Star Fox: Legacy, (Vol. II)

[Harlow]

First of all, thanks for making airport delay a little bit more fun

Now, this was greatly entertaining. I actually enjoy very much the hard-hitting, not as safe chapters, because they are serious plot thickerners, and it gives the writer a new level of liberty to impose creativity (damn Cooneys...). As long as it's deemed ok w/ the site (which I think it's fairly open), don't be afraid.

Terminating an OC never seems easy. I guess a lot of subplots and ideas went through your head as you were writing those specific parts. The one I was more surprised was Adrien, never really thought that would've been his fate; I def. saw more in his future, but alas, the story goes...

You loosened a little bit with the orthography here, I detected a little bit more gaffes here than in Vol 1, but it wasn't that big of an obstacle.

There is something, Do you have everything pre-planned for the future or do you find the story writing itself at some points? Like, do you have a beginning to end defined?

I'm definitely hooked right now

[chaos_Leader]

Thanks for the response!

Terminating an OC never seems easy. I guess a lot of subplots and ideas went through your head as you were writing those specific parts. The one I was more surprised was Adrien, never really thought that would've been his fate; I def. saw more in his future, but alas, the story goes...

You have no idea how satisfied I am to have that response from you. You see, before I did the rewrite for this story, these guys were just throwaway characters. When I did the rewrite, I wanted to give these characters much more meaning, to make the reader feel as though I cheated them out of a story when I finally gave them the ax.

Anyways, new chapter!

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Chasing Shadows

Part II

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On her invitation, Rick Cooney and Wiley entered Cassandra's apartment.

The walls were adorned with arts and ornaments from, or at least inspired by, many different and varying Lylatin cultures; Fortunan, Katinan, Aquasi, even obscure Cornerian, and several more that Rick recognized, as well as several he didn't. The space smelled of a gentle incense, and some other fragrant scents from the kitchen. It all gave the impression of an eclectic, new age aesthetic.

She'd be considered an eccentric here, an oddity, but not entirely out of place. Dense urban areas like Port Seyid tend to be more or less tolerant of eclectic eccentrics, who can simply fade back into the background noise. The act would've certainly helped her cover, living as an incognito Cerinian; 'Cassandra' probably wasn't even her real name. Even if it was supposed to be a cover, Part of Rick couldn't help but think she may have relished in some of what she collected, learned about. If her curiosity about Lylat was as strong s some Lylatins' curiosity about Cerinia, then it might even be motivation for why she left her homeworld in the first place.

Cassandra directed her guests to a sitting room area. It had the usual amenities, but they were just a little different. The couch however had a quilt or fabric covering overtop with a woven pattern; might've been Fortunan. The coffee table didn't quite look like a coffee table, more like a slice of polished tree trunk with legs.

"Can I get you two something?" Cassandra offered, doing her part as the polite host, "Tea?" That would be the rich, just a little bit bitter aroma from the kitchen.

"Yes, thank you." Rick accepted with a nod as he sat down on the couch. Wiley soon followed next to him, or maybe it was Makita, they'd have to decide which to use later.

"I'll be right back." and the older Cerinian went to the apartment's kitchen, leaving her two guests alone.

The white wolf wasn't doing well. He sat hunched forward on the couch, looking down at his fidgeting hands. He didn't want to be here.

"What's wrong?" It was a redundant question, Rick knew exactly what was wrong. He just wanted to get him talking, and hopefully ease his nerves a bit.

"I felt her." Wiley told him, still staring through his hands, at his feet, into the floor, "She was in my head, just like Harrow."

"You're gonna be fine." the raccoon assured, as much to Wiley as to himself.

"Me? What about you, and your... shadow thing?" The wolf asked as he looked up, and glanced around the room, "Where'd he go? He was here just a second ago."

Rick was about to say something, not sure what, but something, when Cassandra's voice cut in.

"He is not real..." She'd returned, carrying a small tray filled with three steaming mugs with her, which she set down on the coffee table in front of Rick and Wiley, "At least, not in a physical flesh-and-blood reality, since he exists only in Mr. Cooney's mind. You were able to see him when I briefly linked your minds together: you saw what he saw, even that which wasn't strictly 'real'."

"But was that little show really necessary?" Rick asked her, lifting one of the mugs.

"Maybe not, but maybe it will help." Cassandra answered with a small shrug, and took a seat opposite the other two, "If nothing else, I supposed it would be rude to keep my awareness of it secret from you." She took one of the mugs for herself, peering up at Rick with a gaze that seemed to see right through him, "And speaking of secrets, I suppose you are not here simply to keep an eccentric woman company, hm?"

Might as well play this straight.

"Are you familiar with a certain Cerinian known as 'Harrow'?" Rick reached into a pocket and produced a printed image of Harrow, which he handed to Cassandra.

Her brow dropped when she saw the picture. She let out a long, quiet sigh, and took a small drink of the tea in her hand. She knew Harrow, or at least knew of him, and responded, "You mean Haran, his name is Haran. 'Harrow' is nothing more than a moniker he adopted when..." she stopped short, looking back and forth between the wolf and raccoon, "Serge sent you, didn't he?"

"Sort of, but I don't work for him." Rick insisted, "My intentions are my own."

"Just as his intentions are his." Cassandra replied with furrowing brow and drilling eyes, "I don't believe Serge would have told you about me if he didn't stand to gain from it. He's incredibly guarded, that one."

"How do you and Serge know each other?" Cooney inquired.

"He came to me, much like you have, seeking answers, seeking a means to control or resist the influence of the Gift."

"The gift?" Wiley asked, confused.

"It is what we call our powers, our abilities..." the Cerinian trailed off, quietly scrutinizing the two others. "Before I agree to anything more, I would ask that you tell me why you seek these answers, what you intend to do with them."

"Can't you just dig into our minds and find out?" Wiley asked.

"That would be... impolite, and it's not as easy as that." Cassandra answered, "No, I would prefer to know your reasons in your own words."

Rick's personal comm buzzed in his pocket, announcing the incoming call. He dug the little handheld device out and checked it: it was from LCI Operations. Of all the times, they just had to pick now to send him a jingle and touch 't they have waited a little while, or made the call earlier?

He'd like nothing more than to silence it and keep the conversation with Casandra going, but he'd have to answer it. If he didn't, the supervisors at HQ might think he's in distress, start worrying, start taking action, and the whole situation could turn into a big messy pile of awkward.

Holding down an irritated grumble, Rick got up from the couch, insistent buzzing comm in hand, while both Cassandra and Wiley stared at him with curious, slightly quizzical looks. Cooney responded to that with the annoyed, almost apologetic, "Excuse me, but I need to take this."

He left the sitting room area, heading into the apartment's deserted kitchen instead. Even without looking back, Rick could almost feel Wiley's discomfort explode, being left alone with another Cerinian after his experience aboard Cerberus. Maybe it'll be good for him, or maybe not; put that on the shelf for now.

Finally, Rick accepted the call, held the comm up, and spoke into it in his practiced 'calm tone', "Now really isn't a good time. I'm meeting with a contact."

"Director Hawking would like to speak with you," a dry monotone voice replied from the comm's speaker, "personally."

The annoyance and irritation Rick had been suppressing evaporated almost instantly. In its place rose a certain uneasy concern. The Director didn't normally intervene in ongoing operations, let alone directly to a field operative.

"Okay." Rick said in a flat monotone of his own.

"Richard." an older, authoritative woman's voice greeted.

"Director Hawking." the raccoon responded in kind, waiting.

"I've reviewed the reports you've sent us on Plowshare. It's... interesting. It's troubling too, of course, but very interesting nonetheless."

"I hope you don't mind me being a little terse here." Rick told her, "I was meeting with an important contact when I got this call, and I'd like to get back to it as soon as I can."

"I'll be brief then." Hawking responded. She understood the dilemma's of a field agent, and balanced it with the needs of management; short and to the point, "I'm making the capture of this Harrow character your utmost priority. If that isn't feasible, which it may not be given what you've learned, then eliminate him. He's proven to be a far more dangerous and insidious threat than we originally believed, and he has more than his share of blood on his hands to answer for. If that isn't feasible either, then track him, observe him, learn as much from and about him as you can, so that he may be dealt with as soon as possible."

"Got it." Rick acknowledged, holding in a sigh of relief.

The Director could've called and given any number of odd, unusual or unorthodox orders, but Rick had already been a few steps ahead of administration, as Rachelle and the others had already been sent after that shuttle with pretty much the same mission. Granted, it was a gamble to send them out before the data-punchers had a chance to juggle it, before administration had time to do administering, but it was a safe bet what HQ would make of the situation, and it once again seemed to have paid out.

"I'll leave you to it." Hawking said with a terse note of finality.

"Hold on..." Rick snagged the moment before it got away, "Before I go, who in the agency I can contact for more information about Cerinians, anyone who's looked into this at all?"

"Well, I don't mean to be a damper on the situation Richard, but right now, that person would be you."

"You mean to tell me that no one has investigated how to deal with Cerinian psychic shenanigans?"

"No one in this Agency." Hawking confirmed, "The Cerinians have always been remarkably reserved, well behaved, never a major threat before now. The need for a contingency on them simply wasn't there, not when we've had more immediate problems to occupy our time, attention, and funds–"

The comm buzzed against Rick's ear, making him flinch a moment. It was another call, which he put on hold for a moment, "I've got to go. There's another call coming in from one of my contacts."

"You certainly are a busy one." Hawking remarked, "We'll comb through our backlogs and old contacts here, see if we can't dig up something to assist you. Otherwise, keep up the good work, and don't let me detain you."

"Appreciated."

The call was from Rachelle.

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A pair of spacecraft slowed from reentry speeds as they descended over the desolate, sun scorched landscape of Titania. One of them was a large fighter, an older but well maintained Havoc class attack fighter. The other was a barely larger than shuttle sized spacecraft, outfitted with a wider and more prominent array of sensory equipment than a ship of its size would normally carry; a surveyor.

Despite being settled, much of Titania was still uncharted outside the few patches civilization. Few cartographers would be willing to trudge across vast, highly hazardous expanses of a planet that consisted almost entirely of scorched sand, burnt dust, and roasted stone just to map the damned place and get a good look at the rocks. However, the desolate planet was quite popular with a certain kind of people: prospectors.

There were two things mainly sought after by prospectors who scoured the endless deserts of Titania, the first raw materials: mineral veins, mines, oil wells, gas deposits, anything worth hauling out of the ground to refine and sell, and of special importance were the precious rare sources of water. If not for what little water there was, settlement and exploration of Titania simply would not have been feasible, and the planet would've remained an untouched wasteland not unlike Venom. The second thing prospectors searched for were the ancient ruins, often buried beneath the sands, of a long lost civilization, one that historians and geologists were pretty certain was wiped out with the cataclysm that turned Titania into a dusty sand ball, and gave the planet its ring system and moon. These locations were highly valued, either to mining companies, archaeological interests, or other less scrupulous interests on the black market.

Since there was little official jurisdiction outside Titania's sparse settlements, being well armed or traveling with a well armed escort was considered almost as essential a supply of water. Thus, posing as a freelance survey crew was as natural a cover for pursuing Harrow's trail as any, and even the plentiful weaponry wouldn't appear the least bit out-of-place. Anyone that couldn't defend themselves in the endless desert was easy prey for the predators that stalked the sands, either the opportunistic bandits that braved the endless open desert, or other threats...

"We're coming up on the site." Rachelle announced from the surveyor's pilot seat, "Stay sharp."

The interior of the surveyor was utilitarian, functional, and not much else. The cockpit melded seamlessly to a bank of instrument feeds just aft of it, with the outer access door a little behind that. The rear of the cabin ended in the spartan crew accommodations, and the interior engine and systems access at the furthest aft interior point.

James McCloud, Pigma Dengar and Scott Aberdeen had geared-up in utilitarian fatigues, armed and prepared for the possibility of a trap. Scott sported his usual handgun and sword combination, James carried an assault rifle slung over one shoulder, and Pigma had taken up Adrian's combat shotgun. They stood waiting in the cockpit/instrument readout in the forward compartment of the surveyor, watching as the dusty red Titania sky slowly faded to the dusty red Titania landscape.

Scott was not flying his Havoc fighter for this mission, as he gave that position to Peppy instead instead. When asked why, the terrier shot an angry look, and spouted back in equally angry words, "I am looking at that shuttle with my own eyes, with me own boots on the ground. I am not just goin'tae sit there with me arse in the sky, listening in over the bloody comm!" at which point there were no further objections. Peppy Hare would fly the Havoc fighter, act as the watchful eyes on lookout duty, and also act as heavy firepower should the situation need it.

The surveyor craft slowed down as it cam lower over the ground, passing only a little ways over the dunes below. Soon the craft was going slow enough, and there was something else down there, only a small ways ahead; something other than the endless sands, something artificial. It was the shuttle Charon, little more than a blur against the endless sand and dust at this distance.

"It's these little moments, you know?" Pigma mused, mainly to James. Scott wasn't in the mood for smalltalk, preferring to brood in what had become his trademark smoldering silence. "These breath-holding pauses right before the action that really got to you, eh Jimbo?"

"You don't get to call me that." the fox said bluntly, giving the swine a quick glance, "Nobody does."

"And why not, if you don't mind me asking?"

"The goofy nicknames, they're just..." James trailed off, shaking his head, preferring not to finish the thought, "Plain old 'James' is fine."

"Okay, suit yourself." Pigma accepted with a shrug, "Like I was saying, it's times like these you can't help but think something out there's gonna go horribly wrong, but I guess that's a little redundant here. We're walking into what we're pretty sure is a trap, something is supposed to go wrong, and here we are gonna take the brunt of it. What I mean is..." the young swine looked down, and fidgeted with some of the equipment he had on him, "We got this, right? We got an LCI spook, we got some professional badasses on the ground, we got Peppy in the air with that flying tank if it gets really ugly... how horribly wrong could things go?"

"Oh, I could probably think of at least a dozen or so unpleasant scenarios," the fox answered with a healthy dose of humor. But then his tone hardened when he followed with, "but... I'd rather not."

"Yeah, probably a good idea." Pigma agreed, shaking those unsettling thoughts from his head, "Just gonna get stuck thinking in circles that way."

The surveyor came to a stop with the shuttle Charon in clear sight before them. hovering over the sand as the engine's roar whined down to a grumble. The craft made its final descent straight down, and moments later came to rest on the ground.

Rachelle Cooney stepped away from the cockpit area and scooped up a satchel bag as she joined the other three near the surveyor's door. "Focus on the mission: keep a lookout for the trouble we're expecting, and let me take care of the detective work." She assured the nervous swine, "You can start worrying about how horribly wrong things can go when you know for sure that horrible things are coming."

And with that, Rachelle punched the door switch, and the outer access door swung up in front of the party, opening to the outside. The four disembarked from the spacecraft moments later.

James winced as he stepped outside the surveyor craft, squinting against the sudden brightness, and onto the shifting, unstable sand under his boots. Then there was the heat. Nothing could have prepared him for the sheer, unrelenting, sweltering, parched-dry heat that descended on him outside the shelter of the spacecraft. Not even the breeze was a comfort; the gusts of wind that brought only dry heat, sometimes laced with a helping of stinging sand and dust.

Plenty more of the rusty red sand stretched in every direction, mostly in the massive dunes and curving slopes that they'd seen already while airborne. It all faded into a dim red mist in the distance along the horizon, almost like a thin fog, but drier than dry should ever allowed to be. The sky was only blue, or bluish, further up, above the constant haze of dust. The most apparent feature in the sky was Titnaia's gigantic moon Oberon, squatting there on the horizon. The great pockmarked silver orb was easily visible, even now in the broad daylight, thanks in large part to how much space it took up in the sky, dominating a large portion of the hazy horizon.

"Ugh..." the fox grumbled. Everyone else had, or at least hid, their own looks and expressions of disgust and discomfort.

"Hey, at least it's sunny, right?" Peppy's cheery voice piped over all their comm headsets.

"Oh, sure, it's fantastic!" Pigma sassed back, shielding his eyes from the oppressive glaring sunlight, "In fact, why don't you come down out of that climate-controlled cockpit and check it out yourself, huh?"

"Love to, but somebody's gotta keep an eye out for y'all down there." then an engine's roar cut through the desert's stifling silence, and the Havoc attack fighter rumbled passed them overhead.

As expected, Scott had very little to say, and he simply marched straight on forward, giving the others little more than a passing glance.

"When you boys are done taking in the scenery, we've got a shuttle to investigate." Rachelle, gesturing ahead where Scott was headed.

Just ahead, and thankfully not too far away, was the shuttle Charon, parked neatly on the ground. Some windblown sand had begun piling up around the landing feet, and more sand had collected at other parts like on the dorsal turret dome and a few other nook and crannies. Other than the smattering of sand and dust though, the shuttle looked perfectly intact.

Scott looked around the other side of the shuttle, and stopped when he saw what was hidden on the other side. His stony grim face suddenly flashed with worry when he said "Wait..." and he turned back to Rachelle, who was jogging to reach Scott, "There's bodies here."

"Is Chakori–" Cooney began asking once she was close enough.

"No." Scott cut her off, shaking his head, "They're all... others."

Rachelle stepped around the front of the shuttle, and sure enough, there were bodies. There were six of them, mostly reptilian; locals probably, since the reptilian species were pretty comfortable in these hyper-arid conditions. They must've been caravaners, one of the several bands that often criss-crossed Titania's barren wastes. They typically worked either as guides, scavengers, traders, prospectors themselves, or sometimes –and far more dangerous– as raiders.

Rachelle moved in for a closer investigation, looking for any clues to their identity. All of the reptilian corpses were armed, many with higher-end weaponry, and some of them were wearing some kind of body armor as well...

"We've got company!" Peppy barked over the comm channel, catching everyone else off guard.

"What kind?" James asked as he quickly unslung the rifle off his shoulder and armed it, scanning the landscape around him for any movement.

"There's a whole mess of ground traffic closing in from the southwest. They're small, and moving fast." the hare told them, "Hover bikes I'd say by the looks of it, about a dozen."

"This'd be the trap we're all expecting." Pigma figured as he prepped the shotgun, and worked to suppress his nervousness.

"Want me to light'em up?" Peppy asked.

"No." Rachelle ordered, shaking her head, but she seemed focused on something else, "Hold your fire." and she crouched down next to one of the larger and better equipped bodies, examining it closer.

"Well, how about warning shots–"

"She said hold your fire, Peppy!" James cut him off, "So you hold your fire!"

"God– dammit!" the hare cursed, "You wanted us here for protection, against a trap that we're expecting, and now you're just gonna let these fellas swarm all over y'all!"

"Only a dozen, ye say?" Scott scoffed as he drew and readied his hand-cannon of a handgun, "It's not that many, we can take 'em down here just fine."

"Even so, you'll understand if I'd rather err on the side of sanity." Pigma snarked back.

"They're desert biker filth." the terrier explained, his gruff tone falling just short of bitter, "They make lot of fuss, a lot of theatrics, but in the end they're not any more deadly than your average scum."

"How much time do we have?" James asked into the comm, taking position at a corner of the shuttle, facing southwest where the alleged bikers were supposed to be coming.

"I reckon a few minutes at most." Peppy told them, "If you got any snap judgments to make, you'd best make 'em quick."

After some examination, Rachelle stood up from the dead reptilian she'd been examining, "Look at this one, in the plated vest:" his metallic body armor had been broken open, and he sported an empty hole in his chest, long since dried out by the hyper-arid environment. "the plates here were shattered– not bent, not punctured, not melted, not sheared– shattered. For a material like this, it'd only happen under cryo-shock, flash-freezing to very low temperatures."

Scott took a look at the body for himself, and mentioned, "Harrow's got that ice-spitting thingme on his stick, that might've done it. He's been busy here I'd say."

"So... what then?" Pigma asked as he found a spot to take cover like James had, holding his shotgun close, "Are we saying the guys headed our way and the dead guys here are part of the same group, and they don't like Harrow either? Or is this all a bunch of coincidences?"

Before anyone replied, the dusty desert air was filled by a chorus of approaching engine whines, growing louder and louder as the desert bikers came closer and closer.

"Us in Intelligence have a saying:" Rachelle said, raising her voice to be clearly heard over the growing noise, "No coincidences." She stood up, and started walking forward in the direction the engine whines were coming from, completely in the open.

"Rachelle!" James shouted, baffled by what was tactically the absolute worst possible choice she could be making, "What are you–"

He didn't have a chance to finish.

A line of screaming hoverbikes burst out from over a nearby ridge, carrying a plume of dust behind them that partly obscured the vehicles and riders as they came, making them look something like wailing desert phantoms. The bikers spread out and around as they gathered, surrounding the party and the two landed spacecraft, throwing even more of the suffocating, blurring, obscuring dust into the air until one could hardly see clearly, or breathe comfortably. Then the bikes stopped.

James, Pigma and Scott all had their weapons ready, but not yet trained on any one target. They were all three still in a tense wait-and-see mode.

One of the riders, the one who stopped directly ahead of Rachelle, dismounted from his hoverbike and began walking toward the raccoon. As he stepped out of the blown dust and into better visibility, it became apparent he was a larger reptilian specimen, easily standing head-and-shoulders above Rachelle or the others. The rider wore a rough, sand-encrusted cloak over a set of higher-end combat armor, and sported a pair of tinted protective goggles, which he lifted from his slit eyes before he spoke.

"Cornerian?" he asked in a raspy, guttural voice, heavily accented toward one of the native Titanian dialects.

"Yes, we speak Cornerian." Rachelle answered.

"Who are you?" the rider asked, "And what are you doing here?"

"We're surveyors, and this wreckage looked–"

"A survey crew already came through these parts over a year ago..." The towering reptile gave a hand signal, and the surrounding silhouetted riders all readied their weapons in a cacophony of clicks and cocking. Most of them toted rifle types, though some sported submachine gun sized firearms, and a few were hefting larger, shoulder-mounted heavy weapons. The on-foot lead rider turned back to Rachelle with a cold stare beaming from his eyes, "Let's try again little lady: who are you, really, and why are you really here–"

* rrrrrrRrRrRRRRR *

It was a low grumble from overhead, getting louder. The surrounding riders became uneasy, chattering amongst themselves in native Titanian. Some of them looked up, searching for the noise source.

"Uh oh..." James began.

"Everybody clear out!" Peppy's voice screamed through the comm.

A deafening roar descended over the scene as the Havoc fighter swooped down, kciking up another billow of dust as it took up a hovering position directly behind Rachelle, with both of its massive gatling blaster cannons trained directly on the large reptilian. Some of the surrounding rideers hesitated, some almost panicked, but those who had heavy weapons immediately set their sights on the new arrival above them.

"Stand down Hare!" Rachelle bellowed into her comm, struggling to be heard over the engine noise. "You're going to get us all killed!"

At the same time, the lead rider turned to his men and shouted a set of orders in Titanian accompanied by hand signals that must've conveyed 'hold your fire!', since the other riders all lowered their weapons shortly afterward, but not before the Havoc fighter ascended safely away.

"That is most impressive firepower for a 'survey crew'." the lead rider commented as the engine roar died away, giving the raccoon a loaded gaze, "If I were feeling suspicious, I might guess you were expecting to find trouble..."

"Maybe, but it looks to me like the trouble already came and went." Rachelle retorted, pointing out the bodies strewn across the landing site, "Were these your men?"

"What of it?"

They were his; no question. The dead corpses and surrounding riders were all similarly equipped, and there simply weren't enough people in this part of Titania in the first place for them to belong to another near-identical group. Add to that the fact that they were killed by means the surrounding live riders did not likely have available, eliminating the riders themselves as the killers, and a piece of the puzzle fits into place.

"They were killed by a Cerinian, weren't they? This Cerinian." Rachelle produced a small handheld holoprojector, showing a clear image of Harrow, "You wouldn't happen to know anything about him, would you?"

The towering reptile gazed into the holographic projection for several silent seconds, and then looked up to the raccoon, "If you want a truthful response from me, I will first require a truthful response from you in trade. So I ask again: who are you, and what business do you have with this... little blue demon?"

He recognized the image, that much was certain, but he wasn't about to give away information for free. He was smarter than the average desert scrounger– a shrewd bargainer– probably why he was in charge of his group, and why they'd survived. Already he'd gleaned that the landed party here was far more than their official cover story, and he'd hinted that he had a bone to pick with Harrow. This'd be a stretch, but it might pay off...

"My name is Rachelle Cooney, I'm an agent of Lylat Central Intelligence." Rachelle answered in straightforward, "We've tracked this Cerinan here and intend to capture him for questioning, or failing that, eliminate him."

Even if this situation fell through completely, anything said here can easily be denied. Titanian caravaners spin lies and half-truths all the time, who would believe them if one group claimed to have spoken with an LCI agent? Still, it was a risky play.

"Your honesty is appreciated, Ms. Cooney." the tall reptile said with a little smile and a small nod, his tone sounding sincere enough, "My name is Ashk'habat, chief of this band of misfits you see here..." he made a sweeping gesture toward the other surrounding riders, end his attention soon returned to Rachelle and the others, "Now tell me, do you know what he is capable of? Any of you?" Ashk'habat asked, not only to Rachelle, but also to James, Pigma and Scott, "Do you know how he undermines strengths, and exploits weakness; how he can make one doubt, hesitate, and even turn against their own?"

"All too well." Scott growled back at the reptile, piercing him with his lance-like glare.

Ashk'habat matched the terrier with a grim, steady gaze of his own, "Then you know your goal is not an easy one."

"All the more reason for us to be open to any help we can get." Rachelle said, stepping between the other two, "Are you able to help?"

"Ah, now that depends..." Ashk'habat turned back to the raccoon with a hungry gleam in his eyes of a merchant who smelled opportunity, "What sort of 'help' would you offer in trade?"

"Credits, arms, equipment, other supplies, and most valuable of all: connections with LCI that'll all but guarantee mutually beneficial arrangements in the future."

Cheap muscle can be rented, used once and disposed of, but someone as sharp as this Ashk'habat character though might be useful down the road in other circumstances. That, and few things ensure short-term loyalty as securely as the opportunity for repeat business; it's the same reason small-time restaurants distribute punch cards to customers...

This had better work.

Ashk'habat took a few moments, considering the terms of the deal. There was something more underneath it though, other cards in the hand, something that deeply unsettled even this grizzled desert rider. This was confirmed when he finally uttered, "I think you will find, Ms. Cooney, that our situation is... a little complicated."

"They usually are." Rachelle exhaled, covering a quiet sigh of relief.

By his cryptic, almost forced tone he used, it seemed like he'd been given the short end of a bad deal, and wanted out, maybe. Given the evidence and events that likely produced it, it could easily have something to do with Harrow. In fact, it was almost certain that was the case.

"We have a place for shelter not too far from here." Ashk'habat mentioned, stepping closer, shifting to a more inviting demeanor, "I would rather discuss further details in a comfortable, more accommodating setting, with you and your party as our guests."

With the desert caravaners invoking hospitality, the pieces of the game finally started to play out to their advantage. That was the hope at least; one can rarely be completely certain about these things.

"Of course, we would be honored to join you." She extended a hand to Ashk'habat, who then clasped it in his much larger "But before we go, I'd like to examine the shuttle, recover hardware and data. It's why we came here in the first place."

"I understand..." the towering reptilian turned toward the other riders and shouted, "Samirr!"

In a few moments, one of the cloaked figures dismounted and joined Ashk'habat at his side. This one was smaller, with his face covered in a head-wrap and eyes hidden behind protective goggles. For all they could see, Samirr might not even have been a 'he'. He was reptilian for sure though, as shown by the thick scaled tail behind him.

"Stay with Ms. Cooney and her party, then guide them back to the camp when they have finished their investigations." Ashk'habat instructed.

Samirr didn't speak, but gave his leader an affirmative nod.

"I'll see you when you're done." the lead rider said with a tone of finality, "I hope you find what you're looking for."

"So do I." the raccoon replied, "Thank you."

With one final affirming grunt, Ashk'habat turned and started walking back to his hoverbike, barking orders to the rest of his men in Titanian. In a flurry of activity, the riders all replaced their weapons, started their noisy vehicles, and zipped away into the desert as swiftly as they'd arrived.

When the engine screams died away, James McCloud approached Rachelle, a mixed look of astonishment, puzzlement and skepticism stretched over his face.

"Hold on, we were all pointing guns at each other one minute, and the next we're invited to dinner? What exactly just happened here?" the astonished fox asked, shooting a cold look to Samirr.

"Hopefully, we made a friend." Rachelle answered, starting toward the shuttle Charon, "Enemies tend to leave potential allies in their wake, if you know how to spot them."

\

To be a spy you need physical fitness, a facility with languages, a tolerance for exotic food and the bugs that come with them. But ultimately there's no greater qualification than the ability to look someone who ruined your life in the eye and say "Let's work together."

-Michael Westen, Burn Notice-

/

Rick Cooney returned to the sitting room area of Cassandra's apartment to an intriguing scene.

Wiley sat there on the couch across from the Cerinian hostess. Their eyes were gently closed, and each sat in an identical, relaxed stance; meditating? Whatever it was they were doing, he was calm then, more calm than Rick had ever seen him before.

"Haran did this to you?" Cassandra asked aloud.

The wolf nodded slowly, keeping his eyes shut, and spoke in a serene voice Rick had never heard him use, "He linked my mind with others, then killed them, made me experience their final moments firsthand as they died."

"Ju'shi..." The Cerinian said in quiet shock. She opened her eyes, and found Rick standing there in front of her, "You!" she spat as she stood up, and confronted the raccoon, "Tell me who you are working for, and what you want with me. Tell me now, and tell me the truth, or leave."

Cassandra pierced Rick with demanding eyes, but he just stared back at her with a blank, almost glazed look, "I'm with Lylat Central Intelligence, and my mission is to stop Harrow, or Haran." Rick explained in a voice almost as glazed as his stare, "Do you know the things he's done?"

"I know he's committed Ju'shi, Living Death, one of the most heinous acts of torture one can perform with the Gift." Cassandra said coldly, and gestured to indicate Wiley, "No one deserves to experience dying without the release of death, not even Makita."

"That doesn't even scrape the surface." Rick said with a shake of his head, "He slaughtered an entire ship's worth of crew and passengers on the Sojourn, almost succeeded in doing it again with the Amity, then systematically murdered some of the most talented mercenaries I've ever worked with, and that's just what we know he did."

"He's done a hell of a lot more, you can be sure of that." Wiley chimed in.

"My partner has just tracked him to a location on the planet Titania. This is the best chance we have to bag him, right now, before he gets a chance to regroup." For once in a very broad while, Rick spoke in complete straight sincerity, and not just another practiced mask, "Looking at the evidence though... I can't do it, I just don't know how. If I don't have some kind of edge over Haran, something I can use to undermine his command of 'the Gift', I don't think I'll survive the encounter, let alone be able to stop him. And yet, despite that, I am going to Titania to hold up my end of the mission to try to stop him, right now, and I'll do it with or without your help. So I need an honest answer from you Cassandra, and I need it now: will you help me stop Haran?"

She stood there for a few moments, stunned, confused, agape, dumbfounded, until she managed to ask, "How do you possibility expect me to trust you?"

"Look in my head with your 'Gift', and judge for yourself if I'm trying to deceive you." Rick challenged, looking back with dead serious expression carved into his features.

And so she looked with her 'gift'; he could feel the tendrils, like probes. It was another consciousness occupying his mind, another identity, like a visitor in the house of his mind. Rick could feel her skepticism and curiosity directly, as if he himself were thinking the thoughts. Then the visitor in his mind left.

"I'm sorry... This is..." Cassandra rubbed her forehead, eyes downcast, struggling to find the words, "It's all very sudden."

"I'm not asking you to be a hero, Cassandra." Rick assured her, "I just need to know what I'm up against, and I don't have much time to find out."

"I... I shall go with you to Titania." The Cerinian decided, looking back up with a resolve to match his own, "It should make the best use of what little time you have."

[chaos_Leader]

 

When you work
in Intelligence, you get used to the idea that some information is
worth risking everything for. You sign up for the lifestyle, or the
chance to serve your country, or the millions of frequent flier miles,
but finally it all comes down to putting your ass on the line to learn
something.

-Michael Westen, Burn Notice-

 

--------------------------

魂魄を追ã„ã‹ã‘ã¦ã€ä¸‰ç•ªã®æœ¬

Chasing Shadows
Part III

---------------------------

/

Richard Cooney would rather not have involved Otto Jäeger and his crew in this, but the stubborn otter had gotten his honor tied up in the mess with Cerberus and Harrow. He was a good friend of Malcolm Aries, as mercenary captains sometimes become, and he was both saddened and infuriated by Malcolm's death. He didn't want to rest for a moment until he knew Harrow was brought to justice, made to pay for the things he'd done. People are tricky to work with when they're in that state: they'll make snap judgments, take rash action, fail to take note of something important, and may cause more trouble than help.

 

Otto at least would largely be a help to this cause. As a skilled and resourceful asset to LCI, Jäeger had a vested interest in helping out Intelligence whenever possible, both to his bank account, and the fact that a connection to someone in the Agency who might owe the captain a favor or two would be invaluable in a later time of crisis.

In the end, the situation came down to simple logistical math. Flying aboard the Schwarzwind would cut travel time from Zoness to Titania down to a fraction of what it would've been with the Mercutio alone, which now rested in the Schwarzwind's hangar bay. Also, having Jäeger and his crew as backup in case things went sour was a handy insurance policy to keep in the pocket. Still, Rick didn't want to push this any further than he had to. Jäeger and his crew wouldn't want to feel like they're little more than a tool to Lylat Central Intelligence, and the Agency wouldn't
want to owe an asset more than they could afford to give back.

 

And thus was usually the relationship between agency and asset: not unlike a pair of casual lovers, complete with all the nuances, subtleties and potential complications the analogy implied.

 

Captain Jäeger had set up Rick, Wiley and Cassandra in one of the spare cabins. It was probably officer's quarters when Schwarzwind was still in military service, being spacious, but with only one bed, not that they'd need it for the quick trip. The cabin was more for privacy; whatever Cassandra had planned, it'd probably be better not to have an audience of curious ogling crew members.

 

The door to the cabin slid open, and Wiley stepped in where the other two were waiting. "We're underway." The wolf told them, "Should be arriving at Titania in a few hours." He didn't want to be there, not for this, not when he knew all too well what Cerinians were capable of.

 

"We'll have to make the most of our time." Rick said in a flat tone, turning to Cassandra, "So whatever you've got planned, lets get it done."

 

The Cerinian gave him a little nod, "Fair warning, Cooeny: I will need to enter your mind. More specifically, I will need to search your memories."

 

"Come again?" Rick blurted out, confused.

 

"With what little time we have, it's the only way I can help you." she explained.

 

He wasn't expecting this, to have to place himself at the mercy of a someone he barely met, and a Cerinian no less. "Let
me get this straight: you're asking me to let you inside my head, into the one place where I know the secrets I keep are secure." the raccoon shook his head, and his eyes came to rest a moment on Wiley, the example of what could happen, "You can't ask me to give that all up to you."

 

"So says the man who demanded my trust on a moment's notice, and swept me off on an adventure." Cassandra scoffed and rolled here eyes, then quickly became serious, "Now it is your turn. If you want that advantage against Haran as desperately as you claim, and as quickly as you need it, then you will need to trust me now, as I have trusted you thus far."

 

Richard Cooney looked to Cassandra, with her determined eyes piercing him harder than he'd thought gazes could. Granted, he'd seen some damn good gazes in his time in LCI –sometimes the other agents would even practice
in front of mirrors to get theirs right– but something about hers just cut right through everything. It wasn't Cerinian psychic shenanigans at work, was it?

 

His eyes landed on Wiley once again, standing awkwardly in the corner, not sure what to do with himself. He'd been
fidgety ever since they knocked on Cassandra's door, always trying to find any excuse to not be in the same place as her, but he also didn't want to stray too far from Rick, his only lifeline at this point. The poor guy was stuck: caught between the spook that might save him, and a Cerinian that spooked the living daylights out of him. He, who had
endured a week aboard a floating frozen tomb, endured intense drugging at the hands of Cerberus crew, and endured being ejected into space by Cooney himself, was reduced to a nervous fit by a quirky old woman.

 

Correction: a quirky old woman with secrets.

 

Finally, Rick turned back to the selfsame quirky old woman with just one question, "How do I know you won't take advantage of the situation?"

 

"If it's any comfort, I won't be able to force the secrets from your mind if you choose not to give them up." Cassandra reassured him.

 

She seemed sincere enough, but how to know for sure? Maybe if Captain Jäeger had one of those ocular lie-detection scanners? No, there wasn't enough time to play 'what if?' It was either Cassandra or nothing, and there was better odds with this peculiar old Cerinian.

 

"Alright. Fine." the raccoon conceded with a still uncertain sigh, "But I want to know
everything you know about Haran: any history between you two, what he's
been up to, how he got where he is."

 

"You will know what I know, as I know it." Cassandra affirmed as she sat down on the cabin floor,
and directed Rick to do the same just in front of her, "Let us begin."

 

"Wiley, go and stand watch outside the cabin." Cooney ordered the wolf, and sat down just opposite Cassandra, matching her meditative stance, "Make sure nobody comes in until we're done."

 

"Yeah, sure thing." and Wiley shuffled out of the cabin.

 

Just before the door closed behind him, he could hear Cassandra as she gave a calm instruction,"Relax, Cooney. Take a deep breath..."

 

And the door sealed shut. He was alone now, in one of the corridors of the Schwarzwind, with only the low rumble of the ship to speak to or hear back from. This was crazy. This whole stint was absolutely nuts.

 

He knew what that bastard Harrow was capable of, he'd already tried fighting him, and failed completely. And now, of all the possible people in Lylat he could trust his life to, he got stuck with these two clowns. Granted, there weren't many options, but what could a creepy old lady possibly have to teach to a weird little spy that might turn the tables here?

 

It'd better be something damn good, that's what.

 

Alright then, suppose by some miracle she does havesomething damn good, it all works out, and Harrow is taken care of? What would Wiley –or Makita– do once it's done? Hell, what would he even call himself? All these fake IDs and aliases he'd been juggling this past year was making his head spin. 'Makita' he knew was the birth name, or at least the one he was first given while growing up alone...

 

Maybe he'd go back to Serge, get in with his crowd again? Actually, maybe not, that slimy bastard would never let Makita live it down if he did. 'Hm,' he'd say in his smug little way, 'didn't I tell you not to trust that troublesome Cerinian?' No, he didn't need that, and he could get by with other means, somehow.

 

Maybe he'd go and see Carmen again? Haven't checked up on her in almost a year now though. Would she have remembered after all this time? Could she forgive him for dropping out of her life like that, without warning?
He had to cut loose from her, with the life he was getting into, there wasn't any way she'd be safe if he still had ties like that...

 

What if she'd moved on?

 

The door behind him slid obediently open, and then Rick burst out past him in a mad fit, catching Wiley off guard. The raccoon grabbed the him by his shoulders, and looked him straight in the eyes with an unsettling, crazed stupor. Cooney was heaving for his breath, eyes bloodshot and open wide...

 

He looked bewildered, confused, frightened?

 

"Quick!" Rick gasped, "Punch me in the face, now!"

 

"Wha–"

 

"Just do it, you stammering dolt!"

 

Somehow, Rick's frantic command carried right through Wiley into action. He pushed the raccoon off him to arms reach as a set up, and delivered a right hook just under Rick's eye to the sound of a solid thump!

 

Rick reeled back and away from the blow, clutching his face, "Ugh... thanks."

 

"You're um... welcome?" Wiley replied with confusion, and helped him up.

 

"How long was I out for?" The raccoon as he shook his head, working to composed himself.

 

"A couple minutes, tops." the wolf answered, but he couldn't ignore Rick's uneasiness, "You okay?"

 

"Still a little dazed from that right hook of yours, but I'm alright–"

 

"No, don't try that spy bullshit with me, Rick." Wiley cut him off, knowing full-well it was a lie, "What the hell did she do to you?"

 

He'd never seen Cooney this shaken up before. Rick was jittery all over, shaking little trembles that he tried to hide. Wiley knew exactly what that was, he'd felt the same way after his first links with Harrow: confused, shaken, uncontrolled trembling.

 

Still, Rick cracked a smile through his trembling uneasiness, "I think I might know how to beat Harrow."

 

"You think?"

 

The raccoon just shrugged and chuckled, "Well, this whole psychic mojo thing isn't really an exact science, you see–" he cringed in sudden bout of pain, "Damn, I'm gonna get some ice or something for this lump."

 

And with that, Cooney set off down the corridor, leaving Wiley alone behind him.

 

"We're screwed." the wolf shook his head, eyes downcast, "So very, very–"

 

There was only pain.

 

His face burned with a fire he could not douse. His vision was blinded by a light he could not see, his thoughts obliterated by a scream he could not utter, and all feeling smothered by a pain he could not feel.

 

But then there was a voice he could not hear, cutting through all the rest.

 

Do not be afraid, Makita.

 

Wiley's vision returned, and he found himself on his back, in the cabin, staring up at the ceiling. Then there was Cassandra, looking down to him with great concern.

 

"Get away from me, you conniving bluefur hag!" Wiley yelled, and scrambled up to his feet, "I know what you did
to Rick! You fucked with his head, like Harrow did to me!"

 

"No, I did not." Cassandra rebutted coolly as she shook her head, "Cooney's answer against Haran has always been with him, I merely helped him to realize which question to ask. What Haran has done to you is something
else entirely, and it is getting worse."

 

"Worse?"

 

Could be true enough. He'd been having the dying dreams more and more often. He knew every moment of every scrap of fear and agony they felt, right up to their final oblivion. This was the first time he had a flashback while still awake though.

 

"It is the nature of Ju'shi, I'm afraid." the Cerinian explained, pacing around Wiley in a circle, "Left untreated, the deaths you have experienced will fester, and spread through your mind like the infection of a gaping wound, or a cancer. As
your mind is slowly overrun, the Ju'shi will drive you further and further into madness, until the time comes to experience your own death."

 

"I don't... augh!" the wolf cringed, collapsed to his knees with his head in his hands.

 

He suddenly felt so very pained, with so many dissonant thoughts bouncing through his head. He wasn't going insane. There's no way he could be losing his mind like she said... but it made sense... but then, everything Harrow said made
sense at the time too. She can help him... like Harrow helped? She knows what he did, she can fix it... He could fix it himself.

 

"I don't want you in my head."

 

Who the hell was he kidding? He couldn't fix this anymore than a rock could fix a crack in itself.

 

"Makita, for all the terrible wrongs he has done to you, I want to make it right." Cassandra knelt down next to Wiley, and placed her hand on his shoulder, "Let me help you to be rid of that which pains you, and so repay the debt owed to you on behalf of my kind."

 

"How?"

 

-----------------

"I think you will find, Ms. Cooney, that our situation is... a little complicated."

------------------

/

 

A little over a year ago

 

The winds of Setarea blew gentle and cold in the early morning, carrying its sands across the dunes. The sun had not quite risen yet, still glowing crimson over the edge of the horizon, throwing its blooded light across the half-buried ancient stones all around him, casting long shadows and silhouettes. Ashk'habat had seen many ancient ruins in his
time, Titania was practically pockmarked with them. These ones were different though, built in an architectural style unseen on this world, and with materials that shouldn't be present. Instead of the tranquil stillness of dawn, the exotic ruins were busy with an excited murmur: off-worlders, archaeologists invited to study these peculiar ruins. The archeology crew had elected to begin their work early in the morning, to give them at least a few hours time to work before the midday heat would become unbearable to those not suited to it. The men and women scurried about all around Ashk'habat and his men, poking and prodding at the stones, notating every glyph and image, being ever so
careful not to let any detail go unnoticed. So many of them were young, so filled with youthful vigor and insatiable curiosity. This was not Ashk'habat's main concern though.

 

He and his men had been hired as guides and bodyguards, to keep the off-worlders safe and from the
threat of raiders or the occasional predator, and to help provide shelter in the harsh deserts. Where the archeology team's focus was on what they could find at their feet, and constanlty chattering among themselves, Ashk'habat and his men remained silent in their sentinel duty, watching the distant horizon for anything amiss–

 

"There you are!"

 

Ashk'habat nearly jumped out of his boots at the words behind him, almost a comical sight for the towering stoic reptilian.

 

He quietly cursed under his breath, and turned to face the speaker, Dr. Archibald Spalding. He was a smaller feline a solid gray fur tone, and the leader of the expedition. He gazed up at Ashk'habat with wide wondrous eyes, all but dancing with joy on the spot.

 

"Oh? Did I startle you?" Dr. Spalding asked "My apologies–"

 

"What is it?" the reptile asked.

 

It seemed unbecoming for a distinguished, intellectual man like Spalding to behave with such giddy excitement, almost like a child.

 

"My dear friend Ashk'habat, how could you be so stoic and stern at a time like this?" the little feline asked, pointing out the ruins around them and the busy archeology crew, "Don't you find this the least bit exciting? Actual Krazoic structures, right here in Lylat, on your homeworld of Titania no less! It's... astounding! This is going to be the news of the–"

 

* Blam! *

 

The doctor's excited babbling was cut short by a nearby blaster shot, soon followed by many more, along with the pained screams of the shots' targets as they fell. It shouldn't have been possible, no one was seen approaching the ruins. "What's going on?" Dr. Spalding asked, confused, frightened, "What's the meaning of this? Are they–"

 

"Stay close to me, Doctor!" Ashk'habat ordered, then unslung the assault rifle from his back, watching for any sign of the hostiles. He didn't see any of his men engaging, and that worried him.

 

There was a sudden crackle of static at the reptile's ear, one of his men making contact, "Ashk'habat!" he babbled in frantic Titanian, "The off-worlders are attacking each other! What do we do?"

 

Ashk'habat did not know, and simply stayed silent on the comm.

 

The silence persisted, falling so silent in fact that there was no more blaster-fire. Almost as suddenly as the sounds of slaughter and dying screams began, it ended. The excitement of the expedition, and then the screams of pain, were now still and quiet in death. One of the off-worlders approached Ashk'habat, but he wasn't frightened. This one
carried himself with a strange confidence, a jovial mockery of satisfaction. He was a tall black-and-white canid, rivaling Ashk'habat in sheer height. He was armed, but only with a pistol on his belt, as many of the off-worlders were, knowing the dangers.

 

There were a few others with him also, all dressed the same as the archeology crew, and armed as well. But these men, and even a couple women, were far more grim and stern-faced; they were killers. One of them seemed especially worrisome: a little scowling vulpine, with blue fur. There was just... something odd about that one.

 

Ashk'habat's men simply watched them, stunned into silence, or out of morbid curiosity.

 

"My friends! Please, do not be alarmed." the tall canid greeted in accented Titanian, "Let me introduce myself. I am Garmir, a visionary individual of enterprise, and I come to you with a proposition. Hear me out, and I promise you will have much to gain."

 

"We will do no such thing!" Ashk'habat spat back as he stepped forward, his words aflame. The reptile motioned toward his men, giving them the nonverbal order to  ready themselves, and they all aimed their weapons at the group, "My men
and I are bound by duty to protect these people from danger."

 

"And what a fine job you're doing." Garmir said with a laugh, indicating the corpses that had once been the archeology team.

 

"We outnumber you," Ashk'habat growled, "and we will have no qualms over slaughtering you and leaving your filthy carcases to the fate of Titania's sands for this."

 

"Excuse me, um... good sir," the little feline said, stepping out, trying very hard to cover up his utter terror, "I'm Dr. Spalding."

 

Garmir just rolled his eyes and sighed as he replied, "Yes, I know who you are."

 

"I'm... I'm very quite sure that..." Dr. Spalding stammered, eyes glancing through the grim-faced group before him, "I'm sure we can work something out... like civilized–"

 

* Blam! *

 

Garmir had drawn and fired his handgun faster than any eyes could see, blasting a shot straight into Dr Spalding's face. The little feline didn't even have a chance to cry out in pain, and he was dead before his body collapsed on the sand.

 

"No!" Not a moment later Ashk'habat had his assault rifle up and firing into the group, spraying them with a torrent
of blaster-fire as he screamed in outrage. Something wasn't right though.

 

The suspicious little blue vulpine had stepped between Ashk'habat and Garmir, holding some kind of exotic staff weapon. It projected some kind of barrier, absorbing every shot the enraged reptile fired. The strange fox just sneered back at him through his barrier, and stepped forward, reveling in the shock he'd put on the stalwart Ashk'habat. He kept firing anyway, even with the weapon growing hot in his hands with every shot Just as Ashk'habat's hands felt as if they'd fry from the overheating, the rifle's magazine cartridge ran dry, and the weapon went silent.

 

Without any time to react, the little blue vulpine had given a flourish of his staff that knocked the useless weapon from Reptile's grasp, and tumbling to the sand.

 

When Ashk'habat looked up, he was staring down the barrel of Garmir's handgun, with the tall canid who wielded it looking just jovial.

 

Ashk'habat's men, all watching the events unfold, were stunned. They chattered amongst themselves, so unsure of the current situation. Their leader was at the mercy of some strange off-worlders who'd bested him so easily. Some things could be made out from the chatter, "what kind of sorcery is that?" "it's madness!" "maybe we should hear what the off-worlder has to say" "Kill them now!"

 

Ashk'habat could only watch silently, both outraged and horrified as this Garmir character had his way, exploiting the curiosity and indecisiveness of the men. They were loyal men, all of them, but their loyalty only stretched as far as what was practical. It was a simple fact of desert caravan life, one that Garmir seemed to know all too well.

 

"Let me clarify the situation." the tall smiling canid began, never losing his polite, welcoming demeanor, even as he held Ashk'habat at gunpoint, "As far as anyone outside of us is concerned, this benign archaeological expedition has just been the victim of a horrible confidence trick. How could you lure these innocent people out to the harsh deserts, only to murder them for your own enjoyment? By Lyla, the people who live in Titania's deserts are such barbaric animals. So, even if by some miracle you can overpower my forces, you will simply codify the "truth" of what happened: the "truth" of murdering scum with no honor. Don't you see? That's the story that leaves these ruins today. You will find no support beyond the strength of your word, and it would be your word against the outraged, justice-craving word of official authorities. They hate you, and would not lose a second of sleep to execute every last one of you."

 

 

This prompted a series of uneasy grumbles from the men. Everything Garmir was telling them was true. Titanian desert caravaners were far from trusted among off-world visitors, and not without reason. Many enough truly were selfish bandits, preying on the weak and unprepared. Many of Ashk'habat's men were once like that, and some of them still harbored secret ambitions of plundering, despite his best efforts to reform them into respectable people.

 

"But please, you mustn't think me unkind, I don't want that for you." Garmir stepped away from Ashk'habat, lowering his handgun and addressing the caravaners instead, "No, I want to protect you, and to give you the wealth and opportunity you all so well deserve, yet have been denied by these ignorant hateful creatures. My enterprising little family can do this, and you are all welcome to share in the great wealth these ruins will soon reap, as well as future wealth still yet unfathomable."

 

The men responded with an excited murmur, lured by the promise of wealth, of the life of ease and power. This was the end of it. If Ashk'habat were to oppose the offer openly, he would be killed, and most of his men would happily work for the grinning canid. They'd kill off what few were still loyal to Ashk'habat, and conduct whatever business there was without him.

 

Garmir now turned back to the towering reptile, still wearing that filthy slimy smile on his face, so smug in his. He
holstered his weapon and extended an open hand, but he may as well have been holding a pair of shackles the way things were.

 

"What say you?" he asked, so friendly on the outside, yet so confident and domineering underneath.

 

There was only one option: to submit under Garmir for now, do what he wanted, and to look for opportunities later. "I say you make an interesting offer." Ashk'habat answered, and clasped his hand in Garmir's, "I accept."

 

--------------------

/

 

The place that Ashk'habat and his caravan used as shelter was cavern, carved into the sandstone by a meager underground spring, one of so precious few water sources in the Setarea. The rusty red space was lit by a series of movable light fixtures, work lights perhaps, all casting looming shadows of figures onto the walls. What little tech there was; a comm station, sensor readouts, basic field medicine suite; was all powered by a cluster of portable generators. Anything that didn't absolutely need power, they used mundane means for.

 

The meal they'd served consisted of field rations, military surplus, or other long shelf-life foodstuffs that didn't demand refrigeration. The caravaners seemed like the kind who'd prefer to hunt or scavenge the land for food, but the barren Setarea did not provide so much as a scrap. Everything that supported them here, save for the near-miraculous water source they'd found, had to be carted in from somewhere else.

 

The general impression of the caravaners themselves was that of tired, weary, bored travelers, going nowhere, but also on edge. Their uneasiness could be attributed to the newly arrived party, who sat in a circle around a small fire, politely finishing the meal they'd been served as they listened to Ashk'habat recount the events that brought the caravan there.

 

"Garmir?" Scott asked, surprised, recognizing the name, "That old silver-tongued pirate's behind this?"

 

"If that's all true, then why are we here, and as guests?" Rachelle questioned over her half-emptied tray, somewhat suspicious, "Why aren't we enemies?"

 

"Because it did not last." Ashk'habat answered firmly, looking Rachelle square in the eye, "Garmir's promises of wealth never came to fruition, lost to complications and time. My men grew restless and disgusted, but none dared mutiny against Garmir and his elite cohort. As it happened, the first who lost patience and stood against Garmir openly was the blue one, 'Harrow' as you know him."

 

James, Peppy, Pigma and the others listened intently while Ashk'habat continued. "Skilled as he was, the little blue one did not strike me as an experienced mercenary. He was impatient, defiant, and never quite loyal to Garmir at all. The frustration of the stagnant situation devolved into a power struggle between the two, until their final schism. Since my men were similarly dissatisfied with Garmir's lack of results, it was not a stretch for us to stand with Harrow, however reluctantly. Garmir was embittered left us alone soon after, and we haven't heard anything about him since."

 

"But if that scene back at the shuttle is any clue, you and this Harrow creep don't seem like friends either." Peppy observed.

 

Ashk'habat let out a grumbling sigh when he heard that, "I chose to 'ally' with Harrow in the schism specifically because he was unstable, because I knew he would not be able to keep order for very long. When the little blue one would falter, that is where my men and I would turn against him, and expel him. I thought that time might have come a few days ago when he returned. He seemed far more stressed in his communication, far more desperate than I'd ever seen him before."

 

"People are at their most dangerous when at their most desperate." Rachelle observed.

 

"Exactly." the towering reptile agreed, and continued, "I urged caution, but some of my more adamant men could not wait for the opportune moment, and acted on their own to confront him. You've seen the consequences of their impatience."

 

"Do you know where he is now?" James asked, growing restless. The fox had that somewhat agitated look in his eye, of one who had grown weary of waiting, and wanted to move to action.

 

Ashk'habat considered the fox for a moment, before finally answering, "The only place he could be is those Krazoic ruins. He is not among us, and there are no other places for shelter within traveling range on foot."

 

"Then what're we waiting for?" Peppy asked suddenly, springing to his feet, alive with a renewed vigor, "Let's get out there!"

 

"Wait!" Ashk'habat interrupted, "If you are set on heading out there, then there is something you should know."

 

"What is it?" James asked, growing impatient. What would he need to know that hasn't been told already?

 

"Harrow would return to the ruins often, and he'd bring one or two of his off-world lackeys with him. He'd lead them deep into the sand-buried structure, and remain there for several hours before returning, sometimes longer. I don't know exactly what happened in there, but the trip... changed them." The tall reptile's voice continued on, growing more grave, and more uncertain as the subject went away from what he knew, to what he could only guess at. "When the
off-worlders first arrive, they all have that puffed up mercenary's bravado about them, the fabricated confidence I've seen countless times before. But when they return from the Krazoic ruins, they are... ghostly, absent of any emotion, of expression. They are completely focused, like monks in meditation, but somehow sinister, vacant–"

 

"Um, guys?" Pigma piped up as he looked around, worried, "Has anyone seen Scott?"

 

They all looked around, scanning the cavern, but there was no sign of Scott anywhere.

 

Rachelle shook her head, and brought her hand up over her face, "Oh no..."

 

"Come on!" James shouted as he started toward the cavern's exit, revitalized with new purpose, "We have to go after him!"

 

----------------------

/

 

Harrow sat outside, on the highest point of the broken ruins, where the dry wind whipped and tugged on his white hair. The sun was going down now, hovering only just above the moon, making the heat a little less unbearable. In a few more hours, the sky would darken, and the desert would then play host to an bitter yet iceless cold. The Cerinian felt a lone presence approaching fast, probably one of Ashk'habat's men on a hoverbike. He could be another of the fools who would challenge him; unlikely though. It was probably just the supply runner that Ashk'habat had agreed to send daily. That lizard knew the price if he failed to uphold his agreement. Still, never hurts to be prepared...

 

The presence was soon accompanied by a small billow of dust streaking along the sands, and the slow crescendo of an engine whine: hoverbike. Harrow sprang to his sandaled feet, adjusted the harness that held the unexpanded staff under the sweater, and made his way down. He bounded effortlessly from stone to stone, sliding down inclines with perfect control, always absolutely sure of his footing, of his surroundings.

 

The Cerinian reached the sand at the bottom a few moments later, and found that the hoverbike had come to a stop nearby. The rough-cloaked figure dismounted, a little clumsy it seemed, his movements not quite as natural as Ashk'habat's riders should have been. The cloaked figure saw Harrow, and started toward the Cerinian. The spark of suspicion prompted Harrow to pry a little deeper into the rider's mind. His mind felt something like the fools who'd first greeted him when he returned, but it was sharper, harder, more refined. He had such singular purpose, such focus, all fueled by revenge, and it was such a very personal flavor of revenge...

 

Ah.

 

He knew exactly who this mind belonged to.

 

"You are not one of Ashk'habat's men." Harrow stated dryly.

 

As if in reply, the cloaked figure reached over his shoulder behind his back. Then with a grating, tearing noise, the cloak was cut away, it's tattered remains falling to the sand at the rider's feet. What was revealed was a dark furred terrier in a set of military-style fatigues, holding a sword. The wiry canid glared back at the Cerinian, through eyes that may as well have been a pair of infernos.

 

No need for words.

 

Harrow reached behind his back under the sweater, then drew the staff and expanded it so quickly that it it seemed to materialize from nowhere.

 

The two of them stood there for a wonderfully tense moment. Each assumed their respective fighting stances, scrutinizing the other. It was the calm before the storm about to erupt between them, and it'd only end with at least one dead.

 

He was going to enjoy this...

 

----------------------------------

 

Author Notes:

 

 

Sorry for not posting here in forever. I have no excuses. I can only hope that with my huble offering of the chapter, you'll be able to forgive me my absence.

 

Also, you can follow the story on FF.net: http://www.fanfiction.net/s/7334279/15/Star-Fox-Legacy-Volume-II

 

[chaos_Leader]

He who fights monsters should see to it that he himself does not become a monster. And if you gaze for long into the abyss, the abyss gazes also into you.

-Friedrich Nietzsche-

 

----------------------------------------

怪物ã¨æˆ¦ã†è€…ãŸã¡

Those Who Fight Monsters

----------------------------------------

 

The sun inched behind Titania's gigantic moon Oberon, creating a sudden and early twilight. The great silver orb went black with a point of light on its edge. As the dimmed sunlight passed through the dusty air, it created the eerie image of a great black circle on the horizon, set against a blood-red sky. Everything the light struck cast long shadows
 

With his impact claymore drawn and held in a ready stance, Scott stood opposite of the cause of all his recent agony and rage: a Cerinian. By all accounts, he shouldn't have even been that menacing a figure: dressed in everyday street-clothes, and didn't even look a day over thirty. And to think this little blue-furred twink had been able to cause so much grief...
 

Harrow just stood there, his odd staff weapon in hand, looking back at Scott with a venomous sneer, like he knew exactly how this would going to play out. It was insulting. Seeing him like that made Scott want to spit in the punk's face, and then go to work on him in the most excruciating ways imaginable.
 

For a while, they didn't budge an inch. Each spent the silent, tense time scrutinized the other, observing, watching, waiting...
 

Harrow opened his mouth to speak, but whatever he had to say was never said.
 

"HAAAH!"
 

With a savage shout, face twisted in a fierce snarl, Scott shot toward the Cerinian in a ghostly blue flash –the Phantom module– and executed a mighty sword strike with the dash.
 

* Clang! *
 

The strike was caught by Harrow's staff, and was only barely redirected away, leaving the Cerinian staggering under the intense force. Scott simply wheeled the momentum of his opponents counter around and spun into another strike from another angle, just as powerful.
 

Scott's sword technique didn't appear elegant at first glance. That is, it did not at all resemble the showy flourishes of more exotic forms, but that's not to say the terrier didn't have finesse. His form revolved more around positioning, pressure and efficiency rather than show-offish acrobatics. In Scott's hands, the sword was as much a prying lever and grappling tool as it was a striking implement, a true extension of his arm.
 

Harrow's technique made much use of his extraordinary agility, leaping twisting and flipping both to evade attack, and to confuse or intimidate Scott. He kept himself in constant motion, being able to block, attack, evade and counterattack from nearly every position, including the times he was airborne. Each maneuver flowed effortlessly from one to the next to another, every movement smooth and fluid. It was at once spectacular and terrifying.
 

If Harrow caught a strike, Scott would simply reposition and torque his blade into a threatening angle, and press in for the kill. Every time though, Harrow managed to break free at the last moment. The persistent pressure constantly put the Cerinian on the defensive, having to catch and completely redirect Scott's powerful and surprisingly quick strokes before attempting a counterattack. Even these were either caught on the terrier's blade and redirected, or he simply evaded the staff strikes entirely.
 

In those times that Scott closed in when their weapons locked, Harrow might attempt to throw out a kick, but it usually didn't work. With one foot off the ground, all Scott needed to do to throw the Cerinian off balance was apply more pressure in the weapon lock, and the kick was shut down. The only times Harrow could get a solid kick in at all is if the kick-strike was tied in when his staff blocked and redirected a sword blow. Even then, Scott could make an arm free to block the kick, and then move to counterattack.
 

Thus the deadly duel continued for some time, each fighter matching the other blow for blow, stroke for stroke...
 

The terrier and the Cerinian locked their weapons again, face-to-face when Harrow said through a sneer, "Would you like to know how they died, little soldier?"
 

"Stow it!" Scott forced him back, and struck another blow.
 

"It's a fascinating phenomena, death." the Cerinian mused between blows. He didn't sound the least bit winded, or tired, "At the end, when there is no hope of survival: that is when we act most as our true selves. So in a way, having felt them die, I know far more about your fallen comrades than even you."
 

The terrier simply ignored the words, pretended not to hear them, and kept right on fighting. As much as he worked to focus on the fight itself, looking for openings to wedge his strikes into and skewer Harrow, Scott still couldn't dismiss from his head what the Cerinian said, and continued to say.
 

"The old goat thought he was clever, but died a pitiful fool, unable to grasp the truth even when it was placed plainly before him."
 

Ignore the words, he's only trying to distract. Parry, counterattack, evade, strike...
 

"The bird thought himself brave, thought he was a valiant hero, yet acted as a coward would when the end came as he begged for his life."
 

That bastard.
 

The terrier could feel the emotions swirling in his head, threatening to erode his concentration, break his form. As much as he'd like to slice Harrow up and bleed his broken corpse out over the desert, he had to keep the urge in check, so not to do anything stupid.
 

"How will you die, I wonder? Beneath your rage, your hatred: what are you, truly?" Harrow asked, and a sinister little smile came to his face, "Shall we find out?"
 

In the course of the duel, Scott attempted a simple downward stroke, which Harrow redirected to his side, as expected. But just as the block, Scott stepped in, redirecting the momentum of his blocked sword so the handle of the up under the Cerinian's outstretched arm. Scott had him in a perilous bind: the grip of his sword wedged down against Harrow's elbow, while the blade pressed up on the middle of the staff, their grimacing faces only inches apart.
 

In that instant, the smug visage of Harrow fell away briefly to a twinge of surprise. It was only made worse when Scott spat a thick disgusting wad into the Cerinian's not-so-smug face.
 

"Your grim bloody nightmare is what I am." the terrier growled, every word seething with menace.
 

Without a moment of silence afterward, Scott stepped forward and wrenched against the bind. The sheer leverage forced Harrow back on his heels, off balance, and ultimately off his feet. The Cerinian's back slammed into the sand with a dull crunch. Scott had him pinned down.
 

It was a simple matter at that moment to thrust the sword in and finish him, which Scott did... but to his surprise, Harrow had grabbed hold of the blade in his bare hand just as he was about to be skewered. The Cerinian controlled his grip just at the right pressure that the friction would stop the blade, and his hand wouldn't be sliced open. Harrow glared up at Scott with a maniacal grin, face mired by sand and spit...
 

Cute trick, but simple remedy.
 

Scott simply activated the sword's impact mechanism. A dull hum of electricity and a rattling scream from the internal hammer triggered sudden jarring micro-vibrations all along the blade. Harrow's hand couldn't hold a grip against that kind of force, and the blade slipped through his fingers, and plunged into his throat. The Cerinian's dirty, bloodthirsty face bore one last look of utter terror as his blood began to escape, joining the dust and spit on his face, and seeping into the sand below him...
 

It was over.
 

It was all finally over.

 

The battle over and adrenaline spent, Scott at last felt the weariness of the fight, his sore stiff limbs, his breathless lungs as he gasped for much needed air. He yanked his weapon up and–
 

Something wasn't right. There wasn't any blood on the sword blade. He'd sliced through Harrow's hands, and torn open his throat, but the blade was as clean, like it hadn't been used at all. Scott looked down, and found that the Cerinian's bleeding corpse wasn't there: just sand...
 

What?
 

"Did you really think it would be so easy, little soldier?" Harrow's asked. The voice was real enough, but sounded as if it was more than just his ears, like he was speaking directly through the terrier's mind...
 

Scott made a quick survey of the surroundings: sand, broken walls, crumbling ruins. The sun had long since passed behind the moon, leaving just a great black disc against a dull red sky, darkening with every passing moment. And there was Harrow, leaning ever so casually against the wall of one of the larger structures. His arms were crossed over his chest, and the face had that unbearable smug little smirk of his again.
 

At that moment the Cerinian stepped away from the wall, and walked toward an opening.
 

On closer inspection, the structure appeared familiar to Scott. It looked very much like an enlarged head, like the one on the 'Krazoa Golem' he fought so many years ago on Sauria. The structure here may have been constructed from local materials, and broken down by the elements over the years, but the resemblance was unmistakable...

At his easy walking pace, Harrow disappeared into the structure's entrance, the 'mouth' of the head.
 

Confusion was overtaken by rage. Scott took a stance, lined up, and activated the Phantom module again. The terrier shot toward the entrance in a flash of blurred blue streaks, and rematerialized just inside the entrance where Harrow was– where he was supposed to be, at least.
 

The entrance led into a corridor, sloping down into some underground compound beyond. A lot of sand had blown into the gaping entrance, settling into the edges and corners. It was a wonder the corridor hadn't been buried and filled with sand under Titania's harsh elements, or perhaps it had been buried and recently excavated.
 

The stone corridor was lit –only barely– by a strange sourceless glow. Where there should have been utter darkness, there was just enough light to see by, enough light to navigate by...
 

The terrier stepped further into the ruined corridor, in pursuit of Harrow. At the same time though, an alert curiosity began to manifest. What unsettled Scott most though was how eerily familiar it all seemed.
 

"You've seen a place like this before, haven't you, little soldier?" the Cerinian's voice observed.
 

He was right. The broken, crumbling architecture in here was very much like the shrine on Sauria he'd ventured into with Dr. Harrison many years ago. The carvings were of similar design, if a little worn by the invading elements. The eerie glowing light was exactly the same, and grew stronger deeper in, away from the outside.
 

"And so what if I have?" Scott asked aloud, his suspicious voice echoing and bouncing through the stone passageway.
 

"Then, perhaps, you may truly appreciate the power sealed here." Harrow's voice answered.
 

"Power?"
 

"Get back, Scott!"
 

Dr. Harrison had stepped onto the platform, and strode toward the statue-warrior's shattered remains with a determined purpose.
 

"You have no idea what that is."
 

He was seeing images from his past resurface, hearing long forgotten voices. Even as he relived the moments, he was still very aware of his surroundings, like the past images simply superimposed over what his eyes could see in the here-and-now.
 

"And you do?" Bewildered, Scott backed away from the glowing apparition and let Harrison take his place.
 

The slim hound answered Scott's question with a solemn nod as he gazed upon the hazy blue patch with a similar wonderment as a child. "And I'll know even more soon enough."
 

The cloud descended, and hovered in front of Harrison for a few moments, then surged forward, knocking the lanky canine off his feet as he became engulfed in the glowing aurora, but he didn't fall. Instead, Harrison was lifted several feet off the ground, where he hung in the air suspended by nothing at all. The glowing blue aurora began to fade, and Harrison sank back to the floor on his hands and knees, drained by the experience...
 

"Power, little soldier." the Cerinian's disembodied voice confirmed, "You've seen it before."
 

* Crack! *
 

A flash of blueish light silhouetted the the soldier's head before could finish, and his lifeless body collapsed to the ground as it went limp. Harrison was there on the other side, with an open hand extended where Buckley's head was a moment earlier. His eyes were ablaze with a searing blue light, and his face contorted in a ghastly grimace.
 

The three remaining soldiers snapped their assault rifles into fire-ready positions, all aimed directly at the crazed figure of Arno Harrison. Their discipline was solid, showing no fear given the unexpected turn of events, but they still hesitated a moment, and that moment was long enough...
 

The slim hound drew his lips back in a toothy grin as he brought his hands out in front, both of which ignited in a luminescent blue aurora.
 

* Crack! *
 

Claws of lightning erupted from his outstretched arms, striking each of the camo-clad figures in their faces before they had chance to fire. The jungle clearing shone brighter for a time, lit-up by Harrison's blazing arcs of electrostatic discharge. The soldiers' agonized cries of pain were barely heard, smothered over by the lightning's screech and crackle...

"But what you witnessed so long ago: it is only the smallest fraction of what is possible..."
 

That wasn't Harrow's voice this time. It was a woman's, someone Scott was afraid he'd never see again...
 

For the first time in a very long time, the dark terrier's features became, awash in a flurry of emotion. Anger and fear washed away, replaced by relief, fear, skepticism, but above all: hope. It was a strange kind of hope, one that he desperately wanted to be true, but also not...
 

"Chaks?"
 

Scott's voice was weak, trembling. The iron grip of his fist loosened, and all the rigid tension in his body went slack. Then he saw her...
 

It was little more than a silhouette at first, a dim outline in the ethereal blue glow. When Scott approached closer, nearly stumbling with every step, the outline assumed the form of Chakori Uncia. There was no mistake, it was her, in the flesh. The ashen leopardess may have been a little more haggard than when he last saw her, but it was in-fact her–
 

Something wasn't right...
 

It was the eyes. In Chakori's eyes was the very same pale glow of light that Arno Harrison had; the same glow that Harrow had. And the rest of her face: it was the blankest, most ghastly expressionless thing imaginable, like a traumatized thousand-yard stare, but it was more than that. Her features betrayed not one shred of emotion, not one hint of thought.
 

"Chaks, can ye hear me?" the terrier asked, his weak voice becoming far more desperate, "It's your Scott!"
 

The was no answer from Chakori, no response of any kind to Scott's presence. She simply continued to stare off into nothing.
 

"No..." Scott said, nearly a whisper, and shook his head, fighting back the despair and confusion, "No! This is some sort of trick!"
 

"Is it though?" Harrow's smug voice said, and the Cerinian himself then stepped out into view, further down the corridor.
 

All of the tension that had faded away and all of the rage that had dissipated returned to Scott at that vary instant. Without thinking, his sword was up, and he was already charging toward the blue-furred bastard with murder in his blood.
 

"RRAAAAAGH–"
 

He was stopped.
 

In the same instant, Scott found himself being flung backward several feet before landing heavily on his back. When he looked up, to both his horror and confusion, he found Chakori standing over him. The glow in her eyes had only gotten brighter, more ominous as she advanced toward the startled terrier, and drew her distinctive forward-deflected knife.
 

------------------------

/
 

James McCloud ripped through Titania's Setarea desert, riding a hoverbike borrowed from Ashk'habat's group, with an assault rifle strapped to his back, sidearm at his hip, and survival knife on his belt. The sky had grown suddenly dark during the ride, with the sun lost further and further behind the moon Oberon every minute. It was now reduced to a dark reddish shade, but still with enough light to see by, for now at least.
 

For a while, it seemed like the featureless desert would stretch on for infinity: a flat plane of bloody rusty red that never changed, never ended, never began, but simply was. James knew the way he was supposed to go to reach the Krazoic ruins Ashk'habat discussed –east– and the compass on the hoverbike pointed him in that direction. If it were not for that simple means of navigation, it would've been so very easy to become lost in the infinite void, in the unending flat nothing. As it was though, it should simply be a matter of time.
 

Sure enough, some several minutes later, a tiny dot could be made out against the distant hazy horizon. It wasn't much at first, but it expanded and grew larger as James raced toward it, assuming the shape of a larger round-topped structure. It rose some fifty or more meters into the air, or so; scale was a little hard to make out at this distance...
 

There was something else.
 

In the sky, far above, another shape was beginning to take form, and a distant low rumble began to overcome the immediate scream of the hoverbike's engine. It was a starship, descending through the atmosphere. As James came nearer and nearer to the Krazoic ruins, and the ship descended further, he soon recognized the shape and silhouette of the descending vessel: the Schwarzwind, Captain Jäeger's ship.
 

In a few minutes' time, James found himself within the Krazoic ruins, surrounded by broken walls and crumbling stone. He parked the hoverbike next to the large round structure and dismounted, rubbing his tired squinting eyes, and uncomfortably understanding why the riders always wore their goggles. He looked up at the structure, getting a better look. It was shaped something like a primate's head, but it was all somehow alien, foreign, elusive... He couldn't shake the feeling that there was something just not about the whole thing.
 

The Schwarzwind descended even lower over the ruins now, its massive g-diffusers painting the the dry cooling air with a roar as it hovered overhead. Then another far smaller shape had emerged from the Schwarzwind, and descended rapidly toward the ground with a much higher-pitched whine that grew louder as it approached. Jame's ears pricked up, he immediately recognized the whine of that drive: twin Space Dynamics Shooting-Star plasma thrusters, ones the Cooenys finally installed on the Mercutio, but only after James had insisted, relentlessly, and for many months, that the old bird desperately needed an upgrade.
 

Rick was aboard the tiny spacecraft, no doubt about it. What could he be bringing to the party here?
 

The answer would come soon enough, since a few moments later the Mercutio touched down at a flat portion of the ruins, blowing some dust into the air as the craft settled. The boarding ramp went down, and three figures disembarked: two James recognized, and one he did not...
 

"Jim?!" the raccoon greeted, his voice and face plastered in astonishment, "What're you doing here?"
 

"I'd ask you the same thing..." James began, but then noticed the others who were accompanying Cooney, "Umm... Rick?"
 

"Yeah?"
 

"Did I miss something?" the fox asked, pointing out the white wolf in particular, "Are we friends now, or something?"
 

On hearing this, that wolf stepped forward. He was dressed mainly in plain street-clothes, but also sported a military-style harness with enough firepower to hold his own in a firefight.
 

"Oh right, I remember this guy: the grumpy pilot." Wiley said as he looked over James, "Didn't you try to kill me?"
 

"No." James denied, growing irritated, "You were the one who tried to kill me, after you killed the rest of my squad! Rick, what the hell is he doing here?!" the fox demanded.
 

"This is not the time–"
 

"After the shit he pulled, you're working with him now, like nothing happened?!" James interrupted.
 

"If you got something to say, feel free to say it to my face, you self-righteous little bitch!" Wiley barked, stepping between Rick and James, leering at the fox "They're dead, people die, get over it!"
 

"Enough!" someone else shouted. It was a woman's voice, someone James didn't know, and somehow carried more weight than a voice ought to...
 

The voice belonged to a middle aged vulpine woman, with gray fur. There was something about her though that didn't quite feel right...
 

"We cannot afford to bicker among ourselves," the mysterious old vixen continued, putting herself in the middle of the commotion, "not when we have greater challenges in front of us.
 

"And who are you, exactly?" James asked her, more than a little suspicious.
 

"I am Cassandra, another one of Mr. Cooney's new friends..." she answered, taking a good long look at McCloud before adding, quietly, "He didn't mention you... strange..."
 

Before James could ask what was so strange, Rick stepped in, and steered James away from the others, "Jim it's... kind of a long story. I'll fill you in later. So, where's everyone else?"
 

As if in response, three different engines closed in all at once. One was the Havoc fighter flying overhead, along with the heavily armed shuttle from Cerberus –the one that had been sitting in the sand– flying alongside. A trio of screaming hoverbikes closed in as well: Ashk'habat and two of his cloaked riders.
 

"Whoa there Jimmy!" Peppy'd voice barked in over the comm. He was in Scott's Havoc fighter again, "You didn't think we were gonna let you go out here all by your lonesome, were ya?"
 

"I see the gang's all back together again." Rachelle observed via the same comm channel, "I've got Pigma with me on the shuttle, he's manning the guns." and at that, the turret on the hovering shuttle swiveled all the way around.

At the same time, Ashk'habat and his men dismounted, and the towering reptile approached James, with a look of great concern on his face, "You are brave to pursue your wayward comrade," he said in his raspy, accented voice, "but rash to do so alone, especially in this cursed place."
 

"You must be Ashk'habat." Rick observed.
 

"And you must be the other Cooney." The towering reptilian responded in-kind, "Your sister made mention of you, and there is resemblance between your faces."
 

"I get that a lot, but anyway; wayward comrade you say?" the raccoon asked.
 

"Scott's here, somewhere..." James explained over his shoulder, already looking around the darkened ruins, "He slipped away from us and came here on his own, going after Harrow we're pretty sure." in his brief search, the fox found patches of recently scuffled sand, leading into the entrance of the large head-shaped structure, "He's gotta be inside here–"
 

A sudden feeling of dread washed over James McCloud, seemingly without cause. It was like he had seen something horrible, something downright wrong, but couldn't place the source. The simple fact that he couldn't identify the fear was unsettling by itself...
 

You are too late.
 

There was a voice, but he did not hear it in his ears. He knew this voice, heard it before, in a nightmare...
 

"You okay, Jim?" he heard Rick ask, and he came to his senses. He was standing right next to McCloud, looking at him with that same old patronizing look James had grown to know all too well. It was the 'I know something isn't right and you can't deny it' look.
 

All of your efforts, your steadfast toil: it has been in vain.
 

"We're wasting time standing around!" James growled as he unslung the rifle strapped across his back, and stepped toward the entrance, "Come on, let's go!"
 

"No Jim, wait!" Rick called out.
 

"What?!"
 

When James McCloud snapped around to face Rick, he was changed. His steel blue eyes glared with a razor sharpness, brow low and solid. Rick had seen that sort of look recently, in Scott, as he was slowly gnawed at by revenge.
 

"Jim, just... listen to me." Rick implored, trying hard not to sound pushy as he made his points, "Harrow is going to get inside your head, make you see things, hear things, feel things that aren't true. He will claw his way into your mind and find ways to confuse you, make you forget yourself, drive you insane, and Lyla only knows what else. That's what he does. That's how he takes on forces far greater than himself. That's how he has endured as long as he has, against all odds–"
 

"If you've got a point Rick, then make it." James spat back at the raccoon.
 

How to explain to him?
 

James hadn't had the revealing experiences that Rick and Wiley had with Cassandra: experiences that prepared them for this very encounter. As far as Richard Cooney was concerned, the young vulpine pilot simply wasn't ready to face Harrow, not any more ready than the slain Cerberus crew was. The risks here were too great: James would be a major liability going up against Harrow.
 

There were also the more personal reasons, ones which Rick tried to ignore...
 

"...That's why I can't ask you to come with me after Harrow." the raccoon finally said,
 

There was a moment, however brief, that James seemed as though he might relent, but that moment was gone in an instant.
 

The fox's steely gaze only hardened as he said in a quiet grumble, "You don't have to ask."
 

He turned away from Rick, and simply marched right on inside the entrance on his own.
 

"Somehow, that guy doesn't quite strike me as the walk-away-from-a-mission type." Wiley said offhand as James disappeared into the structure.
 

"True, that one has a strong will, very strong." Cassandra agreed.

 

"I know..." Rick said with an aggravated sigh, shaking his head, "and it's going to get him killed."
 

He stopped himself.
 

This wasn't the time to get frustrated by the fickle tendencies of emotionally confounded people. That's just how people work sometimes. This was instead the time to focus, time to make up a plan on the fly... What were the immediate circumstances? 1) Harrow and Scott were inside the foreboding looking structure, their current situation unknown, likely not good. 2) Jim just went inside, should be easy enough to catch up with him. 3) Cassandra and Wiley were outside, along with Ashk'habat and his two companions. 4) Above was Peppy in the Havoc fighter, along with Rachelle and Pigma in the revived assault shuttle from Cerberus. Higher above was the privateer vessel Schwarzwind, looming over the whole scene.
 

Time to go to work...
 

"Wiley, get yourself in there, now." Rick ordered, "Make sure Jim doesn't do something dumb, and... try not to provoke him."
 

"This just keeps getting better and better, doesn't it?" the wolf scoffed as he went inside, arming himself with the handgun at his belt.
 

Rick turned to Cassandra next, who seemed to already have a response.
 

"I cannot confront Haran directly." She began, shaking her head slowly, "He has become too powerful, too unstable, and I was never meant for battle. Yet, Haran must be stopped."
 

"I'm not asking you to fight." Rick assured her.
 

"Nor do I intend to." Cassandra confirmed, then gave the raccoon just enough of a smile to dispel any further doubts, "Do not worry, Cooney. I will do what I can to help, but I must do so from out here."
 

Rick gave the older Cerinian a knowing nod, and addressed the silent towering reptile next.
 

"Ashk'habat, Can you keep her safe until we return?" the raccoon asked, motioning toward Cassandra.
 

"I will guard her as I would guard my own." he assured, giving a small nod in acknowledgement.
 

Cassandra, Ashk'habat and his riders made their way to the landed Mercutio. The desert would get very cold very quickly at night, and they'd need the shelter.
 

Without missing a moment, Rick activated the small earpiece comm and tuned into the channel those flying above him were using, "Rachelle, Pigma, Peppy, I need you to regroup aboard Schwarzwind, but stay ready. If there's any nasty surprises on their way to meet us, I want you to be the first ones to punch that surprise in the gut."
 

"Heh, cute imagery for a dull task." Rachelle replied with a little chuckle.
 

"You sure y'all don't want us down there?" Peppy asked.

"I'm sure." Rick answered, then turned off his comm before adding, "I'm very sure."

Cooney looked up into the now nearly black sky, watching as the two airborne spacecraft ascended away from the scene toward Schwarzwind.

Rick closed his eyes a moment, and simply listened.

With the conversations over, and the whine of engines dying away, it grew very quiet at the ruins. There was little else besides the distant rumble of Schwarzwind, and the gentle whistle of wind and blowing sand...

When he opened his eyes again, Rick was looking straight at his hallucinated duplicate –his "shadow" as Cassandra had called him– and his shadow was looking right back.

There were no words exchanged. Rick simply gave his doppelgänger a pleased little smirk, and started walking toward the entryway, where the faint bluish glow was all the more visible amidst the growing darkness. With a sense of cool-headed purpose in his step, the raccoon descended into the Krazoic structure, side-by-side with his all-too troublesome shadow.

This time, however, the doppelgänger would help in causing just the sort of trouble they'd need.

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Author Notes:

 

Aaaaaand we're finally hitting the home stretch of this story arc!

 

Like a lot of my chapters so far, this one was going to be part of a much longer chapter, but it swelled. Besides, I want to give the upcoming climax (next chapter, I swear!) the full attention and awesomeness it deserves.

 

As always, your feedback, whatever it may be, is most welcome.