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The Umbrella Man

by Korpse_Infested_Karnival

(KIK)

_(Author's Note: Inspired by Rob Zombie's "The Beginning of the End". Give that song a check before you read, you can see how my mind works. Now, as for the piece. A hot fox hybrid doubling as a lethal cop getting all mixed up in a slew of trouble. I always take different directions in terms of style, so this one is straight to the point without heavy emphasis on exposition, also helping me write it faster without becoming too laborious in the end. I don't know what it was, but I actually had a dream about this character as though a whole series was made. It was pretty cool. It's more erotica driven than romantic, and is keen on a few older methods I did last year. Enjoy!

Oh yes, and don't mess with the Umbrella Man.

-KIK)_

It had almost been one of those quiet weekends. Mob driven activity was effectively pressed to the slums (thanks in great part to the SATA drones), there were no outrageous bombings or mass robberies, and what little violent crime did trickle in was little the NIS couldn't handle. Sometimes weeks were as roads paved with silver and gold, and at the end were two days off with nothing but pure relaxation.

Or so she had wished.

Faith Orsen Xaviel (more commonly called "Fate" by her peers) was skimming down the mass transit highway of Asus-53 in her streamline Athlon NIS issued car, pulled in by HQ about a recent raucous near the Young Madison district. She had literally sworn a downpour of curses when the call was made, as it was Friday and her final rounds were to be over in little less than an hour. But like her nickname implied, there was always one last job to be done before the day could be called.

Fate worked for the National Institution of Security, a successor to the old world FBI which had a greater deal of success. She had experienced a healthy four years there and was promoted to the highest sect of authority that could be offered, Bureau Commander, only outed by the actual ring of leaders and their positions. Her tenacity, integrity, and bravery earned her high marks and honors amongst the NIS security programs, and she had all ready been recommended to several Government jobs, all of which she turned down. Her loyalty was to the city of Junction, she had once said, and she aimed to keep it that way for as long as possible.

Perhaps it was also Fate's instincts or breed that had generated such success. She was a beautiful mix of collie and fox, aligned with fur patterns of the canine, short haired and amber-tawny fur making for a luxurious coat, coupled with the lithe intensity of her vulpine ancestors. Long hair of blond radiated down her neck with acorn brown highlights, at the bangs. Her features were well curved and pristine, as only a fox can allow, but her sense of smell, hearing, and sight, were phenomenal. Complimenting the female's all ready steady grip of a rifle and one had a very dangerous girl on their hands.

However, her usually delightful face and smile-smitten muzzle were angled to a frustrated, irritated dog-fox. Near wolfish yellow eyes studied the highway carefully as she made fraction-reactive movements to get through sparse bits of traffic, the siren of her Athlon whining to the crisp air. Up ahead of her were a range of exits leading off to the right, but she was set strictly north, to the cluster area of Junction where the pseudo county Young Madison rested.

Boots of fiber-cloth mesh (she was utterly opposed to wearing leather, as most Chimera were) pressed hard against the auto's pedals, with the script of let's-get-this-over-with painted all over her visage. A few thugs were not about to interfere with her weekend time.

She began to finally make it through the threshold of Young Madison when the familiar crackle of electronic sputters splurged out her car's intercom.

"All units en route to 22-17 please be advised: we have a GUNN on the premises: repeat, there is a GUNN on the premises,"

She blinked. Multiple times. And then she swore. That was not something she wanted to hear. Dammit, why couldn't she have just finished up her shift? Did she honestly have to deal with this now?

The ordeal had now become far more dangerous. Of all the things to face, why a GUNN, and why now, escaped the vixen hybrid, as she muttered more swears under her breath.

A GUNN was an acronym used for the twelve most dangerous elite criminal leaders that the city had known, potent enough to threaten the states and other countries as well. Genetically Unified Nemesis of Nations; a crudely worded yet ironically perfectly fitting definition. They were modified, they were dangerous, and they were destroyers of Nations, holding violent opposition to the infrastructure and system. Enough dangers lurked about them to be labeled as terrorists, without clear purpose, except for to end the concept and stability of all world governments.

Their leader was an unknown assailant going by the alias False Messiah, and his organization referred to itself as JUSTICE (Judgment Upon Sacrilegious Tyrants Imposing Cruel Empires). Fate had many dreams and nightmares about ending his, her, or even its career, and despised the idea of not being able to put tab to this living containment. What was worse was the fact that Messiah seemed to be a step ahead of the NIS a majority of the time. Many opportunities when it appeared there was a lead to a drug bust, a bomb threat, slave brothels, weapons caches, or consorts supporting the cause of JUSTICE, it in fact was a well laid trap that left more than a slew of NIS agents either dead or severely injured.

Almost on instinct, her hand-paw went to her waist to feel for the hilt of her handgun. The Austin M6 was cold and silent as always, resting in leather sheath, reassuring the hybrid that it was there when needed, which would be soon. Unfortunately, it would be her only axis of safety when face to face with whichever GUNN was present. Her satin black uniform wasn't armored, only bearing the white pattern marks of the NIS and glimmering brass badge, and she had no bullet proof vests with her. Agility and reflex would have to keep her safe, as the Athlon sped out the route of Asus-53, making its way closer to 'ground zero.'

Fate took the wired radio and began to slow her speed, keeping eyes open and perceptive.

"HQ, this is unit A64 requesting directive to route 22-17," she inquired calmly. There was a pause, then a voice responded through the synthetic garble.

"A64, we have have 22-17 located in Young Madison, Savannah Fields Bank. Please be advised, GUNN is armed and very dangerous, we have multiple units en route to enforce," said the anonymous correspondent.

The collie-vixen gritted her teeth and mentally retorted.

Of course he's 'effing armed and dangerous!

She also didn't like the sound of 'Savannah Fields Bank.' This was too simple to be nothing but a generic heist, which would be the general consensus, no doubt. False Messiah wanted to make a raucous, bring attention to the situation, either to distract or for some other underlining purpose.

She had sped through a grid of left and right turns, time against her, as she continued to the bank with haste. When the bank was less than a mile away, she noticed thick belches of black, acrid smoke sifting into the air, the sign of a fire eating away at metal and oil. Hammering the accelerator, the Athlon roared as the engine revved into high gear, launching towards the disaster area at neck-break speed.

It couldn't have been sooner. Fate blared into the area of Young Madison, only to be met with the large, structurally impressive building that was Savannah Fields ravaged with fire. Other NIS security vehicles were laid askew as metal corpses, eaten away by the unforgiving appetite of searing flames. Fate prayed that none of her associates were dead, as no ambulance or emergency station had been set up. In the midst of the white marble staircase leading in to the bank was a threshold of broken machines and autos, set up like some kind of wall, keeping established officers in the perimeter outside. Chaos reigned amongst security, as small pockets of enforcers spoke frantically into radios and the other, watching for gunfire or other types of projectile.

The Athlon found an empty space amongst ruin and inferno, whilst Fate stepped out in gusto, keeping a paw hand on the Austin M6. Instantly, as she exited the NIS vehicle, her acute ears were assailed with the loud, guttural cacophony of some awful sounding music.

. . .Music

No. . . she wasn't insane. She really was hearing some kind of song, being screeched through unseen stereo, echoing off the surrounding buildings. It was terrible, loud, brutish, violent, and intense, not something you'd run across in an elevator. Or normal society, for that matter. Even so, it was a tad familiar. Didn't Fate have a friend who liked to listen to this garbage?

What was it. . . metal? Death metal?

A GUNN. Playing death metal. What the hell was going on?

Her predatory yellow eyes spotted a band of three officers using a more outdated Athlon model as cover, one on radio, the other two armed and keeping their eyes on the broken entrance to the Fields building. With graceful speed, she rushed towards them, keeping her sight aware of any fire that might have come her way. It was damn hard though, with that skull-breaking sound filling up her ears.

The three, of course, were lower rank officials than herself. A large, black furred Doberman rested on one knee with shotgun in hand, a Sergeant-in-Command, while the other two were were regular deputies, a human male with tough brown hair and green eyes clutching the radio close, the other individual next to him a panicky looking mutt, white furred with brown patches in his fur coloration.

Upon observing her arrival, the Doberman nodded in salute, unable to use his hands in danger of free-fire.

"Sergeant," she stated as formally as possible, through the strangling muffles of the continuous noise.

"Commander Xaviel," responded the Doberman in timid admiration, "I'm glad you could join us. We were just having a sunny, Friday picnic with death on the menu," he chortled, wincing when a loud shotgun blast was heard in the distance.

"So I see," replied Fate coolly. "What's the status on this GUNN? Any hostages or dead?"

The Doberman shook his head. Mentally, Fate sighed a wisp of relief. Yet, at the same time, an anxious knot grew in her stomach. A random assault initiated by False Messiah, at a bank, with no dead officers or civilians. This had to be a trap. But for who, and why?

"I think a few minor injuries here and there, but nothing serious. This GUNN, though, he's a damned trip," continued the sergeant, flicking a nervous glance toward the car-shielded bank.

"Blew a hole straight through Savannah Fields. Set up shop with a few thugs and started blastin' away, set the whole road on fire,"

Upon that, indeed the road had sustained a torrent of damage by some form of superheated matter, Fate looking downward to gaze at hundreds of cracks and ripples marring the texture of the asphalt.

"How?" she inquired, free paw-hand gracing over the road a few times, as if to feel for something.

The Doberman chuckled hoarsely. "He's packing heat, literally. He's armed with a nice friendly flamethrower, nearly burned the skin right off Scrap here," explained the sergeant with a gesture to the shaking mutt.

A minor explosion could be heard coming from the inside of Savannah Fields, whilst the human deputy spouted a few more words via the radio. Both Fate and the Doberman looked over the battered car, whilst Scrap huddled low, to frightened to rise. Another explosion, and a vomit of greenish-red fire gushed out the open entry way of the building, setting a vehicle parallel to the collie-fox in a whirlwind inferno.

"Shit! He's coming back out!" spat the sergeant, cocking his weapon in near-futile preparation.

The Austin M6 found itself in Fate's grasp, loaded and primed to fire, as the vixen hybrid looked on to see a figure emerge from the contorting wreckage piled about the bank's entryway. Crushing the steps with the very wake of his boot, the GUNN trekked out and gazed with bemusement at the paltry dozen NIS agents who dared oppose him and the whims of False Messiah.

He was a grueling thing to be sure. His torso was bare, though chiseled and adorned with two trunk sized arms, the right grappled with rings of barbwire and the other gloved. Strapped to his back was indeed the weapon causing so much damage, a hazardous tank of super-heated jelly made with old bolts and rough strips of iron, whilst the shaft of the weapon was held with one enormous hand, sides of the nozzle grafted with ax-like blades. His face wasn't visible, hidden by a scarred welder's mask, a pool of square black his only method of sight, and, oddly enough, individual strings of icy green dreadlocks hung over the mask and back of his neck.

The number twelve GUNN, Bang.

Instantly, there were yells from officers all around for Bang to put down his weapon, rifles aimed in faint attempt to frighten the genetic giant. But he was too big, too strong. Even Fate wasn't sure that she could handle such a mastodon of the human body.

As his name implied, Bang began to swerve his head up and down, in exact synchronization with the unearthly music roaring behind him. The bastard was treating this whole thing like a concert! The fox-collie could even hear his rumbling chuckles as his head violently bobbed to the grind of base and guitar, clearly enjoying himself.

"This is bullshit!" grunted the sergeant, raising himself from his crouched position, aiming squarely at Bang. Supporting him, Fate did the same, lining up the Austin M6's cross hairs directly at the GUNN's head. As for Scrap and his human counterpart, they did nothing, save for wait for a spray of molten liquid.

Both of the officers let off a few resounding blasts, shocks of hot lead flying towards the head banging lunatic. Several of the fragments pierced his bulky flesh with a satisfying 'splurk', causing Bang to groan somewhat and stop his audacious gyrations. Another volley of bullets came in his direction, whilst he tried to block them off with one of his massive arms, the searing iron causing volcanoes of blood to erupt out of his coarse skin.

Bang looked to the two opposing agents with disgust (or as they assumed), shaking his head and body free of pain.

"Ohoh, what the hell?" he bellowed, raising his flamethrower in Fate's direction.

"You right on time!" screamed he, voice clearly audible even through the face plate and cacophonous music.

"Who do you think you are!? I'mma mudda' fuggin' GUNN ya' sonsa' bitches!"

A few clicks and whirs, and the Doberman's eyes grew wide with terror. He snatched Scrap up to his feet and tried to pull the human officer out of the way.

"Shit! Move god dammit he's gonna-"

His words were cut off abruptly. Fate was quick in reaction, able to smell the mix of napalm and flammable jelly before it hit the igniter, dashing away from the car. In one instant, a massive cloud of flames jetted from the nozzle and rocketed towards the four, immediately setting ablaze to everything the viscous inferno came in contact with. The vixen hybrid had little trouble getting away, as she always kept her clothing light and her silky black skirt was cut a shorter than the norm, allowing for greater leg movement. However, the others she had no idea, seeing only a wall of jade-scarlet eat away at where she'd been crouching.

Suddenly, the whole perimeter of Young Madison became a war zone. Bang no longer hesitated and let loose a furious storm of voracious magma-impregnated bolts, covering nearly every inch of the all ready scorched ground with his conflagrations. Yelps and screams echoed all about, and thick suffocating ropes of smoke filled the air, mucking Fate's pristine senses.

She started to become confused and disoriented. Everywhere she tried to look, only shadows of gray and black met her sight. If she tried to speak, then the burning fumes of the clogging smoke would ravage her throat and corrode her lungs. She started to feel. . . helpless.

Bang's crude laughter shook through the chaos and waves of panic. Sirens from near or far spiked the air with their wailing cries. Fate was being suffocated now, surrounded with too many extremes for her smell and hearing, making her feel sick. She wanted to attempt to escape, find safer ground, but nothing opened up to her.

The canine-vixen nearly lost hope when a hand grabbed her wrist.

"C'mon, follow me!" a male voice called out, faceless as the murk of confusion blinded Fate to being able to make out his features.

She didn't argue, mainly for the fact that she couldn't see who it was or where she was going, added that it may have been her only method of escape. Cupping paw-hand over muzzle, she guarded herself from the venom of the air's pollution and hoped to be in safer territory soon. There was little she could do against False Messiah's workings in this state.

Fate had no idea which direction she was being taken in, but some of the smoke was beginning to clear. It was only until her cloth-mesh boots began to tap away at the cringe of a stone floor that she realized she was no longer outside. Coughing, the person whom had gotten her away from danger released his grip, allowing Fate to observe where she now stood.

She couldn't believe her eyes. It was Scrap. The mutt's face was painted with a smirk, and the vixen-hybrid realized she was in not a safe area. . . but the bank. Somehow, Scrap had found another opening in Savannah Fields side walls, and had led her out of the firefight and into the nest of the serpent. What the hell was he thinking?

"S-Scrap?" she sputtered, flabbergasted as to why he dragged her to the very spot the other NIS officers were trying to avoid.

"Well, kinda'," he shrugged coyly.

"Damn girl, we'd thought you'd never get here!"

She spun around to see a very familiar face. The sergeant emerged, unharmed, wearing a big grin, in a way that sent red flags through Fate's mind. Intuition was running rampart in her chest, suspicion taking hold. This didn't add up; how were these two still standing after all that? Not to mention the interior of Savannah Fields was left virtually unscathed. And Bang. . . where did he go? Out there, masking the building with smog and flame?

"Crazy how False Messiah gets this stuff right. How he knew you would go where you would go screws me up, I tell ya," went on the big Doberman, stepping closer to Fate.

Shock jolted through the fox-collie's blood.

"What? What the hell are you talking about, sergeant?" she queried intensely, narrowing her features and starting to show a little fang.

A pause, and the the Doberman chuckled.

"Eh? Sergeant? Oh, right, the uniform," retorted he with a sneer, "Listen, honey, I'm not a sergeant. Me and Scrap don't even work for the NIS!"

Scrap chimed in with a short laugh of his own.

"All a ploy to get you alone, foxy. We're just a couple of Silhouettes in the grand scheme of things," continued the facading canine.

"No, I'm not an NIS slave. I'm Lock, and I got my eyes opened by JUSTICE. . . False Messiah. . . right, Scrap?" he called over, the smaller dog nodding obediently.

"Our radio man let JUSTICE know you were here as soon as you arrived. They'll blanket this place and you'll be where you belong. Leashed, in a cage, with your tail wagging like a good girl," implied Lock morbidly.

This was all Fate needed to send them tumbling. She would break them apart first, ask questions later. One free hand-paw reached for her Austin whilst the other curled into a fist, but before she could lay either one of them out, a sharp, painful electric shock erupted into her, swiftly numbing her body momentarily and causing her muscles to collapse. The vulpine hybrid buckled and went to the cold, stone floor, tingling in pain.

It had been Scrap. Though she hadn't know it, some of the mutt's DNA was carefully spliced for strands of electricity to build within his hand, allowing for one mutagen burst of unrestrained static, enough to fry someone's nervous system for a few seconds. She would never expected a hand full of lightning to knock her down.

"Damn!" the smaller dog exclaimed, "I thought False was kiddin' when he said I could do this!"

"See now?" queried Lock to the shaken fox-collie, "this is what False Messiah can do. He makes nothing into something, and he brings down your system of lies. He even has a nice little future picked out for you, said it fit your name,"

Fate tried desperately to regain control over herself, but her arms or legs wouldn't respond. Her neurons were left in a buzz, and she was helpless until this effect wore off.

"The hell do you want you bastard?" she managed to say, at least with enough motor function to control her maw.

The big canine didn't respond, only continued to grin suggestively, snapping at Scrap.

"Hurry up, dammit, bind her arms all ready! I wanna' enjoy this!" he growled, sending the smaller mutt into action.

Scrap nudged Fate over on her chest, retrieving a tough sinew of rope and beginning to tie it firmly around the vulpine hybrid's wrists and lower arms, checking to make sure it couldn't be broken. And it wouldn't. Not by her, anyway. Satisfied, he grabbed the Austin M6 and put it to the side for safe keeping, so as not to get his head blown to pieces by a shard of screaming lead.

Fate was then rolled onto her back, facing the canopy of the Fields bank, at the mercy of this impostor and his smaller lackey.

"Scrap, quick, go get the shotgun," commanded Lock, keeping his icy Doberman eyes affixed to the vixen-collie with a swelling hunger. Scrap hesitated.

"Hey, I helped you catch her! I want some of that too!" challenged the mutt. Lock didn't budge, only fidgeted his fingers in anticipation.

"You'll get your turn, but we can't risk her doing something stupid now can we? Now go, and be quick about it!"

Fate was no simpleton. It was painfully clear what was about to happen. Everything that she had suspected on the highway was coming into perspective. Yes, apparently Bang was a distraction. Lure her here and keep other incoming officers busy, then have two grunts serving the cause of JUSTICE pound her heavy and try to break her spirit.

Fine. Let the bastards have their fun. She was tough. Being raped by a couple of delusional simpletons wasn't enough to send her into suicidal depression.

Lock knelt down, licking his chops, eyes roving over Fate's ample bosom. With a single digit, he prodded one of her succulent mounds, snickering as it bounced with ease. His finger began to stroke her womanly mantle in savoring strokes, awed at how firm and supple it felt to touch such a miraculous bust. Copping a feel, his entire palm then grasped her breast, kneading it somewhat, squeezing it a few times, grinning even further when Fate gasped from the sensation.

"Oh, getting your feel back, huh?" he inquired mockingly, amused at the resistance etched upon her features.

She was wearing a bra, but it was a thin silky lace, made so it wouldn't tighten too hard on her body when moving. This pleased Lock, as he was able to feel her piping hot nipple beneath the fabric's surface, pinching it a few times, then twisting it for good measure. This made the fox-collie hiss through her teeth, as an interesting mixture of light pain and pleasure began to jolt about her torso.

"You've got amazing tits, doggy," said Lock, continuing to toy with her bust. She winced and panted a bit more as the constant assailing of these teasing touches began driving different signals to her brain, the body accepting what the spirit resisted.

"Getting hot now, huh?" said he, noting the change in her temperature and slight shifts in her body chemistry (his senses were acute as well, after all).

"Don't worry, doggy, we'll get you out of these uncomfortable clothes,"

With relative ease, the Doberman's strong fingers suddenly went to the top of Fate's NIS uniform, and, in a kind of sickening, graceful motion, he tore through it and split it open, allowing the vixen's breasts to jiggle free, both nipples hardened and visible through the revealing lace of her white bra.

Now Scrap had returned, with the same shotgun Lock had before when Fate first arrived. The smaller dog's jaw went somewhat agape, staring at the curvaceous axis of fruit and its simmering, pert hills of sensual flesh. Immediately, the meager canine's loins tightened into a growing knot, almost forgetting about the weapon in his paw-hands.

"Bastard," spat Fate, gritting her teeth, showing as much defiance as possible. This, however, only ushered the Doberman on, while his lackey watched with intense envy.

Next, Lock did away with the bra, snapping it off down the middle to reveal Fate's luscious mounds, soft like the graceful touch of silk fur.

"But you like it, don't you?" he whispered back, once again twisting the bare nipples, stimulating Fate's body even further, her temperature steadily beginning to rise.

The Doberman ensued to lick at her right breast, using his broad tongue to lap away at the juicy tent of pink, nibbling on it and pulling it, causing even more gravity groping bounces. Fate whined lightly with each stroke of teeth sliding over her sensitive pikes, trying with great difficulty not to allow for any pleasure on her account. It was becoming increasingly difficult, however, with such teases and twists applied on her feminine axis, making her shudder with growing spasms of euphoria enveloping her.

"See? She's a good dog," stated Lock to Scrap, whom was having trouble retaining his composure. "Struts around all high and mighty, but when you start rubbing her tits, she acts just like a bitch in heat,"

Scrap groaned. "Agh, come on man, hurry up! I can't stand like this forever!" said the mutt heavily, beginning to pant as his shaft was full engorged with blood, amidst a sea of lusty pheromones.

"Well what are waiting for?" inquired Lock in retort, "Get her to beg for you!"

He looked at the vixen-collie. "C'mon fox, get on your knees!"

Naturally, her first response was to resist. If these lowlife thugs hadn't tied her up she'd have castrated them and pulled out every inkling of information they had on False Messiah. She did her best to growl and show her fangs, even though it was little she could do to intimidate them, cowards though they were.

The shotgun handle cocked to counter her predatory rebelling.

"Not smart, doggy," warned Scrap, taking the offensive this time. "Don't do something you'll regret! Be a good girl, unless you wanna' be splattered all over the floor!"

A moment paused and she calmed herself, though filled with a volatile hatred for these two wretched Chimera. She promised herself by the end of the day she'd see these two in a pool of their own bones and blood.

Dammit. Lucky for these jackasses I'm tied up, and I need to be alive if I'm going to find out anything about False Messiah.

"You boys realize what's going to happen to you when the NIS gets here?" shot back Fate.

Once more, Lock laughed.

"I'm not worried about them," countered the Doberman. "You think Bang will have a problem with your tin can SATA bots? No, you're gonna' have fun with us for a long time, and when we're finally done, it's off to the Cage with you,"

Mentally, the vulpine hybrid gasped a hush of cold terror. Even that was enough to send shivers down her spine.

The Cage was a simple term for a black-market network of slave brothels, instituted by JUSTICE either to generate revenue or desecrate iconic figures, male and female, of the NIS and otherwise. Or, most likely, both. By turning well trained, disciplined individuals into whores crying out to be abused, JUSTICE was making a statement that it would see the end of all world orders.

"Hey, and you never know, maybe Scrap and I will pay out enough to get you in our leash? I'd bet you'd love that, huh doggy?"

She blushed with an embarrassed rage, affronted to the core of herself that they thought they could reduce her to nothing but a common slut. She'd bite their cocks off and take a bullet to the skull before being leashed by one of these bigots.

"Now stop stalling for time, get on your knees, fox!" barked the Doberman, brandishing his fist as though to hit her.

Some twisted sense of obedience made her sprawl upward, struggling to maintain her balance as she did as she was told. In ways, perhaps by complying, there would be some method of discovering more about JUSTICE, the Cage, False Messiah, or any other consort related to these genetic terrorists.

Eagerly, Lock undid the zipper to his stolen NIS pants, cock swinging out, the flesh deep and black like the onyx shade of his fur. Even though she was tough, Fate gazed at it apprehensively, the genital beginning to stir, aroused at the exposed bust and the flecks of fear buzzing through Fate's yellow eyes.

Lewdly, Lock took his member and rubbed it on the side of the collie-fox's cheek, barely touching the outer rim of her lips, mocking her with his crotch. The very closeness of it forced her to take in his scent, which would further plunge her body's response to appeal more than resist.

The Doberman scratched her head and continued to caress his shaft at the threshold of her muzzle.

"Does foxy want her bone?" he asked with a very pleased smirk. Fate attempted to shake her head away from the prodding mast, but to no avail. She couldn't avoid this, and even with her training, she wasn't able completely phase herself out of the act.

"Go ahead, suck on it doggy, it's all yours," Lock ordered, gesturing to Scrap once more.

"Here, give me the gun. You can't hold that and have your way with her," implied the black canine wisely, aware that the second the rifle was out of reach, this lovely NIS agent would have him at the mercy of her bite, even without her hands.

Lock gave Fate one last threatening look, now armed with the shotgun only a few feet from her head. At this range, it was impossible to dodge.

"Well?"

Swallowing her pride, Fate parted her muzzle and slowly, with tedious nervousness, opened her maw to accept the crown of Lock's endowment. Pressing further, her tongue slid about the under-flesh, gradually taking in the full length of his throbbing canine meat. She could feel the mast throbbing in her mouth, perfectly fit to the slight grooves of her jaw's features. Lock gasped aloud as Fates slick, broad tongue caressed the sensitive wrapping of nerves in his fleshy pike.

"Ah. . . that mouth. . . so hot. . . it's a perfect fit," muttered the Doberman, eyelids half shut in sublime ecstasy.

"Do a good job. . . doggy," he continued, prodded Fate's head once with the barrel of the weapon.

Son of a bitch, she thought.

With reluctance, under threat of being in a pool of her intestines, she began to work crude deed, gyrating her head back and forth. She despised the idea of seeing herself do this, so the collie-fox shut her eyes and made it as voided as possible, though nearly impossible with this greatest act of submission being force out of her.

Her warm, soft mouth glided over the cock-shaft, able to take the full measurement of it down her throat, slowly and sensually applying a vacuum pressure over the throbbing onyx-flesh pole. Her muffled whimpers were barely heard through the thick meat filling the entirety of her muzzle, able to engulf the genital so deeply her nose touched the brim of Lock's pubic hair. Little drips of pre and saliva were starting to form at her lips, dripping down her chin as her mouth, interestingly enough, grew more moist with each piston motion of her head.

Fate then bucked a bit when an odd sensation could be felt near her buttocks. Her short skirt was being yanked up to reveal her set of pink-white panties, the sound of Scrap's minor chuckles emerging from her blind spot. She squirmed a little when a digit started to prod the lips of her nether region, rubbing her clit with intrigue as she softly moaned at the pleasurable static roaming about her loins. The embrace of air then roved over her firm haunches, undergarments pulled downward, leaving her sex exposed, glistening with the nectar of meager arousal.

"Bend over, doggy," commanded Scrap, pushing at her back, her curvy buttocks jutting out as though in eager anticipation.

With another wry laugh, the smaller mutt used two fingers to prod the inside of Fate's vaginal walls, causing her to grunt in surprise. Literally, her bountiful thighs and hips moved along with the motion of Scrap's fingers, rotating digits pushing her to grind back at the intrusive prods. She was deliciously wet now, and her heat was mixing with the musk of the two other canines, sending their lusts into frenzy at the scent of her excitement.

"Ohoh, she loves it. . ." grunted Lock, petting her behind the ears as he watched with glee at the constant fellatio she was forced to give him.

"She will in a minute," responded Scrap, unzipping his trousers.

Again, Fate yelped when a warm, pointy shaft of flesh poked her labia, its tip rubbing across the swollen, hot lips, causing the vixen to shudder again. Scrap placed two hands on her ample ass, caressing them in such a manner that was the same when Lock toyed with her bosom. She tried to rotate herself free of his touch, though it was futile, making the mixed dog grin wickedly.

"Yeah, doggy, you shake it for me,"

He held her still, Fate clamping her eyelids shut, trying to find some mental state of escape, the first few inches of his hard erection penetrating her hot, dripping walls with ease. She moaned loudly, even through the gag of Lock's malehood, as every inch of Scrap entered her, pulsing madly and sending searing heat through her body. Methodically, he gave her a teasing thrust, causing her to buck forward and gulp down the Doberman's endowment, her tail flicking in misery.

"Urr. . . she's fantastic," sputtered Scrap through his slowly encroaching piston-loin motions. "All wet for me. . . I can't wait till' we get you leashed, fox," went on the mutt, drooling slightly as he pushed deeper into the sucking strokes of Fate's inner thighs.

As for Lock, after having licked about every angle possible the collie-vixen could think of, he orgasmed, letting forth a spew of smoldering seed inside of the vulpine's mouth, retracting so as a few drips of the pearly liquid splattered onto her face. Fate did nothing to insult him, for she was too busily consumed in the steady grinding she was given by Scrap, yelping loudly, attempting to press harder at the prick of meat pushing deep into her.

She was helpless to the whims of her body, caught in the trap of its desires, unable to control herself in this flood of rape and sexual madness. Faster and faster the motions persisted, copious amounts of her nectar dripping out of her lower lips, begging to be engorged by seed.

Soon, the desire of her blaspheming body was granted its wish. Scrap burst his load into her, unable to hold back long with such incredible sensations devouring his malehood, sticky semen coating Fate's pink inner sex as her own, betraying loins drenched her fur with copious degrees of sweet, opaque honey.

The tawny furred vixen panted heavily, as did with Scrap, tongue hanging out of his mouth happily. Lock could only sneer, noting how a singular tear formed in one of Fate's eyes, and he scratched behind her ears again, as though trying to reassure some lesser animal.

"Aww, don't cry, little doggy. There's still more fun to be had," said he, fidgeting with the shotgun to remind her what he would do should she disobey.

"Come on the this side Scrap, I wanna' try that ass out, now,"

The collie-vixen stared up at Lock, as though searching for some trace of mercy in his features.

"What!? You sick fuck! You've all ready raped me once!" she spat in angered horror, bearing her fangs. The Doberman merely shrugged, shaking his head.

He walked behind her and relinquished the shotgun to Scrap.

"Yeah, but you have to be a good doggy and clean up Scrap, now," imposed the onyx furred canine cruelly. The half nude mutt nodded his head in agreement, pointing the barrel of the gun at Fate's head.

"Don't you wanna' know what I taste like, honey?" inquired the smaller dog, giving one of Fate's breasts a good squeeze for good measure.

"Besides, Lock ain't given you a good poundin' back there, eh, Lock?" enforced the mutt, glancing once at the Doberman as if to seek approval. But no such sound came.

As a matter of fact, Lock had suddenly frozen up. Scrap cocked an eyebrow, looking at his associate with confusion, as the black canine's face had contorted into a rhythm of shock and fear. Quite literally, Lock was trembling, gazing at Scrap with unparalleled terror bludgeoned to his features.

"Eh. . . Lock?" queried the minuscule mixed-breed in confusion. "The hell's wrong with you?"

There was a very familiar 'ching' heard behind Scrap, a click of lead, a twitching of iron and steel heard only in man's potent arms of death. The hackles raised on Scrap's back, and an icy chill scraped through the trail of his spine, causing his tail to flick nervously. Fate looked up as well, and both hope, curiosity, and surprise were plastered over her face.

Scrap raised his hands in submission.

"Whoa! Whoa! Okay, buddy, I'm backin' off, I'm ba-"

Lock stared on in horror as the back of Scrap's skull abruptly colliding with the frontal plate of his eyes. An eruption of blood and shattered marrow cracked through the air and violently burst open as trails of brain yolk and viscous eye jelly went careening into the air, while a resounding, thunderous bang and crack ripped apart the silent wall of the sound barrier. In short, someone had effectively splattered Scrap's head all over the marble scape of the bank.

Fate's ears rang horribly as the gunshot made her eyes grow fuzzy, and Lock was quick to jump backward and spread his arms in unrestrained fear.

"Holy fuck," he gasped, "please, don't shoot me! Don't shoot!" begged the Doberman, both embarrassed and excessively helpless, caught with his pants down, so to speak.

Though she had no idea of this interloper was going to kill her or not, her pride felt a great deal of satisfaction to hear the large canine whine for his life.

No mercy, however, was given. Another two bolts of molten iron rocketed from the gun, cracking open Lock's chest and sending him to the ground, instantly killing him. And in fact, Fate had indeed gotten what she wanted, though spattered with scarlet, to see these two in rivers of their own bodily fluids.

Naked, exposed, taken advantage of, she wondered if this fellow was going to have his way with her next. . . until she bothered to look up and see who it was.

He, or so she assumed, had no face. Absolutely no features. The peach tint of flesh was all that made up the pigment of his 'head,' while no nose, eye, ear, or mouth, not a single opening, could be found upon him. Upon his head was a deep, richly colored hat of midnight black (strangely enough, black being a recurring theme this day), whilst his frame was covered in an out of place raincoat, same tint as his hat. In his right hand. . . was an umbrella. It was raised over his head as though expecting a storm, perfectly still in mannequin-esque steadiness. In his left, well, was the gun that had killed the two impostors, the collie-vixen only wishing they had suffered longer.

The Umbrella Man.

He made no movements, save for placing the pistol in an unseen pocket in the cloak of his raincoat, and proceeded with his last action, to retrieve a knife and cut Fate's bonds.

She did nothing at first. She felt so very indebted to him. And then she was very confused. Where did he come from, and how did he appear so very silently without Lock or Scrap even seeing him? Was he part of Cage? Did he even know about JUSTICE or False Messiah?

"Er. . . thank you?" she said, returning to her normal composure. There was no response, merely the eerie direction of this faceless person's 'stare.'

It, for as long as Fate could remember, remained like that. An eternity seemed to go by, until she remembered hearing the familiar sirens of NIS automobiles, the face of her concerned peers, walking home, getting showered. . .

*= = = =*

NIS

*= = = =*

In debriefing, Fate had reported about all the events she experienced. She confirmed the identity of the number 12 GUNN, Bang, and went through tedious detail about her capture and eventual 'encounter' with the now deceased Lock and Scrap.

But she mentioned nothing about the Umbrella Man. Unknown to her superiors, there in fact was a task force sent by Cage to retrieve her and place her in possession of the black market slave brothels and their circuits. As soon as the Umbrella Man had killed Lock and Scrap, he had stated with action that the task force itself was buried, bodies matted to the unforgiving grind of asphalt.

He had given her an envelope, before he disappeared. It contained very few words, but a request to mention nothing of his arrival or interference. Were it not for the last sentence of the letter, Fate would have disregarded it completely, even with respect to his brave interloping.

She remembered staring at the parcel of white for nearly an hour, in disbelief. It was the closest lead she had, and judging by the Umbrella Man's quickness, she doubted he was lying.

In bold, black letters, the end sentence simply read thus:

"I know the False Messiah."