representing a ‘pure heart smothered by sins and regret’.

What do you think?’

Lanolin raised an eyebrow. What did she think? Cool stone. She’d like to talk to Jewel now, pretty please.

The buzzing sound of a bug entered on Lanolin’s right, revealing Jewel in all her uptight glory. Seemingly, she’d even upgraded herself, the previous candy pink suit had been swapped out for a pale beige, with a rose-gold emerald pin designating her as ‘Curator’. The beetle opened her arms up for a hug.

“Lanolin! Hello!”

For a second, the sheep left her hanging; she was on the job… but it’d also been a while. Regardless, Lanolin briefly hugged Jewel with one arm, patting the in-betweens of two beating wings. The other arm remained fixed to her support cane.

“Jewel.” Lanolin half-smiled. “How are you?”

The beetle shooed off the perceived concern. “All good. Loving that single-mom life! Apologies for the wait, juggling the museum with Gio is a bit of a handful.”

“Where’s Jasper? Couldn’t he help?”

Jewel twisted her wedding ring, unconsciously. “Best he can do is a video call from overseas.”

“Divorce him.” Surge barked out from the background. Cream giggled, before skipping towards the beetle.

“Ms. Jewel!”

“Cream! Lovely to see you, honey! Is Lanolin treating you well?”

The rabbit shifted her glance off-side, considering. Then, she nodded with a beaming smile. That settled Jewel enough, who landed on the floor with two clacks from her high heels.

“Well. What can I do for you?” Jewel grinned her best grin. Lanolin almost felt regret for the incoming thunderstorm coming her way. However, the sheep didn’t twinge; remained politely unthreatening, the ideal manner for Jewel. Push came to shove; Surge could smack the table around or ratchet off some sparks. That tended to get the job done when interrogating criminals. The only issue came to be that this brutality, meant for Album… instead landed squarely on Jewel.

If the detective’s suspicions were correct, that is - and she was rarely ever wrong. Behind Jewel’s happy, bon vivant guise, Lanolin sensed unease. Somehow, the beetle seemed a smidge more… aloof than usual. She put on a good show, that’s for sure – but Lanolin saw right through it. 

Jewel - punctual, workaholic Jewel - never left people waiting. She tried to avoid Lanolin. Which was highly unusual, especially for a supposed friend like the sheep. A sociable creature, the once-Director couldn’t simply ignore her pals.

Which also included Tangle.

Lanolin felt it instinctually. The detective had stumbled onto another lead.

“Can we talk somewhere more private, please?” Lanolin asked, trying not to completely undress the beetle from her intense stare alone. Her therapist recommended she stopped ‘patting people down’ with her eyes, in lieu of her actual hands. Lanolin retorted that her ‘visual surveys’ saved her hide too many times to count.

Jewel’s smile faltered ever so slightly, her antennas drooping off to the side. Lanolin waited for her to come up with some lie to usher them away. It’d only be natural at this point. Again, that is if Lanolin chugged along the correct track, and her ‘friend’ was compromised.

“Follow me.” Jewel, surprisingly, said. The mirth had faded. As much as it pained Lanolin to grill a friend like this… she did have two criminals to catch.

But hey, a ‘follow me’ was ten times better than a ‘no’.

The curator readjusted her glasses, and for a brief second the detective caught her looking over her shoulder. Quickly, Jewel bounced back to fluttering forward, flustered.

Why so nervous? Lanolin tried to obscure the smirk forming on her lips. The game was afoot.

Jewel would be an easy nut to crack.

Talk about a change of scenery. The museum’s backrooms - the forbidden zone - was a mess of boxes and standees. The minerals not exotic enough to be shown off, irons and bronzes, nickels and zincs, littered the place like rubble. Less care had been lathered onto this particular space.

Jewel flew over to a dusty desk, caked with sediment. Spread about the surface were various testing kits - a refractometer, a microscope, both circling the one eye-catching ore: a chunk of deep blue. The beetle flicked a lamp on, and the metal shone even further.

“What is that?” Cream inquired, with a tilt of the head.

“Oxidised copper sulfate. Though, I’m trying to figure out what makes it so vividly blue. Usually, CuSO4 is a muted turquoise.”

Cream nodded along. “Neat.”

Surge zoned out, off to the side. Lanolin could tell she mentally checked out at ‘oxi-’.

The sheep fished about her trench-coat, pulling out a tape-recorder and gently placing it on the desk. The action spoke for itself, Jewel’s pupils flicked down at the contraption, then back up to Lanolin. Tentatively, the beetle took a seat.

Lanolin pressed the red button. Click.

“I’m recording this interview for future review. Any objections?”

Jewel shook her antannes. “No.”

“Fantastic.” The detective proceeded with absolutely no fanfare. “I, Detective Lanolin the Sheep, am with Jewel the Beetle, Curator of the Mineral Museum, and previous Director of the Restoration. Sitting in is Officer Surge the Tenrec, and Cream the Rabbit.”

Stepping a couple of strained feet forward, Lanolin leant onto the desk with a wry twitch. “First question. How would you describe your relationship with Tangle the Lemur?”

Jewel sniffed, leaning back with a creak. “We were the very best of friends. Went to school together, practically joint at the hip. Unfortunately, we drifted apart after the… you know what happened, Lanolin.”

“Care to clarify for the tape?”

“I’d rather not. It was a terrible time for everyone. Chiefly, for me, because I lost contact with Tangle. I haven’t seen her for the best part of eight years.”

Lanolin pouted. So far, so expected. “It stands to reason that you are unaware of her recent activities, then?”

The beetle chuckled, picking at the blue mineral sitting in front of her. “What trouble has that lemur got herself into this time?”

“Vigilante justice. Grievous bodily harm on six individuals. Not to mention… running with known assassin and wanted murderer, Whisper the Wolf.”

Jewel’s eyes enlarged upon hearing the wolf’s name again. Her hands slapped the desk in surprise. “Whisper? After everything she’s done?” She shook her head. “That Tangle. Always pulling the rug out from underneath us.”

“Learning that, what is your current opinion of Tangle?” Lanolin dangled a lure in front of the curator, daring her to bite.

“Knowing Tangle, she probably has a superbly good reason to do so. She is about as morally incorruptible as they come.”

“Even if it’s Whisper the Wolf?”

“I refer to my previous answer. She wouldn’t team up with an assassin for hire, even at gunpoint. But the Whisper the Wolf from before the disaster? That could be a different story.”

Well played, Jewel. Tacit approval, without explicitly siding with the lemur. Lanolin tapped the table, pretending to think for a moment. She needed to find a chink in the exo-skeleton, and pry out the truth.

“Okay. You’ve got an awfully high opinion of someone you haven’t spoken to for eight years. How are you so certain she’s the same Tangle you knew?”

Jewel remained silent, squinting at Lanolin. The sheep stared directly back at her. ‘Because you have seen her recently. Haven’t you, Jewel?’

“What are you trying to get out of me here, Lanolin?” The beetle asked, at long last.

Lanolin parcelled the copper ore off to the side, creating an open field to strike at the heart of the issue. Nowhere for the beetle to hide. Enough dancing. Time to ask the real questions.

“Have you seen Tangle the Lemur within the past twenty-four hours?”

Jewel, emphatically, folded her arms. “No.”

“Even if all evidence points to her fleeing to Spiral Hill?” Lanolin lied. Truth is, she had no evidence to truly warrant their presence in the town, just conjecture… but Jewel didn’t know that.

“If she is here, I haven’t seen her.”

Lanolin continued to press. “But where in Spiral Hill could Tangle even hide? Unless…”

The beetle scowled. Maybe Lanolin led her a little too hard. Pull back, pull back. A titter came from Jewel. “She must’ve found somewhere, because I have not seen her. And before you ask, no. No Whisper the Wolf sightings either.”

Cream scribbled away in the background. Lanolin heard the punctual dap that represented a period mark. End of discussion. End of interview. And maybe the rabbit was correct in making that call.

The sheep floated her finger above the stop key. She possessed no further questions in her arsenal. Disappointing… Jewel might’ve outplayed them after all-

CRASH!

A faint clatter of ores ricocheted across the storage space, chunks of magnesium tumbling across the floor. Peeking out from behind a shelf were two bright, pink eyes. Upon discovery, it darted back into the darkness. The sheep recognised those wide peepers.

Jewel tutted. “Gaia’s sake. Gio, what did Mommy say about playing in the backroom?”

Gio, head hung low, shuffled back into the limelight. “I’m sorry. I saw Lanny and I wanted to say hi.”

Lanolin's finger retreated away from pausing the recording. The tape continued to whirr. Meanwhile, the younger beetle jumped up onto his mother’s lap, Jewel giving his carapace a small peck.

“He can say hi to you. Right, Lanolin?” Jewel lasered her ire onto Lanolin, clearly trying to close out the interrogation. Minutely, the sheep felt a vein throb against her forehead, her knee starting to flare up with pain again. She couldn’t help but fixate on Gio.

This might be crossing a line… but Lanolin really couldn’t care less at this point.

“Gio, do you like being honest?”

The child bounced on his mother’s knee, beaming wide. “Always!”

“I need you to answer some questions for me.”

Instantly, Jewel clocked where Lanolin was leading. Pure disgust plastered across her face, as she moved to turn Gio away from the threatening ovine.

“Yo, Lan. What the hell?” Even Surge couldn’t believe that Lanolin was going there. “That’s a kid.”

“My kid.” Jewel spat out, hugging Gio close to her chest. The poor baby beetle had no idea what was going on, squirming in her grasp.

“Gio.” Lanolin began. “You wouldn’t lie to me, would you?”

“Lanolin.” Cream cut in. “Stop-”

The sheep felt something snap within her, twisting over to her compatriots. “Will you two just shut up!” Her lip quivered above her gritted teeth. Surge snarled back without any doubt, but Cream gave no reaction except a glaze of hurt.

Swivelling around, Lanolin caught Jewel trying to send her son away. Instinctually, she felt the rush of anger continue to buck and scream like a runaway train. The locomotive barreled towards the child, thrusting an index out, pointing squarely at Gio. 

“No. Stay.”

Gio shrunk into his shell, fiddling with his nails. He teetered on the edge of tears. Having had enough, Jewel darted up, and made a swipe for the tape-recorder. Too slow. Lanolin intercepted, and bent down to shove the microphone in the kid’s face.

“Have you seen Tangle the Lemur?”

Dead silence. Gio kept looking up to his mom, unable to, or rather uncertain whether he should answer or not. With a growl, Lanolin decided to chivvy him along.

“Be. Honest.”

At those instructions, Gio feebly nodded. “Ye-yes. I saw Auntie Tangle this morning. She is staying with Mommy.”

Jewel rested her chin in her palms, cringing hard and fast. Gotcha.

“And?”

“I met the- the lady… she was with. Ms. Whisper… P-please don’t hurt her, she’s really kind.”

Bullcrap. Lanolin further lorded over the tiny insect. He recoiled at each heaving shudder from the detective's heavy panting. “Where are they now?”

“Visiting th-the really nice man. The one that Ms. Whisper was m-mean to.”

There we go. 

Lanolin straightened back up, ignoring how her knee cricked and wailed at her. Now free, Gio shot into Jewel’s arms. She squeezed him tight as he began to bawl his soul out. Upsetting, miniature little whimpers came from a sweetheart who just couldn’t tell a lie. It was something Lanolin banked on.

Jewel’s fury could not be understated, Lanolin had never seen such a searingly acute stare in her life. The mother beetle shook with absolute rage.

Lanolin clicked the tape recorder off, slipping it back into her coat. Disappointment thrummed; Jewel had been considered a friend. “Never thought you’d succumb to that piece of garbage wolf too.”

“You have no idea what you’re talking about.” Jewel snapped back. “I’ve seen it with my own eyes. They’re both fighting against real evil, actual ‘pieces of garbage’.”

Lanolin slammed her fist into the copper - it exploded into a shower of azure stars. Gio further buried himself deeper into his mother’s bosom, hiding from the furious officer who could shatter a stone harder than his own shell.

“Whisper the Wolf is a murderer, a killer and a traitor. The law is the law, and she will face her reckoning. I don’t give a flying crap about her ‘intentions’.” The sheep cried out. “Or have you forgotten what she did to me? What she took from me?”

Jewel began to hover over the scene, shielding her son from the sheep. “Of course I remember. But do you think that grants you an excuse to torment my child!? My baby?! He hasn’t done anything to you. He doesn’t even know anything about Whisper, other than the fact she showed some basic decency!”

“But you do, Jewel. You know everything! Psh, aiding and abetting a criminal. Hell, you put your son in danger by letting him anywhere near that monster.”

“Don’t you dare tell me how to raise my son! Between you and Whisper, you both look exactly the same! Maybe if you show a bit of compassion for once in your miserable life, you’d understand where I’m coming from!”

Lanolin wavered on the spot. Any sort of answer proved elusive. Was Jewel… was Jewel asking her to forgive Whisper, for the greater good?! Gaia above, she’d gone soft, or her love of Tangle blinded her to the blight of a murderer. She couldn’t emphasise that enough, it was like she alone took crazy pills! A murderer, deserving amnesty?

“Wrong.” Lanolin said. “You’re wrong. If I can’t press your kid for the truth, then you don’t get to tell me what is ‘forgivable’. She crippled me. She’s killed hundreds. And you lied for her.”

Jewel’s gaze softened… slowly, she floated back to the floor, hugging Gio like a stuffed animal. It seemed… finally, the gravity of the situation smashed its way through her pearly head.

“I lied for Tangle….”

“Oh, that absolves you then.” Lanolin sneered. “I’ll deal with you at a later date. C’mon team, we’re done here.” 

With that, she turned on her heel and stomped out, back towards the main museum floor. Surge, with nothing to add, slunk away, hands in pockets, staring at the floor. Cream lingered, watching as Jewel hushed her crying son, tears of her own threatening to leak down her cheeks.

“Ms. Jewel? I…”

The curator didn’t respond, so Cream left her behind.

After slamming the warehouse door shut, Surge brushed up to Lanolin’s side. Her boots echoed across the empty museum, threatening to crack the abundant glass cubes. “What the actual hell are you smoking? I’m pretty rough around the frickin’ edges and even I-”

“Kit.” Lanolin snapped back at Surge. That shut the tenrec up tout suite. Already, the sheep tapped away on her phone, pulling up her GPS. She already knew the location; she’d been to the wake.

Silent Creek. Forty-five minutes away.

“We’re nearly there, Surge.” Lanolin patted her partner’s back, almost condescendingly. Static blasted through her wool, but if anything, it felt invigorating. She squeezed her thumb and forefinger together, shoving the symbol onto the tip of Surge’s nose. “We’re this close to taking out the trash.”

Cream stared hard at the Nested Diamond, studying how the perfect, noble, gemstone was squeezed by ugly, ugly obsidian. Her ears drooped down the back of her head, swimming amongst her tangled, matted hair. The irony must’ve not been lost on her.

Chapter Text

Tangle had maybe, at best, seconds to react to the burning meteor of a knuckle that rocketed towards her. In moments such as these, thoughts couldn’t formulate, joints wouldn’t articulate, only the purest of instincts pierced the veil.

It’d be nice, in that case, to have some sorta kneejerk reaction… other than a monotone ‘oh’.

Something inside her shifted into gear and, as her gut demanded, she shoved Whisper aside. The wolf sprawled onto the grass, glancing with a stunned gawp. Shadows flashed and faded across her face, the blacks becoming blacker, the whites cranking up into a dazzling shine. Tangle turned back to the tenrec. Except, no tenrec filled her vision. Instead, her retinas exploded into a billion sparks of light. Needling heat spread through her muzzle, but only for a moment – as the full force of the fist connected immediately after.

The lemur’s neck bucked back so violently that she swore she heard a snap. The ground disappeared beneath her, the only sensation being the rippling nick of her tail skimming along the dirt. Her arms were useless, flapping in the tailwind, and stars swam amongst her blinded field of view.

Nothing told her she’d collided with a tombstone. One second, she flew. The next, her head throbbed, and Tangle discovered herself strewn amongst the marble of a shattered grave. Shakily, she pawed for some purchase. Apologies to… Martin Punch.

The epitaph belonged to Mr. Martin Punch. Oh, hilarity. As if fate hadn’t played enough cruel jokes on her already.

Tangle rotated back around, patting herself down. Nothing broken.

Surge approached with slow, deliberate stomps. Her belt jangled threateningly, lashes of lighting connecting from the hanging metal chains to her spiked cuffs. Beating heat lapped at Tangle’s fur, as she rose to unsteady feet, hands in a defensive stance.

“Gettin’ up, eh lemur?” Surge snickered, cracking her knuckles with the tinny snap of cybernetics. “That takes cajónes. Or brain damage?”

Tangle wiped a trickle of liquid off her forehead. She didn’t care whether it was sweat, blood, or a mix of the two. “You call that a hit? A dead guy did most of the work for you!”

“Oh-ho! Nice! The vigilante has some bite to her!” Surge cackled. Her foot slid down, kicking up charred grass and dirt, as she primed herself into a runner’s set-off. “Last chance to take the perp walk quietly… else you’ll be rolling towards the judge in a wheelchair.”

Sensing a brief moment of respite, Tangle lay her tail loose on  the floor, snaking it around a boulder of Martin Punch. Finding a nook, she gripped it tight, and then flashed the most triggering, cock-sure snigger she could muster.

“You bring me in dead. Or you won’t bring me in at all. It’s that simple.”

Surge scraped her teeth along her tongue, quietly laughing. “I love it. Keep that up.”

With a crazed cry, she launched herself through the graveyard, knocking aside bouquets and graves as she shot towards Tangle. The lemur stood her ground; waited and watched as the tenrec blasted closer and closer, and-

Inches away from a roundhouse kick, Tangle swept her tail along and clobbered the rock into Surge’s jaw. The officer tumbled past the lemur by a hair, transforming into a blurred bundle of lashing limbs. Soon after, Surge careened into the willow tree. As if nothing was sacred.

Wasting no time, Tangle sprinted towards the opening she’d created. Whilst she left her crowbar back at home, that wasn’t to say she couldn’t do damage with some slick footwork and the unflinching velocity that defined how she brawled. In fact, Tangle was damn proud of her cocktail of speed, power and tail.

Surge already recovered, her eyes peeling open to reveal burst blood cells. A distinct, smoking charcoal scent reached Tangle’s nostrils, becoming stronger and stronger. The tenrec left a singed outline of her crumpled body into the trunk.

Tangle winded up, prancing into the air and charged an elastic, high jump kick. That black forehead made for the perfect target, the lemur thrusting her foot out, ready to pump her heel directly into her relentless pursuer.

Except, one second, Surge lay there. The next second, Tangle careened towards a block of charred wood instead. Crap! Tangle tried to course correct, spinning a knee into the air, praying that she’d connect with something. Only, she performed a full, meaningless spin and plummeted back onto land.

Seemed that this was the moment Surge fished for. Darting out from behind an errant root, the tenrec stayed low and lunged in to sweep Tangle’s unbalanced leg. The lemur fell directly on her rear, and barely sucked in a breath when Surge leapt up onto her prey. One hand choked Tangle out, the other wasted no time in slamming a fist into her muzzle.

Stars exploded behind Tangle’s eyes. Her face shuddered as if she’d been struck with a sledgehammer. Even worse, her body seized and bucked as volts of electricity ran through her entire body. She felt like she’d been lit on fire, and the tenrec re-doused her with every punch.

Surge didn’t relent; she pounded and pounded. “Why’d you have to make things so difficult?! The stakes are too damn high for a bullcrap wild goose chase, ya hear me?! She threw in a slug to the stomach for good measure, Tangle choking out a garbled gasp – winded. “GIVE UP!”

For a second, the lemur truly considered it. Her face rippled with waves of crackling pain, her nose dripped with blood, her teeth felt like they’d been knocked back into her throat. But the thought of abandoning the still-captive wisps, allowing this Mariana Mafia to continue their evil campaign, vindicating a bitter, bitter sheep’s vitriol, and forever condemning Whisper to be nothing but a murderer; all of it. It gave her reason to stay strong. This was not how she was going out.

Her hand grasped at Surge’s chest, her collar, anything to hang onto. She clawed at the belt, and felt salvation. A baton. Tangle managed a smile in-between each brutal swing – typical, typical cop. Packing way too much heat.

Ripping the baton out of its holster, Tangle recentred her grip, and bapped it across Surge’s noggin. The tenrec briefly faltered, confused by what just happened, rubbing the spot.

“Wha… are you for real-”

BAP.

Tangle cut her off with another whack to the skull. Surge blinked…

“Stop it.”

BAP.

“You’re pissing me off lemur!”

BAP.

As Tangle winched another strike, Surge snatched her wrist and held it limp. A victorious grin spread her cheeks apart, a great white cornering its prey. Which was exactly the sort of security that Tangle wanted to see, especially now becoming free of a fist repeatedly jackhammering her features.

Curling up, the lemur planted her two shoes on the tenrec’s chest. Surge glanced down, and pouted, defeated for this encounter. Tangle winked, just to drive home the point a little further.

“Thank goodness for pilates; eh, mi amigo?”

Surge was punted away with all of Tangle’s might. It wasn’t exactly the strongest move in her arsenal, but the vigilante would take the respite, gladly. Surge barely stumbled back, but it created enough space for Tangle to regain standing level. A bell klaxoned off in her ears, Tangle wounded and off-kilter, but rather than take it as a TKO… she hailed it as the ‘ding-ding-ding’ of Round Two.

With gusto, Tangle twirled the baton, her new prize. Opposite, Surge brushed herself off. The fight reset itself, and this time, the lemur initiated with a graceless swipe. One had to have confidence, when the chips were down, right?

From the sound of it, Surge managed to locate Tangle and Whisper. Lanolin could hear the thunderous crash of battle in the distance, like the ominous rumble of a storm approaching. A part of her regretted she couldn’t jump into the fray herself, but she trusted her partner to finish the job. No tricks, no vans; in a straight brawl, her money was on Surge in three minutes or less.

Displaying an appropriate amount of restraint, Lanolin forced Cream to stay in the car. The absolute last thing she needed was the rabbit thrusting herself in between the criminals, performing some pathetic attempt at ‘both siding’ Whisper. Oh, how she protested, but Lanolin pulled rank. She possessed a badge; Cream, just lint and pocket fluff. Guard the vehicle, bunny, or end up burned.

The sheep fell into a rhythm, ducking past each tombstone, or underneath the grand willow tree’s numerous dangling branches; the moment nigh. Her mouth was swimming in saliva, each gate, each segment of the graveyard building her anticipation more and more. She barely could walk, her knee weaker than usual - Lanolin found herself relying on her cane to keep herself upright. Excitement? Or nerves?

She knew what she’d say to Whisper. Rehearsed it. Over and over. Lying in bed, or in the shower; at her desk, or whilst driving to work. Never, never, did she think she’d ever gain the opportunity to actually unveil them.

Pushing past into the final section, Lanolin bore witness to a Surge dodging and weaving in-between Tangle’s punk-rock, ballerina fighting style. The lemur successfully nabbed a baton, and put it to good use… though Surge consistently checked her - blocked with her wrists, or swerving out of danger, all without breaking a sweat.

But Tangle was neither here, nor there. The detective wanted Whisper.

That wolf… Lanolin located her immediately. It was hard not to, she stood right out in the open. It violated everything that the sheep came to understand about Whisper. Shouldn’t she be… hidden? If there was an aspect of the canine Lanolin begrudgingly respected, it had to be her ability to vanish out of any danger. 

The woman was a coward, bonafide and branded. During the Restoration days, she perched far away in her sniper nests whilst Lanolin and Tangle did the heavy lifting. Even after Whisper slaughtered Duo, instead of facing the music, she retreated into obscurity. She turned fleeing into an art.

So… what gives?

Whisper didn’t even seem to realise Lanolin arrived, nor did she react to the fisticuffs sparking off around her. It was as if her soul vacated her body, leaving nothing but a husk…

Lanolin snorted. That had already happened.

The canine’s ears were pressed so flat against her scalp, her outline morphed into a notched arrowhead. Lanolin followed along, down the tip of the snout and into the pit Whisper languished before. Her sandy tail dangled aimlessly; her hands swished listlessly. She looked like a hangman swaying on her own noose. The sheep couldn’t think of any better imagery to describe a killer who finally had no recourse, no avenue to escape.

The detective’s stomach blanched, once her eyes settled on what… or rather who the wolf fixated on. A messy hole, caked with mounds of muck, yawned open - its pillaged contents splayed asunder for the world to see. Inside, a purple hand settled in the dying sun, and so intense was the rigor mortis, that is grasped at the air, unfurling like a diseased flower. It belonged to the gravestone, tasteful and simple as per instructions, housing the soul of dearly departed Duo.

And Whisper defiled it.

Lanolin half-expected herself to fill up to the brim with rage. Lines upon lines upon lines were crossed, each one more depraved than the last. The horizon itself had been disgraced a decade ago, and yet here it was again. Re-litigated until it rotted.

But… the sheep felt no anger. The fury such a brazen act should stir evaporated before it had the chance to form. Lanolin just felt numb. Cold. Frozen in time - the same horror bubbling in her chest as when she first learnt of Duo’s fate.

How dare the wolf dredge up that repressed emotion.

Whisper never turned around, not even to acknowledge Lanolin. 

The detective took one step forward on her cane; heavy boots digging into gravel. Next, her right leg, her ball and chain, lifted up and twinged. Lanolin collapsed, caught herself with her implement. The blunt edge sank further, she inhaled. Sweated. Pain flared in her knee; tendrils of heat pumping out from a locus point.

Invigorating. 

With a cry, Lanolin ripped her cane out of the floor, and rotated it into a makeshift club. Then, she sprinted.

Her gait was wobbly, but momentum built. Muscles screamed, bones ached, but Lanolin channelled them as further fuel. That wolf never defeated her, never crippled her spirit. 

Lanolin was strong; a juggernaut, pushing through agony, to deliver righteous retribution upon the villain of her life. Her entire existence.

Finally, Whisper’s head jerked to face fast-approaching justice. Briefly, there existed surprise, which swiftly twisted into an accepting smile.

The sheep’s arm pulled back, and she swung her cane into that scarred muzzle. Ten years of hatred imbued the titanium, connecting with an awe-inspiring CRACK.

Whisper punted into the dust, flattened. She spat, splatters of red mixing in with the green grass. Lanolin panted above the wolf, her weapon bent from the sheer power of the blow.

…Too easy. Whisper couldn’t be finished after one measly hit. The sheep straightened her back, sneering down the length of her nose.

“Get up.”

The canine crawled on hands and knees, pathetic, like an infant. But, she didn’t heed Lanolin’s demands. She rolled over, utterly spent. Blood dripped from her nose and dribbled out the corner of her mouth, but those irises. They displayed nothing but sorrow. Repentance. She laid herself bare for Lanolin… do what you must.

That finally snapped the tenuous control in the detective’s heart. That stirred pure frenzy.

“GET UP!” Lanolin roared, crashing her cane back into Whisper snout. The wolf cried out, whilst the sheep screamed in furor. The makeshift baton repeatedly clubbed the sack of meat and bones. Up and down, up and down. Weighty, deliberate swings. Lanolin’s body howled with each torturous blow, but she vowed not to be an instrument of failure.

That was for Duo. This, for herself. One for the Restoration. One for the law.

A black, metal blur jetsoned into the wolf. Lanolin heard the crackle of fracturing bones, the thump of bruising skin, the tiny, pattering trickles of liquid. Whisper stopped vocalising, the only indication she was still alive came from the breathy, choked sobs.

“C’MON WHISPER! FIGHT BACK! FIGHT BACK!” Lanolin stormed, booting the wolf through the graveyard. Whisper barely stopped before Duo’s grave, almost dropping inside of its maw. But still, she heaved, prone and submissive.

Not. Good. ENOUGH.

Lanolin yanked Whisper by her ponytail, clobbering her on the forehead, two-handed, with all her might.

THUD.

Whisper plunged through the gravel and grime again, tiny stones popping out of her blonde fur from where they’d been implanted by each collision with the turf. She gasped for air, spluttering past the blood pooling in her throat. No fight back, no determination.

Lanolin thrust her cane into Whisper’s chest, pinning her to the ground.

“Is that it? Is that all you’ve got left?” Lanolin hushedly sneered, the energy draining out of her. “You destroyed my leg, and I still beat you?”

She let loose the question she’d held in her head for nigh a decade. It aimed true, a bullet annihilating any doubt or deception.

“What have you got to say for yourself?”

The sheep met silence.

…Whisper had nothing to say for herself. Only, she raised shaky fists, wrists bent, revering the sky. The action elicited shivers and quakes in the assassin’s body, her two hands connecting together.

Arrest me. I surrender.

The pressure Lanolin inflicted wavered… her jaw wrenched open in shock. She looked at the wolf. Her face was caked in blood. Blackened bruises emerged from beneath the coat. Tears seeped through her cheeks. But they weren’t tears of pain… They were tears of regret.

Anger dissolved. Lanolin’s brow twitched, as she swallowed back her saliva. Her knee throbbed in tandem with the fight and passion rushing out of her body.

“It’s okay, Lanolin…” Whisper’s ragged, ethereal voice emerged, lurching Lanolin’s diaphragm. The wolf’s face flushed with acceptance. “I deserve this…”

The cane clattered out of the sheep’s clutches. Justice was served…

Except. This wasn’t justice. 

Lanolin’s own tears threatened to leak into her wool, her blue eyes flecking into violet. “Oh… oh my Gaia…”

What had she done?

Whisper’s broken form slumped across the ground. She put all her strength into hoisting her fists, a gesture of peace.

Lanolin watched on, revolted by herself.

She was a detective. A paragon of purest nobility. Seeker of truth… not revenge. How could she mercilessly beat, within an inch of her life, someone who refused to strike back?

Whisper was a person, not a punching bag. She deserved due cause. Respect. Real, actual justice.

Not this. Not whatever this was… 

Bloody vengeance, free from sense, driven by hatred and self-righteousness.

With a gasp, Lanolin suddenly understood everything. What had compelled Whisper to pull that trigger, to kill, ten years ago. She’d become blind, and came so close to repeating that… tragic mistake.

The sheep sank to her knees and stared at the mangled canine. A sob rose out of her throat… malleable and strained, before she let herself cry whole-heartedly. The pressure in her knee, at last, relented, as Lanolin buried her face in her hooves and wept. Guilt raked itself with each wet choke.

Whisper’s hands tumbled back to the floor, exhausted; she breathed soft and shallowly.

The last emotion Lanolin anticipated was despair. But for now, she wallowed in it, content to share that dark feeling with the woman who took everything away from her. 

The only living soul who could similarly fathom such misery.

Tangle latched herself onto a thicker willow tree branch, and winched herself up into the foliage. A tactical manoeuvre, she’d rapidly discovered Surge, mano a mano, overwhelmed her. Credit to the tenrec, she matched Tangle blow for blow, and retaliated ten times harder. Naturally, the best course of action would be to separate herself from electric damnation, if only to snatch a breath.

However, Surge relentlessly pursued, clawing up the side of the willow, ripping through the bark with her bare hands. So, Tangle sprang higher, nimbly slipping between the twisting branches, hoping to create some sort of bulwark. Green, tickly leaves battered against her neck. Annoying, sure, but they also provided camouflage. She still hung onto the baton, maybe she could do a ninja sneak attack!

Except, that would barely come to pass as Surge burst through the natural canopy like they were toothpicks. She made a swipe at Tangle’s neck, peeling past spinning chunks, the lemur bending away by mere centimetres. So close, in fact, the wind rushed past Tangle’s nose, as the tenrec missed.

“Gaia, give a girl a break!” Tangle shuddered, enjoying her beautiful picosecond of respite.

“Not happening, ring-tail! You’ve already had your R&R with Jewel! Now, ya work!” Surge retorted, a sick glint in her pupils.

Ah… that’s how they found them. Tangle prayed for her bestie’s safety.

Yet, maybe she should’ve concerned herself with her own well-being. Like the pounding assault of a riptide, Surge approached with a vengeance. Tangle’s tail grabbed a branch, looking to swing out of the way, but for naught. Lighting fast strikes battered Tangle, sapping her strength, before Surge walloped the lemur’s cheek, prompting her to shoot through the greenery. The baton ended up swatted away; gone as soon as it arrived.

Tangle, fighting through the brain fog, analysed the tenrec’s style. She’d switched approaches, no longer attacking with power. Now, Surge inflicted a death by a thousand cuts. 

It wasn’t fair. Tree-tops and tall arbor was meant to be Tangle’s domain, Surge shouldn’t be able to primp and preen her way across multiple environments like some sorta all-terrain vehicle! Pick a frickin’ lane, greenie!

Wait… maybe don’t get distracted-

A glove latched onto Tangle’s throat from behind. 

Well… shoot.

BOOM! 

Tangle catapulted towards the heavens, the spearpoint of Surge's ascent. The lemur was bashed through wood and riddled with splinters, swatted by leaves, utterly ravaged by the whiplash. Higher and higher they climbed, it felt as though Surge wore rocket boots from the sheer thrust of her leaping. They broke out of the canopy, soaring up into the air. 

For an instant, all she could see was the orange-pink blend of sunset on the horizon. Below her, the leaves burst into flames, Surge’s loose sparks must’ve set off the perfectly kindled willow. 

Tangle struggled in the vice grip uselessly, and for the faintest of moments, they were weightless up there, dancing among the clouds. A strangely serene moment… 

Until Surge’s boot connected with the back of Tangle’s flailing body, and the peace was lost. Tangle plunged back through the fiery treeline. Red consumed her vision, severe heat cooked her body for an instant before she hit the ground with a colossal, dull thud.

Everything swam and blurred; Tangle’s body finally gave up the ghost. A green speck threaded itself through the burning tree, and landed atop the crater that the lemur discovered herself splattered within.

She reached out towards Surge’s smug grin… but she’d lost. Tangle let out a dry chuckle, as the crackling wildfire sang her into unconsciousness.

When Tangle awoke, she was waltzing along mid-air… draped over someone’s shoulder. The smoldering scent of burnt plastic hit her nostrils, and Tangle resigned herself to be manhandled by Surge the Tenrec. 

The lemur sought to escape, but she had no gas left in her tank. Her head pulsed with pain, and her muscles felt like burst balloons - flaccid and useless. Gotta count her lucky stripes that Planet Earth broke her fall… somehow. What was physics anyway? 

Whatever. She’d failed that exam too.

Through cracked eyes, Tangle noticed that Surge ferried her back over to Mimic’s grave. The scene was hazy. A white and purple smear floated in the corner - Lanolin, the lemur guessed. Beside her, a biscotti blob… flecked with red.

What little drive persisted within Tangle died. Whisper; down and out, too. Her younger self might’ve struggled against fate, but after being smited by Surge’s total domination; thinking of rallying seemed like too much effort.

Surge stopped in her tracks. The crinkle of a scrubbing sleeve met Tangle’s ringing ears… definitely not the tenrec’s. Was it… was it-

“Were you crying?” Surge asked, confused. The limp lemur joined her. Lanolin? Stoic, no-nonsense Lanolin the Sheep? Crying?

The sheep composed herself with deliberate breaths. “I… don’t know what came over me.”

Tangle was unceremoniously dumped like a bag of potatoes, sprawled next to Whisper. The wolf’s own inhalations were rocky, battling past swollen lips and a closing windpipe. It brought to mind clogged garbage disposals… which Tangle supposed was the cops’ new-fangled business.

“Ho-holy crap!” Surge laughed. “Look at her! That was you?!”

“That was me.” Lanolin seemed ashamed of herself. A nudge in Tangle’s side told her that Surge attempted to roll her over, as if she was some prize to fiddle and play with. Screw you, tenrec.

“Seriously though, chin up - we won. Tangle’s done for. Whisper has gone snorkelling through her own gore.” Surge, ever an eloquent linguist, chuckled to herself. “Why the long-face? You ain’t a horse.”

Lanolin pressed herself up, using her cane as an anchor. “No, no- that’s not… I’m glad we’ve won, Surge. It’s… it’s just how we won.”

“Lame-ur sucked in the one v one. So what if Ol’Scarmuzzle sucked too?” Surge began to mockingly trill her voice. “Oh no, my climatic showdown wasn’t narratively satisfying! I’ve discovered the Hero’s Journey is more of a guideline than- Hold on! You smacked her up with a duff knee! That’s like, Rocky, or Million Dollar Baby!”

Didn’t she… die, at the end of Million Dollar Baby?

“Surge…” Lanolin sighed. “Please be quiet and let me think.”

“No!” The tenrec barked. “I’m not shutting up until I see a smile! For she’s a jolly good fellow-”

“Whisper didn’t fight back. She surrendered.”

Surge’s jaunty tune trailed off into discordance. “Okay? You’re point being?”

Lanolin boiled over, a stomping hoof boot slicing in-between Tangle’s neck and torso. Good to know the vigilante was set-dressing in this particular domestic.

“Gaia Surge, do I have to spell it out for you?” Lanolin snapped, cane bending under her weight. “She was a non-threat. She was placid, peaceful, open, accepting. And I-” The sheep’s words caught in her throat. “And I beat her. I couldn’t stop, I just… it felt so good.”

Surge’s eyes bugged out of her skull, her cybernetics whirring. “Yo Lan… what the fu-”

“That’s not who I… that’s not who I am, Surge. I’m a detective. I never thought I could… stoop so low. To her level.”

Tangle, while sympathetic (impossible not to be, she always liked Lanolin), shuddered at that last addendum. Spoken like someone who didn’t have the full picture. Tangle seriously doubted Whisper enjoyed killing people… and once again, the lemur received a stark reminder of who lay beside her.

Unimportant, in the face of defeat.

Lanolin shrugged; pointed at the wounded canine. “Why? I don’t understand. She seemed so eager yesterday. To give up like that- what… What happened?”

Tangle could answer that question. Using her tail, she levered herself up to sit. It hurt like the dickens… but there was still a battle the lemur could win.

“Ayyy. She rises again.” Surge sparked up a fist, ready to punt Tangle back to sleepy-ville.

“If you want to know why…” Tangle croaked, holding a hand up to halt insult to injury. “Look inside the casket.”

Lanolin frowned, turning her attention to ‘Duo’. She clambered down, and wrenched out the dead man’s palm. Tangle heard a tiny gasp, and she revelled in the satisfaction of revealing the ugly truth. Hey, they’d trounced her; nothing wrong with raining on their parade.

“What is it?” Surge couldn’t care less, slapping a mitt on Tangle’s mullet to keep her in place.

The sheep made contact with Tangle, disorientated and aghast. She appeared contemplative, millions of thoughts rushing through her being; the great wave of revelation.

Tangle stared right back, steadfast. “Does it make sense now, Lanolin?”

With a lackadaisical nod, Lanolin threw Mimic’s hand away. Her scramble up the side of the hole was tempered by her bad knee, but she triumphed, hobbling over and… plopping herself next to Tangle. To the lemur’s infinite amazement, the grumpy sheep formed an honest-to-Chaos smile.

“Yes. It makes sense…” Lanolin’s tone harboured bitterness, but not towards Tangle. Moreso, it raged against circumstance, against cruel existence.

Tangle leaned in, keenly. “Then, we don’t need to fight! You don’t have to take us in-”

Lanolin hushed the vigilante, her finger stopping the excuses. Once again, Lanolin verged on tears. Tangle wished she could delve into that fluffy head of hers, and discover the correct thing to say to the sheep.

“What does it change, Tangle?”

What does it change?! Easy! 

The lemur opened her mouth, but she possessed no retort. She thought long, and hard. About herself, about Whisper… about Lanolin’s injury and Mimic’s ignominious end; about the sea of marks the wolf slayed.

Her argument perished, Tangle unable to meet Lanolin any further. Instead, she fixated on the canine, Whisper. Her heart bled…

Because Lanolin was correct. It changed nothing.

The lemur clenched her tail… it changed nothing, because that is what the future was for. Tangle resolved herself to show it.

Once she could stand again, that is.

Chapter Text

Lanolin was glad to finally leave that forsaken graveyard. As if there was ever a worse place to have a mental breakdown, surrounded by the dead and the remnants of a sticky deception. With the dying light of the day, the sheep tried to bask in the relaxing, placid atmosphere. Focused in on the wind gently twisting through the overbush. It didn’t do much for her; the heavy weight of her outburst hung around her neck like the medieval stocks.

Peeking out behind the gothic gate of Silent Creek Cemetery, Lanolin spied two feet kicking atop the police cruiser. Cream, bored to tears and not taking her job of sentinel very seriously, perked up upon noticing the sheep slip her way through the gate. Lanolin’s hooves were very unsteady, stumbling as if she trudged along quicksand - though that was only a symptom of emotional drainage. A hollow victory, when all was said and done.

Surge carried Whisper on one shoulder, and graciously supported Tangle on the other. The lemur managed to get herself up and walking; which just went to show how tough a gal she was. Not many people could claim to shrug off a Surge attack.

Cream hopped off her perch, pacing forward with a tentative concern that matched her mother. She ignored Lanolin - figure - and instead shot straight to their prisoner.

“Ms. Tangle!”

Tangle mustered up a tiny salute, greeting the young rabbit with a tired grin. “Hi Cream. Didn’t realise you were on the case, too.”

The rabbit shrugged her shoulders. “I’m on work experience.”

Apparently the humour was too much for Tangle to shrug off - the lemur chuckled into her palm… before wincing in pain. “Jimmeny, Surge - you can throw a mean punch. What’s y- ow… wha’s your secret?”

“Metal innards.” Surge trilled off. “I wouldn’t recommend it. I set off every metal detector.”

Lanolin dumped herself against the grill of the car, puffing. When has walking ever required this much energy? Swinging her cane until Whisper stopped responding obviously did a number on the sheep… and the guilt she’d burdened along the way didn’t put a spring in her step either. Cream looked to help Lanolin up… but she ushered the bunny away.

“I’m sorry we have to do this, Ms. Tangle.” Cream stuttered, halfway between hugging the stripy vigilante and performing the act of dutiful cop. Usually, Lanolin would’ve screamed ‘don’t sympathise with the perp!’ - they were doing their jobs, nothing to apologise for! But in this case… Yes, apologies were warranted. Especially once they… the detective wanted to put off the call to that vile crab for as long as possible.

“Nah.” Tangle sighed. “Chickens came home to roost… Don't blame yourself Cream. You are the only one here who hasn’t done anything wrong.”

A jab. The lemur shot a glance at Lanolin, knowing. For that, Lanolin capitulated, and glanced upwards. The fading embers of the evening trickled down upon their bitter gathering, heralding the black of night and the jetsam that floated within.

“Where’s Ms. Whisper?” Cream asked. Tangle’s face creased up, decrying ‘what?’. Surge, awkwardly rolled her neck to the side, presenting the drooping wolf. With a gasp, Cream’s fur stood up on their ends. “Oh my Gaia, put her down!”

So, Surge did just that. Nudged the wolf off her shoulder and into the dirt. FLUMP, Whisper stirred dust as she impacted. Cream further recoiled, and the tenrec waved her hands. What else was she supposed to do?

Lanolin closed her eyes in muted exasperation.

Cream nimbly dropped to her knees, reclining Whisper into a recovery position. The canine’s face was blackened and swollen, each inhale battling against jagged stones. Wasting no time, the bunny pressed her fingers across each joint, around Whisper’s neck, across the collar-bone.

“She’s severely bruised, but I don’t feel anything broken. What a relief! Could you imagine what Commissioner Grip would say?”

Lanolin apprehended her apprentice with dull confusion, to which Cream soon addressed with a lazy flick of the wrist.

“Papa Vector taught me first aid.” The bunny attested, before she scrunched up in annoyance. “Why the heck couldn’t you check, ma’am? Did you find her like this?”

Tangle successfully straightened herself up, puffing out her chest towards Lanolin. She wasn’t gonna tell, and Surge’s toothy smile goaded the sheep on. Drop the bombshell, show the young-un the might of the police! At least, that’s what Lanolin read in the sharp grin.

Continuing to inquisitively stare, Cream waited for her mentor to answer her. Silence; so she pushed. “Did you find her like this?”

Lanolin’s lower lip quivered, and she had to bite it back - she couldn’t show vulnerability. 

“No.”

Cream stood up, pacing up to the leaning ovine with intent. A proper gumshoe - not letting up, seeking the truth. Lanolin was so proud of her.

“Did she run and fall?”

“No.”

“Did she fight back?”

The sheep swallowed back bile. “No.”

Mortification slowly consumed Cream’s features. Her next question came steady, and calm. “What did you do to her, Lanolin?”

So much genuine heartbreak laced through her apprentice’s voice. Lanolin couldn’t meet her in the eye, she felt filthy. Dirty. But Cream deserved to know the full picture. This time, at least.

“I-... I lost control of my temper.” Lanolin lamented.

“Lost control?” Cream suddenly shouted. Even Surge was taken aback. “You lost control and beat a suspect into unconsciousness?” The bunny noticed the newfound bend in the titanium cane and gagged.

“Oh my Gaia, what the hell is wrong with you?” She snapped, and that… oooh, that got Lanolin’s back up.

“Hell is wrong with me? My knee! That’s what’s wrong with me! As if you could blame someone for-”

“Yes!” Cream blitzed over to Lanolin. “Yes, I can! No matter what, you have the badge, you have the authority. You have the responsibility! So, you rise above it and lead by example. What sort of cop are you?”

“Oh, screw you, Cream!” Lanolin retorted, but that did nothing to deter the raging rabbit.

“Seriously. How can you call yourself a detective - ‘seeker of justice’ - when all you’ve done is pursue petty revenge?” Cream clasped her head in her palms, wincing. “Whisper’s done wrong, so she should face the consequences; right?! Then arrest her! Don’t beat her. That’s not your job; that’s not okay, and you damn well know it too.”

Lanolin desperately tried to retort, but Cream was right. Undeniably. But she wasn’t done.

“I’ve watched you try and justify your actions since Seaside City. So, come on ma’am. Justify screaming at a child until they cry. Justify disobeying direct orders from your commissioner. Justify lying to me, every second of the day.”

Surge’s jaw dropped to the floor, leaving Tangle to stand alone. Somehow, Cream’s rant invigorated her, but her expression spelt disgust for the supposed noble detective.

Lanolin tried not to cry again. When laid out on the table… the sheep looked awful. Hell, she felt awful too.

Cream folded her arms. “Well? I’m waiting?”

Creepingly, Lanolin regarded Surge, who similarly hesitated. They could justify it… that poor Kit was suffering in some cage. That Tangle and Whisper were never seeing the inside of a courtroom. That they… we’re nothing but mafia stooges.

Lanolin gripped her cane, a disgusting feeling rumbling about her innards; because, to tell the truth, Kit was secondary in her brain. This entire time… catching Whisper, receiving sweet revenge (that’s what it was, Lanolin discovered, with shame), was more important to her than rescuing Surge’s little brother.

Gaia… she was a mess, who took Cream for granted and gave into her demons. Someone who was better than whoever the hell possessed her for the past twenty-four hours.

But she couldn’t tell the truth. She just couldn’t.

Cream tapped her foot, once. Her musings came out remarkably dry. “I’ve been thinking, ma’am. About who chased whom and for why… and something never added up.” She jerked her head over to Tangle. “Who was she hunting, again? An aquatic gang.”

Lanolin’s heart started to pound through her chest. Cream was going to be a great detective. If not the very best.

“And then I realised… There is one aquatic gentleman who you didn’t want me near. One man who I just had to leave for, so you could speak to him. And I know why.” Cream turned her head over to Tangle.

“Ms. Tangle. Who is Hoyt?”

Tangle’s already stormy expression darkened to something utterly black. Lanolin’s soul felt skewered by the tip of a polearm, dragged into the dirt and smited by the gaze.

“You’re working with Hoyt?” The lemur shook her head, reviled. “The underboss of the mafia? Chaos, Lanolin, where do you get off being so sanctimonious when you’re in bed with that evil son of a bitch?”

Cream paused, and breathed in deeply. The anger was gone, replaced with an agonised hurt. Betrayal rocked her pure, loving eyes, as they turned red and splotchy. They regaled Lanolin with shattered innocence.

“You’re corrupt, aren’t you Lanolin?” The young teenager pointed at Surge, just as damning. “You’re both corrupt.”

“Cream, no- you don’t understand.” Lanolin begged the rabbit, who’d begun to stroll away in defeat.

“I’m informing Grip. I’m sorry, ma’am, it’s my duty.”

Lanolin threw her cane to the side, taking heavy, off-kilter steps, desperate to catch up to Cream. The entire world seemed to crumble around her. “You can’t Cream. You simply can’t!”

Surge’s attention darted from person to person, clearly panicking. Eventually, she settled on the shrinking bunny, storming away. Clenching her teeth, sparks flew off her body and her fists clawed into lethal, electric bullets.

“Move aside, Lanolin.”

“What?” The sheep’s wool frizzed up as static singed the air. “What are you doing?”

The tenrec grunted, resigned - none of that cocky drive left. Simmering beneath, Lanolin detected something sinister in Surge’s glowing irises. Tangle, too, teetered, hovering her tail over the officer’s shoulder. Without any hesitation, Surge punted the lemur to the floor.

Cream was barely a blip on the horizon, and further fading to the point of no return.

“I’m sorry, Lanolin… but we can’t let her squawk.”

The sheep stuttered over her words. Surely… surely Surge didn’t mean to - Lanolin couldn’t utter the implication. However, with the confident way her partner prepped to sprint, teslas primed and voltage spiking - it didn’t take a detective to figure out her intent.

“No… Surge, no…” Dangling a hand out, Lanolin froze in fear.

Surge scrubbed her eyes, stinging with regret. “For Kit… I gotta do it for Kit.”

And with a flash and a bang - she disappeared. Only smoke wafted where the cyborg once stood.

“Oh… those rotten, scummy-” Cream balled her hands as she comprehended the extent of the situation. “Rude, unpleasant… argh! Poor Kit!”

Surge, who barreled after the rabbit not to assure her silence, but rather to pick her up by the scruff of her neckerchief and plop her back down before Lanolin, nodded forlornly. “They’ve got us dead to rights… if the Marianas don’t get Tangle and Whisper, Kit has his throat slit.”

She scoffed. “Hoyt made that abundantly clear. ‘Heads in guillotines’, he said.”

They’d sat themselves in a circle. Cream rested on her knees, too agitated to truly relax, whilst Surge lounged with her legs splayed out. Lanolin pressed her back against the cruiser, sharing the vehicle with Tangle, who’d stretched her tail into a makeshift pillow. Whisper remained unconscious, and Lanolin thanked her lucky stars that she wasn’t becoming any worse.

“Everytime I hear something new about the Marianas, the worse they get.” Tangle spat, occasionally checking over on the wolf. “Wisp smugglers, torturers, drug dealers. They suck. They suck so hard. You gotta understand why I couldn’t stand by and do nothing, right Lanolin?”

The pleading in Tangle’s voice wrenched further guilt across Lanolin’s chest, the sheep continued to stare at her boots in lieu of acknowledging the lemur. Cream dived back in to change the subject.

“Why did you have to keep this a secret from me?” She asked, still hurt. “I could’ve got Papa and Espio onboard, we would’ve been happy to-”

“No.” Lanolin sighed. “That wouldn’t be fair on you. I should’ve left you out of this completely.” As she spoke, the broken sheep sounded even uglier. “I strung you along, Cream, as if it was for your own good - but I was lying to myself as much as I lied to you. You’re an asset, I’m proud of you, and… I apologise for the deceit. Sincerely.”

Cream seemed happy enough with that apology, she bowed her head down to think. Lanolin knew it’d take some time for the trust to return, if ever. It left the sheep to confront the other person she’d placed on the precipice; Tangle.

“Don’t believe just because I’m sad and flaccid means somehow you’re off the hook, Tangle. You’re working with an assassin, there will be consequences.”

Tangle’s ear twitched in consideration. “I get that, I do. But if you don’t give Whisper the chance to do the correct thing… then you’re just condemning her to be forever a killer.” Her eyes sparkled at Lanolin. “I held a grudge the same as you have, Lan. And I’m not going to sit here and pretend she hasn’t permanently scarred you… you have every right to hurt. But we’re trying to accomplish something good, and… I dunno. I can’t deny her the opportunity, because she truly wants it. To redeem herself, to strive to be the best version of herself.”

“I know, Tangle… but - forgiveness is something I can’t offer.”

“Then don’t.” Tangle said candidly. “Don’t forgive her. I haven’t… I accepted the facts and I decided to keep pushing forward. Our pasts are… etched in stone, and sometimes the inscriptions display painful memories that refuse to heal.” She rubbed her eyes. “The only way forward is to write new epitaphs, positive ones, hopeful ones. The future is ours to control. Please don’t take away the chisel, Lanolin. Whisper hasn’t finished yet.”

Lanolin stewed on the lemur’s appeal to her soft and gooey insides, as she chewed on her cheek. Tangle always wore her heart on her sleeve, and whilst her undiluted belief in Whisper was admirable… It didn't matter either way. They were dead women walking regardless.

“I don’t know why you’re parroting this crap at me, Tangle.” She carded a hand through her wool. “Especially when those fish bastards hold the cards. Are you willing to let an innocent kid die so Whisper can ‘try again’? Why should she get a second chance when he might get none?”

Tangle couldn’t really provide any counter, but her tail frizzed up a bit in irritation. “Oh, so Kit is the priority again? Now that you’ve had your catharsis, you can go back to pretending you’re morally sound despite making out with frickin’ Hoyt.”

Oh. Okay then. The gloves came off.

“I guess you’ve got it all figured out then.” Lanolin growled, before sarcastically tilting herself over to her green partner. “Hear that Surge, Tangle doesn’t work with criminals. She’s too upright for that! Not when she sleeps with one, instead-”

Tangle aggressively jabbed a finger into Lanolin’s chest - ceasing the deluge. The sheep had never seen the lemur so stern, leaving her to recall this was the same girl who managed to punch through a lobster’s shell with her bare fists. Suddenly, she felt a bit nervous.

“If you continue to spew that bullcrap, things are gonna turn really bad for you, Lan. You got it?”

The detective removed the prodding implement. “Fine. But we’re back where we started again. Have you got any solutions, Ms. Vigilante?”

Winching herself up, to the best of her ability, Tangle kicked the ground and turned her back - clearly frustrated. “I don’t know. It’s a rock and a hard place.” She moaned. “But I’m not submitting to the mob quietly, let me make that abundantly clear. You’ll have to drag me screaming into that painful goodnight.”

“Nor will I allow it.” Cream piped up again. Lanolin knocked her head back against the metal. Thanks Cream, make life more difficult, why don’t you? See, this is why she kept it secret from Cream; the girl was too emotional. Conversely, by that same, well-worn token, Lanolin hadn’t been the most rational person. Her opinions were a contradictory bundle of spaghetti. Could she take pride in Cream’s altruism, whilst also finding it incredibly annoying?

Even so, the sheep thought catching Whisper would’ve been some teachable moment. Well, she taught Cream a lesson, alright. On what not to do.

Surge picked at her ear, bored of the constant roadblocks. “What are we doing then? Am I kicking Stripes’ ass again and forcing her into the truck?” She tore up some grass, ripping it out of the sod. “‘Cuz I don’t care if you two are partaking in a magical mystery tour of redemption and righteousness - I’m saving Kit.”

“But you’d be giving into the mafia.” Cream proffered, as if that would change Surge’s mind. 

It didn’t. Rather, it poured gasoline on the fire.

“Shut up, Bucktrap! Imagine your momma with a sword pressed against her throat!” Surge crawled over to the bunny, grabbing her by the neck-tie. “Picture it, Cream. Really, really picture it!”

Cream shook in the tenrec’s grasp. Surge scoffed, victorious. “Grandstand all you want, Sugarplum. You block this, my little brother is dead. And it’ll be your fault.”

“Gaia’s sake…” A voice rasped behind everyone, a tender flute of crumpled metal. “Stop pointing fingers at each-other.”

Whisper had sat herself up, nursing her jaw, which evidently throbbed. “Blame Cream. Blame Lanolin. Blame me, or Tangle. You miss the real culprits.”

Lanolin studied the wolf’s movements. Whisper was delicate, very deliberate in not twinging a muscle. For some reason, the sheep wasn’t consumed with anger upon seeing that scarred face again. Though the scales weren’t balanced in the slightest, Lanolin… could comprehend Whisper a bit better. They had the same shoe-size, after all.

“It’s Nacci. It’s Hoyt. It’s the Mariana Mafia…” Whisper wheezed out. “Since day one, it’s been them.”

Surge released Cream, who’d slowly sunk into her collar, attempting to avoid the raging tenrec. “Au contraire. It’s you, Wolfy. You’re a good for nothing murderer-”

Lanolin placed a hoof on Surge’s chest. “She’s right, Surge.”

Whisper’s squint opened to reveal her surprise. Lanolin couldn’t quite believe she agreed, but… the wolf was always the perceptive one, for better or for worse. Hell, she clocked Duo was Mimic, though Lanolin hadn’t figured out her feelings about that miserable revelation.

“All this talk about… the past. It’s irrelevant. Not when we’ve got Kit held captive by the Marianas.” Lanolin murmured, her conviction unsure.

Surge slapped her forehead, once, and then began to hammer it. Metallic clangs heralded each sulky impact. “But… but we gotta give them up!”

Whisper huffed through her nostrils. It seemed like her airwaves were healing up. “That’s only if you continue to play on Nacci’s terms.”

She rose up on aching feet, deliberately stepping towards Lanolin. The sheep regarded her with a fair bit of neutrality, her face giving nothing away. Internally, it was a maelstrom of hate and guilt and understanding and it was too overwhelming!

“Lanolin.” Whisper swallowed deeply. “I’ve done you so wrong… I’ll never make up for your injury. It’s impossible; you’ve lived with my impulsiveness for a decade.” Her snout reached up into the air, steady; in careful consideration. “But… I want to be a force for good again. So, let’s put aside the grudges to rescue Kit.”

A hand hovered in front of Lanolin’s muzzle, yearning to be taken. “Nacci believes he has us by the throat, but if there’s one thing he can’t account for…”

Tangle began to smile behind the wolf, psyching herself up. “Is a team-up!”

Whisper continued on. “We’re stronger together. I’ve got a plan, and it’ll work, but only if you’ll find it in yourself to let me help. I can’t turn back the clock and stop that stupid, paranoid girl from pulling the trigger… but I can try to be the hero I know is within me. I will rescue Kit. And when it’s all over…”

The canine bent down to Lanolin. To the sheep’s dismay… she saw genuine repentance within Whisper’s blue irises, desperate to help; to do good. Lanolin couldn’t deny it… she wanted to so badly, but it was impossible. She was too skilled at reading people to ignore the facts. That Whisper meant every word.

“I’ll…” Whisper stopped, and made her decision. “I’ll come quietly, and face the music. No more running. I need to own every part of myself. That, I hope… will grant you the closure you deserve.”

Something caught in her throat, so Lanolin retreated into her torso, hiding away from the wolf. Even with the earnesty, the sheep didn’t know she had the strength to accept Whisper back into the fold. Too much, too fast.

Surge, thankfully, made her mind up without much baggage to rifle.

“You’ve got a plan?”

Whisper hummed. “Mm-hm. Some subterfuge. Some bait n’switch.” She smiled with a confidence that spoke to Surge.

“Alright then, perp! I’m not shooting a gift horse in the mouth, Lan.” Surge giddily laughed. “If working with Whisper means I can get Kit to safety whilst also punching that snivelling nautilus in his wet, droopy face - then we’re doing it.”

Lanolin unfurled from her shell, scanning across her present company. Tangle, who pumped her fists, ready and raring to go. Surge, who crackled with eager energy. Cream, who remained apprehensive, yet much more at ease.

Whisper, who sacrificed her own freedom so Kit can walk free.

Lanolin sat on no moral high ground. She had a lot to answer for too, in her irrationality. But with an intense nod, she committed. Time to be a detective, again, and fight against Nacci. Not for him.

She grasped Whisper’s gloved hand and shook it.

“Deal.”

And, strangely, Lanolin didn’t feel her knee sear at all.

Chapter Text

The waves lapped against the stern. They were gentle in their form, barely reaching up the side of the boat, before settling back down again to leave a caking of foam. So inky blue was the water, Kit could imagine sea monsters and krakens living just beneath the soap, ready to lash out a limb and sink this megayacht he’d found himself imprisoned on.

The fresh air stung his nostrils - so pure and briney. He savoured it, each breath a privilege, cherished until he inevitably returned to the brig. Beside him, Kit could witness the entire expanse of Central City. The numerous lights of the apartment complexes, or the glitzy neon advertisements that wrapped around the skyscrapers, were so bright - one could swear it was mid-day. The city never slept, not even with the moon hung in the sky.

“Sometimes I just like to… stare at the cityscape.” Gloome leant on the railings, smiling demurely. “Ever heard of ‘sonder’?”

Kit shook his head. “Nope… sounds sorta threatening.”

Gloome giggled to herself. “Noooo, silly billy! It’s very spiritual. I learnt about it in class. Ex-philosophy majors represent!”

Lume lightly huffed on Kit’s right. The white jellyfish clung her tentacles around a pole, remarkably serene despite the circumstances. Kit couldn’t half believe it when Gloome offered to take him out on deck, and was utterly gob-smacked when Lume joined in too.

But Nacci had business to attend to elsewhere, leaving the jellyfish sisters free reign of ‘The Golden Ratio’, and Gloome insisted on a tour.

“You and your philosophy, Glooms.” Lume knocked her bell against the edge, content to just lovingly gaze at her sis. “Tell him about ‘sonder’. You turn it into something beautiful.” She sounded exceedingly proud of the mauve stinger.

Kit stared up at Gloome, who’d quickly withdrawn into herself. Then she began. “Sonder is the realisation that everyone around you - every person, every living being - has as vivid and complex a life as you do. Each person has hopes, dreams, challenges, love and losses; so much colour. And to us, they’re just a passerby on the street. A random person in the coffee shop. The one you sat next to on the bus.”

She craned a hand out towards the city, pointing at the twinkling lights. Each household, unique, filled with histories that Kit couldn’t fathom.

“And in turn, Kit, you’re the same to them. A background role.” Gloome sighed, wistfully. “Isn’t that amazing?”

Kit’s ears pressed against his head and furrowed his brow. “Doesn’t that mean we’re all… insignificant?”

Gloome bent down to the teenager’s level, taking a palm into her sticky grasp. Her touch used to revile him, but now her tender fingers felt like a massage dipped in fragrant oil. 

“No! It means we’re all equal. That every second - billions of experiences, entire universes, are playing out in tandem. Constantly crossing-over, working in harmony to just ‘be’.”

The fennec nodded. It made sense… for so long Kit hid away in his room, avoiding people. His world was four walls, a bed and a computer - too scared to even step a foot outside. Kit still struggled with that urge, as it was the easy answer to his problems. The only difference is Gloome… shed some light, opened the blinds a bit - showed that everyone fought their battles, but triumphed over them too. He didn’t have to be alone.

He had Surge. And at this very moment? Her ‘vivid, complex inner life’ was dedicated to saving him. It made him feel warm and mushy inside. As if he was organic, and not wires and gears.

Who would’ve thought his kidnappers would teach him that? Is this what Stockholm Syndrome felt like?

Lume twirled a tentacle, relaxed for the first time in forever. “‘Sonder’ is the purest form of empathy there is.”

“We both hold onto it.” Gloome added. “Else Nacci would’ve destroyed our souls long ago.”

Kit hung onto the purple jelly’s every word. She sounded so elegant, so wise, despite her age and despite her-

“Any-ways. I gotta show you Nacci’s wine collection.” She poked her lip. “Are you underage? I’m, like… I’m struggling to tell.”

-Ditziness. Well, nothing lasts forever.

Lume softly placed a hand on Kit’s shoulder. Somehow, he didn’t buck at the contact anymore. Surge used to be the only one able to touch him… Or Lanolin, if she let him fiddle with her wool. Guess he could add Lume and Gloome to that very exclusive club.

“I’m sorry to say, it's time for him to go back down below deck. You’ve taken all the leeway you’re getting Glooms.”

Her sister moaned like a petulant child. “D’aaaw, five more minutes?”

The stern, stoic woman re-emerged, ready to clip a leash back on out of control flesh and blood. Lume’s eyes drooped, less angry, more sad. Upset she had to ruin the moment.

Kit agreed, the last thing he wanted was Lume or Gloome to get hurt…

“It’s okay… I understand.”

Finally, Gloome submitted. But before she let the fox go, she tilted Kit’s chin back out towards the gorgeous, luminant skyline. Her voice was a whisper, calming and relaxing, tickling his ears.

“Just imagine… with all these different people, all these lives intertwined; that we were lucky enough to share this moment together. Our orbits overlapped in the most special way - so thank you.”

A THUMP rang out behind them. The trio spun around to meet with a lanky swordfish… dragging a black bag of some sort. Its insides kicked and thrashed… and Kit didn’t enjoy the implication.

Ricasso looked almost embarrassed, rubbing his splinted nose upon being noticed. His eyes shifted down to Kit, then back up again to the two sisters.

Weren’t they supposed to be alone?

“Ricasso, what’s the hold up-” Hoyt strutted around the corner and froze upon seeing the scene before him. “...Uh. Hoezit, ladies.”

“Hoh-a, ho-ho? Hoezee?” Gloome gave up mid-sentance. “Hiya Hoyty!”

The horseshoe crab squinted beyond his mask. Glinting above his belt was a black sheath… Kit shivered. He remembered that blade too well. He couldn’t swallow without running the risk of cutting his own throat, not when the arthropod held him so tightly.

Hoyt shooed Ricasso off. “Go dump this doos in the gym.”

The swordfish thumbed up, before continuing his agonisingly long journey; hauling the body bag with all of his might. Eventually, he disappeared into the yacht’s interior, leaving Hoyt alone with the jellyfish sisters. “Deck jol, no drinks?”

Lume clacked a heel forward, instinctively shielding Gloome from harm. Kit was secondary, unfortunately. “What are you doing here?”

Hoyt sniggered, hoarsely. “Courier service. That’s about as much as y’need to concern your pretty, little bells with.” He planted his arms on his hips, leaning forward. Kit could detect a smirk beneath the mask - like a kid discovering his Christmas surprise. “Why is our prisoner out on the deck?”

Gloome shrugged; she didn’t see the problem. “I thought he needed some fresh air.”

“Okay?” Hoyt clearly couldn’t care for the why. It’s the who that he was more concerned about. “I know jellyfish are rumoured to have liquid for brains, but surely even you aren’t this doff?”

“Bite my cirrus.” Lume droned, as she ushered Kit towards the lower deck. “Don’t stress. He’s going back to where he belongs.”

The crab strode directly into Kit’s face, bending over slightly to meet his nervous gaze. “Hello, little man. I’m your Oom Hoyt!” The greeting was laced with insincerity. “Remember me?”

Kit jerked his head to the side, trying to avoid the creep’s presence, but for naught. The dude didn’t have bad breath or anything, but his cologne and deodorant combo reeked regardless. Almost too clean smelling, as dangerous as bleach.

“Stop fishing for a rise, Hoyt.” Lume once again sidled Kit, positioning him behind her pale, slick body. “He’s not in any danger.”

Hoyt squawked out an ugly laugh. “Sies, Lume! I guess even on the best of days, you and logic are…” He put his two index fingers together, before splitting them apart with a slidy whistle. “Not exactly neighbours, ne?”

Gloome interrupted with an airy fairy trill. “Wait, wait - I’m the one with the logic deficit.”

“You, y’sister - both idiots.” Hoyt straightened himself up. “We go through all this effort to keep the runt away from water, and then you take him aboard the deck of a blerrie boat! Do you remember Don Nacci’s instructions?”

Kit gulped, further shrinking behind the older jellyfish. Lume folded her arms, her jewellery beads clicking against each other with every defensive pose. Her silence spoke volumes. Her twin? Less disciplined…

“Yeah, gimpface. Don’t let him near liquids!” Gloome patted Kit sympathetically. “It’s horrible. Kiddo needs to drink.”

Hoyt rolled his eyes, almost resigned upon hearing the purple stinger’s answer. “Aight, so you don’t remember…” He said flatly, gesturing at the fox with the tip of wakizashi. “The kid is a cyborg with built in hydro-kinesis. Jackass can skewer you with a bottle of mineral soda.”

Lume and Gloome looked at each-other, bewildered. Kit took another unconscious step back… his metallic innards beginning to whirr and crackle. Panic seized him.

“Are you high?” Lume chuckled.

“Sober five years, thank you.” The horseshoe crab skillfully deflected, jabbing the medusaes at sword-tip. “Anyway, this freak is one of Starline’s projects.”

At the utterance of that name, ice shot through Kit’s veins. His ventilation system hitched, his coolant circulator churned at one hundred miles per hour.

How does he… how does he know Starline?!

“Starline?” Gloome tapped her chin, though nobody evidently sprung to her mind.

Hoyt snapped his fingers, absent-mindedly. “Oh-aweh. Right, you wouldn’t have met him. Basically, this kook of a platypus needed a ton of spare metal; titanium, tungsten, silver - the usual suspects. He didn’t want to make any public down-payments, so the Marianas stepped in.”

He quirked his eyes, staring intently at Kit. The fennec panted, shivering in terror. He pressed further and further backwards, his empty pack hitting the yacht’s side with a hollow clang.

“We made the connect, facilitated the deal - lickety split, ja. But dis boet wouldn’t tell us what it was for. Some plot, I suppose? He kept schtum. Like drawing blood from a stone. But the money came in fast and clean, so we rinsed our hands, let Duck-not-a-duck go about his sweet business.”

Kit’s vision tunnelled - the edges sharpening, yet his focus melding in slurry. He balled his hands into shaky fists… coding kicked in, ones and zeros flashed behind his eyes, battling a pressure that desperately wanted to squeeze itself out of his ducts.

One drop is all it would take. 

Stabbing fear injected its claws into his chest at that thought. No. No violence, he couldn’t. He wouldn’t. He clasped his hair in his grip, tugging at it, praying the ripping pain would recentre him.

“Fast forward ‘til now.” Hoyt picked at his nails, aware of Kit’s agitation yet not caring in the slightest. “Up crops this electric cyborg cop - klapping my boys, ruining my meet n’greets. Nacci demands information, so we go ‘ring-ring-ring’, ask our contact about Surge.”

The wakizashi was out again, scraping against the floor with a guttural, shrill sound. Kit continued to writhe, Gloome hovering between intercepting or avoiding the blade. Hoyt prodded it into the fennec’s chest. The slight poke drilled reality back through the young boy’s head - he craned his head up to the sadistic crab.

“They told us all about you.” He sing-songed - tone deaf. “Surge and Kit, Starline’s forever legacy. No family, no ties except to each other. Leverage gifted on a silver platter. Nacho puts in the order, and Ms Lume and Ms Gloome bust ye door down.”

He chuckled. “It’s real cute how you’re hanging out with each other.”

The sword pressed in a tad deeper. “Feels a bit like appropriation. Who the hell are you, to take our beloved H20 and turn it against us? What’s more… refuse to even wield it! I’m sure if Starline saw you now, he’d grab the belt-”

A white flash blinded all. Hoyt stumbled, rubbing his dazzled eyes. Lume, palm outstretched, further shoved the crab away. “That’s enough. Go gargle urchins, you brackish douchebag.”

Kit noticed the wakizashi was still sticking out of his chest. It didn’t hurt one bit, but that never stopped Gloome from gasping. Point conceded, usually getting shanked in the torso elicited at least a yelp. Gingerly, he tugged it out, and chucked it back at the blinking crab.

“Leave him alone!” Gloome shouted, her own tentacles flaring out. “Cyborg or not, doesn’t mean we can’t treat him with a bit of respect! And why do you care anyway?”

Hoyt resheathed his sword. Despite the newly bloodshot whites, he stayed insultingly flippant. “I don’t! I care about his sister though. She’s vital!”

Simmering anger pumped through Kit. Hard not to hate Hoyt when he talked about the fennec like he was some sort of monster, made worse by the sheer mention of his sis. As if Surge would ever submit to some ragtime, two-bit gangster.

He could shove a tsunami down his throat, and watch him drown on dry land-

No! No powers! No Starline!

Lume kept a cool head, laxly coiling her tendrils. “Vital? For what?”

Hoyt spun his finger in a circle. “Laws of the ocean, Lume. The current sweeps away the sand, as sure as the tide ebbs and flows. Clock’s struck the peak, buoys are wobbling, and the reef is ready to shift a lil’ bit. The horseman of this particular cycle happens to be a lightning storm, and only the truly savvy water-breathers can survive the reckoning.”

Kit didn’t understand a single word coming out of that chelicerate’s mouth. 

“What are you up to, Hoyt?” Lume growled.

“Nothing. I’m going about business as usual! I can just… sense the regime is on its way out, ja?” The crab brushed himself off. “I know you two hate Don Nacci. So scratch my back a little, and I’ll scratch yours?”

The high-pitched squeaking of another language littered the air, cutesy piano music of sunshine, sparkles and magical girls serenading the gathering. Hoyt patted his coat pocket, pulling out his smartphone. His expression lit up, upon reading the caller ID.

“This is important.” He placed the receiver to the side of his shell, briefly covering the mic and winking. “I didn’t see anything jelly-tots.” He snickered, as he slipped away into the yacht’s interior. Faintly, Kit heard his greeting. “Hello, officer! So glad to hear from you at last…”

Officer?

Before Kit could object, Lume hoisted him up and stomped her way down into the grubbier, maintenance section of the boat. No glamour to be found here, only rusty pipes and limescale wallpaper.

Gloome followed after her sister. Kit made eye-contact with her, since Lume carried him like a loose bit of timber, or whatever. She was restraining the urge to giggle again.

“Uhh. Did Hoyty hit his head, cuz’ he ain’t making any sense?”

Lume ducked into the storage room, ignoring the various boxes of alcohol and dry food and the occasional block of white powder. After she plopped Kit down in his usual corner, the white jellyfish swivelled and launched herself into Gloome, hugging her tightly.

“My alarms are ringing, Hoyt’s got something up his sleeve and I do not want us on the other end of it.” She murmured, muffled into her sister’s shoulder. “We have to be more careful.”

“With Kit? Last time, I promise-”

“No, Glooms.” Lume pulled back. She shone illuminately in the dim prison cell, revealing her gelatinous skin to be slightly translucent. “In general! Everybody’s got a smile on their lips and a knife in their pocket. We can’t leave ourselves vulnerable. Give them a whiff of weakness and they’ll pounce.”

Gloome tilted her head in adorable, bubbly confusion. “But… we’re gangsters? Everyone has a knife in their pocket.”

Lume thrust her bell into Gloome’s bosom, tired. “Survive for me, Glooms. Promise? I can’t lose you too.”

The fragile crack in the moon jelly’s voice finally managed to pierce the happy-go-lucky attitude, Gloome pausing for a moment. Her pink, soothing thumb rubbed the crook of her sister’s own.

“I promise, Lumy.” She responded, tenderly.

Kit was forgotten, hiding away in his captive nook. He didn’t want the attention, the jellyfishes’ love stirring a longing for his spiky, green sister. Lume had Gloome, Gloome had Lume.

Kit had Surge, and she was coming for him. But he gained a new wish to boot. That the trapped jellyfish sisters made it out safely, too. When they showed him nothing but kindness, why should they go down when Surge cleaned house?

Sonder, the young fennec realised to himself, was indeed the purest form of empathy he’d ever experienced. Despite being locked in a cell, the world seemed a little bit wider, and a little bit more worth the struggle. Hope wasn’t the emotion he expected, but the knowledge that Surge and Lanolin were fighting tooth and nail immediately provided comfort so immense, it trumped being nicked by a samurai sword.

Once he was out, he’d pay them back, and journey outside again.

Whisper remembered slumping herself into the back of Lanolin’s cruiser. That was all she managed before completely knocking out.

Of what she recalled, the rear seats still had the divider installed, leaving her to feel like a prisoner. Not that it was any different to how she usually felt, only that her environment finally matched her internal monologue. 

Cream sat in between her and Tangle, a bit uncomfortable given the circumstances. Whisper couldn’t exactly blame her. The rabbit might’ve been the sweetest ray of sunshine the world had ever encountered, anyone would balk at squidging themselves in-between a ruthless assassin and a violent vigilante.

Again, Whisper didn’t ponder too much - she was exhausted, and fell back to sleep pretty much as soon as her butt touched leather.

She awoke to the sound of tiny wings buzzing. Beneath her, soft cushions, alongside the numbing chill of a bag of peas, nestled between her swollen jaw; already starting to heal itself. The garden variety vegetables did the trick.

The wolf creaked her head over to scan the room. Her neck clicked and twinged in pain; Whisper couldn’t help hissing. An orange beetle sat on the carpet, surrounded by a quaint lounge, and ‘choo-choo’ed a tiny, toy train. Moving up a bit further, Whisper made out Jewel, sipping from a fine china teacup. Upon noticing her guest awaken, she flashed a calming smile.

“Good evening, Whisper.”

Whisper swallowed, trying to dislodge a lump that’d formed. There wasn’t much power behind her greeting. “G’evening Jewel… what time is it?”

Jewel checked her wristwatch. “Mmmm… coming up to about nine-thirty in the evening.”

Suddenly, the tea didn’t make much sense. Whisper’s ear flicked in contemplation. “Bit late for caffeine?” Why her first concern was for Jewel’s sleeping schedule, the canine couldn’t quite guess, but the beetle emphatically took another swig.

“Roosbois. No caffeine. Would you like some?”

Whisper jutted her legs out, swinging herself into a crooked slouch. Her beloved peas ended up tossed to the side, their purpose fulfilled. Bare paws touched fluffy rug, Whisper’s soles sinking into plush, clean fabric. Someone took her boots off? Gio’s train skirted past her nail, stopping by the rolling hills of… her toe.

She ached, but not as badly as anticipated. Whisper didn’t quite have the heart to tell Lanolin that her swings were kinda weak, at least for an all-consuming, rage-induced assault. However… Emotionally? The damage was pretty strong - there was so much left to say to the sheep.

But that could wait, as a mug descended into her hands. Stark, scarlet liquid wobbled in her trembling grip. Jewel fluttered above her, watching eagerly. In lieu of disappointing her kind hospitality, Whisper gave it a tentative lap.

Tasty.

“How are you feeling?” Jewel frowned. “Sheesh… she really did a number on you.”

Whisper chuffed, barely smiling. “Karma bank thought I overdrew. Demanded reparations.” A nagging hitch caught her. “How did I get here?”

“Tangle banged on the door and begged to stay again. You were dumped on the doorstep, I presume, for dramatic effect.” Jewel jested. “I can’t resist her puppy-dog eyes, so of course I said yes.”

“Even with… the police with us?”

Jewel frowned all of a sudden, placing a gentle hand atop her son’s head. Gio, so absorbed in his game, never registered it to begin with. “I told Lanolin and co to wait downstairs. I’m very glad you managed to hash out your problems, but I’m certainly upset with her.”

After another glug of tea, Whisper waggled her head in uneasy acknowledgement. “I wouldn’t go so far as to say we’re buddy-buddy again… we’re tenuous allies, united against a common enemy.”

“It’s an important first step towards something productive.” Jewel sighed, before tutting. “Where’s an Eggman when you need him?”

Snickering, Whisper finally got to her wobbly feet. “You can not be serious!”

Jewel shrugged her shoulders, taking the half-drunk rooibos from Whisper’s claws. “Paperwork was easier when you only needed to Ctrl C, Ctrl V after every badnik attack. Much, much simpler than what you left me with…”

She trailed off upon realising her faux pas. Whisper’s ears drooped at the mere thought of the bang, the splatter. That was bad enough, without even beginning to address today’s events. Digesting the Mimic revelation was an ongoing task, Whisper hadn’t parcelled her feelings out yet. Now in a more level-headed state, there was one person who she desperately needed to speak to.

“You mentioned Lanolin was downstairs?”

“That ain’t fair, lemur! You’ve got leverage in that tail of yours!”

“And cybernetics are fair game, huh?”

Surge and Tangle locked hand and appendage, battling out the encompassing, eternal struggle – arm wrestling. The two were in abject deadlock, the lemur gripping the side of Jewel’s desk, her opponent crackling with rogue electricity.

Cream took the role of umpire, and by umpire… it actually meant standing fifteen feet away in order to avoid becoming collateral. The bunny seemed much more concerned with the precious jewels Tangle’s tail weaved in-between, rather than Surge’s well-being. Considering the tenrec was beginning to lose, it might’ve been the correct inclination.

Grunting with a great effort, Tangle slammed Surge’s forearm into the desk, stirring papers and the odd pebble. The vigilante was elated, and humble in victory too.

“WHOO-HOO! Take that! Who’s the lemur?! THIS GAL!” She cheered, striking a pose that would put an Apostos gladiator to shame. Biceps flexed, and her palm thrusted a non-existent shotput. Her t-shirt ridded up a bit, revealing that ever classic Tangle sports-tape, and abs for days. It took Whisper a tick to return from her sapphicly induced trance. It was not out of the question for wolves and dogs to drool, in the presence of an absolute meal.

Surge huffed, retreating; the slain titan. “You are so lucky you’ve decided to pack it in, else… ooooh.” She fumed. “That table would’ve been sent to the twelfth dimension, with your ass attached!”

“Whatever you say, officer.” Tangle teased. Playing with fire. Standard, boilerplate lemur. She drank perfume once, mistaking it for juice… and she’d told Whisper that in confidence.

Rolling her wrist, Surge looked pensive for a moment. “I… Thanks. For helping…” Then, before pulling a devouringly smug grin. “Despite me rinsing you in the graveyard!”

“1-1.” Tangle shot back.

Whisper surveyed the tenrec. Muscular, quite butch. Her face was as sharp as her teeth, but whether that was cybernetics pressing against her skin or just her natural structure, the wolf couldn’t say. Surge, nowadays, always had her quills tied up in a back-knot ponytail, a bit different from the palm tree she unabashedly flaunted during their last fight. Plus side, she appeared much more professional. Down side, you could play tic-tac-toe on her forehead.

If anything, Surge mellowed out remarkably since Whisper’s clash with her. The wolf retained this picture of a borderline feral beast consuming her wisps like hard candies. True, the cockiness hadn’t faded, nor the counter-culture, anti-authority guise that made Whisper ponder why the tenrec chose police officer as a career path - but all considered, she’d matured. Somehow.

Whisper didn’t really know if she could pass judgement on an individual she knew almost nothing about… though everyone else surrounding her seemed to have made it into their personal hobby. Cream on Lanolin. Surge on Tangle. Whisper on Whisper. Gaia, what a mess!

Tangle noticed the tired canine padding down the staircase, her winner’s lap slowly peetering out. “Hey Whisper. Up and walking?”

“Chaos.” Surge said, impressed. “Tough broad.”

Whisper waved, choosing to present herself as tiny and miniscule as possible. Surge moved to teeter in front of her snout, hands in pockets, heels swivelled up.

“Okay okay, Lil Ms. Assassino. Nice and rested?”

Opting to stare neutrally ahead, Whisper let her silence speak for her.

Which didn’t dissuade Surge. “Slept soundly? Were you tucked up with a glass of warm milk and a blankie? Moisterised and thriving?”

“You talk too much.” Whisper murmured; barely audible, barely irritated.

“You talk too little!” Surge retorted. “I’m waiting on how exactly you plan to save my bro. The suspense is killing me, Wolfchuck.”

“Well… y’going to have to entertain yourself a while longer. Chess board isn’t entirely set up yet.”

The tenrec squinted. One could almost hear the metaphor wooshing over her smooth forehead. “Quit speaking in tongues!”

“I’m searching for Lanolin?” Whisper inquired, pivoting to try and stay her course. Whilst the company was nice… this was also the most socialising the assassin had done in a decade. The only folks she had the means to talk to were clients; and clients were more concerned with whatever plot they were hatching, to ever ask about Whisper’s day, or the weather. To them, she was a warm body there to pull a trigger. Even the righteous ones tended to be submerged in grief, lashing out with their Harbinger-shaped blunt instrument.

“I saw Lanolin head into the backroom.” Tangle said, pointing with her tail. Jab, jab. “Are you sure you wanna chat with her? She’s been a bit…”

“Suffocating.” Surge finished the lemur’s sentence.

“I was gonna say blue?”

The tenrec guffawed so hard, Whisper swore she swallowed polyps. “Sure. I’ve only worked with her for five years. Imagine coming to work and seeing her decaffeinated face? Flossyraptor can cure a hang-over by osmosis!”

This wasn’t productive, Whisper reckoned. Tangle mentioned back room? Off she needed to go. Merely conversing with Surge was mentally taxing - like her powers, the officer’s words were a continuous voltage spike for the wolf’s anxiety.

But before she could turn tail, Surge nabbed Whisper’s shoulder.

“Don’t get me wrong. We ain’t gucci; we ain’t friends…” Surge devoted all of her energy into spitting out the most borderline speech Whisper had recently received. “But I appreciate you… dropping everything to help-”

“S’okay-”

“Even after I bashed your nose in like a square peg through a round hole”

Ah. Silver-tongued cassanova. Whisper nodded in belated agreement.

“Pleasure.” She gestured to the back room; ‘can I go?’. Surge relinquished her, and Whisper figured out why her skin prickled. The tenrec couldn’t switch off her current.

It was always going to require a bit of courage to speak with Lanolin, one-on-one, no distractions. Whisper breathed in, and out. Let the air cycle through her body, as taught. It didn’t quell the jitters, but it tamed them enough for her to twist the door-handle, and face the woman who deserved a world that Whisper couldn’t offer.

“Alright, Double Cream N’Strawberries! Your turn to arm wrestle!”

The scream of terror was cut off by the shuttering of the back-door. There was something about ‘Staff Only’ areas that gave off a different vibe to Whisper. The guts and veins of the building that you weren’t meant to see. The dark storage room, dank and quiet, closed in on Whisper. The rocks seemed to be a puff away from an avalanche, artisanally stacked like the average tourist would a shingle beach. Miraculously, Jewel made disorganisation seem classy.

Shuffling in a dingy corner, a white cloud swept the tilings with a broom. Attached to the cloud was a dour sheep. Lanolin seemed allergic to relaxing in any manner, instead she diligently created tidy piles of vibrant, blue gravel. Aside from a twitch from her right ear, she continued cleaning, totally engrossed. A familiar strategy to herself, Whisper thought; whether it was sweeping, or murdering for hire - busywork kept the demons at bay.

“Hey.” Whisper reached out in greeting.

“Hey.” Lanolin was curt, as expected. Immediately shut out, but Whisper couldn’t take the path of least resistance. She’d done that for a decade.

“I… I wanted to talk to you. For real.” As opposed to ‘for fake’? Whisper was a verbal ballerina with a broken foot.

Lanolin placed the brush on a hook, next picking the dustpan and brush located underneath it. She heaved as she dropped to her knees, tucking up the blue powder dutifully. If the effortful display was meant to stir regret in Whisper, she succeeded.

“How do you deal with it?” Lanolin asked, cutting through the silence. “Guilt?”

Whisper was rocked by the unexpected question, surprisingly vulnerable for a person who hated her. 

With cause.

“I feel like garbage. I hurt people I care about.” The sheep lamented, attempting to stand back up again. Her knee wouldn’t let her. The wolf offered support, but Lanolin ruminated for a second. Nonetheless, she let Whisper hoist her back up to standing. “Thank you.”

The canine had yet to answer, and managed to pull together something resembling a logical conclusion. “For so long, I languished in it. Let the guilt excuse me - that somehow if I felt bad, cosmically, everything evened out.” Whisper leant against a crate, tactically. “It just led to ten years of misery, and walking the wrong road, because I thought it was all I was good for. Added to the pile, added to the guilt. Ouroborus.”

“Does it fade?” Lanolin mumbled.

Whisper waited, stewing… “No. Not really. Which…” She chewed a lip. “Is why I’m here. Taking responsibility for myself, and my decisions. Both in accepting what I’ve done, and the consequences that may lay… but also accepting I control my actions. With that power, I’ll make the world a better place, where I can.”

Lanolin frowned at the wolf and pinched her own brow. “I think I’ve destroyed my career, but that’s… gosh… that’s nothing. I screamed at Gio, and now Jewel hates my guts.”

“Oh.” That explained the frosty reception. At the mention of Gio, Whisper gained some perspective. “Funnily enough, he inspired me to go visit Duo, and apologise.”

“To a dead man?” Lanolin growled, tension briefly flaring. “By your hand no less? There will never be any forgiveness to find in that, Whisper. Stop searching.”

“Indeed. If this ordeal has taught me a single lesson, it’s that apologising in expectation of forgiveness is fruitless.” Whisper said, with conviction. Her scarred face was serious, confident in her newfound knowledge. “‘Sorry’ is the start. What you do next, committing to your apology, and following through - that is the true heart of it…”

Whisper grasped what Lanolin was striking for. “And, to answer… It helps with the guilt. Either you sink, or begin the climb anew.”

Lanolin glared at her, wide-eyed. There wasn’t any malice to be found, Whisper truly searched the sheep’s entire body for a tell, a slip of aversion. For naught. The assassin was actually breaking through the wooly, wooly armour.

“You’re not even that far down, Lanolin. You lost control of your temper, that’s understandable.” Whisper winced at her own self-reflection. “I’m in the pits; it's dark. And I doubt I’ll ever reach the summit, but… that’s not an excuse to curl up and accept it. I’m going to climb, and if I die in the attempt; I can't give less of a damn.”

Lanolin looked entranced, floating between stone-hard reality, and her own internal strife. “...Say I’m sorry?”

“And accept that Jewel, or Gio, might not forgive you - but strive to lift them up regardless.”

To that, Lanolin tittered out a light laugh. Whimsical in delivery. “Gaia, out of all the people on the planet… I’m getting advice from you.”

Whisper smiled, feeling brave enough to joke a bit. “Please don’t ignore it because it came out of my mouth.”

It occurred to Lanolin that she was standing there with a full dust pan of copper sulfide (Whisper passed Chemistry). The sheep limped over to the bin, or better called a skip; filled to the brim with excess stones. Was Jewel stockpiling for the third little pig?

“Hitch is, I’m upset with her too.” Lanolin soullessly chuckled, dumping her payload into the tip. “I’ve known her nigh twelve years, and she lied for Tangle - who made no effort to keep in contact, when I did!”

Whisper pursed her lip. True, true. Gaia, this was so complicated! “I stand by what I said. Apologise and explain. Jewel doesn’t hold grudges, I’ve seen it firsthand.” She drew on her own personal, worldly advice. “And never underestimate what a mother will do for their child. They can lift a car - or hire a hitwoman to kill a CFO in a highrise tower - if their baby is hurt.”

“Is that legitimate, Harbinger?” Lanolin appeared genuinely confused. “The CFO highrise part-“

“Yes.”

The detective batted her eyes in disbelief, before puffing her cheeks out, gaining resolve. No more repentent cleaning for Lanolin. “I’ll… um- I’ll try. To apolgise…”

She spun around to Whisper, sucking in a monumental breath. “Whisper the Wolf, I’m sorry for beating-”

“Nope.” The wolf thrust her palm out. “You needed it. Don’t ever apologise to me, when it's myself who needs to earn that from you.”

“You’ve just contradicted yourself?”

“I haven’t. My logic is sound.” Whisper barely grinned. “I bestow upon you a pass. ‘Whisper is free-game’.”

Lanolin glanced off to the side, not arguing with the assessment. She grabbed her cane, leaning against a shelf, and tilted forward on it. Faintly, Whisper read satisfaction. The right kind, the resolute kind; not from revenge or absolution, but acceptance.

The fact that the sheep even dared to apologise just demonstrated, to Whisper, how morally upstanding and genuine Lanolin was. Her natural inclination was to course correct onto the side of good and decent… and Whisper shot her for performing her duty.

Chaos, Lanolin apologising?! Absolutely not. Whisper wouldn’t allow it.

Lanolin sighed, before smirking. “I derailed your visit. What did you want to ask me?”

The mission: Operation Rescue Fox remerged into the peak of Whisper’s mind. The plan… the plan was inherently risky, she wasn’t sure if Lanolin would go for it once she laid it out on the table. But if there was one thing she’d learnt about the Marianas, it’s that they can’t resist being pointlessly cruel for the sake of it.

“You mentioned you’re in contact with Hoyt?” Whisper said, her manner harsh and angry at the thought of the crab. She’d be seeing him soon.

“I am.” Lanolin raised an eyebrow. “Why?”

The wolf licked her lips, ready to initiate her plot. Scary, but also exciting? Whisper the Wolf, alive again, and ready to hunt.

“Call him.”

It never sat right with Whisper that she was regarded as an urban legend of sort. Whether it be the Guardian Angel of The Battlefield (still too over the top), or Harbinger, Whisper possessed this ability to strike petrification onto the faces of her enemies. The last expression they ever made tended to be an agape, silent scream. She left it to the coroner to correct her impromptu plastic surgery.

That being said, by leaning against Jewel’s door-frame, enigmatically watching the Lanolin and Jewel work it out, she didn’t do herself any favours in the ‘edgelord’ department. It’d been Lanolin’s idea, to speak to the beetle, without any prompting from Whisper. It filled the wolf with happiness; that the sheep took her advice.

From her ominous archway, she saw they were making progress. She couldn’t make out the words being exchanged, but Jewel smiled and nodded, after a tense period of thunder. Lanolin gestured her cane to Gio’s room, marked with a sparkly ‘G’, for gemstone. Or Gio, Whisper figured. That made more sense.

Tangle reappeared from the museum floor, strolling across the upper circle to shadow the reclining canine. “You’re looking good.”

Whisper, in her infinite wisdom, took it as flirting. She blushed, and tucked her snout into her chest. The lemur’s calloused hand lifted up her chin - not romantically; only to study the deflating bruise.

“You wouldn’t know you’d taken a cane to the face four hours ago.” Tangle beamed. “Massage from Jewel? Working with pointy rocks all day makes her surprisingly dexterous!”

“Are you asking whether your childhood best friend massaged your psycho ex’s jawline?” Whisper snickered.

“She used to rub my tail whenever I got nervous. I always told her if she kicked the gem obsession then she’d run a great spa.”

Within this idle small talk, Tangle remained, gripping Whisper’s muzzle. The wolf wouldn’t have put it past her to have forgotten what she was doing in the first place. Charming, perplexing lemur.

Except, her vigilante stared at her. Amethysts twinkling in the dull lighting, speaking to feelings that were now forbidden fruit. At least, that’s what Whisper prayed for; deep, deep down in a place long smothered.

“Y’know… my first thought, when you removed that mask, was ‘She’s still as beautiful as the day I lost her’.” Tangle hushed, under her breath. 

Whisper, both figuratively, and literally, felt her heart get skewered by a cupid’s arrow. She sensed the rush of blood in her cheeks, as a single fang poked out of her grateful, bashful smile. Tangle withdrew her thumb, leaving the ghost of its sensation on the canine’s marred visage. Whisper missed it dearly.

“The next thought immediately was anger, but…” Tangle rubbed the back of her head, trying to backpedal a couple of knots away from tongue-tied. “I’m… uh… glad I was wrong.”

“‘Bout what?” Whisper had to know.

“That you weren’t gone. That there’s still that flicker of good in you.”

Tangle prodded Whisper’s chest with a sickeningly cheesy grin. “I’m proud of you! You’ve given me hope again…”

It took most of the wolf’s willpower to not lock lips and kiss the daylights out of the perky lemur. Whisper had noticed it - Tangle, whilst haggard, acted younger, peppier; like her old self. Whisper was beginning to feel like her old self, too. What a gorgeous feeling - soothing like the snapple of a bonfire, yet untamed and wild, willing to envelop everything in its tender warmth.

That decided it. Whisper was still head over heels for Tangle. Unrealistic? Perhaps. But Gaia, it was brilliant to proclaim she was in love again.

She returned her attention back to Lanolin and Jewel. The sheep had a knee to the ground, level with young Gio. He bounced on his tip toes, his wings a-buzzing with polite interest. Without warning, he shot into Lanolin’s arms, giving her a big, buggy hug (though maybe not as violent as a swarm of wasps might be). Glad, Lanolin squeezed him back. 

Forgiven. 

Jewel gave a subtle thumbs up. Tangle doubled it, and returned it with glee. After out-doing her bestie at ‘infectious positivity’, the lemur nudged Whisper’s side. It jiggled her empty gun holster, the wolf realising she was blissfully light. No metal, no guns.

“So, what’s the plan, maestro?” Tangle asked, prepping herself into orthodox stance and pumping out a couple of jabs and right hook combos. She was brimming with barely held-back passion - a Tangle that Whisper missed as much as the old Diamond Cutters. To be in her presence again… what a gift!

“Fundamentally, it revolves around us two.” Whisper answered. Tangle, fist in fist, loved the implication. But the canine tacked on a little post it note. “How are you at fighting with your arms tied?”

Flummoxed, Tangle dissolved like a mint in soda… all that chirpy and vivacious energy fizzing out and over the brim.

“Say what now?”

Chapter Text

Stir. Wait. Stir a bit more. Wait a while longer.

Lanolin never added sugar to her coffees. Sacrilege. The bitterness is what wakes you up, why’d you ever make it sweeter was lost on her.

To her credit, the sheep already drank her morning joe - this particular cup was more for show, as per Whisper’s instructions. So, here she lazed, in the morning dew of a lovely Spiral Hill cafe called Antonio’s.

If she was being honest with herself, Lanolin was uneasy. Putting her faith in the wolf, after everything, was tough. To her, criminals were criminals, and Whisper was a criminal, big time. Whilst listening through her plan - analytical, well thought out - calmed her a little, doubt still prodded her. As an assassin, Whisper knew how bad guys operated, their natural inclinations. Whether that meant she, too, was lying in wait, ready to stab them in the back again, Lanolin couldn’t say.

Their talk, last night, stirred conflicting emotions. The detective in her demanded she slap cuffs on Whisper, and be done with it. But the idealistic young lady, who joined the Restoration with a dream of a better tomorrow, saw an arrest as a net negative. She made her mind up incredibly late into the evening, whilst swigging boxed wine with Jewel: Whisper, as long as she kept her word, could remain free. With Kit back in their hands, and the Marianas thwarted - it then became a matter for the courts.

But Lanolin couldn’t say she hated the canine anymore. A part of her screamed that she should… but reflecting upon her own impulsive actions - not as severe, mind, Lanolin could never kill - she saw how grudges clouded judgement. 

If there was one thing that the sheep valued in herself, above all else, was her judgement. Let that slip, and she was just a loose cannon with a badge. That suit didn’t fit her well.

Bleh. Coffee with sugar. Gross, gross. She crossed her hoofs, lightly tapping the table in boredom. Waiters, in cute bowties and aprons, whisked in between wicker tables, dropping off various beverages and juices. Lanolin was pretty sure she spied Antonio himself, behind the rustic bar, tossing salads and cooking omelettes. The poor bird had no clue what was about to go down.

Her ear swivelled to the sound of the tyres crunching over gravel.

One crunch… two crunch. A cavalcade of crunchy- Oh.

Lanolin swallowed as four SUVs, heavy-duty and tinted black, rolled in right in front of the rinky-dink cafe, almost as tall as the stripy awnings. They didn’t park up with much rhyme or reason, completely blocking the road with their mass, but Lanolin knew the drivers. They wouldn’t give a crap.

Various patrons glanced over, nervously. Lanolin picked the quietest establishment - but curses; Spiral Hill was a popular holiday destination. ‘Spagonia of the Isles’, as advertised.

A door kicked open; low and behold, out hopped Hoyt the Horseshoe Crab. Most of the other Marianas stayed in the cars - only two flanked the underboss. Ricasso the Swordfish, as thrashed by Tangle, and Generic Goon number fifteen (a colourful parrot-fish whose scales slightly betrayed his own dark shades and bodyguard duds).

Hoyt wore aviators (douche), swiping them off and hanging them around his turtleneck. Nestled prominently underneath his shoulder lay his SMG. Lanolin didn’t check for the sword, she knew it was there.

“Aweh, my stekkie.” Hoyt greeted. He scraped a chair from under the table, and plopped himself down. “Your anties look extra good today!” Slouching back, he signalled for the waiter - click, click - like an asshole.

“Anties?” Lanolin asked.

“Mammeries. Boobs. Breasts, whatever you like to call ‘em.” The crab wasn’t really paying attention, rather he scanned the waiter coming up to the table. “Hi, howzit. Black coffee.”

The server, a teenaged wombat, nodded politely. “Of course, sir.” He tugged at his sweaty collar, submerged in fur. “May I request you move your vehicles?”

Hoyt craned his neck up to read the nametag, ‘Hello, My Name Is Colin!’.

“Colin. You like your job?”

The young man fiddled with the tray in his palm. “Pays the bills.”

“Funny, ‘cuz I’m under the impression that waiters are meant to take orders. Not give them.”

The poor kid winced, and tried his best to deliver a sincere smile. “It’s a narrow road, sir.”

“And so is the space between your carotid arteries and my blade, so do yourself a favour and fetch me my caffeine.” Hoyt stared the wombat down. “I won’t be a minute.”

Lanolin swooped in to save floundering Colin, who could fill a swimming pool with his sweat alone. “And a glass of water, please.” She grinned with her teeth, but attempted to emphasise ‘you need to leave’ with her glassy expression. Thankfully, he got the picture, and scurried off.

“Be nice, Hoyt.” The sheep muttered, opting to further stir her vile americano/sugar hybrid.

“D’aw. Bleeding heart. Chaos, I bet you tip too.” Hoyt mocked, picking at a random sachet of stevia. “We don’t do that in Silirica.”

Lanolin noticed Ricasso took a seat behind her. Though the distance was large, she still felt his broken skewer-nose breathing across her back. The parrotfish leant against the opposite wall, hovering over an elderly couple just trying to sip their tea.

“Let’s get down to brass tacks, detective. I notice we’re alone.” He flung an arm out carelessly, almost totalling a waitress squeezing past. “Where’s ‘leccy lass?”

“With your precious hostages. Do you think we were gonna leave Tangle and Whisper unguarded?”

Hoyt acknowledged the point with a languished siiiigh. “‘Suppose. Promise me they’re tucked tight, ja?”

Lanolin smirked, playing the part of confident officer. “I’ve got them bundled up for you. Ready for collection.”

A ceramic mug was tentatively placed in front of Hoyt; Colin fled the table immediately after. The mobster pulled his mask down, revealing his mouth to Lanolin. She didn’t know what she expected, but straight, pearly whites were not in the equation. Hoyt, for his numerous faults, groomed himself well.

He slurped his drink, graciouslessly. “Lekker. Why are we here in this kak-hole town, then? Could’ve done this tidy-like, somewhere less… bohemian.” He laughed, Lanolin finally sensing how uncomfortable the crab actually was. “Not like we can carry them into our trunks; broad daylight, dazzling the onlookers.”

Right. As if this otaku wannabe could ever worry about subtlety.

“I’m only dotting Is and crossing Ts.” Lanolin responded. “And, aren't four cars a bit over-kill? How many men have you got with you?”

“A shoal.” Hoyt answered, which the sheep came to understand was aquatic slang for a ‘dozen’. “I ain’t taking any risk, Baa-Baa - you know what Harbinger is capable of, and that lemur is as hard as ol’ biltong.” He fanned his hands out, exasperated - any further questions?

None. Lanolin left Hoyt to chug his coffee.

The horseshoe crab grimaced. “This coffee is floue as hell. Disgusting.” He bapped the table, dum-diddly-dum-dum. “Ag man, I’m bored now. Are we doing this or not? ‘Cause, this ain’t a date; you wouldn’t be so lucky. Don’t be offended when I say you are not my type. I’d get wool stuck in my teeth.”

Lanolin internally gagged. Lechy, cruel, impolite. The holy trifecta of repulsive personality traits (though she granted that one of these was more innocent than the others). Everyone had a role in the grand cosmic stage, so why did hers lead to liaising with Hoyt - scumbag incarnate?

Well, the answer was obvious. Pieces were being moved as she spoke, and the Marianas weren’t any the wiser. To be bestowed as ‘the distraction’, ordained by Operation: Fisherman’s Foe’s (Tangle’s name), was an honour and a privilege; as sold to her by Cream’s positive spin.

Stir. Wait. Stir a bit more. Wait a while longer.

Waste as much time, until the moment strikes. 

Which should be - the sheep checked her phone - abooooout now.

BANG!

On schedule - a black van crashed through the blockade of muscle cars; thrusting itself into the convoy with a tremendous, violent smash! Loose sheets of metal and chunks of windscreen glass exploded onto the pavement, detritus spinning out like a landmine. Whisper’s van, not quite a battering ram, didn’t puncture through, but it performed a superb job shunting the Marianas to the left.

Behind the wheel whooped Tangle. A blitz play - shock and awe.

“W-WHAT THE BLERRIE-” Hoyt sprang to his feet, spilling espresso everywhere. In such a tiz, he brandished his submachine gun for the world to see. Cool, the detective could get him on an obvious gun charge.

Instead, Lanolin’s face was a look of obscene surprise, mouth dropped to the floor, imaginary fan to chin; she wasn’t an actor, but she trained enough to put on a decent show as ‘startled extra’. 

“Oh my Gaia!”

Nailing it.

Already, Tangle had ducked out of the cabin, skipping along the rear and taking advantage of the short window to reposition. Dazed Mariana thugs stumbled onto the tight street, wielding their pick and mix assortment of wispon rifles, handguns and… more swords. No mystery who they worked for.

“Holy… friggin’- w-where the hell? H-how the hell?!” Hoyt stuttered out, his voice raising into a pathetic falsetto that elegantly danced with his gargling spittle. The prick looked like he just heaved himself out of a war film; tinnitus blaring, dust billowing, thousand yard star: the works.

No time to gawk, Lanolin began her retreat, quickly dragging her leg into the cafe. On the way, she scooped up and ushered as many diners as she could muster - pushing them towards safety. There was going to be a gunfight, that was unavoidable. She couldn’t call herself an officer if she ignored victims in a crossfire.

Colin, as she scooted past, mumbled, too quiet to hear under the commotion. “Told you it was a narrow road.”

“Do they give a licence to any fokkende blind furry arse?” Hoyt continued to squawk. He was a couple of seconds out of sync; this wasn’t an accident. Tangle, his omnipresent little haemorrhoid, just rammed a van into a bunch of Mariana goons, and she loved every second of it!

By some miracle, she wasn’t knocked unconscious from her collision with the steering wheel. Tangle had the bright idea of wrapping her tail into a makeshift scarf, taking most of the oomph out of the impact. Still, her brain spun like one of those spiral coin collector thingies that you see in fast-food joints where you stick like a dime in and it circles the hole until-

Tangle slapped herself across the cheek. Focus! She clomped two boots onto the ground, abandoning ship and pressing herself against the ripped-black paint job. By the thrums of wispons arming themselves, the lemur guessed her Flashbang Van Attack (!!!) was wearing off.

A crackle emerged from her ear, Tangle placed her finger to the earpiece, like a superspy.

“Lanolin is clear.” Whisper announced, from her perch. “Feel free to engage.”

Tangle cricked her neck, bobbing on the balls of her feet. She liked speaking tactically, and if it came from Whisper; kinda hot! Nonetheless: “How many tangos?”

“I count twelve, including the three of them under the canopy.”

“Ricasso, Hoyt, and disposable fishy. Got it!” Tangle stretched her calf muscle out, bouncing. “What about the bulk?”

The ratcheting snap of a bolt-action getting chambered rang out from the tinny microphone. Tangle could only pray that Whisper knew what she was doing.

“I’ll pin them. You sweep in.” The wolf ordered, before a mighty BANG echoed off the brick work. The message heard loud and clear, Tangle leaped up and over the derelict van.

For a moment, she was airborne, and surveyed the battlefield. Tables were placed on their sides, barriers blocking sniper bullets. Hoyt’s bald dome poked out, as exposed as a baby in the ocean, and babbling like one too. Tangle could only hope that Whisper wouldn’t take the easy potshot.

To quell her worries, a puff of splintered wood thudded out of a banister - missing by a mile wide. Misdirection, creating the impression of covering fire, when the real danger was about to land into the fray!

Boot in downward tilt, Tangle picked an unlucky Mariana to land on, sending him skidding along the floor. Briefly, she rode him like a surfboard, but the momentum quickly died. Winching a leg back into a roundhouse kick, Tangle connected to the jawline of an unlucky carp, sending him flying into an SUV. His ugly mug smashed into the side-mirror and then again into the pavement.

A cyan gun-shot cracked past her ear, fired by a pistol-wielding pistol shrimp. He didn’t get a second go around, a green blur smacked the wispon out of his hand. Surge, blink and you’ll miss her, seized the crustacean by the scruff of his neck and flung him, overhand, tumbling down the street.

“Excellent form! Full-body locomotion, consistent stance - I’d rate it an eight outta ten!” Tangle commented, ducking underneath the swiping knife of a lobster. The blade thunked into a streetlamp, the lemur swiftly sliding through the gap and socking the stuck goon with a one-two punch that sent him reeling.

“What?!” Surge snarled, winding up a sparky haymaker and repeatedly hammering it into some poor headlocked tuna. “That was at least a nine!”

“Mmmm.” Tangle tapped her chin. “For a nine, I’d expect passion. Bravado!” Her tail slammed into the lobster behind her, the vigilante not even giving him the courtesy of her attention. Every time the thug attempted to rise, a big club of fluff punted him to ground zero again.

Surge released her tuna. He flopped like he’d beached himself. The tenrec stared at Tangle, utter reviled confusion plastering her wide open maw. “Passion?! Do ya know who you’re even talking to?!” She shouted, arms waving ‘look at me, look at me!’ - before dropping the act and plainly pointed. 

“Six o’clock.”

Tangle frizzed up, and spun herself around. A sickly fangtooth, dressed in a floral shirt, revved up his pink assault rifle. His grin wrapped his jaw to an uncanny degree, it could swallow stars. He planted the gun into his shoulder and aimed.

“Yo, ringtail!” Surge barked out. “Pull your socks up!”

Huh?! She wasn’t wearing socks- oooh.

Tangle hit the deck, proning herself atop the defeated lobster. In the nick of time, too - a barrage of spiky bullets painted the sky above her. Surge charged ahead, tanking the projectiles with her forearms, each step singeing the air. Briefly, Tangle felt her fur fry as the officer jumped over her.

The fangtooth lowered his sights, mortified at the sight of a peppered tenrec barrelling towards him. “What the ever-lovin’-”

Surge’s headbutt stunned him, rattling the rifle out of his grasp. With a stomp, she snared the goon, transferring the force into a nasty uppercut, and down he went. Tangle hopped to her feet, brushing herself off. The dots on Surge’s arm dribbled a bright, neon liquid, the lemur hissed, both impressed and horrified.

“Jeez, that’s stone cold, Surge.”

To respond, Surge cringed in pain, shaking her limbs and splattering coolant everywhere. “Give it ten seconds, they’ll fix themselves.” Sure enough, the leakages plugged themselves up, as if they’d never existed in the first place.

“Are they having a damn conversation? Pounce, you domkops!” Hoyt spat, prattling off some gunfire. Immediately, a chunk of his table was blown off by a sniper shot, and the loudmouth melted back into cover again.

Surge bumped her glove against Tangle’s tail fist.

“Break time’s over.”

“Give ‘em hell, sister.”

“Oh, you know I will.”

Surge launched herself at the last trio of Marianas standing, eating their gunfire as if they were peppermints. A wobbly man-o-war whined to himself. 

“How is this fair?” Moments later, his cries of terror were absorbed by the thunderous crash of Surge’s voltaic clothesline.

Tangle had scarce time to reset herself, as the parrot-fish approached with an extendable baton. His swipe impacted her chin, Tangle tripping into the van. 

THWACK. She barely blocked a follow-up blow with her thumb, heat searing through the appendage. The third attack was clumsy, the parrot-fish left himself wide open, his slightly rotund belly being an ideal purchase to slug a knee into.

He jiggled onto his butt, the perfect level to deliver a rapid kick into his beak-like teeth. Tilting, his head smacked the ground, gifting Tangle a full view of Ricasso sprinting at her, nose first. The swordfish ripped his bandages off and wrapped them around his palms. Props for creativity, that’s one way to make a garrot!

Tangle slithered her tail out, hoping for a cheeky bap to the temple to throw him off balance. Unexpected force yanked her forward and clean off her feet, Ricasso having grabbed her tail with an angry sneer.

“Not this time!” Ricasso scoffed, throwing the slinky tail under his boot and stomping hard. Pain shot up Tangle’s spine, as the thug laughed - nose notched up to the heavens.

“I had to undergo a cartilage graft, you pest! Do you know how much that costs?” Ricasso tugged Tangle upwards by her mullet, pinning her with his knee. “Take a deep breath, sweetie. I want to make sure this lasts.”

Tangle gasped as the bandage snaked around her throat, thin and taut. Suddenly, it dug in deep, pressure erupting behind her eyes, her neck, her nose. Blood pumped with nowhere to go. All she could do was choke, precious air denied yet desperately needed. She inhaled nothing but her own saliva.

“There ya go. Easy now.” Ricasso whispered into her ear, though she couldn’t really make it out over the pounding in her skull. Her lungs burned. Black fuzzy dots pricked her vision; at first only one or two, before ten, then one hundred - they melded together as the daylight faded.

Ricasso reeled her back even further, Tangle feeling the fabric pull itself even tighter, cutting into her grey fur. Stop! No! Water ran down her cheeks, something popped in her nostril. Blood dripped into her mouth.

She waved her hand around, praying for anything. Her fingertips brushed against something cold and metal. That’ll do!

With the last of her strength, Tangle wildly flailed the instrument into Ricasso’s general direction. Everything went black, her limbs jelly. From the dark void she floated in, she heard a grunt.

Sweet oxygen rushed into her throat. The blue sky blinded her, her vision bleached as if someone had raised the contrast on reality itself. Tangle took in greedy gulps, ripping the bandage from off her airways. A ring stung her neck, throbbing and aching as she crawled away from danger.

The baton, her saviour, clattered by her knees. 

Ricasso nursed his forehead, growling. Then, with a vicious cry, he hurled himself back on top of Tangle. His sweating, bloodshot face blotted out the sun - his muscularity stapling the lemur to the ground. She struggled and thrashed under his weight, but her muscles screamed as she batted at the swordfish. He didn’t budge.

As if he realised some sick fantasy, Ricasso sunk his blade closer and closer towards Tangle’s pupil. She tried to slide out or away or under, but it inched forward unimpeded. The tip shone, sharp as a tack and as piercing too.

Tangle heaved in more air, painful given the trauma, as she squeezed her eyes shut. She heard Ricasso snickering, his sticky breath buffering against her features.

A pointed edge sliced through her eyelid, and yet dug deeper. Tangle felt the sword top scrape against the whites of her eye, dragging slowly and aiming even further-

“No- no!” Tangle pleaded. Not this. Anything but-

BANG.

Red splashed across her vision as Ricasso rocketed to the side. A flaky object landed on Tangle’s chest, she pawed at it. Lifting it up… she almost retched. The swordfish’s blade, severed at the hilt, spewed liquid onto her vest.

Faintly, Tangle rolled her head over to where her assaulter had crumpled. Ricasso writhed in agony, pressing at his nose and soaking himself. He howled in absolute horror.

“Tangle.” Whisper’s voice, laced with worry. “Tangle, are you okay?”

The lemur had lost her energy, and barely mustered a croak. “All good.”

She threw the amputated sword back to its owner, who frantically prodded it against the crimson nub where his nose should’ve been. Ricasso sobbed. He wasn’t gonna die, but… incapacitated for the time being. Tangle sighed in relief.

Surge finished off her last Mariana with a curt punch to the jaw, the haddock bucking away. Upon seeing the gnarly sight, she coughed. “Holy…”

“My nose… my NOSE!” Ricasso nasally wailed, shuffling along his knees, begging at no-one in particular. Tangle puffed in more beautiful oxygen… Whisper - what a marksman. Inches to the left, Ricasso would’ve needed to be referred to in the past-tense; inches to the right? Well… Tangle wouldn’t be around to cast aspersions.

Surge held a hand out, which Tangle accepted. It wasn’t a gesture of comradery. It didn’t save her from a grilling.

“Hey lemur? That was frickin’ close, and kinda pathetic, not gonna lie. How can ya let some low roller- are you listening?!” The officer waved in front of her vision, but Tangle was fixated on the empty cafe… tablecloths peacefully flapping in the breeze. A windchime tinkled. An espresso mug spun, mysteriously missing an owner.

“Where’s Hoyt?”

Thread the needle.

Breathe in. Hold. Hold.

Squeeze trigger.

BANG.

Ricasso recoiled as the bullet shredded his nostrils. Through her rangefinder, Whisper watched him plummet and writhe like a stuck pig. A pang of regret hit her; seemed unnecessarily cruel. Would’ve it been kinder just to straight up end him? Her past-self would’ve taken the shot, no questions asked. Tangle was in danger, and Whisper valued her life above someone like Ricasso’s. It should’ve been an easy law of equivalent exchange.

However, it wasn’t about stone cold pragmatism any longer. Rather, Whisper wanted to prove to the world she could fight without taking a life. Clinical lethality tempered by a softer touch - Whisper pulled each of her shots on purpose. They’d done a fantastic job at clearing the space, allowing Surge and Tangle to clean up the confused and disorientated Marianas without much fanfare.

Still, Tangle cut it a little too fine there - but then again… that’s what covering fire is for, right? The wolf forgot how well the two worked together as a duo. They just fit. Add Lanolin, they had the art of negotiation on their side. Add Surge, and they gained a thermonuclear missile.

Unconscious Marianas littered the street like the aftermath of a booze-up. From her sniper’s nest, Whisper could see everything. She’d selected the Spiral Hill clocktower as her base of choice, its central location strategically sound and exactly what the mission required. The entire village lay out before her. To the east, the restaurant district. To the west, ramshackle stacks of houses and apartments - lazy both in attitude and structure. North-wise, there were twisting, winding streets, occasionally broken up by four crashed SUVs.

And her van.

Rest in peace, she supposed.

Behind her, the rusting copper bell began to clang. Vibrations ran through her body, shaking her grasp. No point staring through a scope when everything was a blur. She jammed her bolt-action by the hilt, rising up. Tangle and Surge were barely visible. A white smudge strode towards them - Lanolin.

The bell continued to ring. Ding-dong. Ding-dong. Whisper checked the time. Eleven o’clock, the morning sermon should be beginning soon. She’d dashed by the priest, saying something about how the ‘view was killer’. The kindly man didn’t stop her.

Whisper felt remarkably good. A daring operation, executed to almost perfection. And all done without a single death! Take that, Harbinger! Rot where you belong, you cynical miserable canine! Whisper smiled, a full grin, teeth glinting unabashed. 

“Lanolin to Whisper, over.”

Whisper pulled her collar to her snout, giddy joy leaking into tone, tail a-wagging. “Whisper speaking, over.”

“We’ve lost Hoyt, can you-”

CLICK.

The bell rattled out its last clangour, stirring to sedentary once more. Though… it stopped being a triumphant soundtrack. It felt more like a funeral procession.

“I gotta admit the bells were a stroke of luck - but seriously woof-woof. You should not be this simple to sneak up on.”

Hoyt jammed his SMG into the small of Whisper’s back and made a swift grab for the rifle, tossing it behind him. “Cut the frequency.”

“They’ll know.” Whisper tried to negotiate. “They’ll come for you.”

“Sure they will. But by the time those dumbasses figure it out, we’ll be gone.”

The wolf twisted her mic, deactivating it with a depressing snap. Resigned, she threw her hands up. For some reason, her tail had stopped wagging; funny that. Whisper scanned the belfry, searching for an advantage. Nothing to be found… internally she groaned. Non-existent social skills once again were called upon.

“How’d you find me?”

“Oh, y’see, based on the triangulation of the bullet path, I mathematically re-engineered the correct angle and I saw a frickin’ belltower, dog. Where else would you be? Pickin’ y’ass at the movies?” Hoyt grunted. “Turn around, I wanna look at’chu cuiter.”

Whisper rolled her eyes but obliged. Hoyt managed to find the time to re-apply his mask - his priorities were in perfect order. He narrowed his gaze through his sunken, maroon irises, even having the chutzpah to shake his head in… in disappointment?! The canine growled, her lips twitching.

Hoyt took a step back, keeping his gun steady and his finger on the trigger. “Who the hell do you think you are, huh?”

“Pardon moi?” Whisper decided that sarcasm might work. Frankly, she was chucking everything at the wall to see what would stick. Said wall being a stout horseshoe crab with a crappy attitude and a penchant for stabbing people.

“You heard me, brak! Read like the morning paper, ‘cept you ain’t that interesting.” Hoyt gestured with the submachine gun; the tip wobbled to and fro. Whisper kept a note of it. “Hiding away at a vantage point, too much of a yellow-bellied pussy to hack it with the rest of us! I had you pinned as the windmilling type second you ‘misfired’ over in Westward. Gaia help me, I should’ve gutted ‘chu where you stood for insubordination!”

The gangster was becoming really irate, his aiming erratic. Whisper followed along, the telltale pink glow trailing about like a glowstick. Armed, deadly; she’d have to pick her moment exceptionally well. Sweat matted her fur. The wolf wasn’t as calm as she needed herself to be.

“Not to mention the holier-than-thou bullcrap! Swanning about, all miserable and droopy. ‘Oh woe is me! I kill and then I feel bad about it!’. I kill people, y’don’t see me moping about.” Hoyt actually seemed… genuinely offended. “You’re not better than me, Whisper! You don’t get to have a conscious! You cashed in that chip long, long ago, my love.”

Whisper quivered on the spot. That creeping, frigid wash oozed across her spine; the admittance that he made logical sense. Heart thumping, tongue panting, panic setting in. She tried to keep a watch on the swishing gun. It started to spawn after-images. Which Hoyt was the real one?

His crass rant echoed around her, overwhelmingly deafening.

“What, y’think buddying up with your hoer girlie will make a difference? Nah.” Hoyt hitched a hoarse laugh, filled with resentment. “We fashion ourselves, biographies written in permanent markers, ja? Y’re an iceman, a hatchet-job. That’s it. That’s all you can be!”

Hoyt shuffled in closer, as if to embellish. “And that’s what you’ll die as. Was it worth it?” He whispered. “To throw it all away, only to be put down like the stray mongrel that you are-”

The barrel pointed away from Whisper, the wolf wasting no time in seizing the crab’s wrist and swivelling his grip. BRRRRACK. Pink spikes peppered the cloisters, dinged off the bell. Whisper tucked her shoulder into Hoyt’s collar, shoving into him with every ounce of power in her system. The two of them bashed into the brickwork, not quite short enough to tip over, but shallow enough for the vertigo to kick in. From her purchase, Whisper slammed and slammed Hoyt’s gun-hand into the stone. His porcelain mitts pressed against her snout, digging and scratching in. Yet, Whisper continued to hammer his wrist, the SMG slipping out of his grasp and clattering against the cobblestone. It spat out a final barrage of fluorescent before it shut itself off.

A sucker-punch thwacked into Whisper’s jaw, her vision swam. Hoyt thrust an upward jab, knocking the wolf into the opposite direction. Her fangs did their best impression of the bell – ringing with dull pain.

Hoyt was surprisingly lithe, for the amount of leather he coated himself in. A foot punted into Whisper’s stomach, sending her skidding back; her freefall stopped by the large metal instrument. Saved by the-

SCHING. Hoyt whipped out his wakizashi and flipped it into a reverse grip. Stylish – a bit showboaty, but that didn’t really matter as he swiped at her neck. Whisper dodged to the left, the steel sparked across the bell, leaving scars in the ancient metal.

The crab spun around and blindly cut his blade through the air. A nick of pain, a flush of heat, told her he’d managed to catch her chest. Whisper frantically tried to recall her CQC, looking for an opening, a sweet spot to drive a palm into.

Hoyt kept his sword stretched out at arm’s length, like a fencer. Whisper would never admit it out loud, but to his credit, the mobster knew his swordsmanship. The ornate ‘nippon’ steel shone in the early morning weather, almost blinding the wolf with its polish.

“Where’s y’knife Harbinger?” Hoyt goaded, cycling his shoulders, on guard. “Don’t tell me you gave it up?”

“I don’t need a knife to stop you.”

Hoyt devolved into a fit of giggles. “Ek sê! Using nails are we, or have you dulled them in pursuit of enlightenment too?”

Whisper slashed a claw, Hoyt jumping out of the danger pretty handedly. He further guffawed at her misfortune. “Face it, brak. No shame in admitting your beat. Else y’soeking up trouble!”

The wolf tried a side-kick. Hoyt deflected with his blade; her boot laces falling to tatters. She attempted to feint a jab, Hoyt saw right through it and batted her away with his hilt.

Frustration was building within Whisper. The scumbag dictated the tempo, waltzed to his own pace, ran by the beat of his own drum. She was doing it again. Letting the Marianas command her actions. Like or not, Whisper had locked herself into another contact with Hoyt; one that exploited every weakness that the canine possessed.

Whisper grit her teeth. Trick was to rip up the paper and assert her own rules.

Her bolt-action lay useless behind Hoyt. So… Whisper made a leap for it.

The horseshoe crab startled, swinging his blade at a biscotti blur. The wolf couldn’t sense any new pain. She cleared him! Commando rolling to her weapon, Whisper swivelled herself around in a singular, fluid motion, levering up her prize.

Hoyt was already gaining, preparing to stab her; point blank, no mercy. She had to make the next move count.

Thread the needle.

Breathe in. Hold. Hold.

Hoyt, unrelentless, wound his blade out. The edge serrated through time and space.

Now.

Whisper switched her hands down to the barrel, and clubbed Hoyt with the butt of her rifle. SMACK! Hoyt shot past her, crumpling to the floor and crashing into a gargoyle. The wakizashi spun out of his hand and embedded itself in the stone, halfway to hilt. Whisper gulped. Sharp.

Hoyt twitched but ultimately lay prone. Out cold.

Whisper rubbed her snout. Something felt off. She felt lighter. A blonde pile of straw had spawned itself, spread out in bundles. Patting the back of her head, the wolf realised… Hoyt managed to slice off her ponytail.

She couldn’t help it, she quietly laughed. Better her hair then her vitals! She’d been meaning to switch up her styling anyway. The crab should’ve been a barber.

The other object to attend to silently hummed in the corner. Hoyt’s SMG, no doubt powered by a captive Pink Wisp. She shot him the stink eye – not like he could respond – as she limped over to the loose wispon. She was sore from the scuffle; she’d have a lot of cuts to bandage up once the stakes petered out.

Trying not to touch her stinging chest wound, Whisper delicately unloaded the glass capsule. Angry, needling energy bashed at its crystalline cage, barely contained. The Marianas were vile. Enslaving innocent wisps – Hoyt was wrong. She was better than him in every possible way.

Whisper chucked the casing against the bell. Dong! Victory! Round goes to Whisper!

The shards trickled down like comets. At the locus, a pink blob slowly unfurled itself: wavy tail, knobbly head, a curious cyclopean eye. A Pink Wisp stretched out, a genie out of the bottle. Upon making contact with Whisper, it froze; pupil shrinking.

It just stared at her. The wolf gave it a small wave. “Hello! Fly away. You’re free!”

But the Pink Wisp remained, bobbing in the air. Ever so slowly, it floated closer to Whisper, chirping in disbelief…

Recognition. Whisper’s own eyes widened as the penny dropped.

“Pink?”

Chapter Text

Jewel chewed on her nail, watching as the procession of tied up bad guys were loaded up into her storage room. She looked to be on the verge of exploding - the queue never ended.

“Tangle, I love you but… you’re pushing your luck here.” She stammered out, recoiling as a snub-nosed swordfish, with a bush of cotton wool tapped against his face, was led in. Tangle gave him an extra kick in the pants, for good measure.

“It’s just temporary, babe.” The lemur sheepishly scrubbed the back of her head, not proud of dumping twelve wily gangsters in the beetle’s family fun establishment. “At least until we can shift ‘em.”

“Um. How temporary? Will they still be here after Gio gets back from preschool?”

Tangle chose to stay uncharacteristically silent. After a twitch of an eye, Jewel’s sucked in her frustration, displaying the patience of a saint. “That’s it. I’m getting a hotel room.”

“I’ll cover it.” Whisper piped up, wrapping her bare chest with a bandage over in the corner, next to the Spinel Hill exhibit. “Further; I’ll provide insurance for your entire collection.”

Tangle acknowledged with a trite grin to Jewel - fuming, simmering Jewel. What else was Whisper’s money useful for if not that? Without saying a word, the beetle shot her the ‘I’m mad at you but also you’re adorable’ stare, a classic from their childhood, and turned on her heel, disappearing upstairs. They’d have to take that as accepting the bargain; Tangle and Whisper now left alone on the floor.

It required most of Tangle’s willpower to not stare at the wolf. When she emerged from the church, dragging an unconscious Hoyt in one hand, and a Pink wisp from the other - neither struck the lemur as particularly special. The loss of her ponytail, though? Hoo. Whisper already pulled her bangs back, leaving her forehead exposed, but now that she had the pixie cut?!

Tangle never possessed any reason to thank Hoyt… save for discovering a new way to rush blood into her cheeks.

With the last of the Marianas entrapped, Tangle slammed the warehouse’s door shut, swiftly locking it with a key. Then, she added a padlock… plus a bike chain that she found lying about. If the goons somehow managed to escape despite the level of security, then Tangle might as well retire. After all, she was an expert in restraining - her knot work was legendary amongst her girl scout troupe (partially because she had the perfect practice string permanently stapled to her rear).

Brushing her gloves off, Tangle joined Whisper. Gently, the wolf dabbed anti-sceptic on the cuts littering her body. Meanwhile, the worst injury the vigilante received was courtesy of Ricasso slicing open her eyelid, but like hell Tangle was going to press alcohol into that sensitive area. Screw it, if it scarred; it scarred. Maybe Girder and Mallet patrons would think twice about messing with her if she returned with a patch, in a ‘you should’ve seen the other guy!’ kinda way. He ended up with his nose blown off!

“Tangle.” Whisper tapped the lemur’s shoulder. She appeared pensive, alongside Pink, who’d been floating aimlessly around the foyer for the past ten minutes. Other than a quick nuzzle, the wisp hadn’t interacted with her at all. But hey, like all of Tangle’s reunions, it was predestined to kinda suck.

“Tangle.” Whisper urged again, politely Oh, right. “Would you give Pink and I some space, please?”

That tracked… Tangle recalled how, in the past, Whisper would perform check-ins with her wisps; how they were feeling, what they wanted or needed. The lemur wasn’t ever present for them, she always let the wolf share some time with her chirpy posse of aliens. This time around, it was vital that they had their meeting. There was much to discuss.

So, she left them to it.

Perhaps she could go for a wander around Spiral Hill. Since arriving, she hadn’t received the chance to properly explore her hometown; too busy kicking ass and taking names (and having emotional breakdowns with figures from her past - but one trauma at a time, please).

Antonio’s was a personal favourite of her grandma’s, rest her soul, and Whisper lit it up with gunfire! Sorry Gram Gram! At least, once the dust settled, the wolf possessed the goodwill to pay for the damages, too. Like her offer to Jewel, black market blood money must burn a hole in her pocket…

The church escaped unscathed, maybe Tangle could visit? It should be opening hours. She swung the museum door wide, and breathed in that crisp village air. The sun blared proudly up high, the shadows incredibly short. Midday splendor. Tangle sensed how the brickwork baked in the dry heat, casting off those school holiday vibes that she cherished.

Which was slightly dampened by the presence of a dour sheep, sitting on the step and drawing circles in the dirt with her cane. She used her trenchcoat as a cushion, exposing Tangle to her shirt; surprisingly, no sleeves. Restoration Lanolin had a stocky muscularity to her, but a decade later, her biceps pretty much atrophied. Tangle never really noticed it before, but further study revealed how gaunt the detective had become. Even her wool seemed less puffy. Lanolin once tied it into four distinct bundles. Now, she barely had enough for one bun.

Tangle dithered… say ‘Hi’ (awkward), or jog off (rude)? A single look at the distant gaze Lanolin wore, staring through the sunshine and gorgeous weather into something much colder, told her to stay.

Tentatively, the lemur lowered herself down, careful not to startle the sheep. Face to face, she could see Lanolin’s eyes were covered in a wet sheen, trying desperately not to cry. With a delicateness, Tangle laid her tail across Lanolin’s shoulders and gave a little squeeze. It triggered Lanolin to bite her wobbling lip.

“You okay?” Tangle asked. No, Tangle. Dumb question, Tangle.

The sheep quivered, before shaking her head. The small lick of wool on her forehead shook.

“You… want to talk? I feel like we haven’t had the chance to.” Tangle asked, scratching her knee. “We’re comin’ off the back of a successful operation. That’s something to be proud of, right?”

Lanolin closed her eyelids, mustering up the strength to continue. Tangle rubbed her own boots together, restless. It was so strange. Last night, the sheep relentlessly pursued them without mercy, steadfast and holding onto that iron-clad will. If anything, animosity would be more than natural between them. They didn’t leave on the best of terms - Tangle shutting down, Lanolin constantly berating her throughout her physical therapy.

“How could you ever love garbage like that Tangle? What is wrong with you? Idiot!”

The lemur knew it was grief and frustration talking. Still, Tangle just… gave up, and left.

Lanolin opened her mouth, finally. She hissed out blank air, unable to articulate her words.

“It’s… all my fault.”

Tangle’s instant reaction was revulsion. How wrong could one sheep be?

“No. No way, Lan.”

Lanolin pushed a hoofed hand up to halt her. “It is. If I just… listened to Whisper, then-”

“Whisper wasn’t playing with a full deck of cards.” Tangle interjected. “You did exactly what anybody in your position would’ve done.”

“I could’ve… I should’ve spoken to her before it escalated. I saw how the pressure built, and I still did nothing but berate her! I never bothered, I always just blamed Whisper because I thought I was so righteous and infallible-”

Lanolin stopped herself short of screaming. A mother pushed past with a stroller. Tangle offered a wave, as Lanolin ignored them completely.

“You know that’s not true, Lan.” Tangle softly draped her tail further along the sheep’s body. “Mimic pulled a fast one on all of us. Duo had everyone fooled.”

At Duo’s name, Lanolin cringed. Had the lemur struck a nerve? Quickly, Tangle thought she might’ve pushed too far. She and Lanolin were barely back on speaking terms and now the vigilante was rifling through her baggage like the worst kind of airport security-

“...I cared about him.”

Tangle swivelled across. Lanolin wiped her eyes, attempting to keep her cheeks dry.

“We hung out together. He was so kind, always giving me the time of day. I confided in him. He was the friend I needed so, so badly.” The sheep choked. “I screwed up with Whisper… I didn’t know how to handle you. But Duo… Duo was there.”

Lanolin clenched her fingers into fists, shaking. She batted her gaze over to Tangle, the vivid blue being replaced with a tired purpley-pink, tinged with blood-shot, battling red.

“But it was just a lie…”

Tangle wanted to object. Badly. She couldn’t.

“I feel like such a moron. I chased revenge, in the hope of avenging a complete fabrication. I… I grieved for him. Like I would my own brother… and- and turns out it was fake. I lost no-one. I gave up my leg to protect a liar and a fraud.”

For some time, Tangle let the moment hang in the air. Picking the correct thing to say wasn’t ever an easy task, and hell if this weren’t an uncomfortable situation… but who would the lemur be if she left it like this?

“...It’s okay to grieve, Lanolin.” She eventually said. “Because you have lost someone. You lost Duo.”

Lanolin scoffed at Tangle. “What?”

“Duo was real to you. Just because he was an act doesn’t mean that the feelings he gave you are invalid. He existed; he lived, he breathed. You cared about him, and he cared about you. Even if it was a charade… you still lost him, and now you’ve lost him again. First, to Whisper. Now, to Mimic.”

The sagging, exhausted bags began to crease. Lanolin clapped her palm of her mouth - retching back the bitter salt.

“I grieved for Whisper… and she’s alive and well. I thought she was like Mimic: a faker. Only, seeing her again made me understand… yeah, I was incorrect when faced with the truth. But I wasn’t wrong to feel angry, to feel sad, to feel loss.”

Tangle placed her hand on Lanolin’s shin. “You’re not a bad person, Lanolin. I’m amazed with how strong you are. But… somebody you care about is no longer with you. He was real, and now he’s gone. You don’t have to repress your emotions as some kind of… penance. Trust me… I know how it feels. It’s rotten and-”

Lanolin burst. Ugly, heaving sobs; loud and clumsy and real. She crumpled into Tangle’s side, unable to support herself any longer. The lemur reached her hand around the sheep’s waist, and shuffled in tighter. Never would she have thought Lanolin would require a hug, but Tangle happily lavished her old-boss with her patented, tail spring-squeeze.

Notions of re-discovering Spiral Hill perished. Tangle was right where she wanted to be. She joined the Restoration to have adventures, sure, but she also joined to help people. Why did that have to change because she switched her job title from hero to vigilante?

“Why did everything have to go so wrong?” The detective whimpered into Tangle’s collar. Such an innocent question, but coming from Lanolin the All-Mighty Sheep it sounded like it was dipped in fatigue and drained of any hope. “It’s too much, Tangle… Too much!”

Tangle could comprehend the sentiment well. Challenging the Mafia, juggling Whisper and the conflicting emotions that came with the wolf, re-connecting with Jewel, making peace with Lanolin. It was a lot for one weekend; a barrage of despair and new beginnings. Now, she figured out that the sheep bore scars worse than her knee… she’d just shoved them down.

Exactly like Tangle’s. Lashed in chains and sunk into the tar of oblivion.

But there was nowhere to hide. The lemur couldn’t ignore her feelings either; suppress them for a second more.

“That’s… that’s what we’re here to do.” Tangle responded. “Everything fell apart…” She smirked; not to be arrogant, but to show Lanolin that yes, she’d hurt, she’d struggled, but she also prevailed. With some encouragement, she was confident both her ex-teammates will too.

“So, let’s fix it.”

Beyond the vulnerable release Lanolin allowed for herself, Tangle felt her nod. Once was enough. It said everything that was required.

Pink hovered off to Whisper’s left. To say their reunion was somewhat laboured would be an understatement. So far, the wisp said ‘Thank you’, evidently for freeing them from Hoyt’s clutches, and not a peep further. Upon seeing Tangle again: blank stare. Upon returning to the Mineral Museum: blank stare. At Whisper’s attempts to talk to them: blankest of blank stares. Which, for Pink, her rowdiest compatriot next to Cyan, was unnerving.

Whisper tore off the last of her bandages, tying it with a flourish. She pulled her top over it immediately after because the plentiful rocks absorbed the heat, and Whisper was cold. At least, that was her excuse. She noticed Tangle staring.

And Surge too. Honestly, kinda flattering. It made Whisper not feel like a disgusting monster, instead she felt pretty! Especially with her new haircut - a new look for a new chapter.

Rescued from the scrapheap of her van, her mask rested on her lap. Smithy’s design, her past and her mistakes, returned her gaze with ten times the ire. If she squinted, she could’ve sworn the singular ocular scope blinked back at her.

She trailed a glove across the surface. Smooth, porcelain white, fragile-feeling… but reinforced with titanium. Flipping it over, the cavalcade of notches and dials and switches, each a vibrant blue, shone back at her. She held the glow close to her snout. That distinctive leathery scent met her nose; memories came flooding back into her mind.

Claire, Smithy, Slinger, Mimic. The crackle of a campfire, the excitement of a gift. Explosions, splashes of red. An octopus’s sneer. Egg Pawns, goose-stepping. Sniper fire. Tangle. Zombots. Tangle. A meeting room, a sheep, a beetle, a hedgehog. Duo’s terrified gaze. Duo’s dead-eyed gaze. Tears. Rain. Five coloured blips flying away.

Static.

To think… She recorded every victory, every failure. Her lowest lows judged her, her highest highs seemed irrelevant.

Regardless, with some hesitancy and the niggling notion she didn’t deserve to slip it back on, Whisper placed the mask on her face. Instantly, her vision adjusted. Schematics, measurements, information overload scurried across the screen. A radar pinged, and focused in on the Pink Wisp flying around a stalagmite of limestone flecked with square emerald.

“Pink.” She called out to them. The alien froze, almost skewering themselves on the sharp green stone. “Pink, can you hear me?”

Surely, the translator worked? Whisper hadn’t touched her mask, it shouldn’t need a software update.

“Yes.” A tiny treble of a voice. Pink spun back around, floating down in front of Whisper. Their tentacle reached out to caress the mask. “I can’t believe it works. Do you feel like yourself again?”

Whisper giggled. “I’ve always been myself, sweetheart. Come what may.” She positioned her thumb over Pink’s arm, rubbing it tenderly. “I’ve missed you… how have you been? And- and the others?”

The wisp didn’t yank their appendage away, but their brow furrowed regardless. “We’ve been scavenging, getting by. Nothing as joyful as Planet Wisp, that’s for sure.”

The wolf frowned. She didn’t enjoy the idea of her wisps cowering under railway tracks and living out of boxes. Pink, intensity non-withstanding, remained casual.

“Those fishy folks lured us in with food. They sprung capsules on us. Everyone escaped, except me. I overheard Hoyt shouting ‘GeT thE PiNk oNe, ‘dEre valuABle’. Blah, blah. ‘I’M HoYT, I’vE nEvEr feLT thE cAReSs oF a WoMaN!!’.”

Pink waved about, mocking the horseshoe crab. That was the Pink Whisper remembered. The little jokester with a heart of gold. They shivered to themselves.

“The dude leaves his wispon on the coffee table… the things I heard.” Pink lit up with naughty gossip. “He watches Rainbow Kissy Kissy Bomb Gals religiously; the English dub! Oh, and he practices sword strokes in his kitchen. I can tell because he kept crashing into his pots and pans… Cheats at poker - somehow got five aces but ‘cuz he’s the boss nobody objected. Ricasso invites him for karaoke on Wednesdays.”

Whisper laughed at each embarrassing secret, Pink parroting off so much dirty laundry she was almost afraid to ask how long they’d been stuck in the crystal container. It couldn’t have been fun in the moment, no matter how giddily the wisp spilled the tea.

Pink wiped a tear from their singular eye, suddenly clamming up. They looked at the assassin with simmering sorrow. Whisper’s own chuckles tapered off. She supposed there was the elephant to address.

Bowing their spiky head, Pink butterflied backwards a smidge; enough to create a bit of distance that yawned like a chasm. “What… what have you been up to?”

Whisper rested against the casing of the ‘Lipstick Beryl’. “Nothing to be proud of… I- well… I stayed on the road.”

The wisp said nothing, bar an unconscious twitch. Whisper fiddled with her gloves, tugging them off shoving them into one of her many pouches. She poked her claws into each-other. 

“I’m trying to change that.” Whisper huffed out a tired sigh. “I took you guys for granted… put you in an awful position where abandonment was the only option. But, if… if you ever need a home again, I’m here. I want to make it up to you. And I swear I’ll protect you all from heaven, hell and everything in-between.”

Pink appeared pensive, scratching their non-existent neck. “If I gather the others, can you give that pitch again?”

“I’ll make it even better.” Whisper promised. “Tell them I’ll shower them in love. I can’t let you go without at least telling you how sorry I am.”

The pink splotch flew up to a penitent wolf. Like a dart, Pink latched onto Whisper’s collar and hugged the fluff that sprouted from within.

“We missed you too.” They murmured before pulling back. “But no-more shooty-shooty, got it?”

Whisper offered a knuckle. Pink bumped their forehead into it before swanning away.

“Never again.” The canine said, plucking up to tell the wisp the most important news. A bittersweet pill. “Besides… I got him. You don’t have to hide from Mimic anymore.”

Whisper’s ears pressed against her head, the shame palpable, yet also relief lurked. An eye for an eye never really rang true, but if there was a silver-lining to the utter disaster, it’s that Mimic got what was coming to him. Amongst a sea of guilt, there existed a titchy island where there danced nothing but happiness for what she did to the bastard. It was a dark admittance, at odds with who she wanted to be. But it was there, it was real, and it was a part of her.

Pink blinked. “Good…” They seemed upset with their own respite too. “That’s good… the others will be glad to learn that. Thank you, Whisper.”

Before they jetted off on their mission, an evil thought occured to them, evident by the cheeky glint in the cyclopean features. They tentatively floated over to the maintenance door. 

“I wanna do one thing! Pretty, pretty please?”

“I don’t have any bamboo, so I’m just going to use this chunk of granite instead!”

Cream heaved the boulder onto the grubby table, picking up Hoyt’s wakizashi by the blade length. She intentionally cleaned it with a soot-caked cloth, used to wipe the currently burning furnace, smiling sweetly at the horseshoe crab across from her.

Hoyt thrashed and writhed, tugging at the hand-cuff on his wrist. Alas, he was attached to a radiator, he wasn’t going anywhere.

“Stop! Cease! Don’t you dare, you little maggot.”

The bunny perked her ears up to the sky, easily doubling her height. “What was that?” She wielded the sword like a baseball bat. “I can’t understand your accent?”

“Ja, you blerrie well can, you-”

Cream smashed the wakizashi into the granite, sending chips of gravel sprinkling all over the table. The blade itself wobbled at the impact. Hoyt winced, hissing with true, unadulterated, agony.

“It’ll break!” Hoyt begged, his free hand making pitiful swipes at the bunny. “That’s half my mortgage!”

Innocent as innocent could be, Cream tilted her head to the side. “What’s a ‘more gauge’?”

CLACK. SMACK. WHACK. She hacked at the stone like it was a piece of timber, not waiting for an answer to her bad faith inquiry. Hoyt’s gaze was so pin-princked he appeared possessed; in need of an exorcist to expel his unnatural bucking and seizing.

“Not very sharp.” The rabbit pouted, delicately running a finger over the warped edge.

“I think that’s enough, Cream.” Whisper wandered into the boiler room, Pink in tow. She was much more proud in her own gait, the wolf noticed. Less steepled in misery. “He gets the message.”

Cream twirled on her tippy-toes, pirouetting into a violent hurl, the wakizashi twatting itself at the brick wall. It clattered and scraped violently, Hoyt howling. “Oh, eish, man! Come on! Unnecessary…”

Pink swooped into the chelicerate’s eyeline, wearing the smuggest expression a one-eyed being could reasonably conjure up.

“And what do you want-”

SLAP.

“Ow.” Hoyt flinched.

SLAP. SLAP. SLAP. Pink battered their tentacles against the mobster; a fly, damage wise, but making up for it with a mosquito’s level of annoyance. Hoyt swatted them away, Pink tightly spinning underneath the flailing limb and flying out of reach.

They smiled (again, as much as they could) at Whisper, chirping with satisfaction. The wolf no longer wore her mask, tucked away safely with her sparse belongings, so her reading was mostly guesswork. Nevertheless, Pink got the frustration out of their system, winking once and zooming out of an open window.

Where there would’ve been sorrow, Whisper felt elated. She was confident they’d return.

Obviously drawn to commotion like a cat would a ball of string. Tangle slipped in behind Cream, saluting Hoyt with a coy, sarcastic grin. Also, as a feline would incline, she played with her food.

“Heyo, Hoyty boy. I feel we haven’t had a proper greeting? Wow, I knew you were short but dude, you dress like a thumbtack.” Tangle chortled. “Rounded top, teensy weensy bottom.”

Whisper snickered. Hoyt snarled.

“Oh lookit you - big mouth ‘cuz she’s safe an’ sound! Once I’m outta here, it’s on sight. Got it? ON SIGHT!” The crab tried to threaten her by jangling his chains. It came across as more of a tambourine, the simplest instrument to perform with.

The wolf leant her muzzle towards Tangle’s silky ears, careful to not let the gangster eavesdrop. “Lanolin?”

Tangle craned back, also hushed. “She thought it’d be better if Baldy doesn’t see her at the moment… She needs some space.”

“Got it. Let’s not keep him in suspense then.”

Whisper placed her hands on her hips, standing triumphant over Hoyt. He’d stopped struggling against his bindings, opting to stare them down. In his diminished position, petulance reigned supreme.

“You’ve got me where you want me!” He spat. “Whaddya want ‘den. Money? Supplies? Pirated media? Let me go, and I’ll make it worth your while.”

Cream stepped forward, preparing her debut moment in crime-fighting. Whisper forgot how precocious the rabbit was and she hadn’t lost any of her youthful buzz as a supposedly angsty teen.

“You aren’t going anywhere, Mr. Hoyt Esquire! At this very second, the greatest detective agency the world has ever seen is travelling to this location, ready to pick your buddies up!” She bounced giddily. “Guess! Guess who!”

Hoyt squinted. “Esquire?”

“That’s right, evil-doer!” Cream didn’t register his confusion, instead thrusting out her index, prosecutorially. “The Chaotix are on their way!”

“...Who?”

Tangle patted Cream’s shoulder - proud, big sis style - and ushered her away. The theatrics were fun, but they were trying to intimidate here. Cream… simply put, was too adorable. 

Whisper retook the reins. “Ricasso is facing a life sentence. So, consider your position very carefully. I’d hate to see your number two locked up in a supermax because you were too proud to help him.”

The crab barked out another one of his ugly laughs. “You think I give a kak ‘bout Ricasso?! If he had any less personality then he’d be applying for reality television!”

Whisper raised an eyebrow, knowingly. “Oh, so your joint karaoke bar escapades were under duress? Did Ricasso clash his sword with your sword? Because you despise each other so much? Hate-fencing?”

Tangle restrained a snigger. “Pfft.”

Hoyt resigned himself, sinking into the plastic, cheap chair he’d been ever-so-luckily bequeathed. “Whatever. You don’t know me. Not really…” Deciding on a new tactic, he shuffled himself into submissive politeness. All nice and approachable. Whisper saw right through it. “I’m curious, though. Why am I not being bussed off?”

“Because…” Whisper began, jabbing a delicate claw into his chest. “You’re going to help us rescue Kit.”

Hoyt hitched to object, the wolf immediately hushing him into quiet. 

“After all, you wanted a cabinet reshuffle, correct?”

“Yeah, on my terms, brak.”

Tangle jumped in, unable to resist poking. “Remember bushido, Hoyt! It’s all about the honour… that you definitely have and aren’t just cosplaying because -unfortunately - your personality stinks worse than a backed-up outhouse at an anime convention.” She rattled off the insult with great pleasure.

Hoyt’s eye twitched, before he gave up completely. He pondered for a moment, weighing up his options.

“Aight den. Guess I’ve got no other option.”

He grinned underneath that stupid, leather face mask.

Whisper had to stall. That was way too easy. He folded quicker the origami. She expected a bit of a fight back, a bit of damn loyalty.

Not everyone could be a Tangle. It came to be, on this day, that Hoyt joined their little posse of vigilantism.

Revolting. Whisper trembled. Redemption almost wasn’t worth it…

Chapter Text

The Golden Ratio. Nacci’s yacht.

Going by what Whisper described, the boat lived up to its namesake. The decadence shimmered across the ocean, like a diamond studded disco ball. To go further, it flaunted a Faberge egg’s level of gaudiness, Lanolin taking note of how the trim was a continuous sheet of gold. In fact, proving the absence of any subtlety, a geometric spiral was painted across the bright white platings. Presumably, the titular ratio.

Chaos, Lanolin was exhausted.

They strolled across the pier. Nacci had to moor up at the very edge, Hoyt explained, so as to protect from prying eyes.

Sure, whatever.

Lanolin didn’t exactly rub shoulders with billionaires, but judging by the surroundings - megayachts, sail-boats, party-trawlers abound - she surmised they weren’t too bothered with parking next door to a criminal. Hell, they weren’t gonna tell on the Mafia. Half of them probably made their money in the same manner.

Speaking of Hoyt, the horseshoe crab shuffled reluctantly in front of her. Nixed of his weapons, the sheep finally bore witness to the real Hoyt. Behind that… What would Lanolin call Hoyt’s personality? Roguish charm? Except, substitute the charm for vomit? 

Behind that ‘roguish vomit’ existed a shrinking daisy of a crab. Jumping at Whisper’s every movement, eyeing up Tangle’s tail. And they were restrained; as per the plan. Cowardly. Lanolin overheard him mumbling ‘why me’ and some choice Silrikaaner swears, but ultimately Hoyt was obedient, and that suited them just fine; there to get them on the boat, and nothing more.

Whisper and Tangle trudged morosely behind, their hands bound in rope and zipties. The wolf stared into the distance, the wrinkled sneer of defiance on her muzzle. Finally to come face to face with Nacci once again, many a verbal dress-down quivering on the tip of her tongue. Meanwhile, Tangle focused on her boots clumping across the shingled rock; grim determination was her suit of choice.

After all, they were marching straight into certain death.

…Wink.

The water lapped ever-so-slightly. Coupled with the pink-orange gradient of the sky, and the wobbling horizon line, Lanolin would almost call it serene. Across from them, lounging in a jacuzzi that spilled over the stern of his boat, some fat cat sipped a pina colada. Upon seeing Hoyt, he sipped his beverage a little slower.

And upon seeing Lume and Gloome step off the gangplank, he lifted himself out of his pool and quickly dashed inside, scramming like a town-person at high-noon.

“Hooooytyyyyyy!” Gloome sang, B-Major, falsetto. Whether it was done in a mockingly saccharine manner, or the jellyfish actually… liked Hoyt’s company - Lanolin couldn’t tell. The rub, about bubbly suds, is that they block the view of the crystal clear water beneath it.

…That description was very film noir of Lanolin. She needed a cigar and greyscale filter to complete her grizzled gumshoe panache. Ha.

Lume slipped out from behind her sister, her heels echoing along the wharf. She scanned the sheep, methodically, before loosely pointing at the absent space beside her. 

“Where’s Surge?”

Ah, the first lock to break - Lanolin thought to herself. “She entrusted me with the hand-over. I don’t know if you noticed, but last time, she barely restrained herself.”

Gloome kicked her foot up, nuzzling the back of her dripping hand. “Awww! She’s concerned about our safety. That’s so sweet!”

Anybody else and it would’ve come across as spiteful sarcasm, yet no-one present returned the mauve stinger’s genuine positivity. It was like Gloome took a wrong turn somewhere, on her way to pop-concert.

Lume pursed her lips, embarrassed. She recovered quickly enough, though, waltzing right up into Whisper’s grill.

“It’s a shame, y’know. I liked you, Harbinger.” She sighed. Lanolin saw a twinge of sympathy in the moon jelly’s straight-laced expression. “You know the rigamarole by now. Arms up.”

Hoyt activated, blocking Lume’s pat-down. “No need. I’ve done it already.”

Withdrawing, Lume immediately challenged the horseshoe crab. “You know I need to double-check.”

“Ja, and I’m saying don’t bother.” Hoyt pressed Lume back, his gnarly claws gripping into her gelatinous shoulder. Slightly transparent, you could see where his tips stabbed into the membrane. “I’m pullin’ rank here.”

“Choke on your sword, Hoyt. If I can’t get on a plane without a full-body check, then they aren’t getting on a boat without the exact same violation.” Lume replied with oodles of bitterness.

Hoyt suddenly seized Lume’s necklace, yanking her to his eyeline. “Listen, bimbo, the crap I had to pull to catch these two domkops would send any man friggin’ bosbefok! You see Ricasso with me?” The crab slit his own throat with a rigid thumb. Kccch! Gloome’s jaw hit the floor. “Yeah. So answer me, oh wise choty goty of the gulf stream, why would I keep them armed? Why would I be so doff?!”

Lanolin hated to admit it, Hoyt impressed her. Nasty words aside, he’d be a killer at improv.

“Y’know what-” Hoyt hacked out a breath. “Why am I even justifying myself? I’m wasting energy! Get the hell outta my way and know your place, Loomy!”

Gloome froze. Lume, in turn, emanated anger, her jewellery commencing a symphony of clinks and jingles. Only her sister had ‘Loomy’ privileges. With venom, she unclasped her strangle-held necklace, and palmed Hoyt away.

“Fine. Asshole. You win.”

“Dankie-” Hoyt spat back, interrupted by a digit jousting towards Lanolin. The top of Lume’s finger glowed with bioluminescence, searing blots into Lanolin’s retinas.

“But I check the sheep.”

Hoyt glanced at Lanolin, at a loose end. “Be my guest. She can’t fire a gun without snapping her knee, but whatever helps you sleep at night, girlie.”

Lanolin spread her arms out, allowing the jellyfish to shuffle the fabric over her trenchcoat. Lume’s touch was freezing cold, and various rings and bangles pricked the sheep, but she didn’t complain. So long as they didn’t touch her wool, she’d be alright. Insurance dictated that space as sacred, but the further down Lume searched, the calmer Lanolin became. Avoiding any errant whims, she felt pretty stable in the face of such scrutiny.

She almost thought she was in the clear, her secret payload left untouched. However, Lume had a surprise of her own, snatching the cane out of Lanolin’s clutches. The sheep tensed up. That… that felt like a violation.

“Hey, I need that.”

“We’ve got rails everywhere.” Lume deadpanned, chucking the instrument to Gloome, who didn’t know exactly what to do with it. “It’s a boat. People slip all the time.”

Tangle had perked up, appalled at the jellyfish. Lanolin tried to stay level-headed… but it was just insulting. She understood too well what this was. Gangster power plays, Lume wasn’t any different. But the actual offence was the blasé assumption that this would be what broke her, made her unsteady. At the end of the day, it was a support, but Lanolin’s foundation was still ten times stronger.

“What, you think it's a weapon?” Lanolin retorted back. “How much of a coward is Nacci anyways? Scared I’ll bonk him over the head or something? He’s got a shell, I couldn’t do jack-”

Whisper hummed under her breath. The detective comprehended she was complicating the procedure…  but come on! It was the mother of all dick moves.

“Price of admission, Lanolin.” Lume said monotonously. “What’s more important to you? Kit, or your ability to stand straight?”

Lanolin sucked in all of her goodwill, imagined serene beaches and the gentle brush of palm trees, and exhaled. Let it go. She took one step, and despite the pain, stood up tall and proud. Lasering her irritation onto Lume, she smirked. Proceed.

Tangle, unbeknownst to everyone, did a little fist-pump with her tail.

Whisper never explored the upper echelons of The Golden Ratio. She spent a lovely evening in the fossil grave, cubist lounge slash bar, but the personal quarters were a mystery. Nacci, ever the enigmatic gent, rarely left his living space, reigning over all atop his yacht, an ivory tower. Logically-speaking, it was a stupid design choice, one that Smithy would cringe at, because it necessitated that the bridge be positioned closer to the deck. Which meant less view, less manoeuvrability. Just so some mob boss could have his metaphorical throne; the type of hubris that tended to get hit by icebergs.

Lume gestured them up the stairs, and Gloome stood besides two wooden doors, with further spirals carved into the arbour. Emblazoned, in gold-lead, read the word Private. Behind those doors, Whisper heard aggressive thumps; grunts of effort. Each sounded harder and more violent than the last. Someone was frustrated.

Lanolin was a couple steps behind, struggling with the stairs. Already, it was a tight and uncomfortable space; she used both hands to hoist herself upright, latched onto the railings either side. It didn’t help the boat bobbed, pretty much annihilating any stable purchase for the sheep to grab. Regardless, her determination never wavered, reaching the top with a stomp. She puffed, and craned her spine up again. Gloome looked really guilty, but Lanolin pushed through the very evident agony stemming from her knee to spite the jellyfish sisters.

And, since Whisper was solely responsible for the injury… the wolf felt incredibly guilty too. But Lanolin hadn’t slowed down at all. If anything, she adapted - which, for the single-tracked mind ovine that Whisper once knew, was such a testament.

Lume waited for the sheep to recover, before sliding open the door and ushering the cohort inside. She received no thanks, the detective brushing past her and into the room.

The space was superficially tasteful, as far as offices went. The panelling was cocobolo, the desk was purpleheart and the chairs were ebony; a colourful clash of expensive woods thrown in for their price tag and little else. Buzzing in the corner was a laptop, top of the line, next to another drink station covered in ornate liquor bottles. Latched onto the ceiling hung a flat screen, opposite a gold plated fan, which when fully spun, created a flickering artwork of vaguely renaissance origin.

In the middle of the room there dangled a punching bag, with rips and tears nicking themselves across the leather and pushing out stuffing. Completely at odds with its surroundings, the sack wobbled and gyrated. Unsightly, but practical.

Nacci himself boxed and jabbed, dressed in an unbuttoned, untucked shirt, and linen trousers. Unnaturally tall, even by Islander standards, the nautilus dominated the space. Whether that was from his aura, or the fact he was caked in sweat and B.O, it didn’t matter; he slugged at his target with a pinpointed combination. To finish, he wound  back his fist, and launched a punch that sent the bag rocketing skyward, before it swung back to neutral again.

Whisper blinked. That strength was… unexpected. There must be a reason why Nacci reigned as the peak of the totem pole, and it wasn’t due to his sterling personality. He checked the carapace over-hanging his hands; built in brass knuckles. With a gentle blow, he shucked off the chips and dust, the sediment fluttering to the floor and coating the velvety carpet like dandruff.

“Ciao!” The boss greeted, insipidly. “Excuse me, you caught me in the middle of my work-out.” He took a sip of what Whisper guessed was water… or vodka. Nacci chortled, spilling drops into his carpet. “Isn’t this pleasant? Everybody in the same room, at last. Finally, we can lay it out on the table. I’m sure you're dying to tell me what I’m doing wrong. Correct, lemur?”

Tangle blew at the loose strand of hair that sprang away from her mullet, all nonchalant and too cool for school. Despite her chains, she smiled. “Got your notepad and pen ready? First off, you look like a Chao dump floating in raw sewage. Oh, also you smell like you polish your shell with rat-piss.

Nacci full-bellied laughed, before slamming a fist into the punching bag again. CRACK! It violently jerked.

“Well rehearsed, my vigilante.” He lowered his eyeline to sneer at Tangle. “Such an honour.”

He shifted over to Whisper, tutting despondently. “As for Ms. Harbinger… My disappointment can not be understated. Did I not offer enough to keep your interest, or is this hissy fit symptomatic of something deeper?” He pointed at Hoyt, who lurked in the corner. “It’s the same disease that Hoyt suffers with: delusion. He thinks he’s a samurai. You fancy yourself a self-righteous turncoat. Both are such tired tropes.”

Whisper turned her nose up at the nautilus. How can one man be so confident, so brazen, yet so blatantly wrong - all at once?

After a clap rippled amongst the party, Nacci spread his arms in welcome. “I’d like some private time with my prizes. Hoyt, show Lanolin the sitting room. Have a drink on my behalf to celebrate a successful poach.”

Lanolin cleared her throat, not enthused at the thought of spending more time with Hoyt. “Hang on. What about Kit?” She leant against the wall, subtly trying not to give away her struggle.

“Lume and Gloome will go and secure him.” Nacci hand-waved. “We’ll discuss terms later. I’m not finished with you, or Surge, yet.” Flashing his glitzing teeth, he hissed a nasty, nasty laugh. “But you’re a semi-decent detective, so you would’ve figured that snafu out.”

Hoyt nodded his head to the door. Time to go. With a huff, Lanolin rotated and limped into the stairwell, almost followed by the horseshoe crab, who hesitated in the doorframe.

“Y’sure you wanna be left alone with…” Hoyt petered out, Whisper and Tangle both jerking around to bore him down with icy daggers. “Silly question… I’ll- uh… forget I said anything.”

He disappeared into the dimly lit corridor, shutting the door behind him gently. What a coward. Whisper had enough power over him to intimidate with her wrists bound. Take the sword away from the crab, and he was nothing.

Nacci swept behind his desk, leaning lackadaisically. “You two, eh? Such an unlikely duo. Hoyt mentioned you teamed up, but I never anticipated your differences would be so stark!” He splayed his fingers, pondering aloud. “Polar opposites, like black and white, truth and lies, sun and moon..”

Tangle chuckled to herself. “Mob bosses and showers.”

Whisper didn’t pipe up, but the impulsive part of her wanted to nudge and tell the lemur ‘you can talk!’. Perhaps not the best time.

“Show me a man who doesn’t perspire during exercise, and I’ll cut you loose.” Nacci deadpanned. “I digress. There is a dichotomy that I find to be fascinating, and I’d wager you both embody it. The Technician and The Performer. Heard of it?”

Silence. The nautilus appeared disappointed, giving a scholarly ‘humph’. He leant to the side, somehow engrossed in his own lecture.

“It’s a term that describes approaches to any given problem.” He began. “The Technician is simplistic, not in execution, but rather in panache. They can fit thousands of micro-flourishes into the palm of their hand, yet you’d be remiss to find it a spectacle. The Technician would rather you not see them at all.” Nacci lazily drooped a hand over at Whisper. “You, my dear, are a Technician. Rigid, patient, precise.”

He snuck his gaze over at Tangle. “Which makes you a Performer. The dancer who beat the crap out of my men and left them on display like some sort of perverse piece of art. Everything you do is to be noticed, if not by the public, then definitely by me. You talk. You squawk. Well… you’ve got my attention.”

“I’ll take that.” Tangle joked. “It proves I’m living it up in that shell of yours.”

Nacci shook his dreadlocks in disagreement. “This is a typical weeknight for me. Don’t think for one iota of a second you’re the first to trawl my organisation seeking self-actualisation.” He lowered his brow and retreated from his pricey desk. 

“You’re not.”

He emphatically forced the declaration out of his hooked beak. Sharp, and spiteful. Nacci quickly filed away the disdain and returned to his philosophical spiel.

“Then there are those who defy categorization. C’est moi, for example.” A palm crested itself his chest, declaring himself the victor of a game no-one else was playing.

Whisper sighed. Typical villain. Off monologuing again. The boss drawled on like many an assassination targets who believed they had her dead to rights. The canine couldn’t say she enjoyed their speeches, but then again - they could get unexpectedly creative?

Technician or Performer. It was hard not to dismiss him outright. Nacci missed, and missed wide. Logic and self-preservation dictated ‘technical’ Whisper should’ve stayed on his payroll. Instead, she blew up his depot with an explosion that could be seen from the mainlands. Not exactly ‘rigid, patient, precise’. 

Tangle, meanwhile, slipped in and out of combat like a damn ninja, and didn't broadcast her presence to the world. If she was an actor, it’d be a pretty poor show. Her vigilante endeavours weren’t for fame and fortune, but rather because she was a passionate altruist who just had to lend a hand. That was the Tangle Whisper loved, and to label her would ignore so much of what made the lemur beautiful.

But that was the difficulty with people like Nacci. He firmly categorised his victims, only so he could to justify himself. Underlings, marks, subordinates or targets; to him they were numbers on a page, entries on a spreadsheet. Such a narrow-minded perspective, and one that Whisper previously shamefully subscribed to.

But she wanted to break the miserable role she chained herself into. She couldn’t think of any better of a middle finger - to Nacci, and to Harbinger - then what she hid up her sleeve.

The wolf tuned back in, Nacci continuing on, holding his punching bag steady.

“I’ve coined a term for myself. The Director. Orchestrating the methodical, to produce the divine. Spreading a benign gospel, with a message that can be surmised with mere imagination.” He spoke as flowery as his home design sense-

Suddenly with a roar, Nacci pounded his fist into the sack. The leather groaned and creaked, battering the air. He continued to pummel, colliding his rocky carapace with grunts of intensity. There was venom to the blows, so much rage ravaging the battered equipment. It could bear no more punishment, and with a slug of finality, it snapped off its hinges and thudded onto the floor - spewing fluff and springs and detritus.

Past a moment to recollect, two loafers prised over the punching bag… which wiggled. Whisper looked down the length of her muzzle, feeling the dry curl of Nacci’s grasp lift her gaze up.

“Here. An example.” He snarled. The zip was ripped off, flaying open the sack. Inside, coated in red flecked stuffing, was a black and purple fish. Every inch of him had been attacked, individual fist marks stamped into his flesh. He panted. Gargled saliva; utterly destroyed.

Tangle’s attitude shifted at the reveal, nose wrinkling in torment. The office felt like a freezer, as if their souls had been sucked out their nostrils and blended into the cold. Whisper grit her teeth, trying to release herself from Nacci’s condescending hold, but he was relentless.

Nacci rumbled, giddily presenting the wheezing lump to the wolf. “Do you see my method? Do you understand what’s awaiting you?”

Whisper tried to look away, but Nacci tore the body back into focus. “Digest it. Because this is all I require to demonstrate your folly. So, let me ask… regretting your choice yet? Feel the burn of your short-sightedness?”

He waited for her response. Whisper opened her expression up, peeling her gums into rebellion. “Do your worst, you pathetic, small man. You don’t scare me.”

The nautilus quirked an eyebrow, seemingly unaffected. He glided around to a drawer, lazily yanked it back, and retrieved a revolver.

Not a wispon.

A revolver.

Now might be the time to make a move… as Nacci strolled to centre-stage, Whisper twitched. She twizzled the shard left in paws, unbeknownst to the mobster. Ready, and waiting to strike.

Nonetheless, her nerves plucked a discordant melody.

Nacci’s face was lifeless, like a belfry statue judging the congregation. Then, without warning, he lifted the gun up and pumped two bullets into the suffering underling. 

BANG! BANG!

The fish seized up, gasped, and melted into stillness. Smoke twirled from the bleeding, blotting wounds; leaked out of the barrel. Nacci continued to stare. He hadn’t killed anybody… he put down a pest.

“Holy… holy, no- Gaia, no!” Tangle whimpered, shrinking away. Fear replaced her confidence, the lemur ill-prepared to deal with such… callousness. It wasn’t in her repertoire. Nacci didn’t care. He just didn’t.

“Do I scare you now?” He asked, his shallow focus fixated onto Whisper. The faux joyful veneer was gone, but a smirk remained. Psychopathic, through and through.

Whisper spat a gob onto his polished shoes, as her answer. “Go ahead, send me to Hell. I’ll wait for you there.”

Tangle flinched at such bullheadedness. She might’ve told him something different.

No reaction from the mollusc, save for him flicking open the chamber and reloading the spent cartridges. The casings clattered next to the corpse, some even landing atop of it.

Panting in panic, Tangle quaked. Whisper knew she despised real, undiluted death. She’d seen that face on the lemur before.

“Don’t hurt me…”

Such innocence and terror melded together. Tangle squeezed her eyes shut, pretending the body wasn’t there, or that she didn’t just see another person die before her.

Nacci escalated; aimed the gun at Tangle. The vigilante hadn’t a clue she might be following after, with her own execution.

Whisper controlled her breathing, kept her heart-rate steady. Stay in control. Stay in control.

The hammer ratcheted back with a click, Nacci’s trigger discipline sloppy. He pressed the metal into grey, quivering fuzz.

“Now?” Nacci asked again. “Now, do I scare you?”

Whisper’s heart thumped, beating against her rib cage.

Yes. Yes, he scared her. She tilted her hidden razor, shoving it against her bindings and tugged.

Yet red consumed her vision, followed by the loudest cacophony imaginable annihilating her eardrums.

Too little, too late.

For a sitting room with furnishings that appeared to have been cut up with a chainsaw and billhook combination, its couches were surprisingly plush. As soon as Lanolin collapsed onto the cushions, the pain in her leg turned from an excruciating inferno to a mild burn, much more manageable. Hoyt glanced at her through the exhibition glass, darting to and from the scratched up shell Nacci decided was the centrepiece of his collection.

Lanolin breathed in, grateful for the respite and the release of pressure on her knee. Sure, she’d keep upright to make a point, but she also wasn’t invincible. As if Hoyt could care less whether Lanolin required her cane or not - whatever argument she was trying to make wasn’t for him, or anybody really. Not even for herself… she’d take her cane back in a heartbeat. There was no shame in that.

Hoyt loitered, like a lost puppy looking for some kind of direction. …Alright, Lanolin could offer him that. She slumped deeper into the sofa, tempted to allow it to swallow her whole.

“Nice work, Hoyt.” She groused. “You can go now.”

The crab grabbed a bottle of tequila, and poured himself a shot. “Go?”

Lanolin carelessly swatted at the air. “Jump off, head onto the pier - get, scram, skedaddle. Whatever. Leave.”

Knocking back the liquid, Hoyt sat down across from her and hit a defensive position. “Just like that, I’m free?”

Gaia, get it through your thick skull!

“Yup. That’s the deal.” The sheep pawed at her tender knee. “I’d damn well take the opportunity if I were you. Things are gonna get messy.”

To answer, Hoyt crossed his leg over his knee, with a wink. Lanolin sneered. That wasn’t the insult he thought it was, but then again, Hoyt’s social grace sucked worse than her leg did. She supposed it tracked the crab wore a mask - either it deprived him of oxygen, or stopped him from stealing hers.

But he just sat there. Thinking. Lanolin’s job still wasn’t done, and she really needed him to piss off right around now. Those blackened maroon eyes interrogated her, and not in his typical lechy way. He calculated. What? Lanolin didn’t know; but she didn’t like it.

“Hey.” She snapped. “You’re getting what you want, asshole.”

“Yeah, yeah. Quid pro quo.” Hoyt muttered, returning. He deftly leapt to his feet. “Fair enough. But this won’t be the last time you see of me, bokkie. You understand that?”

Lanolin snorted. “Naturally. You’ll do something stupid, and I’ll arrest you for it.” The sheep fiddled with the bell around her neck, dinging it with every frivolous twitch. “Or… you could just slither away and hide under some rock. That’ll save everyone a headache.”

“Virtuous broad, ain’t ‘chu?” Hoyt bobbed his head, ‘tipping his cap’. M’lady. “Drink some dop. It’ll numb the pain.”

Lanolin flipped him off as he retreated down the stairs. His sandy dome sunk past and into the hull, finally gone. Out of view. 

She couldn’t relax though; time for the next phase of Operation Fisherman’s Foes!

Dumb, dumb name.

Stretching out one last time, Lanolin gradually winched herself up again. She had to give a sarcastic thanks to their host, he neglected the arm-rests. His furniture were squares on top of other squares, which went against his flowing ratio aesthetic. Lanolin supposed she was inclined to pick out these sorts of inconsistencies.

Having Hoyt gone basically gave her permission to go anywhere on the boat. Not officially, mind. She doubted her excuse would hold up in the court of law, but Hoyt was meant to be keeping a watch of her. So really, if something horrible were to happen… it’d be his fault, right?

Like, say, if this opalised trilobite were to tip over? Lanolin adored how it shimmered in the low-light, a prehistoric specimen wrapped in an oil-slick. Maybe she’d indulge in some kleptomania, prepping her elbow to smash the casing. As an officer of the law, she never got to indulge, and hey, a mob boss was as close to a justifiable victim as one could get.

Lanolin drove her elbow in, weakly. Not a scratch appeared in the glass. The trilobite continued to sparkle away its blissful existence. A life of crime wasn’t for her. She, too, ignored the priceless ‘modernist’ painting of mustard drizzle and tomato splotches, though no doubt it’d be improved if she decided to annihilate it. It wasn’t like taking a knife to the Mona Lisa.

Ignoring her destructive urges (not even her therapist knew about those), Lanolin pushed past the sitting room, and chose a skeevy, brittle door that appeared a little too crappy for its home. At least replace the handle with some gold! For shame, Nacci!

But ‘Staff’ don’t get the fancy treatment; they get the innards of the beast - pipes as intestines, valves as veins. Which worked out perfectly for Lanolin. The less prying eyes, the better.

The maintenance corridor was tight, almost claustraphobically so. If Lanolin had enough wool left to recreate her four bundle signature, she’d end up wedged in-between the walls. She shuffled along, trying to keep her bun (and its contents) straight, whilst battling through the pain. The closest approximation she could fathom was to imagine a steel chisel ramming itself into her joint, every minor movement igniting on tendrils of nerve flares down her leg and up her hips. Add any pressure to the concoction, and it crackled even worse. Nothing but toil and trouble.

The sheep turned a corner, discovering a dip in her path. More stairs. Great.

This time around, Lanolin forsook the careful approach, gliding down the steps to the best of her ability. Upon levelling off in an even dingier part of the yacht, her lower body locked up and sent her careening towards the grated floor. Through the tiny diamond divots, she could see the electronic wiring sneaking out - black, blue, yellow. It seemed she found the right place.

CLOMP. CLOMP.

Boots settled in front of her. Lanolin peeled her face away to look up at their owner. An exceptionally tired looking house-keeper peered down at her. Lanolin’s soul perished; caught red-handed snooping about.

Only, the mouse just rolled her eyes and paced over the sheep’s prone body, grumbling under her breath. Rolling over, Lanolin attempted to get the women’s attention.

“Hey, it’s dangerous to stay aboard.”

The house-keeper returned the gaze, like a zombie in scrubs. “If you’re looking for a buoyancy chamber, it’s down the corridor, take a right.”

Then, she plodded up and out of Lanolin’s field of vision, leaving the sheep baffled. What was that about? Did everyone hate Nacci so much that they’d just… ignore a potential saboteur? What sort of crew was he running, if even his house staff were content to see him off. Bon voyage; no-one shedding any tears?

There was no time to lose though. She scrambled to her feet, took a moment to not moan from the misery, and continued to limp towards her target.

Bolted doors lined the sparse walls. Fuse Room, Parts and Services, Bulkhead - each passed her by, until she settled on Buoyancy Chamber Five. She heaved herself inside and slammed the heavy metal partition behind her.

Instantly, mechanical whirr faded - Lanolin felt as if she stepped into a sensory deprivation tank. A singular bulb pulsed above her, caking the small compartment with a sickly green glow. Of course, the designer wouldn’t be so stupid as to leave such a vital component exposed, but Lanolin could see the general cartography of the ship; where it would be at its weakest.

From what the diagram on the bulky, out-of-date, computer, there were eight chambers across the length of the yacht. Taking down one would be a catastrophic failure, as intended. The sheep had to hope Whisper’s analysis on their bombs were accurate.

Lanolin dug around her wool and yanked out her smuggled items. Ouch, the corners snagged her curls. Like dominos, she placed plastic rectangles on the grubby, slightly damp flooring. Hopefully that didn’t alter their explosive capabilities.

Tangle stole these volatile bricks off the Marianas. ‘Nacci’s Package’, she called them, an image which sent shivers down her neck and to the tip of her tail. Initially, Lanolin wasn’t impressed. They looked like C-4, which was hardly an uncommon sight in the arsenal of vaguely well-connected mafiosos. But, by the way Whisper balked at their sight, and after Tangle slammed them onto the table without a care in the world… told her they were something more.

CDX-71. Lanolin gasped when the wolf came out with that name. The CCPD were briefed on the compound not too long ago, a newer creation from the United Federation, and an explosive that by no means anybody should’ve had access to. The ‘CDX’ stood for Concentrated Directional Explosive, the 71 being the number of attempts it took to properly synthesise it. Simply put, each of the inconspicuous rectangles, once live, had the potential to puncture a hole through 300 metres of solid concrete. What it lacked in raw damage, it made up for in its sheer piercing power, designed to blow through any type of a barricade, decimate a stronghold with precision. Or, in Lanolin’s case, blow a crater into the side of a boat. 

When the sheep pressed Whisper on why she knew so much about CDX-71 – the canine bit her lip, looked sad, and said ‘she bought it on the black market once’.

Tsk, tsk.

They were inert, Lanolin repeatedly reminded herself. Yet, her hands shook as she ripped off the plastic adhesive and pressed a bomb against the wall. Really, all she needed was one. The blast would shred through the empty chamber and shoot into the ocean. There, Tangle and Whisper would turn the tide.

Tide. That lemur’s silliness was rubbing off on her. Lanolin scowled – don’t you dare get nostalgic.

Delicately, she bit down on the detonator string, sliding the copper wire into the malleable dough. With a twist, she hooked the edge and connected it to an earpiece. Macgyvered bombs – they needed something with a wi-fi connection. The device flared into standby mode. Armed.

On her phone, Lanolin glanced at her pairings. ‘Inconspicuous Unmarked Station Wagon Trademark Pending Speaker’, ‘Ovine Earphones’, ‘White Noise Machine – Whispering Sweet Nothings ASMR’, ‘Detonate’. Half-lidded, the sheep got a stark reminder on how tragically mundane her life as a detective was, compared to how it spiralled once friggin’ Tangle and Whisper busted back into the picture.

The sheep scooped up the rest of the CDX tablets and exited into the corridor. Her role was pretty much finished; she only needed to escape, send the signal, and sink this insipid boat at last. Considering everything, Lanolin was proud of herself, especially managing to make it through without her cane. Her leg was still very angry at her, but she ignored it like she ignored her nagging mother. Eventually, she’ll have to confront it again, but at this specific time? Somewhat irrelevant.

Those stairs will always be a struggle though, Lanolin reaching the top of them was an accomplishment similar to climbing the highest mountain in Holoska. Her reward?

A black boot to the snout.

The sheep‘s body cartwheeled down the staircase for a second time. Her horns dug into her forehead, teeth chattered; everything hurt as she flumped onto the ground. The precious explosives butterflied around her, dropped like soap, squeaking out of her protection.

“Hoyt.” The detective managed to spit out. She’d bit her tongue on the tumble. “What the hell? Get off the ship!”

That blasted horseshoe crab waltzed down the stairs like he’d been called up to spin a wheel. “Yeah…‘bout that. I reckon today’s the day I go all in.”

Lanolin tried to escape, but his foot stomped down on her ankle. She winced, rage rushing through he chest and out her throat.

“Jackass! We’re getting rid of Nacci for you!” She barked. That only compelled Hoyt to press down harder.

“Ja, right. This whole operation was predicated on the assumption that I would equally benefit from the defeat of my boss.” He jerked Lanolin up by the collar, before shoving her into the wall. 

An errant screw scratched itself into the unarmoured, naked part of her skull. It was like Hoyt, a tad annoying. 

And Hoyt was not a gentleman, especially now he was betraying them. Which shouldn’t have surprised her, but to be honest, she gave Hoyt a bit too much credit.

“I did some soul-searching.” Hoyt growled. “I saw the brak and the lemur going about, seizing their destiny, and I wanted that for myself. But… here I am, playing your game, a bit-part in your plan, and then to my confusion, you just… let me go?”

Lanolin struggled in his grasp. He pressed a knee into her pelvis, keeping her pinned. “I thought I’d take the opportunity, after all – ‘I’m getting what I want’. But then again, if I were to weigh up my options... Am I better off running away and letting you clean house, like I initially thought… or will I be better rewarded if I, instead, flip.”

“You treacherous thug.” Lanolin hissed, eliciting Hoyt to slam a palm into her chin. “We had a deal-”

“Sies, we did. But I re-evaluated my position and… I choose the Marianas. Sorry if that damages your posse of redemption and healing, or whatever this is. I’m eccentric, but I’m not as thick as you believe me to be, and - aweh, that’s the real insult in all of this!”

Lanolin suddenly felt very sheepish. Believing Hoyt would keep his word because of one conversation, back when Surge was in hospital and they had no options but to agree. Even worse, she genuinely didn’t believe Hoyt had the capacity to fool them. He’d seemed like a cookie-cutter goon without any of the mastermind tendencies that made for actual villains.

Guess they read him wrong. Hoyt… was a manipulative bastard. Feigning ignorance and actually-

“Told you this wouldn’t be the last you’d see of me.” He snickered. “Fortune favours the bold. I’m blowing this whole scheme wide open.” He prised Lanolin’s phone out of her hooves, waggling it in front of her face. “Unlike you.”

That’s it. Lanolin was sick and tired of being strong-armed by these Mariana douchebags.

CRUNCH.

The sheep rammed her horns into Hoyt’s shell with every morsel of power left in her body. She heard carapace bend and snapple, Hoyt stumbling back with a cry of shock. Following through with the momentum, she punched him right in his cocky mouth. The mask ripped away as he slammed into the surface opposite.

Hoyt, recovering, stared at her. He didn’t expect her to fight back. She could sense it – just a baby bird with a broken wing, not a real threat. Sweet, summer child; he was mistaken!

Lanolin huffed in exertion. “You think siding with Nacci is going to benefit you in the long run? You’re wrong, Hoyt! It won’t help even in the short-term. You had the chance to escape, and what do you do with the infinite mercy I inexplicably decided to send your way? You backed the wrong horse. It’d be funny if you weren’t so sad.”

The crab narrowed his eyes. “Let me get this straight. ‘I shoulda stayed with you, ‘cuz you’ve got the power of friendship, and for that we’re strong’. Is that your argument?” He scoffed in amusement. “Hit me with a semi-decent right hook and suddenly we’re on equal footing?”

“I can beat you in a wheelchair. I can beat you in a full-body cast. You’re nothing.” Lanolin stated. Underestimated again.

Hoyt sighed… “Gaia, the baggage on you, woman. No, I’m not talking about your duff knee. Observe.” The crab turned to a box on the wall, flipped the casing down… revealing a red lever. Written in stark white lettering was his sneak attack, out in the open. ‘ALARM’.

“Ta-da. You forget you’re in our house.” Hoyt waved his claw. “I’m all in, baby. And so are you.”

He wrenched the lever down, and the blaring ring of defeat deafened Lanolin to her own inner monologue.

“Lanolin, you’re not built to be a warrior.” Her mother tenderly said to her, caressing her cheek. “You’re a weak lamb, my dear. They’ll eat you alive and laugh at you for trying. For what? Why break your nails? Come, swim in the pool, bask in the sun with your sisters. Some suitors will be here soon.”

The crooked grin on Hoyt’s face sent her spiralling back to her youth… he looked just like the young, rich jerk who proposed to her, a product of some engineered meet-cute.

Lanolin closed her eyes. “I’ve had enough of people telling me what I can and can’t be.”

With renewed fervour, she launched herself at the crab with a guttural scream. It hurt to move, but she swore…

He’ll hurt ten times harder.

Tangle rattled in her bindings. She didn’t do well being restrained – she wasn’t a Houdini. Claustrophobia wrapped her in its suffocating grasp, the prickles trickling amongst her shoulder blades. The lemur was too aware she couldn’t move; she couldn’t breathe. She’d long forgotten she held the key to freedom in the palm of her hand. A jack-knife, snuck past Lume, quivered. Useless.

Nacci, by the light of his chandelier, embodied pure evil. The nooks and crannies of his wrinkled, coarse features were serrated by shadows, and the cover of his swirling shell hid any of his humanity. Only the slasher smile of his beak poked out of the darkness.

His revolver sizzled. The lifeless, choked expression of a dead man consumed everything. No matter how she tried to hide from the image, Tangle saw him.

Red oozed, staining his white shirt in crimson. Nacci… Nacci just killed him. No warning, no mercy, no trial, no appeasement; terror threaded through frigid veins. That nothing stare, the minor twitching that signalled a consciousness but betrayed by a void swirling behind the glass.

Duo’s death. That snarling, hungry beast standing over its prey.

Tears dripped down Tangle’s cheeks. Not again… not again.

Nacci said something, but they were drowned out by a cavernous drone. Was he underwater? Did liquid seep into the room without her noticing? Did the blood, the discharge, fleck into her ears?

An icy instrument pressed against her skull. Circular in shape. A barrel. With a start, she remembered that sensation – Eggman held her at gunpoint. He and Nacci, they wore the same grin: crazed bloodlust stirring underneath an exterior of civility.

Frozen. She felt frozen in place. Why was it so tight? Air! She couldn’t breathe. Ricasso wrapped his bandages around her neck - again. Mimic trapped her in a safe - again. A hammer thundered somewhere above her, ethereal. The gong striking midnight, the witching hour. Death, death, death.

Tangle waited, stood on ceremony. A ritualistic killing. Waiting for the brief flash of red, the split-second pain, and then the silence.

Well… the red blared.

Coupled with the howling of a siren.

Tangle peeked at the carnage. An alarm rang, coating the entire room with a murky rouge. Nacci lifted up his revolver. Her forehead stopped itching.

“Stupido! Incompetente!” Nacci shouted at the ceiling. “Which leccaculo set off the alarm?”

The ground seemed to stabilise beneath Tangle. She spoke a bit of Spagonian… and that was a very rude insult Nacci just hurled out. She heard her grandma say it once. The absurdity, and the notion of family, brought her back down off whatever cloud she’d been buried in.

Tangle wasn’t trapped with Nacci. Oh, contrary.

“Now, Whisper!” In one fluid swipe, she flipped her knife open, and the ropes fell to tatters. Whisper followed suit, a razor blade of her own in her gloves.

The lemur’s tail, free at last, bent and curled – stretching out gracefully. Then, it pounced. Latching onto Nacci’s gun hand and ripping him wide.

The nautilus was stunned… before his snout twisted into a beaming simper. “Oh.”

Oh? Was that it? Oh?

Whisper patted Tangle’s shoulder. “Something’s gone wrong. I’m going to find Lanolin, keep him busy.”

Wiping her nose with her index, Tangle nodded. “Righty-o, Whisper.”

The wolf darted out of the office. Nacci limply tugged at Tangle’s tail, letting the revolver slide out of his mitts and tumble away. Where he once held metal, he gripped his hand, balling them into a fist. The keratin swept over his knuckles, sorta like an armadillo would. Miniature, blended nautilus shells adorned. Boxing gloves.

“I used to fight. Bareknuckle. To the death.” He said. “That’s how you build a reputation.”

“Used to is the key word here, grandpa.” Tangle bit back. “Come on, off to the nursing home with you- WHOA!”

Nacci swept her off her feet like she was a misbehaving dog. One second, her shoes were planted, ready to brawl. Next, she soared.

“Seems like my workout isn’t over!” Nacci gloated, his free hand pulling back. “Let me show you why I’m the boss!”

Chapter Text

Whisper cursed her extra sensitive hearing. The blaring alarm bells needled her ears like incessantly stabbing toothpicks; she knew that she’d still be listening to the ‘briiiiing’ even in her dreams. An audible body massage, except with a cactus. 

Leaving Tangle with Nacci was a risk, but she needed faith that Tangle could handle herself. A thump rattled the staircase as Whisper scurried down; she hoped that was a nautilus and not a lemur.

Levelling out, Whisper skidded around the corridor. Red light continued to dye the ship’s interior, blending with the blue hue of the wall-to-ceiling windows. That should’ve created purple, but instead it just smeared together into a mental overload that the wolf struggled to parse through. Numerous archways lined the space – one leading to a deck-top bar.

The scene was very reminiscent of stumbling into a party you weren’t invited to. Two Marianas, boy and girl, gawked at her, in between dinging their glasses together. Did Whisper interrupt a moment? Shouldn’t they be on high alert?

A bartender continued to shake a cocktail, ambivalent to the Mariana goons that were reaching for their weaponry. For a brief moment, Whisper wavered, half-cocked. A third wheel, a manta-ray, floated face up in the pool, lifting his spaded head in bewilderment. He never got the memo.

Whisper came to understand she’d created a Mexican Standoff. The woman, a rainbow-coated mandarin fish, lifted a pistol wispon. Her similarly colourful partner, a yellow-faced, ‘bro-ey’, slightly tipsy mahi-mahi, brandished a baseball bat.

The shaker rattled in a samba rhythm. Whisper scanned the deck. An expensive jukebox, stray bills held down by paper-weight poker chips… loose bottles of liquor. The wolf bit down on her knife’s blade, holding it in her mouth like a stick. She hummed – studying the mandarin’s trigger discipline, keeping tabs on the mahi-mahi strolling towards her, too calmly for what the situation called for.

“Cosmopolitan.” The bartender called out, slicing through the tension. He poured the concoction into a martini glass, and opened a lil’ umbrella. At the sudden noise, the couple spun, hissing at the mood killer.

They took their eyes off her for a second, but that was all the time she required.

Hooking a bottle up with her foot, Whisper flung it at the manta-ray. SMASH! A direct hit to his nostrils! He quickly pressed his fins up to bruise, sinking below the chlorinated water. One down, two to go.

A bat howled past Whisper, forcing the wolf to slide across the pool side. Crackles of gunfire kicked up splinters near her kneepads, the mandarin relentlessly spraying and praying. Whisper prised her blade out of her jaw, blocking the follow-up swing from the boyfriend. SHUNK – her blade’s edge sunk into the wood. Using her boot as a lever, she shunted the melee-mahi away, ripping the baseball bat out of his possession. Lightning fast, she wrenched her knife free, and whipped around, clobbering the mandarin with the newly found blunt instrument.

The fish crashed into the bar, spilling booze and cocktails across the surface, as the wispon went skidding away. Without warning, an arm wrapped around Whisper’s neck, pulling her into a headlock. The mahi shoved a foot into the back of her leg, collapsing the wolf to her knees again.

“I got her! I got her! Shoot her babe!” He chortled triumphantly. Meanwhile, the mandarin, dazed, clambered across stools and made a reach for her gun.

Whisper dropped the baseball and drove her knife into her captor’s thigh. He screamed in sudden shock, intensified once the wolf twisted it. Instinctually, the mahi punted her onto slippery, damp panelling, tugging at the weapon left implanted. Whisper smirked. Fillet-o-fish.

Tangle level quip.

The wolf nimbly launched herself across the scattered furniture to land on top of the mafiosa crawling to her weapon. Pressing a palm to her neck, Whisper over-reached, nabbing the wispon. Now that the colourful gal was defenseless, Whisper yanked the mandarin up by her diamond-encrusted necklace, stretching her out with the nook of a shoulder. The ensnared fish clawed at her throat as Whisper pulled her back further and further, bending her back-fins like an elastic band. Then, once the canine could tug no longer, she released the fishing line.

THWACK. The poor goon bounced face first back into the deck, instantly unconscious. The crunch could be heard a mile away.

The mahi-mahi managed to tug the blade out of his leg, whimpering softly. Whisper strolled towards him, spinning the pistol on her finger, before pointing it at him with a click. She stared down the length of the barrel, her own muzzle melding together with the cold, metallic sheen. It felt so comfortable, so light in her grip. The thug glanced up at her, defeated, and obviously terrified. Whisper raised her eyebrows, wrapped her index around the trigger. Thrashing against his fate, her prey’s lower lip quivered.

Ah, young love.

She winked, flipped the gun, and smacked his daylights out with a pistol whip. She previously would’ve taken that shot, no questions asked. But she wasn’t into such final measures. Not anymore.

Picking up her loose blade, Whisper returned to the bar. The tender kept polishing the same glass, about as generic in his movements as one in his profession could get. Nabbing the lone Cosmopolitan, Whisper gave cheers, sipped it – hated it – and nodded to the young fellow.

“I suggest you run.” She said, tapping the table and turning her back on him. Her ears pricked to the faint sound of a splash. Rotating once more, she discovered nobody manning the bar any longer.

That was… certainly one way of getting off a yacht.

The manta bobbed in the pool, a dopey gawp on his paper-flat features. Agonisingly slow, he floated to the filter. Boop. He bumped back into the centre… and gradually travelled to the filter once again. Boop. Then, he pinged-

Whisper assessed he was a non-threat rather promptly, and left him to it.

The deck-side bar was a dead-end, presumably one of the many, many frivolous bells and whistles that Nacci added to his floating fortress. Regardless, Whisper dashed back into the corridor, searching for any sort of exit besides plain leaping off the stern.

Before her sprawled Central City; the complex beast of a city mutely poked out behind a cavalcade of masts and sails. From out here, the roaring soundtrack was non-existent. It’d be relaxing, if it weren’t for the alarm bell screaming at the top of its lungs.

Not knowing the details of the situation left Whisper feeling incredibly uneasy. She spent so long running solo that the only variable she concerned herself about was her own ability. Leaving Lanolin to plant the charges, encumbered, was tempting fate. Not that she didn’t have confidence in the sheep, but Whisper worried for her nonetheless.

In an ideal, perfect universe, she wouldn’t have had to resort to this. But as she retrieved her flashlight from her belt, Whisper conceded the situation dire enough. Why patter on at a brisk pace, when they had someone who could do a mile in twenty seconds?

So, beaming the torch out the window and into the grand city-scape, Whisper delivered the signal, and continued to delve deeper into the vessel.

Okay. Lanolin fancied herself a decent strategist. You required such skill if you wanted to be a detective; finding the loose end, tying it in with the current case and doing all that in the correct order. So, the sheep had years of experience backing her analysis when she realised that rushing a mafia underboss without a plan other than ‘scratch his face off’ might’ve not been the best decision.

She owned hooves… Hooves!! She ain’t scratching dick!

During the fleeting time spent during her hurtling towards Hoyt the Horseshoe Crab, Lanolin pushed down the regret. The traitor looked startled - as if he never learnt his lesson since the last time someone dashed towards him with mal intent. It gave her the advantage. She had to commit.

Lanolin clocked Hoyt with the best haymaker she’d ever haymade, sending the crab sprawling to the mat. For a couple of seconds, the crab just basked in the fluorescent glow of the underbelly, still as a statue. 

Did that work? 

Lanolin huffed, resting herself on the stairs. Her knee palpitated with stinging pain, over-exerted again. She didn’t have another one of those punches in her. Stay down. If he did, Lanolin could finally have something to brag about to colleagues around the water-cooler.

That boost of self-confidence was shattered by a dazed groan originating from the leathered up lump.

Damn it.

“Ag!” Hoyt shook his head, brushing off the cobwebs. “Gaia, you’re built like a house of sticks - where the hell did that come from?”

“I was a boxer.” Lanolin sighed, parsing the railing and struggling to lift herself back up. There wasn’t much pride in the admission, nor was Hoyt very impressed. The crab rose to unsteady feet, holding his left socket.

“A boxer? Stekkie hid that well.” He chuckled to himself. Peeling his hand away from his forehead, black, snaking cracks unfurled from the impact zone. With a finger, he prodded them. A large portion of his shell snapped off, leaving a hollow canyon in its place. Hoyt blinked at the shard in disgust.

“Huh.” Lanolin straightened her spine, and re-raised her fists. “Guess your head really is empty.”

“Hah-hah-hah.” Hoyt flatly jeered. “Shut your bek.” He lashed at her with the piece of his carapace; a makeshift shiv. Lanolin dodged it, yet it caught her arm. Red spat out of the white. Bad. Bad.

Lanolin shuffled a couple of steps up, weakly attempting to keep the approaching Hoyt at arms-length. Nothing deterred him. He knew he had the upper-hand, going for a slice to her stomach. To counter, the sheep swatted with her foot. Dumb decision. She only put her entire body-weight on the weakest part of her body. With a creak, her knee finally gave up the ghost, and Lanolin collapsed.

“Crap.” She hissed, tilting her head up at Hoyt. Whatever he tried to do with his eyebrow, it failed, more shell chipping off his brow.

“I’ll concede to you the first blow. Well-played, detective.” Hoyt snarled, hovering his boot over Lanolin’s thrumming joint. “But now y’drawing dead. You pretend you’re this badass, no-nonsense broad, but here’s some tough love for ya. You’re straight kak at it. Hard to keep up the facade when you’re splayed on a staircase like last week’s conquest.”

Gaia. This schmuck loved to talk, talk, talk. Lanolin wrinkled her own snout in revulsion. “If you’re gonna stomp on my leg, don’t dance around. Just do it. Chaos, who’s the audience here? Me? I’m way above your league and I’d need a submarine to reach yours-”

Hoyt stamped into Lanolin’s knee. It felt like a grenade exploded, millions of tiny fragments of metal simultaneously burrowing into her lower body, and raking their gnarled edges across her flesh. It was torturous, exasperated by Hoyt grinding in even more agony with the tip of his toes, but Lanolin didn’t scream.

She wouldn’t give him the satisfaction.

“Come on, sweetheart. Let’s hear ya bleat.” Hoyt drilled, adding extra pressure with his body weight, balancing on a single leg. Scumbags always took the low-hanging fruit. The sheep whimpered, impossible to restrain, until she caught the sight of his exposed knee.

Cosmically, it felt so right to kick her free foot into Hoyt’s own joint. She cried out, both in pain and exertion, smacking his knee as vengeance. It worked, the crab lost his balance, tilting over and crashing down the metallic staircase - each bump echoing clangs and clunks along his carapaced body.

The loose shard of Hoyt (gross) was left unattended. Lanolin wasn’t out of it yet.

As much as she hated the concept of crawling down the stairs like a stringy haired ghost girl (she was pretty much the exact opposite in that regard), Lanolin really didn’t have much in the way of options, so she hauled herself into the air - pouncing on Hoyt like a wild animal. Her rage finally boiled over.

“PIECE. OF. GARBAGE!” Lanolin slammed the crab’s head in tandem with her frenzied snarls. “SICK OF YOUR BULLCRAP!”

She thrust a digit into the fissure, hooking a clasp and burrowing her fingers in. A sickening squelch; she felt soft flesh.

“Ow. Ow. OW.” Hoyt socked her in the muzzle. Lanolin’s nose crunched, and she quickly dragged her thumb out. “YOU’RE BLERRIE CRAZY-”

The sheep tried to silence him with another punch into his blabbermouth, but he caught her wrist. Hoyt squeezed, and squeezed hard, chitinous claws scratching and ripping.

“You bitch!” The crab began to press up and away, prying Lanolin off his chest; yanked her like a fish on a lure. She could deny it no longer, Hoyt would win. She didn’t have enough gas in the tank to constantly trade blows like this. Improvisation came a-knocking.

Lanolin kept her head cool, and made a grab for the shard. Its dusty surface reviled her, but as she swept it around towards Hoyt's neck - she knew it’d strike true.

Hoyt himself appeared to crap himself from the sudden attack, but Lanolin wasn’t aiming to slit his throat, though it’d be nice to shut him up for once. Instead, the edge of his coat snagged the shard, choked him sideways, as Lanolin drove it into the wall. It sank past the metal, and jammed.

Releasing, the sheep scrambled away. She took a couple of shuddering breaths in, and rested her head against the wall. Her knee jutted out, swollen from the abuse it’d taken. Lanolin sighed. No way she was walking on it for the foreseeable future.

Directly opposite her, Hoyt chuckled coarsely. “Lanolin, Lanolin, Lanolin. You missed, I wouldn’t relax yet.”

Lanolin didn’t bother to match his gloating. “Did I?”

“You see th’big weak spot on my forehead? You’re meant to go for tha-” Hoyt tugged at the shard pinning him. It didn’t budge. “You’re meant- ye meant…” He pulled even harder. “This is dumb. I feel dumb.”

Hoyt’s arms hung despondently. His situation sank in… stuck, bang out of luck, struck out and heading back to the bench.

“I…” He stalled, before he awkwardly shuffled to sneer defiantly at Lanolin. It didn’t hide the embarrassment as much as he would’ve hoped. “You do know I can tear my coat off?”

Lanolin was ready to catch some ‘Z’s, her response was airy and careless. “I’m aware. I’m stalling.”

The coat took its sweet time unthreading itself. Hoyt winced as his expensive leather was decimated by his own carapace. “Stalling? Stalling for what? Is the extra few seconds of fresh air really gonna save you?”

The sheep smirked, and drooped a half-lidded wink at her adversary. “Nope. But she will.”

On cue, sheets of pale, blue lighting blew out the bulbs, and the air fried with thunderous electricity. Hoyt squeezed his eyes shut, already anticipating the hurt coming his way.

Lanolin waved, wiggled her fingers just to be that extra, tiny bit infuriating.

“Bye bye, Hoyt.”

BOOM!

Surge collided with the flailing crab with a cacophonous explosion of white, dazzling light. Hoyt completely vacated his jacket, his accessories dangling in the windy aftermath of the blow. Lanolin glanced to her right - far, far at the end of the corridor was Hoyt, left implanted into the metal. Cartoonishly, he flumped into unconsciousness, leaving a comedic outline where his body once stirred.

The tenrec panted, loose sparks sprinkling off her like a christmas tree. Once she was certain the mobster was down and out, she offered a glove to Lanolin, wearing the most irritatingly smug grin on her sharp toothed maw.

“Rescued your bacon.”

“I’ll say.” Lanolin chuffed, before gasping. With her adrenaline now sapped, the only thing she could focus on was her destroyed knee. Surge cringed… Yes, it did feel as bad as it appeared.

“Can you walk, Lan?”

Lanolin shook her head, leading Surge to smile much more tenderly.

“Piggy-back?”

The sheep’s pride said no, no, one thousand times no. But she couldn’t afford to be proud, as her partner lifted her up and onto her back. Under her breath, Lanolin heard Surge whistle.

“What is it?” She asked.

“Nothing.” Surge replied, casually. “Jus’... you cracked a hole in his head. Badass, Lan… Badass!”

Lanolin allowed herself a small smile… yeah. It was pretty badass, wasn’t it? With a tired flap of her wrist, the sheep directed Surge to pick up the CDX-71 explosives. They really didn’t want those ending up in Mariana clutches. The tenrec slipped them inside her hip pouch, safe and sound.

With Hoyt taken care of, Lanolin felt herself deflate a bit. She hadn’t realised how much her heart was pounding throughout the entire encounter. But, she couldn’t crash out; not yet. 

“Let’s go get your brother.”

Her noble tenrec steed revved her engine, and blasted onto the upper deck to rendezvous with their allies, her giddy laugh consuming the gentle, mechanical hum. They left Hoyt forgotten, in the bowels of the Golden Ratio.

“There are few things that irritate me more than philistines!” Nacci howled. His lovely purpleheart desk lay snapped in half, leaving a laptop smashed on the floor as the kicker. It wasn’t Tangle’s fault, she simply pivoted behind it to create some breathing room. If a mob-boss refused to abort his attacks in order to protect his belongings, that was a him problem. Not a Tangle issue!

The nautilus seemed more upset with the loss of the craftsmanship. The desk drawers had these cute, little twirling ratios on ‘em. Must’ve been a custom. Psh. Once again, her sympathy glands were dormant.

Tangle undertook her patented Enemy Analysis, a status move (of course). Nacci was tall and his head was protected by his rotund, twizzly shell. Muscular; not quite a heavy-weight, perhaps the class underneath? In place of gloves, though, he wielded battered keratin. Judging by how they left the desk, and the bruises on the corpse (don’t think about it, pretend it isn’t there), the lemur really didn’t want to get hit by them.

“Tell me, vigilante-”

“Name’s Tangle, prawn-breath!”

“Do you take pleasure in wrecking everything you come into contact with?” Nacci opted to grab her by the scruff of her chest fuzz. Too slow. Tangle bounced through his legs, juggling her knife from hand to hand.  Her beloved metal sleeve crowbar thingymajigawotsit, it was not, but for taking down baddies? Pretty good!

Tangle pondered the question, tapping her chin. “Hmm. Why is your organisation so inherently smashable?”

The mob-boss cracked his knuckles. “Jealousy? Or is it your misplaced spark of activism looking to tear down the ‘man’?”

Her tail nabbed the knife, Tangle beginning to twirl it, transforming her appendage into a razor-sharp propellor. “You sit too pretty, Nacci. The status quo can always be made better. I firmly believe that.” Tangle lifted her head up, confident in her assessment. “Look at yourself in the mirror, tough guy. You’re a parasite - you let your thugs run rampant, terrorising innocent people, all so you can own a nicer desk, or eat an extra serving of caviar. Give Eggman credit, he at least had some ambition beyond lining his pockets.”

The lemur lowered her brow to grin at Nacci. “But then again… you fish don’t like swimming up stream, do ya?”

With that, she rushed him, driving her buzz-saw in via an aerial somersault. Sparks skidded off Nacci’s coverings as he blocked, holding his ground and not wavering in the slightest. Tangle had no time to come up with a counter when he swiped her tail and craned her up to his crusty beak.

She’d touched a nerve. That much was obvious. Nacci’s eyelid twitched in rage.

“Oh, Tangle…” He whispered with so much venom she could’ve died on the spot. “But you are so very WRONG!”

His outburst shook the room, as he whipped the lemur like a morningstar, building up momentum. Everything turned blurry, Tangle couldn’t get a grasp on anything. Suddenly, she felt the rush of air brushing her fur and witnessed the image of a window-pane swelling up and consuming her vision-

SMASH!

Tangle collided with the outdoor railing, the cool atmosphere stinging the bundles of cuts that littered her coat. Groaning, she picked at a piece of glass left splintered into her thumb, and ripped it out. Yowch.

Nacci vaulted onto the deck and brushed the granules off his shirt. He cracked his neck from side to side, tutting.

“Mammals. Can only survive on thirty percent of the planet, yet they still believe they speak for the rest of us.”

Scrambling to her paws, Tangle retreated. Wind blew her jacket out behind her, the salty brine shooting up through her sinuses. Night had fallen, painting the outskirts a muted indigo, tempered by the sheets of orange stemming from the smashed up office space.

“What do you know of ambition, lemur?” Nacci groused, parsing through the broken glass and kicking it into the ocean. “What drives you?”

Tangle blinked… barred her fangs. “To stop the likes of you.”

The mollusc rolled his eyes, pressing further forward. “Banal. Try again.”

It should’ve been an easy answer, but Tangle’s mind blanked. What… What was he striking at? She grabbed something out of thin air.

“I… I don’t need a reason to do what’s right!”

Nacci taunted her, flashing his too blindingly white teeth. “Spoken like a true child. Your naivety is endearing, but misplaced.”

As if she needed to listen to this guy’s pseudo armchair psychiatric analysis! Tangle wrapped her tail around a mast, the perfect gymnast’s pole, and hauled herself onto the roof. Out of range, outta mind! Fold your arms Tangle. Show him you aren’t intimidated!

“Don’t you dare try and spin your crimes as for the greater good. You’re smarter than that!”

He shrugged. “One must crack a few eggs to make an omelette.”

“Oh, for sure.” Tangle growled. “Like that man you just murdered. So noble, Don Nacci. How magnanimous of you!”

The lemur kept a vice grip on the mast, sprinting across the side of the boat, building and building. Nacci slugged the wall, it bent around his wrist. Momentarily immobile, Tangle drove in her knee; destination? This schmuck’s dumb face!

The nautilus pulled his shell down over his forehead, leaving Tangle to crash into what felt like a brick wall. She tumbled over the top, the pole creaking horizontally. Her tail remained lassoed tightly, Tangle managing to not trip on her own shoes.

Nacci lazily rubbed his shell. Not a mark dented its polished surface.

“I killed a vermin who sought to undermine our collective vision.” He explained, as if that was at all reasonable. “There is rhyme and reason; there is a goal. But the fur is clogging up your faculties - my pretty, little anarchist.”

Anarchist?! What?!

“Maybe you can’t see that in yourself. Mammals tend not to.” Nacci skidded into her personal space, winding up a full-body blow. Tangle grabbed the pole, and swung herself over the nautilus. Doing a lot of dodging here, not a lot of beating!

“With my bare hands, I’ve taken my grandfather’s insipid legacy and nurtured it into something beautiful! Yet, lizards steal my victory. Birds dismiss it out of hand. Mammals seek to destroy everything I have built!”

Nacci spun on the balls of his loafers, throwing out a back-hand that Tangle ducked under by mere inches.

“I have created an empire where the truly disadvantaged, the poor and the forgotten, can thrive! My Mariana Mafia is AQUATIC SALVATION!”

Tangle’s jaw was rocked by a punch powered by purest malice. Her head collided with the decking, as her ears rang in tandem with the alarm.

“I’ve positioned, I’ve manoeuvred, I’ve planned and scrimped and saved and-” Nacci, with wild and uncanny rage, attempted to cave her skull in with a stomp. Tangle rolled from side to side, rising to wobbly legs. “I was so close - to delivering true emancipation! And you took it from me! Some petty do-gooder who delivers nothing but destruction upon those who weather what your kind lathers upon them!”

The lemur couldn’t avoid his clawing swipe, her vest bundled into Nacci’s clasp. With a snarl, he slammed her into the railing. Below her, Tangle could hear the rush of water, churning and all-consuming.

“That is what drives you. A better status quo?” Nacci sneered with disdain. “You fight for the establishment, lemur. You’ve got no ambition. No goal. No plan. Only the sole of your boot grinding the pavement into those less fortunate than you… mammals!”

What the actual hell was wrong with this dude? Tangle tried to squirm out of his stranglehold - the metal was bending beneath her, threatening to break in whole.

“Retribution is coming soon, that I promise. Then you’ll understand what it means to drown in a hostile enviroment…” There was a truly insane glint in his eyes. A flicker of frenzy that he did well to hide, but chilled Tangle to her very core. Who’d  once been a mob-boss - a mafioso, kinda weaksauce in the ‘gravitas’ department - transformed into an absolute psycho. Like, there’s delulu, and then there was this notion.

Truth be told, Tangle didn’t have much of an arguement to counter the nautilus. The rant was a lot to digest whilst being dangled over the edge of superyacht in the midst of a rescue operation. He was panting his rank breath into her muzzle, having reached his crescendo and not written anything past that point.

“Have you tried speaking to a mental health professional?” Tangle earnestly questioned him.

As if a switch had been flipped, Nacci’s utter insanity melted into cold professionalism. The mania disappeared like a puff of smoke, as he leant in to whisper into her ear.

“Have you tried speaking to your God, and begging them for mercy on your mortal soul.”

Before Tangle had a chance to reach the landline of whatever higher power that be, Nacci punted her out and through the railings. Quickly, the mollusc soared away, Tangle plummeting in free fall. All that awaited was the wet slap of the ocean, and the terrible descent into the murky depths, forever sharing a locker with Davy Jones himself.

Except, she had a very elastic tail still clinging onto the top of a boat. Like a bungee cord, she stretched, and bounded back up to the middle of the stern. The sea writhed below her, but her shoes remained dry enough to climb with.

Nacci attempted that classic walk-away and wait for the splash Tangle had seen in those corny mobster movies; a splash that never came. He immedietly recognised his folly once a stripy, taught line of fluff met his beak.

Tangle was level with a blacked-out window. She planted her two boots, smudging the glasswork, and leapt back for a kick-through.

CLUNK. The pane shuddered, but no dice.

She could feel Nacci chopping at her tail, but he ended up bouncing off the appendage. He swiftly gave up as Tangle lauched herself again.

CRACKLE. Small twirls of weakness appeared from her impact. Another hit should do it.

Way above her, Tangle heard the tinny snap of a… was that his revolver?! He was trying to sever her at the hilt! The lemur hauled ass, thrusting herself and prepping for the hot-breach.

A cold circle pressed into her stretched fur. Crap. Crap. Let go! She had to!

She released, her tail snaking along the deck and off into the abyss. At the same time, she threw herself into the window with a panicked scream. Give. GIVE!

BANG! 

A gunshot, without any pain; no loss of sensation.

CRASH! The brittle sheet shattered, her boot slicing the air and through the warm interior of the boat. Twinkling shards littered her vision, Tangle bundling herself into a ball and landing on her rear. Aches shot up through her spine… but that was the worst of it. She’d made it. Grateful, she coiled her tail around her like a scarf. Defensive positions.

Tangle let herself have a moment, flopping back onto plush carpet. Phew. She wiped the sweat off her matted forehead. Just… just a small rest, then back to Operation Fisherman’s Foe. Cool name… she was proud of that name.

Soft, padding footsteps approached her. Tangle sighed. The battle never ceases.

A tense, and very suave, wolf stepped into view. There were a couple of new bruises forming on her brow, merging with her scars - otherwise Whisper looked like she’d had a much better time than Tangle. The canine raised an eyebrow.

“Nacci?”

Tangle propped herself up on her elbows. “Bonkers. In more ways than one. What about you?”

Whisper stared down the corridor, checking the exits, performing her omnipresent analysis. “I’ve lit the beacon. Surge is onboard.” The wolf ushered Tangle up to standing position, taking care to sweep off the glass enmeshed in the lemur’s fur and clothing. Whisper considered for a moment, ear flicking in thought.

“You need medical attention, sit back down again.” She tugged a wad of bandage from her utility belt, and began to unravel it.

“No, Whisper, I’m cool. Seriously.” Tangle pushed the gauze away from her lesions, ignoring how much they bled. It was so typical of Whisper to fuss over her…

Nostalgic memories of late, post-Eggman skirmishes, where the wolf applied each plaster with a kiss, flashed in the lemur’s mind.

Tangle wanted to cry all of a sudden. No. Not right now. “Whisper. Please. Kit’s the priority, not me!”

Whisper buffered, her eyes in full view. Concerned; swooningly gorgeous. Tangle shook her head… she couldn’t feel this way. It hurt so much worse than whatever Nacci could inflict.

The wolf broke contact, blushing. “Right. Kit.”

Tangle hid a smile nonetheless, patted Whisper’s newfound short hair-do. Maybe when this was all over, and on the condition that they surived… she’d allow the wolf to tend to her wounds like the good ol’ days. As a treat.

That was the motivation she needed to jump straight back into the action once again.

Kit covered his ears, enduring the alarms unyieldingly rocking his senses. He didn’t know what was going on, only that his cozy prison cell had turned a hellish red. The crates morphed into monstrous shapes that completely overstimulated his already frazzled brain. Sensory overload; the young fennec clawed at his hair.

In the distance, Kit made out the awkward clunk of his barricaded cage opening. Emerging from behind the stacks of wine barrels was Gloome. The jellyfish looked discombobulated, unable to concentrate on one thing or another.

The door’s bolt shunted shut, echoing through the storage room. Lume, business as usual, clacked over to Kit’s corner. The teenager received no greeting from her, instead she opted to pull up a panel, tapped in a code, and the incessant ringing ceased. The fennec could think once again, ambivalent to the scarlet haze that persisted.

The older sister jerked her tendril to Kit, point point. Gloome’s gormlessness widened with realisation.

“Oh!” Gloome knelt down to his level, demuring sympathetically and lifting his wrists. “Sorry honey, I’ll need to bind you.”

Kit could resist. They’d gotten sloppy. Heavens knew that there was enough booze in the place to skewer the medusae. His heart fragmented - No! Not Gloome. Not her. In defiance against himself, he defeatedly pressed his wrists together instead.

“What… what’s happening?” Kit inquired as ropes wrapped into a binding. Gloome held her tongue, sticking it out in concentration.

“Fire drill, I think.” Was her answer. Lume scoffed.

“Why would we schedule a fire drill during a hostage hand-over?”

Gloome fiddled with her tentacles, really wracking her brain, cooking her throat in vocal fry. “Uuuuuuuheeermaaaaaah- poor timing?”

Lume stopped, and shot her sister the stink-eye. 

“No, dummy.” 

She withdrew a phone from her spandex-tight jeans (Kit was wondering what the rectangular lump was) and dialled in a number.

Kit shivered. The alarm stayed faintly audible through the ceiling, tale-bearing something sinister was afoot. Gloome tried to rub his back, but… the contact was too much. He shuffled away.

Lume tapped her heels in tandem with the dialtone. Sticky tentacles wrapped around the phone, keeping it pushed against her head, her arms now free to fold. She was tense, stressed and not handling it the best.

“Hey.” Her voice was snappy. “Sudsy. What the hell is going on?”

Gloome groaned. “Ugh. I haaaate Sudsy-” The moon jelly thrust a finger up: ‘Shaddup!’.

“Mhm. Mhm.” Kit didn’t think it was possible for Lume to get any paler, but she proved him wrong. “Got it… should’ve known. Keep your head on a swivel.”

Ding. Her phone dangled loosely in her tendrils, as she pinched her brow. “Chaos.”

“What is it?” Both Kit and Gloome spoke in tandem.

Lume swallowed her tell-tale nervousness, and spun on her heels, venturing deeper into the storage space.

“Hoyt’s turned traitor. Your rescue party came armed, Kit.” She delivered the news without fanfare.

Oh… Should Kit be excited? He didn’t feel excited… more so scared; sensing a disaster on the horizon. The fennec grit his teeth. Why couldn’t they just… His breathing accelerated into full blown hyper-ventilation.

“Gloome, keep him far far away from them, got it?”

The purple jellyfish met Kit’s gaze. She obviously thought something contrary. Lume suspected it too, her bell peeking out to stare down the duo. “Don’t you even think about playing favourites right now. We’re in enough danger as is…”

She gulped. “Surge has breached our defences.”

Kit startled. Surge was on board! She came for him! His big sis was here! The fox tried to rush for the exit, but Gloome pushed him back down. “Gloome, please! It’s- it’s Surge!”

His captor appeared terribly sad, as she wrestled him into submission. “I know sweetie, I know. But I- but we can’t.”

Why not?! A flash of rage built within him. Programming started to tick, cybernetics flaring to life. His heart banged and clanged. His irises began to burn a neon pink. His hand wrapped around Gloome’s neck and gripped.

“Kit!” The jellyfish squawked, strangled. The boxes shook and quaked, red liquids leaking out of the wood. Wine melded into sharp and lethal shapes, spiralling in the air like serpents ready to strike. “Kit, it’s me!”

For a second, Kit’s horror blossomed. The robot snuffed it out. Surge. He needed to reunite with Surge. He clenched his fist even harder, Gloome’s eyes threatening to burst out of her head. As a jellyfish, she was extra squishy. Elementary to eliminate.

“K-KIT!” Gloome hissed desperately past the pressure. A scream of fear, garbled by tectonic force.

Two prongs jabbed into Kit’s neck, and his entire body jolted from a flood of electricity careening through his systems. His wires and veins overcharged, his voltage spiked, and his anger faded into placidness. The fennec flumped to the floor. Smoke hissed off his charred body.

Gloome scrambled away from him, tears flecking her eyes. Betrayed… 

The alcohol flying in the air splashed to the ground, harmless. They still looked like blood-stains, regardless.

His ocular feedback fuzzed up with static. That wasn’t normal - Kit felt weak. His arms were heavy, his legs were drilled to the floor.

“I’m sorry… I didn’t mean to…” Kit trailed off. The cyborg’s skull buzzed with interference. He could barely make out Gloome’s teary-eyed expression. She was mortified… at least Kit guessed she was? His relay corrupted with dead pixels and empty data packets.

Lume was clearer. She held a device in her possession - it looked like a taser… was it? No… it can’t be? A rod of terror implanted itself in his chest, sending blended signals of sickening delirium. Run; but he refused. He refused. Kit stuttered like a broken clockwork.

How does she have that? Even worse, what if they got to Surge?! …The Marianas now held a checkmate, complete dominion. Abort the mission. Live to fight another day. 

Surge. Surge!

He begged to no-one. Gloome raced up to him, holding his hand as support. His titanium skeleton bent and snapped into unnatural positions. Motors stalled. Gears grinded.

SYSTEMS REBOOTING// RUNNING.DIAGONISTICS. WAITING FOR ADMIN PASSWORD// ACCEPTED .(:). --- INITIATE RESET --- SUBJECT: KITSUNAMI 0001100

“What did you do to him?! He’s… broken!” Gloome sobbed, her peppiness travelling through the technophonic void he found himself… floating… in.

“Doctor Starline once installed a failsafe in the two of them, long ago. This remote activates it.” Lume responded, monotonously. “So give thanks to our angel donor."

Angel donor?

Kit lost the sensation of Gloome’s comforting, fragrant hold, submerged in an electronic haze.

Chapter Text

Tangle twisted the porcupine puffer’s shoulder and rammed him into the wall. Overweight as they came, his impact shuddered the paintings and jolted the blobby statues that garnished the stairwell. The lemur wielded her tail like a pincer to pin him place, ignoring how his spiny beard poked and scratched at her fur.

Whisper rolled underneath the tail, socking the puffer’s cheeks. In perfect sync, Tangle’s tail swished away, and the wolf took her spot, wrapping her claws around his neck. With a snarl, she hauled him overhead, and sent him tumbling down the staircase. He landed on the living room surface with a juddery slap. 

Appearing from the opposite end of the lounge, Surge paced up to the dazed and defeated goon. Lanolin was resting on the tenrec’s back, looking so, so drained. She paid no heed to the spiked ball that’d just gone bouncing into the sitting room. Neither did Tangle, stepping over the fish in a singular stride (though, accounting for the puffer’s sheer girth, it was a step that threatened to rip her hamstrings to ribbons).

“Yo, Snaptrap.” Surge called out. Tangle figured she was referring to Whisper. The tenrec flecked her fingers out, mimicking a beam of light. “Message received! Did you realise Lanolin was seconds from getting her insides gutted by an angry horseshoe crab, or was it just dumb luck?”

Whisper’s features, usually illegible, furrowed slightly. “Dumb luck…” Her eyes peeked open slightly, cloudy blue sneaking out of an ocean of scar. “Is there another horseshoe crab that I’m not aware of, or was it…”

The sheep lifted her wooly forehead off Surge’s shoulders to send a tired and mousy scowl. “We’ve figured out exactly where Hoyt’s loyalties lie.”

Tangle was positively shocked at the Silrican’s turncoat status. Shocked and appalled.

“Yeah, loyal to He, Himself and… uh- Him!” The lemur stumbled over her wording. “Right? Dude bends whichever way the wind blows.”

Lanolin patted Surge’s shoulders, signalling to be let down. Like a delicate flower, Surge heaved the detective into freefall with an aggressive shrug - Lanolin cannonballing down into the coffee table and shattering it. Very tact; Tangle winced.

“He figured the wind bends up Don Nacci’s rear end.” Lanolin groused, rubbing her spine. She shot Surge an acidic glance, but ultimately just stayed on the floor. Tangle noticed that the sheep’s leg was limp and rotated at an off-angle. There was a story there, for sure.

“It doesn’t matter, the douchebag effed around and found out. He’s sleeping soundly like a lil’ baba-boo.” Surge snapped, wiping her nose in an overdramatic pose. “So whattabout you, Convict Stripes? Was Nacci a problem?”

The tenrec glanced at Tangle’s litany of cuts and bruises, then smirked. “Nacci was a problem.” The obvious conclusion was obvious. Whisper slid in between - pivoting the conversation back to the point.

“And since Nacci is still a factor, we can’t hang around.” She said succinctly, before pointing directly at a green tenrec. “Surge, you need to take him out. Aim for weakspots, chinks in his armour.”

Surge leaned in, growling. “Don’t order me about like I’m some dog. That ain’t gonna fly.” She crackled plasma between the conductive rings worn upon her fingers. “Lucky for you, I’m down to beat that arrogant beak-nosed jock into submission. Water doesn’t mix well with electricity, twofold once I fry him into calamari for what he’s done to Kit.”

Whisper nodded, and turned to the window. Tangle could see it plastered across her reflection; deep analytical plans being formulated on the fly. No wonder Whisper was unmatched as an assassin. Even her tail flicked to and fro, a tell that only Tangle ever clocked. When they were together, the lemur used to grab it during their rough-housing.

“Okay.” Whisper decided. “That leaves me and Tangle to go for Lume and Gloome. They’ll be with Kit. When you receive confirmation he’s secure - Lanolin, detonate the charge. We’ll use the ensuing chaos to escape.”

Upon hearing her name called, Lanolin froze in place, mid-levering herself onto the sofa. It was like she’d been paused, the upper-body strength needed to carry that position would be astronomical. Inevitably, she twinged, and flumped onto the cushions. With a hoofed hand, she groaned to the ceiling. “Craaaap!”

Lanolin looked up at the rescue squad, balking her lip. “Hoyt took my phone. He has the detonator.”

The silence was thick with the potential consequences of such a blindside. Hoyt. With access to CDX-71. Whisper told Tangle that not even special forces had clearance to use it… and they’ve just served it to Hoyt (she needed to emphasise: Hoyt) on a silver platter. Tangle wrung her tail out. Not good, not good at all. “But Hoyt’s unconscious… he can’t…”

Whisper immediately clicked into action mode, already marching towards the underdeck that Lanolin and Surge emerged from. She’d pulled her knife out, appearing almost robotic. Tangle saw Harbinger emerging, and she needed to stop her from whatever solution bounced about the wolf’s head. Lanolin eyed Whisper, clearly worried about the same thing but in no position to intercept. That left Tangle to talk her down, again.

“And there’s no way he’ll blow a depth charge on his own turf!” Tangle pleaded, tripping back over the pufferfish. “He’s not that stupid, Whisper-”

BOOM!

A dull shudder rocked the entire ship. The lemur lost her balance, latching onto a rail as the carpet juddered beneath her. For a second, the lights blinkered, and the furnishings shook. Even Grandpa Nacci performed a small dance in his exhibition case. Tangle protests died in her throat… 

Maybe he was.

Then, the entire living room began to lean to the right, ever-so-slowly. The creaking of the boat, the crunching of metal, the undulating wobble of an off-balance jetsam. It didn’t take a physicist to figure out the problem. The Golden Ratio was capsizing.

Surge grit her teeth into an irritating smile. “Sorry, what was that Tangle? I couldn’t make you out over the explosion that Hoyt wasn’t stupid enough to blow.”

The snark fell on deaf ears, Tangle rushed over the window-side. Scenery-wise, the blue sea waves and the purpley disco of the Central City skyline remained consistent, but ever so slightly, the water overtook the bright lights. The boat was listing.

“Alright…” Tangle stammered, backing away from harsh reality. “Does the plan still stand?”

She looked to Whisper for reassurance - she was the professional, after all. Expecting steely determination, Tangle instead found a twitching eyebrow, a tooth rolling over taut lips. Whisper cursed something foul under her breath. “I… I don’t know. I expected it… I- Nacci too.” She’d begun to mutter nonsense to herself.

With the best will in the world, time was a luxury they’d lost. The gaping hole in the stern, greedily swallowing seawater like a thirsty beast, had become an hourglass. Or a tank that the guy in chains has to escape from before he drowns - metaphors aside, they needed to hustle.

“Whisper, where is Kit?” Tangle shook the wolf by the shoulders. “Upstairs, downstairs, across the hallway?”

“Must be lower deck. Couldn’t find him.” She said.

“Good. Surge and I are the fastest, we’ll cover the most ground.” Tangle used her tail to snap at Surge. Attention, officer! “Which leaves you to secure the escape route. That’s unchanged, isn’t it Whisper?”

“Yes.” The wolf gasped. Her footing became uneven as the boat tilted into further and further extremities. “I can do that.”

Tangle smiled, trying to be a beacon, a flare, of positivity on a sinking ship. “We’ve still got this. It ain’t over ‘til the fat lady sings.”

Lanolin piped up from her lower purchase. “Or the fat lady drowns in salt broth and post-modern furniture. Love the enthusiasm guys, but I can’t walk, and-”

Already, Whisper knelt down to offer her support. “Either we all escape this boat, or none of us do.”

“Corny, Whisper.” Lanolin sarcastically chuckled, as the wolf hoisted her over her shoulder. “We aren’t the Three Amigos.”

But they were once the Diamond Cutters, Tangle thought. She kept that notion to herself, but it filled her with vigour. Yet, she could only wonder what they might’ve accomplished if their own boat didn’t capsize at the exact moment they precipitated strike team excellence.

Speaking of which, boat capsizing. Better get a move on!

Tangle really, really didn’t do well in enclosed spaces. She liked to stretch out to her full extent, to breathe in fresh air. Neither were available in the underbelly of the Golden Ratio. The walls were so narrow, Tangle could place one hand on each side and swing herself. Not that she’d want to - the walls were slick with oil and grease. Strangely appropriate for the home of someone like Nacci. He talked a gaudy game, but he was as transparent as cellophane. A criminal supremacist, rotten to his hypocritical core.

It was like Tangle and Surge had broken into a funhouse. The corridor was askew, the under-foot grating had become a continuous slope, turning what should’ve been a jaunty run into a slip and slide. Surge barrelled ahead, undeterred, whilst Tangle latched her tail onto every random jutting installment, to avoid tripping. Every now and again, the lemur’s ears brushed against the ceiling, reminding her how snug the space was. The thought that she was squished, surrounded by this monster’s maw gradually clenching, sent flutters of terror down her spine.

“Split in the road, Tangle.” Surge suddenly barked out. “I go left, you go right?”

“Works for me. No- no objections.” Tangle stammered. Her hesitance was obvious, causing Surge’s flickering lightning to burst out of her scowl. Even in the dimness of the hull, the cyborg’s eyes glowed a menacing blue as she leaned into Tangle’s snout.

“You better get your crap together, ASAP! My brother is on the line.” She snarled, before strolling backwards. “Scream like a pansy if you end up in too much trouble.” With that kindness, the tenrec disappeared around the corner.

Internally, Tangle had some choice words for the green woman. It started with a ‘C’ and slant rhymed with ‘elephant’. She took her corner with a grumble, the corridor opening up to reveal… another long stretch of nothing. How did the navy cope? Every boat is its own friggin’ labyrinth!

The vigilante picked her way along, as speedily as her off-axis angle would allow. She could feel the rumble of the engine kicking into overdrive, and the hiss of steam as hydraulics gave under the pressure. The atmosphere was oppressive.

Then the water came trickling in.

Tangle’s toes recoiled at the chill of ice cold seawater. Her steps became heavier, water-logged, sluggish. Fragile splishes became splashes, which then graduated into wading. Chaos, this corridor lasted forever!

She reached the end, and was blockaded by a torrent of workers escaping the flood. Engineers, waiter staff, house-cleaners, anyone who didn’t have skin in the Mariana game bolted from the sinking ship. Tangle saw a couple of rats in the crowd.

And the flash of a blue tail… Was that Kit? Tipped with white, it matched the description. How many blue fox tails do you know, Tangle? Issue was, the tail was being led in the opposite direction.

Tentatively, and with careful footing to avoid being trampled to death, Tangle joined the river of people. She pushed and shoved her way upstream.

“Oop, sorry! ‘Scuse me! Coming through!” Tangle seemed to recall her manners. The water came up to her knees now, and showed no signs of stopping. Her chest felt tight, as if the onslaught of terrified bodies were stealing all her oxygen. The lemur forwent the manners and started shoving the stragglers out of the way. They were fish… so they had nothing to worry about.

Finally free, Tangle chased after the image of that blue tail, bounding around into the next compartment. Fiddling with a lock, a white bell bobbed and weaved. The electronics had died, leaving it a dead end. The taller jellyfish, purple - Gloome, gasped and pointed at the intruder. Below her was Kit, stunted brother to Surge. He was much, much shorter than Tangle expected, wasn’t he supposed to be seventeen? Regardless, he stumbled like he was blind-folded, chained up - not quite there.

“Loomy-”

The older jellyfish jerked upwards, and swapped places. Lume grabbed her sister by the shoulders - already taking control of the situation. “Keep on running, bash the door in if you have to.”

Tangle took a defiant step forward (more of a clumsy stomp given the flooding, but the sentiment was still there). “No more running. Hand over Kit, or I will break you in ways that’ll baffle medical professionals for generations.”

Lume’s dotted eyelids closed into a serene, mystical scene. She steadied her breathing, as her numerous tentacles began to flay out into a starry shape. Each tip lit up with a delicate, yet stark glow. Even her palms cupped balls of light.

“Don’t blink.” Lume said.

“What?” Tangle always felt like she was a couple seconds too slow on the uptake, when suddenly Lume was engulfed in a blindingly white explosion. Tangle’s eyes stung, as she hid away from the epileptic shock.

“Gloome, go! Don’t be afraid to jailbreak him!” Lume’s concerned voice cut through the void. Following on from that, Tangle heard the glide of parting water. Her vision cleared just enough for another pale blot to consume her vision. The moon jellyfish swept up, and jammed an elbow into Tangle’s muzzle. With the slithery texture of wet noodles, tendrils wrapped around her limbs, pinning her to the floor. They tightened, leading to the prickles of pins and needles assaulting every inch of the lemur’s person.

Now, Tangle was proud to call herself a lesbian. Any other time and she’d play wrestle with Lume happily. Hey, arrest her Lanolin; that jelly is hot! Perfectly elegant eyelashes, slim jaw, swooping tentacles that reminded Tangle of a movie star. Plus, her sense of style, for a mobster, was gorgeous. Form fitting tights, a beige leather jacket over a half crop-top shirt. Business casual - emphasis on casual. Oh Gaia, does she work out?! Is that bust au-naturale?! Like, girl, are you single?!

These were the inappropriate thoughts that ran through Tangle’s head as Lume plunged her head underwater, in a vicious attempt to drown her.

Tangle resisted, heaving her neck out of the rising tide, sucking in brief bouts of air whilst Lume dunked her under again. The water was rising, spitting out of all avenues, rushing in with broken pipes and backed-up drains. She had to make the most of this breath.

That, and she was getting kinda annoyed with how many Mariana goons’ go to method of dispatchment was suffocation. A pattern was forming - one that she’d gained much experience at dealing with. Tail scooping up the tentacles like a back-hoe, Tangle prised Lume away, creating as much distance as the jellyfish’s elastic tendrils would allow. In retaliation, the moon jelly wrapped her translucent hands around Tangle’s trusted appendage and tugged.

It created enough of a space that Tangle could yank at her organic restraints, counting on the fact that each contained enough nerves to compel a release. By the creasing of Lume’s pained scowl, something was about to give.

“Why can’t you just leave us the hell alone?!” Lume growled between gasps.

“Uh, because you kidnapped an innocent kid?!” Tangle retorted. Victim blaming? Really?

The two of them, still interlocked in their struggle, rolled over and slammed into the lower side of the wall. Tangle’s head bashed a fire extinguisher. Which, judging by their current aquatic surroundings, was better off acting as blunt force trauma.

“What? You think I’m calling the shots?” The jellyfish let out a strained laugh, bubbling underneath the geysers of water exploding around them. “I’m talking about you, prodding your nose into places where it didn’t belong!”

“If you think I was gonna let you scumbag Marianas continue unimpeded, you’re in for a nasty surprise!” Tangle, imbued with a second wind, lifted Lume up with her tail alone. Sticky tentacles flicked off her fur. “You’ve enjoyed years of complete control. Now the consequences have come knocking, so don’t you dare gawp at the black eye and act like you're the victim here! A dime a dozen mafia stooge earns a beating!”

Lume gnawed at Tangle’s ever-squeezing striped tail. “I’m not- I… I don’t want this! I- You can’t judge me!”

On the contrary. Tangle flung her into the wall, with prejudice. Lume flattened, and collapsed with a gelatinous squish. Clear, viscous liquid leaked down her forehead, trickled down the loose strands that spooled from the impact zone. There was a particular fury to that strike. Tangle sniffed. She didn’t like being brutal, but hearing excuses out of kidnappers' mouths…

Lume groaned, faintly, swimming in and out of lucidity. “You… you don’t know what we’ve been through...”

Tangle stopped dead in her tracks. Lume slumped over, fainted, but the lemur didn’t see an evil mafiosa, or some reveller. She didn’t see a jellyfish, or even a water-dweller for that matter.

She saw Whisper…

She couldn’t speak to Lume’s circumstances… but wasn’t the wolf in the exact same position? Mistakes, leading to tragedy, leading to a life of crime. Would Tangle beat Whisper for what she’d done, for her sins?

Tangle rubbed the sports wraps, now sopping wet, that bound her palms. Maybe. Maybe she would. If she hadn’t the context, who would’ve known? But, this Lume… the desperation in her voice was familiar. Jewel’s voice echoed in her head. ‘Sometimes people do the worst things for the best reasons’. There was wisdom in that… but it didn’t mean she had to capitulate. Only be wary of absolutisms.

“I hope your reasons were good.” Tangle sighed to the jellyfish. “But ‘just following orders’ doesn’t cut it for me. You perpetrate? You get the heel. I’m sorry.”

The lemur scoured the end of the corridor. Gloome had disappeared with Kit. She could mull over the moral implications at a later date. There were more pressing matters to attend to. And if Nacci found himself toppled, in the aftermath?

“But if you’re looking for a change, a better future for yourself? I’ll hear you out.” Tangle announced to no-one. The courtesy was the same she’d extended to Whisper… why stop there? Why stop at one miserable, self-loathing criminal?

That was true justice, the vigilante conceded.

Except…

Save the merciful grand-standing for someone currently dwelling on this plain of consciousness.

“You are not carrying me, Whisper. There are lines that should never be crossed.”

The wolf hustled in tandem with Lanolin’s limp. Speed-wise, they’d slowed to a crawl, but there wasn’t a chance in hell that Whisper was leaving the sheep behind again. The ship’s listing gradually intensified, gravity incessantly pulling the duo to the floor, getting to the point where Whisper was bearing all of Lanolin’s weight.

She wasn’t really in a position to defend them, should any errant Marianas come crawling out of the woodworks. The fact they’d made it to the deck - without so much of a flash of scales, or membrane or whatever on Gaia’s Earth hagfish were made out of - was nothing short of a miracle.

Whisper dug into her utility belt, dancing her fingers around the grip of her last pistol. “How’s your aim, Lanolin.”

“Uh… not great. We don’t carry guns with us in the precinct.”

Whisper pressed the weapon into Lanolin’s hooves. It wasn’t rejected, to her surprise.

“This is a compact model, fourteen in the chamber, one in the barrel. Count your shots, don’t be caught flat-footed.”

Lanolin swallowed, her hand shaking as she lifted the heavy instrument. “Whisper, you seriously can’t expect me to-”

“Inhale and hold your breath while taking aim. Squeeze, and release your tension upon discharge.”

The sheep stared down the length of the gun, her floppy ears drooping in contemplation. “I’m… I’m not like you Whisper. I can’t just… switch off my empathy.”

Whisper pretended that what Lanolin just said was true, despite the reality being much crueller to her conscience. She supposed if she were a sociopath, it’d make everything much simpler. But if that was to be the case, she wouldn’t be on a rescue mission, struggling with a comrade. She’d most likely be dead already. Akin to Mimic.

“Target their knees, upper shoulders, feet.” Whisper instructed, her arm tangled up in Lanolin’s coat. “Past the first five shots, you’ll be entering spray and pray no matter what. At that point, if you nick their temple, you’ll have plausible deniability."

That… really didn’t invigorate Lanolin. Maybe Whisper was slightly sociopathic. Smithy used to sit her down, after a too-close-to-call operation, and ask her if it was really necessary to eradicate that outpost of badniks.

The answer was always yes.

“Imagine they’re Hoyt.” Whisper joked.

“Or you.” Lanolin snarked back.

The wolf hid a smile. “Valid.”

They reached the back of the yacht. Multiple stories of speed-boats and jetskis were stacked upon each other. The jacuzzi, positioned stupidly next to the helipad, boiled and toiled. It’d be perfect, except… Fiddling with the controls, shifting the escape vehicles far away from the ocean via a complex vending machine-like mechanism, was possibly the last person either Whisper or Lanolin wanted to see.

“Call it a premonition, but I’m getting the impression you mammals can’t swim.” Nacci locked the panel with a twist of a yellow knob. His attitude had devolved from jovial schadenfreude to… barely restrained fury. His short, dreadlock-like tentacles curled and writhed in frustration.

Whisper took in a full three-sixty. Central City’s skyline stretched across, beating to the rhythm of its metropolitan heart, but it shrunk. At some point, they’d set sail… and they were about a mile from the coast.

The speedboat, their intended escape route, was hoisted midair - locked in limbo, calculated on Nacci’s part. It was his silent ultimatum: you want to live? Better get through me first. And that confidence… rattled Whisper.

“Here’s a tip from an old man with years in the game. Don’t ignite your bombs whilst you’re still within the radius.” Nacci slapped his forehead incredulously. “Unless, of course, you’re suicide bombers. In which case, you’re doing a sterling job.”

Prideful assassin Whisper yearned to pin the blame on Hoyt. Rational Whisper told her that didn’t matter at all. Saving face in front of Nacci was deep, deep down in the doldrums of her priorities.

Lanolin let go of Whisper’s shoulder, wobbling without support, a steely glint in her blue irises. She followed Whisper’s instructions to the letter; held her breath and took aim, before she unloaded the clip into the nautilus.

Bullets spat out the nozzle of the pistol, ricocheting off Nacci’s knees, upper shoulders, feet. Nacci didn’t even blink, even as it shredded his clothes into ribbons, revealing hard, unblemished carapace to the sheep. 

The gun spluttered click, click, click. Out of bullets. Out of luck. Nacci stroked his shoulder, and dug out a crushed casing with a sarcastic ‘ow’. It explained the mollusc’s bravado. He was bulletproof.

“I went for the knee.” Lanolin murmured, very meek and defeated.

“Yeah. This is why I go for the head.” Whisper remarked, matter-of-factly - deciding to then punt Lanolin to the floor. It was an altruistic move, seeking to shove the sheep out of harm’s way. Nonetheless, Lanolin looked offended. What was it with people pushing her off her feet today?

As Nacci rolled his shoulders and flexed his pecs, more bullets popped out of his shell. Tiny dents littered his frame, at most scratches in the paint job - easily rectified. Whisper winked at Lanolin, nudging her nose in the direction of the control panel. True, Nacci was in his element, wore impregnable armour, unaffected by the ticking clock that threatened to drown those of a fuzzier inclination. But Whisper held the numbers advantage, and with that, she knew she had a morsel of a chance.

“When you first graced my presence, my dear Harbinger, the first notion that panged my senses was how delicate you seemed.” Nacci poetically mused as he strolled forward unencumbered. “Like I could snap your spine between my thumb and forefinger. I look forward to testing that hypothesis.”

“Well, to that end, I always thought of you as an asshole.” Whisper drew her knife, and swiped the edge at Nacci’s out-stretched hand. Sparks scattered off with a scathing screech. Nacci tutted at the pathetic show of resistance.

Immediately, he launched punch after punch. His fists were a blur of beige, with barely any hints of his vermillion flesh underneath. Whisper parried to the best of her ability, her blade serving more as a shield than its intended purpose. Each attack bled into the next, the nautilus unrelenting. Multiple times per second, he almost jerked Whisper’s knife loose completely.

Lanolin padded around the periphery. She’d bravely managed to yank herself up, fumbling around the railing and dragging her leg over to the panel. Whisper was transforming more into an obstacle instead of a benefit; the wolf found herself bashing into guardings - Nacci figuratively putting her on the ropes.

Her knife slashed against an impenetrable fortress. At this rate, the only thing she accomplished was blunting its sharpness, and somehow she doubted that bludgeoning Nacci would be more effective.

The kingpin swept down, seeking to knock the wolf clean into the drink. To retort, Whisper blindly shoved her weapon into the fray; Nacci’s hand, a weak-spot, caught the tip. The blade stabbed through flesh until the hilt was met, the nautilus roaring in pain and backing away.

Blood seeped from the jagged dagger, sticking out of Nacci’s palm like a nail. Sensing opportunity, Whisper jumped forward and swivelled a kick into the pommel, her foot a hammer driving the implement in further. It schlicked with a revolting crunch.

“Gragh…” Nacci growled, gripping the knife and tugging it out. A splatter of red painted the wooden varnishing as it twirled through the air. “Oh, to be so young. So naive!”

He hurled the knife with lightning precision, Whisper tried to duck to the best of her ability, the projectile whizzing past her and into the dark abyss. Her ear felt sticky. She trailed a glove along its length, feeling wetness and a dripping flap halfway along. Nacci managed to strike her.

Wasting no time, Nacci bolted towards her, priming his loafer and booting her away. Whisper tumbled helplessly; she was up against an unstoppable force and unfortunately, she was a very moveable object. 

Nacci raised his shoe to stomp her face into the dirt. “I promise to make certain you are remembered as nothing but a treacherous dog. I’ll engrave it on the gravel pile that’ll mark your bloodied corpse.”

Whisper squeezed her eyes shut and braced herself.

CRASH!

The nautilus was wiped out of view by a hulking block of engine; an anvil dropped on top of him. Except, trade the anvil for a jetski that pinned Nacci prone. An electric claw whirred away, now working on prepping the speedboat for an escape.

Behind the lighting blue and neon green jetski, Whisper made out Lanolin, draped over the control panel and panting hard. Tears specked her wool, her knee jerking and contorting into painfully abstract shapes, contending with incredible agony. Still, she mustered a confident smile.

“I got you.” She pointed a black tipped finger, and jabbed her thumb to her bell. “I got you…”

Whisper scrambled away. Pointedly, she tapped her wound. A chunk of cartilage had been ripped straight out, like someone had yanked it by the earring. Could she really call it a day if she didn’t collect a new scar before bedtime. Hell, she swore her nose was slightly crooked from the amount of times someone, friend or foe, decided it was prime real-estate for a smacking.

Lurking ominously to her side was Whisper’s last pistol. She’d convinced herself that she left it activated for self-defence reasons - but the mental gymnastics weren’t really the play anymore. Scooping it up, Whisper removed the clip. It clattered hollowly, before she loaded another round with a snap. This pivotal decision ate away in the back of her conscience, dragging up polyps. 

She hid the intention well… she’d spare the meat and potatoes. She’d even spare Hoyt. But she always knew that she had one more trigger to pull before it was over, and she reserved it for this garbage - helpless against her final judgement.

“I… advise you to look away, Lanolin.” She suggested pulling the chamber back and arming it. Inside her stomach, acid growled and twisted. Tangle wouldn’t like this, but it was a necessary evil.

“What do you-” Lanolin stopped, their escape raft hovering behind her. “Hold on.”

Nacci lifted his head up, the irritation dissolving into… fear? Whisper aimed the pistol directly at his unprotected eye. The coward that he was, he tried to shift his shell to block the shot, easily rectified once Whisper knelt down and jabbed frigid steel into his face. No escape. The bullet was destined to strike true.

Whisper wiped her snout with her sleeve, disgusted with herself. “This is it, Nacci. This is how it ends.”

Nacci hoarsely chuckled, but there was terror underpinning it. “I’m shocked. I thought you’d turned over a new leaf?”

“So did I.” Lanolin didn’t move. Unsure of what even to do. Intercept? Whisper knew she couldn’t walk.

It felt like a betrayel… but her mind played over everything this monster had done. Enslaved innocent wisps, murdered underlings and civilians alike, kidnapped and abused a child. For what? Profit? What conviction did Nacci truly have? What conviction did he have that justified a man like him living?

Whisper supposed that was the difference between herself and Tangle. The lemur would say it didn’t matter. Killing was for the vermin. Whisper understood how a well-placed bullet could right wrongs and save lives.

At the same time, she envisioned the look upon Tangle’s face, should she go through with her conviction. Those eyes, wide with sadness. That Whisper was weak, that she couldn’t stay execution. Her faith would be shattered. Inevitably, the question became… would this be worth it? Burn down her self-esteem, her righteous path - and in turn annihilate a cancerous blight? Would that sacrifice be fair? Not on herself, Whisper couldn’t care less about herself anymore. No, would that be fair on Tangle? Could she break that perky girl all over again?

“Whisper…” Lanolin began. “You promised…”

“I didn’t promise anything.” Whisper racketed back. “I never swore off killing. I just vowed to choose my moment correctly. That time is nigh. Nacci is done.”

Whisper anticipated Lanolin’s fury, but tenderness floated through the air itself. The sheep spoke candidly, and carefully.

“You don’t have to be a killer…”

“But I am. You are adamant that I am.”

Lanolin stalled. “Yes… but- cutting off the head of a hydra just results in more hydras-”

“I’m thinking of you both.” Whisper admitted, her aim beginning to shake. “Because if we let this man go… he’ll hunt us down. You can’t fight evil with honour, they’ll take that goodwill and wring it for everything it’s worth. Then, once your guard is down? They’ll end you.”

She scrubbed her eyes… she really didn’t want this. She desperately didn’t want this - yet that was her curse. “I don’t deserve you both. I’ll brand myself a murderer. You can arrest me and get the accolade. Tangle can forget me and finally move on.”

Nacci smirked up at her. His bravado was shattered, the corner of his lip twitching, but he was secure enough to revel in the tumultuous hurricane battling it out across Whisper’s scrunched up snout.

“I take him out, and you save Kit; remain unblemished. I’m not dragging you down with me. Please.”

Lanolin raised a hand to try and placate. It was a sensitive gesture, unlike the bullheaded sheep Whisper was familiar with. “Do you truly think so little of yourself, Whisper?”

The wolf, the assassin, inhaled deeply.

“Yes.”

She’d already made her mind up, once she picked up the gun. Pretending otherwise was a fool’s errand.

“Just through here!” Gloome chivvied Kit by patting his hydropack along. Aimlessly, the fennec fox stumbled. He wasn’t quite coherent to his surroundings, recognising a staircase and the sudden glare of moonlight. Of what his tinny receptors could make out, Gloome led him to an inflatable raft; one that fluttered dangerously in the tilting wind.

“We’re… uh- we’re going on a mini-journey. Like an adventure!” Gloome tried to psyche him up, but even in spite of the sinusy haze that enveloped him, Kit stayed self-aware.

“I’m not five.” He muttered, before a jolt sent him reeling onto his tailbone. Code flashed, and a shadowy hand compelled him to rectify. It leaked out with uncomfortable forcefulness. 

“I’m sorry! I didn’t mean to talk back!”

His words were barely his own, he felt like a marionette, fingers hooking his jaw and coaxing it up and down and up and down. Gloome hadn’t a bubbly response, her tentacles shook nervously.

“You okay, kid?”

“It doesn’t matter… only that you and Lume are okay.” Kit blurted out. What?! He never meant that!

The jellyfish pulled out the device, the scrambler, and weighed it in her gooey palm. Kit recoiled, shuffling away from the prongs. It only was ever drawn when he’d been defective… had he been defective? He supported Gloome to the best of his ability!

Why… Why did that matter?

Gloome wiped a tear away with a random cirrus, clutching the scrambler so tight it almost collapsed in on itself. “What… what have we done to you?” She looked positively mortified.

“I don’t know…” Kit breathed, panic setting in. Something insidious was prodding him again. “It feels like… feels like him. He’s back.”

But he’s dead. He should be? The boat jerked, sending them both skidding along the deck. Lights that once were steadfastly glaring fizzled out with a pathetic wheeze. Gloome reckoned between throwing the remote into the ocean or keeping it close to her person.

“Maybe- maybe we discuss this when you’re not at risk of drowning? Climb aboard!”

Kit’s response was automatic. “Yes ma’am.” His legs already began their clamber into the safety raft, against his will and sense. The dingey was rocking and rolling, suspended on two gurneys - security-wise, an ironic deathtrap. Yet, he stepped aboard. He just… did.

“Stop.” That nasty, spitting accent reached Kit’s ears. The order didn’t wreck his entire skeleton, rather his intuition told him to step down. Hoyt, beaten up - no mask, no duster-coat - parsed along, seizing the railing for dear life. He looked like a vicious animal had been let loose on his person, crunching and snacking on his shell until he was unceremoniously spat out.

Gloome’s tapered eyes narrowed as she bristled. “You! You… you meanie! You rude, mean, meanie traitor!” Her anaesthetic venom oozed from her skin, ready to fling and skewer the crab. At such life-altering insults, Hoyt opted to shake his head and snap his fingers. More of his sandy exoskeleton crumbled off and dusted the surroundings.

“Ever heard of a double agent, you idiot? I’m on your side!” He rushed past the self-aggrandising speech in favour of holding a sleeve out, expectant.

“...What happened to your forehead?” Gloome asked, she, too, skirting past the issue of Hoyt’s loyalty (who really knew where he stood at this point?). Too boot, she stared at the hole that’d caved into the arthropod’s usually smooth dome with a blank gawp that she usually saved for maths equations.

“Believe it or not - the sheep.” Hoyt admitted under his breath. “It doesn’t matter. Give me the remote.”

He attempted to swipe the contraption out of the jellyfish’s possession, but Gloome, being both taller and more lithe, lifted it out of his range. Hoyt teetered on his tiptoes, making childish grabs and toddler-like hops. “I’m not mucking about Gloome! Give it to me!”

“Not before you tell me what exactly this thing is!” She glanced worriedly at Kit. “It messed Kit up. He’s talking all funny! Lume said it was some kind of failsafe?”

“Sies! Sakes, woman!” Hoyt snarled. “It’s a disciplinary reset. Quack Starline used it to reassert his programming should it go too skew-wiff! Does that satisfy you?”

“That’s horrible!” Gloome gasped.

Kit pondered. Whispers caressed his ears - both robotic, text-to-speech, yet also mega-maniacal and grandiose. He pressed his gloves to his temples, trying to blot them out.

“How did you manage to find it?” Kit half inquired, half gargled. The programming ordered him to sit down and shut up, but he struggled against it. “Starline is dead! He’s dead, right?!”

Hoyt looked down on the poor fennec with utter disdain. “‘Of course he’s dead! Jackass was flattened by a boulder! Unless he somehow spliced his DNA with a cockroach?! Why don’t y’keep your trap shut, blue boy.”

“Then how-”

“Agh! Gaia! Ask no questions, hear no lies.”

“TELL ME!” Kit screamed. 

Gloome shuddered, spinning to regard Kit’s outburst with shock. The teenager was almost embarrassed, he never burst out like that… unless he was with Surge. Whenever he stared at Gloome, he felt that similar sense of obligation. An unnatural dependence that he’d long tried to beat out of his subconscious.

Hoyt blinked, and snatched the remote out of Gloome’s distracted grasp, and recalibrated it skittishly. “Look, kid. There are lots of people out there with lots of agendas. Sometimes, it pays to be the facilitator.”

Gloome’s tentacles wrapped around Hoyt’s wrist, activating an older sister-like defensiveness. “You are not zapping him again. Lume’s already done-”

“Quit belly-aching, you half-witted bimbo. I don’t need it for him.”

Without much fanfare, a pillar of grey, stripey fur punctured the door off its hinges. The flat slab soared towards Hoyt, wiping him out completely. Kit must’ve blinked, because it appeared as if the crab had mastered the impossible science of teleportation.

The battering ram belonged to a grubby lemur. Her coat was a mess of brown smears and matting, some shingles of glass spilling off her shoulders. What’s worse, she was absolutely sopping wet.

“AIR!” She sucked in the briney, soupy oxygen, savouring it. Gloome lifted her tentacles into combat mode, though she was rather slow on the uptake. The lemur put up a finger - very politely asking for a couple more seconds. “Sorry… I’m sorry… Whew! It was tighter than my momma’s yoga pants down there!”

Gloome cocked her bell to the side, grossed out by the image.

Their uninvited guest took a couple more puffs - waving at Kit. “Heyo kiddo. I’m Tangle - here to rescue you.”

“Uh. No?” Gloome somewhat weakly disagreed. “Kit’s coming with me.”

“Oh cool!” Tangle gleamed. “I guess you’re his sister, then?” She slapped her tail to her cheek. “Oh wait, hold on! You’re not. But she is!”

Kit’s heart leapt whilst his feet remained rooted to the ground. Always one to make an entrance - that tenrec - and make an entrance she did. Tangle stepped aside. All that was missing was the smoke and flamethrowers as Surge made her wrestler’s introduction; smacking her jewellery together, kicking up sparks like a car battery. Her teeth were bared raw and her attitude fixated directly onto Gloome.

The jellyfish didn’t require much contemplation as she thrust her hands in the air. “I surrender-”

Surge tackled her, a lightning bolt of unmitigated stress. Gloome’s tendrils spread out, her bouncy make-up cushioning most of the damage.

“TOLD YOU!” The officer howled, slamming a fist into the jelly’s delicate features. “I’M GONNA RIP YOUR DAMN HEAD OFF!”

She meant it. Surge gripped Gloome’s cheeks and tugged her towards the sky, pulling a carrot from its roots. Tangle stepped in to tug the furious woman away from her chew toy, but her hand was shrugged off as soon as it made contact.

“No, Surge!” Kit placed his arms in front of the jellyfish. “Please! Don’t hurt her!”

He didn’t know how much of that was genuine concern for Gloome’s safety, or how much was the programming kicking in again. He thought Gloome replaced Surge in the annex of his mind’s eye, but one look at his sister told him she still held sway over him. The right kind, of absolute love.

Surge’s creased grimace melted away, her eyes softening. Just for him. Always, always just for him. She let Gloome go (not caring much with the violence in which she dropped her), and dove into the tightest hug Kit had ever received.

“Kit…” She whispered. No growl, no gravel. Pure warmth. Tangle, content to watch, placed her fists on her hips, giving the two some space. Surge pulled her brother in even closer. “How you doin’, Dripster?”

Kit buried his snout into her neckline, breathing in that smokey scent that made him feel safe, the scent of home. “I’m okay… except he’s- he’s back.” He added the last admittance quietly, eliciting Surge to break the hold and stare tenderly past his bangs.

“Don’t you worry about him… you can deal with him. If you can survive this, Starline ain’t nothing!”

The fennec smiled, and wiped his tears away. He’d never seen Surge this fluffy before. Usually, she was prickly, even tired of his shenanigans. Time spent apart bolstered her resolve. She’d be spitting bullets later, claiming she’d couldn’t be affectionate, that it was simply not computable. But he knew Surge was a liar, and he was glad for it.

Even as a black shadow loomed over the curled up siblings. Wait…

“Surge! Look out!”

The metal prongs could only belong to the scrambler. The taser jabbed into her neck and grilled her, Surge suddenly bursting into a bonfire of static electricity. Kit’s gloves singed, forced to let go as his sister bucked and wailed in pain. Her fur darkened, piercings charred; her hair coming away from its band and flopping on her writhing shoulders.

Then, it was over. His nose repulsed at the smell of charcoal. Surge peered through slits, before rolling into white, slumping to the floor. Kit, without hesitation, jumped to try and wake her. No use, the tenrec’s body was heavy and limp, even as he shook her with everything his cybernetics offered.

Hoyt lorded over them, victorious. The scrambler flickered in one hand, the other hand he pointed a pistol directly at Tangle. “You. Lemur. Make your choice.”

Tangle bounced on her feet, unsure which way to go. “Yo, Kit, bud-”

“Run Tangle!” Kit begged. “I’ll stay with Surge! Get help!”

“This is the help!”

Hoyt wasn’t having any of it. “Tick tock, vigilante. Do you want me to shoot you in the head for speed, or the heart for an open casket?”

Kit sobbed over Surge’s unconscious body, suddenly snarling and screaming at the indecisive lemur. “I’m not important! GO!”

Tangle didn’t have to be told twice, she ducked back from where she emerged from.

BANG! BANG! Hoyt blew off a couple of shots, laissez-faire and poorly aimed. He got what he wanted. That was just for show.

Gloome tentatively placed stroked Kit’s hair. He barely noticed, too busy crying over the cruelty of fate. They’d just gotten back together… and now Surge was hurt. Because of him.

The thought of using his powers made him feel sick to his stomach - it wasn’t happening. He wouldn’t betray Surge like that… even when the horseshoe crab footed the body for good measure.

“You’re evil.” Gloome shivered. Her ditziness was gone, and her assessment was accurate to the letter. Kit wasn’t in any position to dismiss it either. He’d seen evil, heard evil, forced to speak evil. Here was a man who callously performed all three.

“If you’re balking at this, Gloome, you’re in the wrong line of work.” Hoyt answered cockily. It didn’t register in Kit’s head. His sight was consumed with the crisp lump of oil and flesh that his sister had become.

Chapter Text

Hate aged. Whisper finally understood that.

For years now, she’d stared at the sacks under her eyes and concluded they were a sign of exhaustion. Killing folks was thirsty work, after all. Under the stress of a job, Whisper’s movements were pinpoint, precise. Her vision would sharpen enough that she could shoot a hole through the centre of a copper coin and achieve that from one mile away. Afterwards, however, once the adrenaline dissipated, she’d feel sluggish. Whether that was depression or fatigue talking, who cared? She still felt older, looked rundown.

Nacci, for his infinite faults, provided a new avenue. He always held a cracked and crooked appearance, hidden underneath the slick, buffed shell and fancy three-piece suits. The nautilus’s skin was dry and leathery, at odds for an aquatic creature, which made him withered and skeletal. Whisper had guessed he floated around his late forties, early fifties, but upon reflection, he might’ve been younger.

Whisper knew he didn’t work hard. His boat provided leisure, his mooks performed his whims. Nacci should be unblemished, nails neatly filed and features free from wrinkles. Yet, here he stared at her. With the wolf jabbing a pistol into his beak, the mob-boss responded with quiet apprehension; and he looked ancient.

The only conclusion to be drawn was that a rotten interior yielded a rotten exterior. Nacci’s soul, ugly and miserable, drained his personage of light or jubilance.

Hate aged. And with that, Whisper realised that her own wilted face wasn’t the result of mere exhaustion. She, too, held an ugly soul, and it showed. Except, her hatred was reserved for one person, and one person alone.

Herself.

Hence why she felt no apprehension in ushering the nautilus along to where he belonged.

It was a simple surgery. There lay a point-25 cartridge snuggly tucked in the chamber. Within it, gunpowder - propellant - waited to be ignited. When she’d tugged back the safety, a hammer was primed within the weapon. Once she so bequeathed it, her finger would squeeze the trigger, ordering the hammer to collide with the cartridge’s primer at unknowable speeds. The fuel catches, and the ensuing energy would blast the bullet through the barrel and straight into Nacci’s creased, gaunt eyeball. It should be instantaneous, painless and merciful.

Textbook engineering. A logical sequence. Dominos tapped; a battalion of soldiers felled by an errant gesture. The same fate that awaited the mobster before her.

Lanolin was right. Whisper could switch off her empathy, lest her conscience be torn apart. It helped, she supposed, to approach this as an equation. Every action has an equal and opposite reaction - Third Law. Therefore, where Tangle added, made greater than - Whisper took. Her very presence made things lesser.

All this agonising over a chemical reaction. Whisper’s index shook, curled around the trigger. She’d buried her kindness, performed this ritual a thousand times. 

So why did she feel so scared?

The detective across from her dangled loosely, like a flag in a droll port. She’d been removed from the summation entirely. Partially because Whisper knew herself to be the correct one. Nacci was a vindictive man. He’d ordered their deaths off the back of property damage and petty larceny. Now, they’d wrecked his boat.

“How about…” Nacci croaked, gliding across a tip-rope. “We figure something out?”

To answer, Whisper dug her pistol, her scalpel, even deeper. Lanolin, meanwhile, finally grasped something she’d be useful at.

“What did you have in mind?” The sheep challenged Whisper’s gaze - daring her to overrule. The wolf’s pressure weakened by a minor measure.

“You’re here for Kit?” Nacci stuttered. “Fine. Have him. In return, I also get back my CDX-71, which I spent a pretty penny on, and we’ll… we’ll call it even stevens. It’s fair trade. Free market. Altruistic, even.”

Lanolin scoffed. “Bargaining for your life and you still can’t be humble.” She switched over to Whisper, placing a limp hoof on her hip. “So. Stay your blade, Harbinger?” A twinge of animosity; not that shocked the wolf. She was an old dog falling back on old tricks.

“The explosives are with Surge.” Whisper murmured. “And if she and Tangle walk in with Kit.” She venomously hissed, leaning into Nacci. “That’s bad news for you.”

It wasn’t what Lanolin wanted to hear; that’s for sure. “Gaia above.” She breathed to herself. Exasperation and tiredness were never a solid combo.

Nacci seemingly relaxed under his jetski prison. “We’ll just have to wait and see.”

They didn’t have to wait for long, Tangle came bursting onto the scene - dripping with water, or was it sweat? Immediately, she choked out a shaky gasp upon seeing Whisper pricking the nautilus with a gun.

Lanolin suddenly took a wobbly pace forward, knees bending in on themselves. “Where’s Surge?”

Tangle clammed up, hacking like a plastic bag had been wrapped around her head. “I-I… I- I’m sorry, I was outnumbered…”

The sheep’s eyes lost their intense focus, submerged in some kind of spell. Her leg shook even more intensely than usual, but somehow, she remained upright. Her voice barely rose above a whisper. “Is she… gone?”

Unable to stand the heartbreak, Tangle opted to stare at her damp boots.

“Surge… dead?” Lanolin asked, as if she couldn’t quite believe it. Even Whisper’s aim drifted away from Nacci, the wolf noting that Kit wasn’t anywhere to be seen either.

“We… we need to go, Whisper.” Tangle managed to say, with agonised conviction. She must’ve rehearsed the plea as she ran towards them, but even that wasn’t enough to display the gravity of the situation at hand.

From within the muted melancholy, Nacci started to howl with laughter. Crazed, despairing - somehow this meant he won? It sounded like he gargled nails and broken glass; blood and poison and spittle churning and mixing into a vile concoction. He couldn’t control himself.

Neither could Whisper.

Her gun whipped back to Nacci’s gleeful face. The equation sprung, returning to her mind, and this time she had no reason to balk. The answer cleared and she swung her weapon with righteous ferocity.

BANG!

Expecting a splatter and dead silence, Whisper’s ears only heard Nacci screeching even harder. Grey pulled her aim, the bullet grazing the tip of his shell, rather than anything vulnerable and squishy. It dented, but that was the worst of the damage.

Tangle.

The lemur wasn’t despondent, or betrayed - just tense. She’d latched a hand onto Whisper’s wrist in time to save the pathetic mollusc’s life. If anything, Tangle only looked exhausted. Hate never aged her. And her hate didn’t afflict Whisper; not this time, despite the canine’s own pitiful regression.

“He’s not worth it, Whisp.” Tangle said. Understanding, even despite these circumstances. A flash of anger, maybe. Nothing concretely condemning.

Whisper felt her vision start to blur, tears beginning to well up at how close she’d come again. She dragged Tangle into a tight hug, heaving into her shoulders, claws digging into the vigilante’s soft, plush fuzz. How could she be so callous, so cruel? The world slowed down again, to just her - her and Tangle. Nacci haughty laughs melded into the rush of waves and the harshness of sobs.

“We need to go, Whisper.” Tangle hushed. Their speedboat awaited.

Lanolin was catatonic, mumbling about Surge. Shamefully, Tangle lifted her into the vessel, without her partner, and without Kit. Whisper scrubbed her eyes, mustering some granule of self-control. Maybe she couldn’t stop herself from killing… but she could stop herself from crying at the very least.

Nacci observed with amusement. Whisper supposed he really did win in the end.

Even as Tangle struck the release, dropping the speedboat into the ocean, quiet contemplation hung in the air. Whisper revved the engine, and the ex-Diamond Cutters bade their retreat. The only sound audible over the judder of the engine was Nacci’s sinister chuckles.

Soon, the Golden Ratio disappeared under the waves, before fog enveloped their tiny boat.

Lanolin didn’t know what she expected, upon returning to the Mineral Museum. However, a banner emblazoned with ‘Welcome Home Kit!’ alongside a chocolate cake was possibly the worst scenario she could’ve imagined. As soon as Tangle slumped through the doors, party poppers klaxoned off, and somebody blew a party horn - turning their empty-handedness from soul-destroying to a turnabout of ironic, black comedy. It seemed similar to a particularly cruel trick her sisters once pulled on her, when she was eleven, friendless and at her worst mentally. Though, there was no malice in this particular twist of the knife - only a heaping spoonful of poor judgement.

As the confetti settled on her nose, she couldn’t decide whether to burst out laughing or scream. In the end, Lanolin chose neither. Instead, she slid off Whisper’s shoulder and settled against the wall, the only position that soothed her burning knee. It’d been put through a lot of abuse and, frankly, she concerned herself with rest and nothing else.

The sheep ignored how Vector and Charmy deflated at the tragic reveal - that they were Kit-less and in no mood to party. Espio rubbed his horn in embarrassment.

“I told you.” He patted Cream’s despondent head. It was clearly the bunny’s idea, and she appeared absolutely crest-fallen.

Being honest with herself, Lanolin forgot the Chaotix were on-route. A cursory glance behind a fluttering Jewel showed the storage room to be empty. Ricasso and his ilk were, at last, in police custody. A complete, nothing victory. Whoopee, bravo Lanolin! You caught Ricasso, one rank up from a standard goon!

To put a pin in her analysis, Lanolin concluded that the party was, in fact, a pretty bad idea.

The group dispersed like a balloon letting out its air. Tangle murmured something to Jewel and Gio, to which the beetle gestured upstairs. Whisper hung about, padding around in circles, beating herself up. Charmy, fearless, approached to say ‘Hi, long time no see’. As tactless as ever. The other two Chaotixs ripped the banner down with pointed urgency.

Cream gently stepped over to the sheep. Lanolin focused on the sparkling gemstones surrounding her, counting her elements. A distraction at best, as her student plopped herself down next to her without a peep. Then, Lanolin felt Cream stroke her back in comfort, a damn if that didn’t nearly break her. The tourmaline fuzzed up, wool soaked in tears.

“I’m sorry, ma’am. I thought…”

“It’s not your fault, Cream.” Lanolin put the rabbit to rest, and flashed the best, wilting smile she could manage. “You wouldn’t have known. Thank you for the thought, you’re too kind.”

Cream nodded and fell back into silence again. A certain absence floated in the air. Preparing herself for the question, Lanolin shifted over and folded a leg over the other, quickly gathering her apprentice’s hands within her own. Stress and disillusion creeped across her brow as she bent down to Cream’s level.

“I need you to be ready for what I’m about to say.”

“Just… tell me.” Cream said. “I think I already know but… don’t hold it back. For your own health, too, ma’am.”

Lanolin sighed and bit back her own tears. “We lost Surge.”

Expecting the answer already, Cream was hit by a freight train, nonetheless. Her ears dropped, covering her eyes which stung with red. “O-Okay… and Kit?”

“Missing. Tangle couldn’t get back to him in time… we had to abandon him. He might be alive, I don’t know. He wouldn’t leave Surge’s side.”

More aggressively, Cream gripped her skirt’s tressels, bundling it up and yanking it taut. “Who?”

Lanolin didn’t like to see Cream with so much venom in her heart. The poor girl looked like she desperately wanted to cry but tried to put on a strong facade in its place. And for whom, exactly? Her mentor was one missed breath away from a full-blown sobbing fit.

“Hoyt got her.” Lanolin eventually wheezed out. “But… I don’t know how that matters. Could’ve been a random triggerman who clipped her, could’ve been Nacci… She’s still dead.”

“You can return to Commissioner Grip and send in the cavalry.” Cream proposed. “Hoyt can’t… he can’t just get away with it!” Idealistic, even in despair. Lanolin wished she possessed such a brave and undaunted mindset.

“No. That was our shot.” She admitted, before choking back a timid tremor. “We… failed.”

That didn’t even encapsulate the full picture. It wasn’t just a failure… “And it’s my fault too. I dropped the explosives, I let Hoyt get away, I was so weak that we had to give up a member of the rescue team chauffeuring me to a rescue boat, because I can’t frickin’ walk!”

“Lanolin… if you’re going to say what I think you’re about to say, please don’t.” Cream placed her paw on the sheep’s shoulder, squeezing it. “Don’t…”

“Don’t what?” The detective snapped. “Admit that Surge is dead because of me? I was her partner; we were meant to have each other's backs! And where was I? Limping!”

“That’s enough.” A calm voice carried, and stalled, Lanolin’s diatribe. “You’ve got nothing to be ashamed of.”

Whisper, pensive, stood off to the side. Her arms, folded, tucked her snout in - hiding her scars like they were shameful. Lanolin had held it in long enough, and the notion of receiving any sort of support from Whisper - Whisper - of all people? Words formed, built out of the heaps of hideous spite swirling within the sheep. Left stewing for years upon years.

“I don’t want to hear a single word about what I can and can’t be ashamed of, especially from the likes of you.” Lanolin snarled, pinching her hooves together. “You were this close to splattering Nacci’s brains out! Hell, it was you…”

She realised, zeroing in on the Whisper. The wolf simply glanced at the ornaments, anywhere but Lanolin. It boiled her blood.

“It was you. You shot me. I can’t walk because of you.”

“Lanolin…” Cream tried to flutter a palm, to wave away the haze of anger. The sheep carried on, undeterred.

“You trusted Hoyt! He almost killed me, and he managed to kill Surge! And meanwhile you spin this yarn of trying to redeem yourself and do better or whatever - only for Ms Harbinger to reappear and attempt homicide, again.”

Whisper closed her eyes further, content to be pummelled into oblivion.

“You don’t feel enough shame, Whisper. If you did, you’d have turned yourself in a decade ago and we’d all be fine right now.”

Lanolin ran out of insults to hurl. She panted, sat lower than Whisper. As if the wolf lorded over her, that she was somehow superior! When she… when she…

The fury faded into a mild thrum. Lanolin’s heart beat loudly in her chest, the blood rushing out of her cheeks. Each palpitation angered her wound, as if it cried out for no more abuse, for the sheep, or from the sheep.

At that, Whisper knocked her head over and stared at Lanolin down the length of her muzzle. Those eyes weren’t squinted shut, they lasered in on the detective, frying her soul and laying it bare.

“You better not be giving up, Lanolin.” Whisper said. “You are the most stubborn person I’ve ever known. Don’t you dare give up.”

With that, the wolf turned tail and fled the conversation. Lanolin’s barred teeth hid behind her lips again, returning to neutrality. Biscotti fur snuck behind the glass panes, endeavouring to join Espio in packing down. The chameleon bore no visible ill-will to Whisper - nodding in acknowledgement and handing over a cardboard box.

Lanolin pulled her head back, resting on the pouffe of her bun. “Great. Now, I feel like the dick.”

“You’re not…” Cream replied, bumping her shoulder against her superior. A steadfast sign of support. I’m with you.

The rabbit was appreciated so damn much.

Jewel fluffed a pillow, offering a cushion for her lemurian friend to rest upon. Gio yawned into his mother’s neckline, snuggling his antennae into her bosom and jerking her specs askew. Out of damns to give, Tangle flumped face first onto the sofa with a muffled scream. Hair grasped into tight knots; she retreated from her frustration and sat up straight and narrow. Everything is fiiiiine, her inner monologue lied - and it showed on Tangle’s mournful expression. Jewel patted the small of her back, the vigilante’s tail drooping along the carpet like a limp worm.

“I’m going to go out on a limb here and-” The beetle didn’t get very far into her perception before Tangle cut her off.

“Gaia, it all went wrong - Jewel!” The lemur swatted her forehead and drew circles into her temples, trying to ease the headache that’d crept up her neck since arriving at the Mineral Museum. “Nacci is no joke. Hoyt outplayed us. It was… I think we’ve bit off more than we can chew.”

Jewel released her son, who quickly scrambled to eagerly mess with Tangle’s tail. Feeling charitable, the lemur gave his nose a lil’ tickle. Yet not even the sound of a child’s laughter could cheer her up.

“I refuse to believe that.” Jewel said. “You aren’t the type to wave the white flag. You’re still the same gal who went toe to toe with impossible odds and made it out on top.”

Tangle bitterly chuckled. “Yeah, except I had Sonic the Hedgehog backing me up. And Shadow. And Silver. Meanwhile I…” Rubbing her thighs rhythmically, up and down, Tangle tried to wring the doubt and defeat out of her body. She failed, but not from a lack of pressure;  her appendages were massaged raw. “Earlier, I failed to save an innocent guy… a stoat. Rudy. I read in the papers he was beaten so bad that it induced a stroke. Guess who caused it?”

“Hoyt. Nacci. One of their ilk.”

“No, I caused it. I had to leave him behind else…” Tangle slapped a palm across her snout, clutching so hard she heard her finger joints snap. “And I did it again… left Kit at the mercy of-”