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How Legends are Made

When a goal matters enough to a person, that person will find a way to accomplish what at first seemed impossible.

-Nido Qubein

PART III: R&D

TO: Dr. Craig Oswald, GENESIS Executive Administrator

FROM: Dr. Catherine Raven, Lead researcher for Project Salvation

RE: Progress Report

SUMMARY:Research pending

MESSAGE:

Despite the new lab conditions here in Colorado and the newest gene splicing techniques, progress so far has been minimal. We have had a few breakthroughs, but so far the only concrete developments are less than satisfactory.

To start with, some of our genetic material has become contaminated. Whether this was due to our recent transportation by your 'Expeditors' having been far from ideal, or from natural sample degradation, we do not know. But what we do know is that the last twenty-three trials have been met with dismal failure. As far as we could determine, the initial mutations on the most recent batch had started in the pre-feotal stage, and by the time they had reached a viable rate of development they had begun to sprout growths and were suffering from cellular reproduction failure. They had mutated far beyond acceptable parameters and had to be purged. This is a terrible turn of events because we had high hopes with the latest batch as they had probably been the closest generation that we have had so far to success.

Since the discovery of the corrupted genetic material, I have ordered a full scan of our assets in an attempt to root out the problem. Our caches of genetic material on the ES-02, ES-04, ES-07, and ES-12 subspecies have been deemed as irreparable and we have chosen to stop research on all four. The material for ES-03, ES-14, and ES-15 has been damaged only slightly, but I have decided to halt our research into these due to their poor test results and the amount of time it would take to repair the damage that has been done.

As expected, ES-05, ES-06, ES-08, and ES-09 have proven to be the most resilient and have subsequently escaped damage. Oddly enough, they are all of the genus Canis, and I have attributed this to the fact that we have a relatively thorough understanding of their genetic make-up in comparison to the others, which allows us to have more freedom in our experimentation with the DNA implantation.

Of all of these, ES-06 has proven to be the most successful of the three. As you know, ES-06 is the Canis Lupus strand and was the one we have the highest hopes for at the moment due to the stability of the DNA. As it so happens, we had an incident involving this strand before we had to leave our previous facility.

Preceding the 'Humanist' attack of Facility 53B by a matter of only three days, we had managed to create a functioning, and perfectly healthy, zygote that would have been ideal for implantation within a day. The ES-06 zygote was showing all the signs of a an ideal candidate; the phospholipid bilayer of the cell membranes were strong and properly situated, the nuclei all showed the correct number of chromosomes, the cells were dividing properly, and there was even regular brain formation occurring. It looked as if we had we had discovered success until the final stage of genetic splicing. After the final treatment the zygote began to break down and degenerate at an astounding rate despite the introduction of both stem cells and correction hormones. All the signs point to the RNA being corrupted by chemical-92745 and being unable to pass through the nuclear pore system. This would explain the failure in cell division that was experienced. Sadly, we lost control of its growth and had to abort the project. We have been unable to recreate this occurrence with any decent accuracy since, but several other attempts have shown some promise.

Despite our inability to recreate the event, I believe that we are close and I will outline why. Up until now we have been using only genetic data from the current gene templates given to us by the G1 gene project program. I believe that we would have far more success with the progenitor strand; the full wolf itself. However, despite Dr. Yarith's own research here, we do not possess any samples or even basic data. My team is undermanned and Cain says that his is also occupied, though I highly doubt it. They have just finished the first generation of the Project Luna and are now running tests on the subjects, leaving most of the rest of his team free to hold each others' pricks and screw around uselessly. Nevertheless, there is no way in which we could launch an expedition at the moment to procure any field samples.

As a result, I have put all of our efforts into producing a 'test strain' from the gene project strand, removing most of the human components to try and get it as close as possible to the root DNA. Tests using this strand have proven far more promising, but are still a ways from being successful and I doubt they will be. But several, more reliable, tests have so far confirmed my hypothesis involving the progenitor DNA.

In summary, we are at a standstill. We will try and make do with what we have, but success will be very restricted. Unless, that is, you have a spare wolf hanging around somewhere.

-Catherine

P.S.: The war here has seemed to die down and I think that the gene forces have actually succeeded in taking control of Denver and the surrounding area. Whether this is for better or worse is yet to be seen.

P.P.S.: I can't believe the Eiffel Tower was taken down. But I guess it was just a matter of time.

TO: Dr. Catherine Raven, Lead Researcher for Project Salvation

FROM: Dr. Craig Oswald, GENESIS facility director

RE: Progress Report

SUMMARY: Good news

MESSAGE:

This may seem odd, but that an old friend of yours may have what you need. Several of my informants in the Denver area have noticed that a certain colonel has a new pet. Apparently, he procured it in the few days following your evacuation from Facility 53B. This new 'pet' is none other than a Gray Wolf, and the answer to your prayers.

How you are going to get a sample, though, is beyond me. Smith is supposedly quite enamoured with his new friend, not to mention their 'general', Sasha Daystar (we both know how you two would get along), which would no doubt make getting close to the animal difficult.

On a side note, if Dr. Yarith is giving you trouble, just threaten him with a newspaper; that old dog will back down. Or get Miller to give him a bloody nose. Second thought, just unleash Miller. It would be nice to see Cain knocked down a notch.

-Craig

P.S.: Try not to look at Sasha as a gene project, instead see her as a person who could completely fuck up your day. ;D

**

CHAPTER 1

Denver, Colorado

2301 Hours, September 19** th ***, 2052*

Owen pushed the wooden door open and started taking off his jacket. He slipped out of his shoes, kicking them haphazardly into the closet and hoping that Romulus wouldn't get to them. He let out a heavy sigh as he made his way into the apartment from the doorway.

It had been a stressful day in Denver.

Though the war was gone, at least for the moment, it may well have stayed. The situation wasn't quite 'degrading' but it wasn't getting any better. At least, not very quickly. Life was starting to resume a normal pace now in the region, but many things were still either disrupted or gone entirely. The battle that had raged in the city for the past two years had destroyed so much that had been taken for granted.

For starters, global communication was patchy at best. At its worst, it was completely non-existent. It was a fight to get any kind of communication beyond simple radio channels set up with any degree of clarity, many of the television and radio masts having been either damaged or destroyed within the first few months of the war that had swept like a plague across the globe. And even when it was working properly, the news gathered from other areas was not very cheerful. If anything, sometimes ignorance truly was bliss.

Europe was in disarray. The line had been drawn in the sand. And then it had been kicked out, only to be drawn again. And then erased again. The cycle had repeated so many times that the continent now lacked almost all semblance of its former self, now completely fractured and feuded over. Countries no longer truly existed, the fight having completely engulfed the entirety of the continent with no regard as to political borders.

Berlin was a mess, the streets of the city having become one large labyrinth of horrible street-to-street fighting and needless predation. The two main factions had become several smaller groups, all now having a hand in bringing the once-great city to its knees. There were no longer any front lines, safe zones or hotspots. Armed groups of soldiers and regular people took refuge where they could, and strategic locations changed hands almost by the hour.

Paris was faring just about as bad, though the fighting was more or less regulated to two larger groups. Apparently, the Eiffel Tower was gone, taken out by a stricken fighter jet in its way to the ground. The Louvre was now just so much rubble, its hallowed halls now reduced to toppled walls. La Arc de Triumphe was still standing, incredibly, and there was now a large military force using it as a staging area. The city was still largely contested, neither side having gained an edge or advantage over the other. It was quickly becoming a simple war of attrition similar to the old battles of World War I. Only instead of hills and fields, the fighting was centralized over a city, with the sides facing off against each other from across a stretch of streets and buildings, reducing them to only so much rubble.

London... There was no word from London. All signals had been cut off a long time ago, in the opening stages of the war. Owen liked to hope for the best, but he knew that such thinking always only seemed to disappoint him. He had officially written the country off as 'Hostile' until evidence could prove otherwise.

Much of the world was steeped in combat, but some small areas of peace still remained. These small places of refuge brought a bit of hope to the otherwise dark world.

Australia was the most untouched of them all, from what Owen could gather, almost as if it were a lone observer in the world conflict. Word from the country was sparse, but all signs pointed to it being mostly a gene project-friendly nation. Owen found himself wondering how they had managed it, jealous beyond all words.

Japan was largely at peace, a far cry from mainland Asia where it seemed that hell had clawed its way onto Earth and set up a seat of permanent residence. Contact with the island-country was sporadic but unhurried, coming in garbled transmissions relaying a general message of peace around the world. They had became a sort of refuge in the conflict but, with an overly large population to begin with, what refuge it could offer was limited at best.

Iceland was currently playing host to some six million refugees, but it so far seemed to be going well for the small country. It was a fur-friendly zone, something that may people were grateful for. And that others hated. It wouldn't be long until the Humanist forces turned their attention towards them. Owen hoped that they were ready, knowing that any conflict would be a long and bloody affair for both sides.

Then there was North America. It was divided into a series of split city-states and controlled regions now. Much of what used to be the United States of America had experienced large-scale revolts in the major cities, but the majority of the fighting had taken place along the Rocky Mountain range on the Western coast, the Humanists on the west and gene projects on the east.

And now, because of that, Denver was being recognized as a city of strategic import. It was positioned perfectly to control movement over the mountains, if you overlooked the fact that the I-70 was now as useful as a trail of breadcrumbs due to a bombardment from the Kinetic Strike System's final show of force. And that a good portion of the city was in ruin from the initial KSS strikes. But it was still useful as a staging post for defence or attack operations along the mountain range.

Thankfully, it was in fur-friendly hands. It had been for little over a month now. But it was almost more simple being at war, at least from Owen's point of view. People were starting to become more hungry now, the large imports of food long-since having died off, and were clamouring over one another to get at the food handed out by the paramilitary forces that constituted the gene project military. Real estate was at an all-time high now that many homes were no longer fit for residence and the city was seeing an influx of refugees that poured in from surrounding areas. On top of all of that, some people still believed that the city should be in Humanist hands.

And that's what Owen had been doing all day, every day, since being rescued from the Eldora resort; showing them that they were wrong. From kissing sick babies, to stopping hordes of looters, to putting down predatory murderers, he had been trying to make relations between the gene force soldiers and civilians less tense. For the large part, he was making very little progress. People just don't like having armed troops in their backyard setting up a defensive position. Or the threat of invasion looming over their heads like the sword of Damocles.

Owen shook his head to rid himself of the dreary thoughts. It was over for today. He needed to rest. He needed some strength for tomorrow.

"Oh, there you are!" said Sasha as she looked up to greet him from the small kitchen that dominated a third of the quaint little apartment that they now called home. "I was starting to get worried."

Sasha Daystar dropped the wooden spoon on the counter and came around it to give him a heartfelt hug, wrapping her furred arms about his midsection and leaning into him sweetly. He hugged her back happily, glad that she was there to perk up his spirits.

Sasha was technically the city's new 'governor' now that the military operations had, for the most part, ceased in the area. She had served as the de facto fur military commander in this theatre for the last two years and had, if anything, excelled at the role. With a little help from Owen, of course. But he wasn't about to steal away any of her thunder. She had been almost as busy as Owen had been since their close rescue, but had given herself a few days off at Owen's stubborn hypocrisy, her mate claiming that she was nearly working herself to death. When she asked why he didn't take a break as well, he had claimed that he 'can manage'.

A patient and intelligent person, the arctic fox morph looked almost as tired as Owen did. Her ears, though focused, were dipped in a fashion that Owen had come to associate with fatigue and her tail sagged low, exhausted. Her violet eyes were happy, though, and he was glad to see it.

Her nails clicked on the tile floor as she strode towards him, her digitigrade legs partially hidden behind an apron and her white hair up in a neat ponytail. "I was wondering if you would make it back in time for a late-night snack." She gestured behind her at the spaghetti she had been making. Steam rose up from the bubbling pot, and the scent of it ebbed and flowed about the room due to the white fan that was plugged into the wall at the far side of the room.

"Me too." he said, leaning in to give her a short kiss on the top of her canine muzzle and bringing a small bit of pink to the insides of her ears. He took a breath. "It smells good." he declared. She broke off the embrace to return to her cooking, once more picking up the spoon and stirring the spaghetti about in the pot with one paw on her hip.

"Thank you." she smiled over to him. "It's not much, but I figured it would be filling."

"I'm sure it will be." he said as he made his way to the fridge and started digging through it, trying to find something that he could drink. Finding nothing of interest, he closed it and watched her cook.

Sasha hummed gently to herself as she pushed the noodles about in the boiling water. Her tail gave a small flick as she added a bit of salt to the pot and he found his eyes studying her intently. His gaze settled on her backside but he started as she turned to face him, snapping his attention upwards.

He seemed to get away with it.

"Where were you, anyways?" she asked, crossing her arms under her ample breasts. He tried not to notice. Her eyes seemed to search his very soul, and he doubted he could get away with a lie, so he didn't even try.

"Out helping Tracer and Paul barter some weapons off of some scavengers." he replied with a shrug. It had gotten a little... messy... but she didn't need to know that. The reason he had taken so long was because he had needed to bring the dead bodies to one of the newly set-up disposal zones.

"Did it go well?" she asked as she waved her arm for him to get out of the way as she reached for something in a cupboard. Her arm brushed past his shoulder and he turned to look at her.

"As well as it could have." he said noncommittally. She saw through it and gave him an exasperated look as she closed the wooden cupboard and returned to her position by the stove, still turned above the waist to regard him.

"Is that so?" she frowned. She shook her canine-esque head slowly, her eyes closing for a second. "How many?"

"A half dozen. Maybe more." answered Owen with a semi-truthful answer. A lie was out of the question, certainly, but she didn't need to know the whole truth. There were easily twice that number. "They must have thought that power armour would fetch them more than we were offering."

Sasha's frown deepened. "Why is it that when we try to help, something always fucks up? Why can't anything ever go smoothly?"

"Beats me." answered Owen as he walked over to her and hugged her from behind, his arms going around her stomach and his head resting on her shoulder. "But let's not worry about that now. We need a break."

She leaned backwards into him as she tipped in a bit of the herbs she had taken from the cabinet. "I suppose you're right..."

Her tail flicked again, but this time something small and grey lunged after it. Sasha was ready for it though, whipping it away at the last second. The wolf pup skittered past, his claws sliding on the tiled floor. Romulus let out a yelp of excitement as he collided with Owen's legs. Owen relinquished the hug and bent down and picked the small animal up around its sausage-like belly. It squirmed a little until it recognized Owen. Then it started making rapid licks at his face.

"Hey there Romulus? You have a boring day?" Owen asked his pet, who responded by panting heavily in his face, the animal's puppy breath washing over him. Owen snorted and scratched Romulus behind the rounded-off ears. The Gray Wolf pup loved it, and leaned into it, tongue darting out cutely and lapping at its nose. "I'll take that as a yes." chuckled Owen.

Romulus had grown a sizable amount in the past month since Owen had found him. His small limbs had taken on a gangly and elongated form and he had lost a lot of his once-substantial layer of fat. His feet were large and gave him a goofy jaunt wherever he moved, but the pup didn't seem to mind. His fur was a soft grey, in keeping with his species's name, and his blue eyes looked up with complete innocence.

Owen had done some research immediately following their arrival back in Denver and had learned some new things about the species. He had needed to immediately find a way to supplement arginine into the animal's supply of food, something that ordinary, powder-form, puppy milk failed to have in any adequate amount. Owen had solved that problem easily enough through an addition of a crushed capsule of an arginine supplement into Romulus's usual canned food. That time frame had passed now, though, and Romulus had slowly been weened But that was the least of his worries; he would need to find a source of actual meat for the pup as soon as he begins to tire of the dog food; kibble would not have everything that he needed to live a healthy life. Since his father had been a trapper when they had owned Rex, it had been easy for him. It would be less so for Owen.

And that was far from the last thing that would be needed. Owen also knew that Romulus would need some sort of interaction from some sort of dog, preferably another animal that could be raised alongside it. He knew that finding another animal would be problematic at best; it wasn't as if there were any more signs with 'free puppies to a good home' scrawled across them in black Sharpie around any more. And he would need exercise. Lots of it. Oh well, Owen thought, maybe I'll get in shape...

"He's been restless all day." said Sasha as she picked up the pot of boiling spaghetti and brought it over to the sink. She used her spoon as a dam to keep the noodles from falling out as she poured the hot water down the drain. Steam swooshed up from the hot water and she pulled her head back, not particularly wanting to get her fur all damp.

"He's getting bigger. It's a miracle this place is still in the shape it is with all of his running around." replied Owen as he dropped Romulus gently to the floor again. He disappeared around the bend of the counter in a grey streak of fur, his claws clacking as he ran off to find some other innocent and hlpless thing to chew on.

"You still think he'll be a good pet?" she asked as she stirred a bit of supper into their meal.

"Yeah." he said. He hadn't really talked to her about all the things that the wolf would need in the future, and he evaded the question by changing the topic. "Mmm... The food smells good." He sidled up next to her, wrapping his arms around her stomach from behind and talking into an ear.

"Calm down, it's just spaghetti." she chided as she shook him off. Owen chuckled and grabbed a few plates and forks from the cabinet to his right.

"Still," he said, "it's not like we have much luxury in food items around here. And it's the second thing I'll have eaten today."

"A little sauce couldn't hurt, though..." she began as she chewed her lower lip.

"It's fine." he said insistently. "In fact, it's perfect." He picked up the plate on which Sasha had just heaped a generous portion of noodles on and waited for her to do the same. "It's filling, quick, and, most importantly, it was in the cupboard."

They sat down at the small table in front of the counter and Sasha brought something up just as he was about to put the first fork-full of spaghetti into his mouth.

"Oh, and Angie dropped in about two hours ago. She says that she needs to speak with you."

"Hmm..." he thought, "what about?"

"She didn't say." she shrugged. She popped a mouthful of noodles into her mouth and chewed thoughtfully.

"Well, I'll have to go see her to-" he began before he was cut off by the small comms unit at his belt chimed, the incessant beeping proving to be the singular most annoying thing that could happen at that moment. He lowered his fork to the plate and snatched it up from where it hung.

"Yeah?" he sighed into the small handheld device, his frustration probably coming through loud and clear on the other end.

"Uh... Sir, I hate to bug you, but I think I need your help." Owen recognized the accented tones of Paul on the other end of the line, his Australian origins making him easy to distinguish from almost everyone that Owen knew.

"For what?" His voice betrayed his annoyance, but Owen couldn't help it. He had been looking forward to catching a small break. Maybe some sleep. And... other things.

"Well, it's.. ah... well, it's Marcus, sir." reported Paul. He seemed a little reluctant to say that, almost as if he felt he was giving somebody away.

"I see..." breathed Owen. He didn't need any more information. Marcus was his responsibility and probably his best friend. Spaghetti, by comparison, was of little consequence. He stood up from the table. "I'll be there." Then to Sasha; "I'm sorry, but I have to go."

She looked almost as disappointed as he felt. She had heard the entire exchange and her ears drooped. "I understand." she nodded. "I'll throw your food in the fridge for when you get back."

"Thanks Sasha." he said as he headed for the door. "I'll try not to be too long, I promise. Love you!"

"I love you too, Owen! And for God's sake, you'd better be back before two!

**

Denver, Colorado

2406 Hours, September 19** th ***, 2052*

The noise of drunken enjoyment and voices going coarse from yelling assailed Owen's ears as he exited the sedan. He closed the door on the midnight blue Camry with a dull thud that bounced off of the bar behind which he was parked. He looked over at the vehicle next to him and frowned.

The boxy form of the hulking Escalade loomed over the smaller Toyota vehicle, the small blue LED on the mirror showing that the alarm was armed, ready for even the smallest bump to touch it off. It seemed dark and foreboding when compared to the plethora of vehicles parked around it, as if it had come uninvited to the parking lot that it now lorded over. A presence that the others merely tolerated. Owen never would have anticipated Marcus to own such a thing, but now it seemed to have absorbed some of its owner's recently acquired attitudes.

Owen sighed heavily and headed for the door. Paul had told him that Marcus needed help, and, as tired and annoyed as he was, Owen liked to think of himself as one of the wolf fur's few friends. Their relationship had originally been one of joyful celebration in 2046, back when Act 3749B had been signed declaring all furs as citizens in Canada. Owen had had his reserves about extending the offer to the fur initially, but his fears had been allayed when Marcus had not only proved to be a reliable soldier, but also one that Owen knew would make a good detachment leader one day.

But now...

Marcus had changed. A lot.

The bouncer stopped him and his thoughts at the door to the establishment. "Hold it." he said. His thick arms were held across his barrel-shaped chest ad his bald head glimmered in the light cast by a flickering lamp above the door. "You got ID?"

"Are you carding me?" scoffed Owen. "Do I look like some amped-up teenager?"

"Sorry, sir." grunted the bouncer over the sounds of a bottle being broken and thumping club music that echoed from inside. "House rules. I need to see ID from everyone. No ID, no entry."

Owen shook his head and took a deep breath. Now was not the time to be difficult. "Fine." He reached inside his pocket and pulled out a small leather-bound identity tag. The plastic card held the seal of the UN Expeditor program and had his name and rank, along with other miscellaneous data, imprinted beside his photo. It wasn't quite a badge of office, but it was close enough.

"Smith, eh?" sniffed the bouncer as he scrutinized the ID with narrowed eyes. "And what the hell is an Expeditor?"

"That's not important. You wanted ID, and you got it. Now let me inside."

"Wait a minute," said the larger man as Owen snatched the card back and pocketed it once more, "are you with that wolf? The one with the... eye?"

Knowing that he wasn't talking about Romulus, he nodded. "Yeah, Marcus Veldt. I know him."

The bouncer nodded slightly and uncrossed his arms. "You'd better get him to calm down. The boss has told me to watch him, and he's getting close to crossing the line."

Owen felt his frown deepen. He heard voices being raised inside, one of them all too familiar.

What has he done now?

"I'll see what I can do." he said as the bouncer let him past and into the bar.

The bar was dimly lit and exploding with people. There was laughing, cheering, sobbing, and weeping all in equal amounts, clogging the air along with the throbbing, and mildly annoying, music. People, humans and furs both, were drowning in drink at tables, at the bar, or, in the case of some, even on the ground. The smell of alcohol was a heavy fog that hung over the large open room and the warmth generated by the large number of bodies packed into the space was stifling. Personal space was almost non-existent, and Owen had to force his way through the wild crowd. They gave way, but the process was long and arduous, like moving through molasses.

Owen pushed and squeezed his way past a group of people cheering on a bobcat fur chugging a tall boy, giving a few platitudes and a wave to the MAV crew as they sought to spend their hard-earned pay, as made his way to the edge of the room. He stuck closer to the tables that lined the inside of the structure and managed to make some decent headway at last, the crowd having mobbed in the centre of the bar. He strained his ears and looked around the building vigilantly, hoping to find some trace of the large wolf fur he was after.

It was his voice that gave him away, and it came in a sluggish, slurred tone.

"No, an' I won' take any of your schit! I fought for thisch goddamned plasche, and, by God, I will put any man in hisch plasche who thiksch I didn'!"

Another voice cut in soon after, this one clear and concise. It conveyed the message of cruel scoffing. "Hah! Fought? More like played bitch to a Humanist with a rifle! Look at you, you sorry mess! You're useless! Couldn't fight properly and got yourself maimed. Did you want me to put that in binary, so you can understand it, Robocop?"

Owen suppressed a physical sigh, going instead for the mental one. It seemed as if Marcus had managed to find a small bit of trouble. Again. This was the fourth time in the past two weeks.

He moved quickly around the curvature of the bar, hoping to stop the fight he knew was about to happen. It was, despite there being small gaps to flit through, hard going. He threw out platitudes by the dozen as he tried to pick up the pace, even managing to spill somebody's beer all over his foot. Then, finally, he saw Marcus through a break in the press.

The wolf fur was tottering about in front a very hacked-off human male, stumbling and basically in no shape to talk, much less fight. His fur was sodden around his neck, a clear indicator that he had spilt more of his last drink than he had managed to land in his mouth, and his biological eye looked dazed and confused. His prosthetic one glowed with a red inner light, the machine parts whirring as they tried to compensate for his obvious intoxication. His prosthetic limb was jabbing an accusatory metal finger into the man's chest as the fur's mouth tried to spew out something resembling a put-down.

The man was positively glowering with violence, the promise of a fight clear in his narrowed blue eyes. A few of the goon's buddies had accumulated around them in a small ring, hoping to reinforce their friend. Though Marcus was probably one of the strongest people that Owen knew, and even had a good head of height over the man and all of his cronies, he knew that Marcus would not be the victor. He needed to stop this before it escalated much further.

"Woah," he exclaimed as he shoved his way past the ring of goons, "what seems to be the problem here?"

"Owen?" asked Marcus, clearly not believing either of his eyes and blinking rapidly. The wolf stepped backwards, his mechanical foot thudding heavily on the floor. The man managed a more useful response.

"This fur here thinks he's a soldier." he spat. "Thinks that he knows how to fight! I intend to show him how a man does it!"

Marcus let out a growl that wouldn't have been out of place being emitted by a tank's engine, but Owen held out a hand to stop him from saying something rash. "Okay, look, let's just all calm down, okay? There's no need for this. I'm sure there are better things to do." He needed to shout to be heard over the dull roar of voices, the pounding music, and abundant laughter, but he managed to affect the air of calmness that he was sure as hell not feeling at the moment.

"And who are you?" spat the man as Owen moved in between the two soon-to-be combatants, "Look, you know what, I don't even care. Out of my way, or else I'll kick the shit out of you, too!"

Oh crap...

"Bring it, asschole!" hissed Marcus as he took a heavy step towards the man.

"Settle down, both of you." said Owen, holding his arms out in a manner intended to calm them. He looked at the man, whose hands had clenched into fists. "If you let him go, I'll buy your drinks for the rest of the night. Deal?"

The man breathed slowly, but a few of his buddies had nodded at the offer and peer pressure was starting to take effect. "Fine." he grated after a moment of encouragement from the circle of his friends, "But keep him out of my sight. Or else I'll finish what the Humanists started." He pointed at Marcus's many prosthetics as he said the last bit.

"Owen-" began Marcus in an attempt to protest.

"Not now, Marcus." he growled. Owen dug around in his pockets for a moment before his hands found the preloaded credit card in his pocket that he had secreted away in anticipation of just such an event. He turned and passed it to the moderately-mollified man. "The PIN is 32485. It's not gene-coded."

The man took it and threw an angry stare up at the wolf fur. He called over his shoulder to his comrades. "See what I mean boys? Frigging fur has to rely on somebody else to fight his battles for him; he's too weak to do it himself."

That was the last straw for Marcus. "You little schit! I'll friggin' kill you!" he spat as he raised his augmetic hand in the air threateningly, winding up for a powerful shot at the man's face. A dull thud sounded in the room.

Owen's hand stung from where he had decked Marcus in the lower jaw, the canine fur's skull being almost as hard as the steel that made up his right arm and augmetic leg. Marcus fell like a sack of bricks, landing noisily on the floor and spitting curses. Owen hated to do it, but he had known that it was the only way to stop Marcus from being beaten to within an inch of his life. The man and his friends laughed as they retreated slowly from the fur and his human companion, winding their way through the crowd and disappearing into the throng of people.

"Wha' the fuck you do that for?" growled Marcus as he attempted to crawl to his feet. He failed and his muzzle sprouted a line of small v's on its top as he let his teeth show in a snarl. He didn't seem to be hurt too bad; Owen knew that he was made of sterner stuff.

"You were going to be killed." shrugged Owen as he offered his hand. Marcus batted it away contemptuously.

"I don' need your help, Owen." he grumbled as he managed to right himself on the second try.

"Look, I'm sorry, but it was for the greater good." apologized Owen. "They would have hurt you a lot more than I just did."

"Ya should've left me alone."

"Never." said Owen with a smile. Marcus threw him an angry look, but turned away after a second. "Now come on; I'm giving you a ride home."

Owen started walking towards the entry, Marcus stumbling along behind him. He fell over once, and let out a stream of curses that would have killed anyone within earshot had they been intelligible. Owen grunted as he pulled the massive fur to his feet. "Shit, Marcus. Why do you do this to yourself?"

Marcus shook his head before closing his eyes, the quick movement having made him dizzy. He stumbled again as Owen caught him. "Don' worry about't." he sniffed.

"Marcus, I'm your commander. But, more importantly, I'm also your friend. If there's something wrong, I want to know." Owen had a good idea about what was eating away at his second in command, the same thing having been at the edges of his mind as well, but decided to play the role of the supportive comrade and give him a way out.

"It'sch nothing." Marcus persisted. Owen gave him a tired look, but Marcus refused to meet it, instead turning his triangular head in the opposite direction. They made it the the back door to the establishment, pushing past the final line of patrons with a minimum of spilled alcohol and pissed-off bar goers.

"Whatever. Come on, we're almost to the car." huffed Owen as Marcus almost fell again and inadvertently leaned most of his very substantial weight onto Owen's soldiers. He allowed Marcus to drape one of his leaden furred arms around his shoulders so that they could make it to the vehicle outside in a more or less direct route. He found himself glad that he hadn't passed out; Marcus was hard enough to move while conscious.

Owen pushed the doors open and walked Marcus outside. He heard the bouncer give a small 'humph' that exuded the unspoken saying 'good riddance', but he ignored it and focused on shifting Marcus across the paved parking lot. Owen picked the keys to the Camry out of his jeans and clicked the unlock button.

"We're takin' your car?" groaned Marcus as Owen propped him up next to the passenger door. Owen opened the door and moved a tablet from the seat, tossing it into the back. He then stood aside and gestured for the wolf fur to climb inside.

"Yeah. You can come back in the morning for your vehicle." Marcus gave a small huff of resignation and an ear flicked in annoyance, but he clambered inside all the same. He let out a hiss as he hit his lupine head on the roof and started another string of swears as Owen closed the door. Marcus barely had the time to pull his tail inside as the door thudded shut, and Owen gave a silent thanks that he hadn't closed the door on it; he didn't need Marcus any more pissed off than he already was.

Owen strode around the front of the car and stepped into the driver's seat. He turned the electronic key in the ignition and the vehicle whined to life. The gauge showed that the batteries were almost completely charged and he slipped it into drive. The vehicle hummed gently as Owen drove around the small driveway to the street in front of the bar and turned left in the direction of Marcus's apartment.

The expeditors had moved out of Grand Central Station about a week ago and taken up residences across the city, basically settling wherever they could. Owen had stayed with Sasha on the southern edge of the city in a two-room apartment on the third floor of a residence building, close to a park and lacking any kind of view. Marcus had bounced around to a few places in the past weeks, never staying anywhere for more than a few days. He currently resided in a suburb off to the west, quite a ways from where they were.

Owen caught himself wondering why Marcus hadn't tried to find a bar closer to home before remembering that there were only about three of the places open in the city at the moment; the war having made it hard to keep one open for very long. Though it was about a good half hour drive from where he was living, it probably was the closest bar.

"Why'd you com'an get me?" slurred Marcus from beside him as he rolled down the window a bit. A juddering noise accompanied the cool night air before Marcus adjusted it to minimize the noise. His fur blew about in the wind and he started digging around in his pockets for something. He finally tugged a package of cigarettes out and plucked one from inside with clumsy fingers. His prosthetic eye clicked as he blinked and fumbled around trying to find a lighter.

"Look in the glove compartment." sighed Owen. When Marcus had started to smoke, Owen wasn't quite sure. He just knew that it had turned into an annoying habit that he found hard to stand. It was just enough to make him drop the act of false ignorance. "And I came to get you because you're starting to tear yourself apart. You have to let it go, Marcus, otherwise you'll go mad."

Marcus stopped searching the open glove compartment, the unlit cigarette held in his canine muzzle. "I'm fine. I don' need somebody to fight my battlesch for me." He turned back to the open compartment and found Owen's silver Zippo. He breathed in a heady lungful of smoke as the end of the cigarette lit up in a cherry red. He extinguished the Zippo, throwing it back into the glove box, as he exhaled, the curling smoke blowing from his nose in a dragon's-breath pattern.

Owen gave it a second, debating whether or not to proceed with the matter. Finally, he conceded that there was no alternative. He pulled the parking break.

The vehicle skidded to a shaky halt on the highway, tires squealing as they locked up. Marcus, who had neglected to fasten his seat belt, was plastered to the door by the centrifugal force as they spun in the middle of the freeway. Luckily, there was very little traffic on the roads any more, and Owen let the break go as he put the vehicle into park. He turned to face Marcus, who was busy trying to pluck the still-burning cigarette away from his crotch.

"What the fuck wasch that for!" he growled as he rounded on Owen.

"Marcus, listen to me!" spat Owen, his anger coming to the fore on one of the very few occasions that he let it. "I've had enough of this, okay? You have to stop doing this to yourself!"

"I'M FINE!" howled Marcus, his teeth flashing and his ears laid back. His prosthetic eye flashed in anger and his upper lip wavered in rage.

"NO, YOU'RE NOT!" cried Owen as he slammed a fist on the steering wheel, his ire matching Marcus's in both intensity and choler. "LOOK AT YOURSELF, YOU DUMB BASTARD!" Owen felt his anger ebb, the emotion having burnt itself out as quick as it had flared up, and now he felt like an ass. He turned away. "Look," he said in a gentle tone. "I know that what happened in Keslow was stressful. I know that you miss the others; I do too. But if you think for one second that it's your fault... I can't even begin to tell you how wrong you are."

Marcus breathed slowly, and looked out the window on his side of the car. The streets were lit at irregular intervals by the few street lights that still functioned and the many buildings around them were dark, some even partially in ruins. The city was a sorry shadow of its former self. When he refused to say anything, Owen continued.

"I looked over the mission report. I know that you did the best you could. But we're at war; shit happens. Sometimes people, good people, die. You just have to live with it, to try and move on."

Marcus let something go under his breath that Owen didn't quite catch.

"What?" asked Owen, knowing that, unlike earlier, he had hit him where it hurt.

"I schaid," snarled Marcus as he turned to look at his commander with a look of utter contempt, "that you need to mind your own goddamned businessch." Owen was shocked. He was just trying to help! Marcus kept going. "You think that you are helping me by bringing thisch up? That you're bein' the 'good commander'? The one who cares for his men? You think that you're bein' a good friend?"

Marcus laughed, a deep and sorrowful noise. "Let me tell you, Owen, that you are far from helping. An' I've had enough." He opened the door, a little bell dinging as it registered an open door, and he got out.

"I've had enough of thisch city!" Marcus gestured angrily behind him at the dark buildings of Denver, accusing them in part for his foul temper.

"I've had enough of thisch war!" He unstrapped the pistol that had been holstered at his hip and chucked it onto the ground.

"I've had enough of these fucking thingsch!" His nostrils flared as he shook his right arm, the metal fingers clicking together as he pulled them into a fist, and pointed to his glowing red eye with his other arm. He seemed to calm down a bit, taking several deep breathes and hanging his head low.

"And... I've had enough 'a you. Of the 'peditor program." He pulled something out of his pocket. It was his Expeditor ID, bound in a leather skin in a fashion identical to Owen's. He tossed it onto his vacated seat. "That man wasch right. I can't do thisch anymore." Marcus slammed the door forcibly and began to walk away.

Owen watched him go, on the verge of going after him. He reached to open his door, but his hand stopped a few inches short of closing around the handle. He looked back out at Marcus.

The large fur was walking down a side street now, stumbling occasionally, the alcohol not even close to being out of his system. His hand closed on the handle and he opened the door. He snatched up Marcus's ID from where it lay and left the Camry, door still open, and chased after him.

"Marcus!" he shouted as he closed on the wolf fur. The gene project turned, anger still present in his piercing gaze. "Listen! Warren and Sam wouldn't want you to give up!"

"How would you know!" spat Marcus as he thudded forwards towards Owen, his steps sure and purposeful. "They're dead becausche of me!"

Owen stopped, not having expected Marcus to turn around. "Are you deaf?!" Owen pleaded. "They are not dead because of you! You didn't kill them; the Humanists did! And if you give up now, Sam and Warren will have died in vain! The Humanists will have won!"

"Will you schtop trying to make me feel better! Juscht schut up, you assch!" roared Marcus as he took a maddened swing at Owen, a slow and inaccurate blow that was meant to connect with Owen's skull.

Owen dodged it easily, sidestepping the fur's whirring prosthetic limb and slipping in past his friend's guard. He threw a swift punch of his own to try and stop Marcus in his tracks. It connected with the fur's midriff just below the ribcage. It was like punching a slab of furred iron for all the help it did, and it made his knuckles pop and his hand ache.

Marcus grunted as the force of the blow caught him, but it didn't stop the towering wolf fur from grabbing Owen around the shoulders and throwing him back forcibly, Marcus growling and spitting as Owen backpedalled fiercely to try and stay on his feet. Owen almost tripped on a discarded bottle, but miraculously managed to stay upright. Marcus came at him again, this time more carefully, like the predatory species he was based on. The adrenaline must have been at least partially been negating the affects of the alcohol.

When he tried a low jab with his left arm, Owen was caught off-guard and took it to the stomach. It made him wince, but he kept his guard up. It was a good thing too, because Marcus thudded his heavy prosthetic across Owen's left forearm in a shot aimed for his head. Owen felt skin part as Marcus's blow connected and a slow trickle of warm liquid started flowing from his arm. He needed to end this before Marcus got carried away and started raining more shots like that down upon him.

He ducked under Marcus's next attack, a vicious right hook that could have took his head off, and quickly swept a leg out to catch Marcus while he was committed to the blow. His shin connected with Marcus's machinelike left lag with a sturdy thump and the scrape of metal on concrete, throwing Marcus off balance. Gravity did the rest.

Owen sighed down at Marcus, taking stock of the cut on his arm as the fur swore and tried to get up again to tear Owen apart. "If you want to quit, fine. But I want you to do it when you are sober. You know where to find me." That said, Owen dropped Marcus's ID on the ground in front of him.

Owen gave a small shake of his head, turned, and stalked off to his car. He didn't look back as he returned to his vehicle and took the parking break off and drove off, leaving Marcus to fend for himself in the recovering city.

**

Sasha got up from the couch, pausing her movie as she heard the front door open. Her ears and eyes swivelled to face Owen as he kicked off his shoes. She thought that he looked for all the world like a dead man walking with the look that was plain on his face.

"That didn't take long." she said as she leaned up against the counter that separated the kitchen from the dining area and brushed an errant strand of hair out of her eyes.

"Yeah." Owen agreed. He sounded every bit as depressed as he looked.

"Run into trouble?" she asked, cocking her head to one side as he unfastened the pistol and Nevermore from around his waist and threw the weapons belt on the table. He sighed as he gave her a small hug before heading for the bedroom.

"Nothing I couldn't handle." he called as tore off his shirt. Sasha could see the menagerie of scars that crossed his back and arms, including the one in the upper part of his right arm where he had taken a bullet a month ago at Eldora. He chucked his shirt into a hamper before disappearing from view around the door frame.

"Is that so?" she frowned as she headed for the bedroom herself. She stopped in the doorway as he reemerged wearing a pair of pyjama pants, a habit he claimed was second nature due to his upbringing along the northern shore of Lake Superior. Her eyes lingered on the white bandage that he had tied around his forearm, and he noticed her small look of shock.

"Well..." he said.

"Owen, what happened?" she asked. Her eyes flared with a intensity that said she wasn't in the mood for lies or half-truths.

"Marcus is pretty pissed off at me." Owen admitted. He pushed past her and headed to the kitchen, determined to warm up the now-cold spaghetti and hopefully feel a bit better with a full stomach. "I... He's a mess. He really thinks that he was the reason why Warren and Sam were killed. I tried to tell him otherwise, but..."

Owen let the thought drift. Sasha knew he was hiding something. "But what?" she pressed.

"He... didn't take it to well. He says he's given up."

"He's what?!" Sasha cried. "What do you mean 'he's given up'? Owen... What did you say to him?"

He threw a plateful of spaghetti into the microwave and punched some buttons. He sighed heavily. The still-prominent scar that he had acquired from a shard of shrapnel, and which ran from above his left eye and came to a stop at the edge of his mouth, tugged at his frown and made it somewhat lopsided. "Nothing, I... I tried to tell him that it wasn't his fault. He took a swing at me."

Sasha was shocked. Marcus tried to hit Owen? She knew for a fact that Marcus would never do such a thing. Or, at least, he would never have a month ago. But even she had noticed a change in his usually optimistic demeanour. He had grown... distant recently. Owen must have noticed that her mouth was slightly agape, Sasha not quite able to keep the shock from reaching her face, and shook his head.

"Everything's fine. I'll go and talk to him in the morning and apologize." he said.

Sasha didn't know what to say, so she said nothing. She chewed her lower lip thoughtfully and turned to head back to the couch. She slumped into it heavily and looked up at the ceiling, not quite sure what to make of the situation.

Owen pulled his food from the microwave and sat at the table. The clinking of metal on porcelain echoed through the apartment as he ate. Sasha looked over the couch at him.

Owen sat stooped over, his slate-grey eyes downcast and brooding, his movements sluggish and filled with regret. He was a sorry sight. She sighed, knowing that tonight would not be as happy as she had hoped it would be.