WEISS
	The four black SUV's passed through the gateway to Station 65's parking levels, neither descending nor ascending to another floor. They circumnavigated the ground level space, positioning themselves in a straight line facing the entrance. Two doors opened on the second car in line, and two wolves stepped out, both garbed in cleanly pressed onyx suits and black turtlenecks, with creases that could cut cold butter. Their stony faces showed numerous scars (one of them had a nasty looking crescent across his throat), and their hair was cut down to the headfur. "Oldschool" types, as Quinn had said.
	The elevator doors across the lot opened, and three much less official-looking wolves moved out towards them. Tillman was out in front, looking especially haggard and unkempt, walking at a brisk pace towards the intruders and raising his arms.
	"Who the FUCK gave you the authority to blow in here like this, huh? This some kind of fucking circus?!"
	The two newcomers remained silent, paws clasped together behind their backs. Tillman went on to shout at the crew still inside the vehicles, rapping on the tinted windows and making rude gestures; meanwhile Quinn and the third wolf, a security guard, brought themselves to a halt before the two.
	"Jonas Quinn, I'm the Alpha of this facility," he said, mimicking their stance, "And I'd like to know what exactly prompted this intrusion."
	The wolf on the left, the one with the scar across his neck, took a single step forward. He looked Quinn up and down, sizing him up. No suit, no firearm. His hair was a shaggy brown, glasses perched precariously atop his muzzle. Disgraceful.
	"So?" Quinn said, seeing himself being examined. "An explanation?"
	"Adolf Weiss, Alpha of the Blucas, Dobrev and McIntosh Stations," the wolf spoke up. "Former proprietor of this station as well, my authority is my own." He spoke with German-heavy annunciation and a harsh rasp; obviously the scar on his throat wasn't just for show.
	Tillman had stopped shouting, and was now staring at Weiss as if he'd been struck across the face. Quinn squinted at him. "Adolf Weiss?" he said. "Wolf Weiss?" He seemed amused. Weiss said nothing.
	"Dobrev and McIntosh..." Quinn continued. "I heard of them. So you're the fellow who took those facilities out from under their Alpha's."
	Weiss nodded once. "I deemed them unfit for command and relieved them of their positions. I was well within my rights as Alpha to annex their territories."
	"To annex their territories?" Tillman repeated incredulously. Weiss bristled at him, and his partner moved a paw towards his chest. 
	"You would address an Alpha like this?" Weiss spat. "What title do you carry that gives you such a right?"
	"Jesus Christ, stop saying 'Alpha,'" Tillman said to himself, covering his eyes.
	"MY title," Quinn said loudly, obviously angry now.
	"Yeah, and guess what," Tillman said, stepping forward to stand with Quinn, "As long as I stand here--" He pointed to his feet. "--And you stand there--" He pointed at Weiss' feet, and stepped forward. "--I have the right to address you any way I goddamn well please, you fucking Kraut CUNT." He emphasized this last word with a sharp jab at Weiss' chest.
	The security guard behind Quinn turned away to conceal his laughter. Weiss stared Tillman down coldly. Tillman glared right back.
	"I can see your leadership skills may be called into question as well," Weiss said, not breaking his gaze.
	"No no no, my status as leader is not in question at all," Quinn said, crossing his arms. "See...you're here. Your failed experiment is out there." Quinn raised an open paw, motioning towards the garage exit, and to the night sky. "So the only question to be asked is why you stand in front of me, talking to me, taking shots at my ability to run a pharmaceutical station..." He stepped forward, pulling Tillman back. "...When you should be out THERE. Fulfilling YOUR duties as an Alpha."
	Weiss remained silent, then cocked his head back towards the vehicles behind him. "My team will be implanting ourselves here while we search. Your resources have been assimilated for the time being. And I don't have to ask," he added, pulling his partner's paw away from his chest, probably away from a concealed weapon.
	Incredibly, Quinn smiled and opened his arms. "Fantastic. We can discuss the terms of your stay over dinner."
	Tillman's jaw dropped comically; Weiss frowned. "You are mocking me."
	Quinn shook his head. "Never. There's a nice little place that just opened up, not too far from here. You can bring your, uh..." He pointed at Weiss' partner. "...Friend, here."
	Weiss digested this briefly, then turned to whisper something to his associate. He looked back at Quinn. "Merrick will accompany us, he does not leave my side."
	"Ah, so that's how it is..." Tillman snickered. Merrick remained silent.
	Weiss turned and shouted a command in his native tongue, waving an arm. Three of the four SUV's revved their engines and rolled back, making a 180 degree turn and heading up the garage ramp, to the upper levels. Quinn placed a paw on Tillman's shoulder and turned him around, sending the guard back into the building. "Malcolm, we can take my car. You and Merrick follow behind," Quinn said loud enough for Weiss to hear. There was no response.
	"Dinner?" Tillman asked. Quinn just smiled and shook his head. "Shouldn't we be, you know...running them out of here?"
	"Remember, 'Oldschool types'," Quinn said, tapping his muzzle. "A name like 'Adolf' tells us what kind of upbringing he had, and that it is safe to assume formalities like this will be seen as an act of submission. He'll be less likely to bleed me in my sleep when he thinks I want peace between us."
	Tillman shrugged resignedly. "Alright then," he said, as they came to Quinn's silver Chrysler. "So where we eating?"

	CARSON
	"It's a new place that just opened up, it's called 'Milano's'," Mena was saying to him, hugging his arm as he drove. "We haaaaaave to go. You've never had Italian before."
	Carson sighed dramatically. "How far away is it?"
	"It's seriously only, like, two miles away from here."
	The lizard switched on the air conditioning and pushed the vent in to point directly at his face. "Tell you what," he said, eyes half closed, "If I can stay awake for that whole two miles--"
	Mena slapped his wrist. "Do it and I'll never get back into bed with you again!"
	Carson tittered. "Yeah, uh, sorry hun, that's really not an arrangement you'll be able to see through. You're kind of a slut. Especially for me scales," he said, waggling his fingers atop the steering wheel.
	Mena chewed on a claw. "Eh...you're right." She looked out the window. "Oh hey, have you met that new guy yet? Just joined school last week--Pruitt, I think. What is he? Alligator? No--crocodile?"
	Carson switched the AC to heat. "Italian it is, then."

	MENA
	She just couldn't understand why Carson had to be so difficult about it; Mena had to half-drag him across the parking lot once they had arrived at the restaurant. It was a nice, neat little place--small, yes, but that didn't mean the food would be bad. Besides, it would be a nice change from the regular takeout they ate on the weekends. Carson needed more culture.
	Mena lead him inside and to a booth, passing a "PLEASE SEAT YOURSELF" sign in the shape of a tomato. Milano's had a very welcoming feel to it, with paintings of far-away fields and mountains hanging with wreaths of spices and flowers. The menu was written on a chalkboard, in various colors, with little designs all around the edges. Mena felt right at home, but unfortunately, word must not have traveled far about the new restaurant. Hardly any of the tables or booths were occupied; there was an older couple across the room, a lone dark-furred fox behind them who looked asleep, and a graying squirrel sitting on a stool doodling on a napkin.
	Carson leaned over the table. "Are you sure they're open yet?" he whispered.
	Mena craned her neck to look around for a waiter. "Guess they didn't have much of an advertising budget." When she saw no one coming, she raised an arm and waved it about, trying to attract attention.
	Soon the squirrel at the bar looked up and hopped off the stool, weaving through the empty tables and pulling a small notebook from her back pocket. "Welcome to Milano's," she said with a sigh once she came to their booth, leaning against a chair behind her, "As you can see, business ain't that great, so we do appreciate your patronage..." She started doodling again, not looking up at Mena or Carson. "What'll you have to drink?"
	Carson squinted at her. "You work here...?"
	"Just water for now, thanks," Mena said with an overly wide smile. The waitress remained silent, then after a few moments drifted away again.
	"What, no menu?" Carson asked, staring at the bare table.
	Mena pointed to the chalkboard. "It's up there, spaz, you can read it from here," she said. "Haven't you ever been to a place like this before?"
	Carson rolled a toothpick between his fingers, frowning. "Urf, déjà vu..."
	They talked quietly for a few minutes, until the waitress came back with their water and took their order. Mena asked for the parmesan eggplant, and since Carson couldn't decide for himself, ordered him a white pizza.
	"Why do they call it 'white' pizza?" He asked once the waitress had walked away. "What exactly do they do to it that makes it white?"
	"They put that sauce on it," Mena said, wiping the condensation from her glass, "that, uh, alfredo stuff."
	Carson threw up his arms. "First time Italian, remember?"
	"They jerk off onto it, is that what you wanna hear?" Mena said loudly, causing the sleeping fox behind them to snap awake. Carson giggled. "Maaaaaaybeeee..."
	Mena tossed a crumpled napkin at him just as the door opened and four official looking wolves walked in, moving to sit at a table in the center of the room. Carson pointed his straw at them. "Someone's in trouble..." He jabbed the straw back at Mena. "Sorry hun, but Mike's been sneaking some green from the office. Afraid he's gonna have to go away for a while.
	Mena took the straw from him and put it in her own glass. "They're probably just health inspectors or something. Gonna try out the new place," she said, looking sideways at them.
	Carson laid his head on the table to stare at them while they talked amongst themselves. "When was the last time you saw a wolf?" he asked quietly. Mena shook her head. "There's one works in Mike's building, but other than that..." she trailed off, eyes roaming to the booth behind Carson.	
	The fox was staring at the table, eyes unmoving and ears pulled back. Mena thought vaguely to herself that he looked kinda cute. As she watched him, his jacket shifted, paws completely hidden under the table. Mena prodded at Carson's head and pointed to the fox. "Look," she said, "think someone's about to dine and dash." Barely had Carson turned to look when suddenly someone screamed, a loud, piercing sound that made Mena jump and snap her head around. 
	Then everything went to hell.
	There was a deafening explosion, seemingly right by Mena's head, and the dulled sound of glass breaking. She clamped her paws down on her ears, and Carson's arms were over her shoulders, pulling her down under the booth.

	TYMON
	The explosion was a gunshot, one emitted by a heavily modified Colt 1911 semiautomatic. Nine rounds in a magazine with grooved heads, copper-jacketed, single bolt compensators. This was no self-defense or tactical-use handgun--the thing was a killer. He held it with a single paw, his other arm pressed down against his wrist for balance, taking aim at the four wolves sitting across from him. The bullet slammed into their table, splintering the wood and sending them diving for cover. Tymon stood to his full height, taking a step up onto the leather seat and squeezing the trigger three more times in rapid succession. Each one missed their targets, however, as one of the wolves had pulled the table over, concealing all four of them from view. 
	Gunsmoke hung on the air around his head thickly; muffled shrieks could be heard. Tymon stepped off the booth and moved towards the exit, keeping the 1911 trained on the table. He didn't know how they had found him here, he didn't care, he just had to escape. Barely had he laid a paw on the door to push it open when a short, stubby shotgun came into view above the table. Tymon dropped to the floor just before it discharged, the glass in the door behind him shattering. He dug his claws into the carpet and rolled under a table. The wolf holding the shotgun raised himself up, pumping the slide back and sending the spent shell rolling. Tymon leapt forward behind the bar as he fired again, pellets ricocheting off the wall and floor. Soon after a second wolf was firing, this one using a sidearm of some sort. Five rounds penetrated the bar with ease, the wood just above Tymon's head impacting inwards and the lead slugs embedding themselves in the wall before him.
	Someone shouted something, the shooting stopped. Tymon raised himself to press an eye against one of the bullet holes and, seeing twin wingtip boots moving towards him, shoved the pistol through the weakened wood to eject two rounds into the advancing wolf's leg. The attacker fell with a pained cry, and Tymon saw the shotgun hit the ground. The wolf opened his eyes--he saw Tymon through the newly created hole, and raised his weapon sideways to fire again. Tymon didn't have time to move out of the way; there was a metal tray by his leg, he kicked it up towards his face, the shotgun discharged, and the burning hot pellets passed through the tray to smack into his chest with the reduced force of an open-palmed slap. His eyes popped open, the wind knocked out of him, the buckled tray spinning away through the air. Tymon rolled backwards out of the wolf's view, raised his own firearm a final time, and expelled the last three bullets, aiming through the bar at where he assumed the fallen wolf lay.
	The pistol was spent, no one returned fire, the restaurant was silent. Tymon tossed the empty 1911 aside and leapt for the exit, scrambling over the glass-covered threshold and sprinting away into the deserted parking lot.

	MENA
	It had all happened in only a few seconds, but she couldn't even so much as raise her head for a good minute or so after it all ended. She had heard voices briefly, then silence came over the room again. Mena pulled free of Carson's embrace and crawled out from under the booth, trembling violently. She pulled herself partway up to look around, but stopped herself when she saw her water glass. Suspended just beneath the floating ice was a single empty bullet casing, thin wisps of steam rising from the water's surface.

	QUINN
	He had pulled himself and Tillman away from the shooting and into the kitchen, instructing him to stay low until the guns went silent. Once he heard the tinkling of broken glass as the unknown assailant had fled the scene, Quinn looked back out into the dining room.
	Merrick was dead, the table that Weiss lay unconscious behind spattered with arterial fluid. The white tablecloth blossomed purple and crimson, while a good foot or two of carpet near the corpse's head was spattered with blood and brain matter. One bullet had hit square beneath his right eye, bursting through the skull, while a second had torn through his neck and cheek. Tillman looked out as well, laughing nervously when he saw Merrick's dead body. "That's, uh..." He hiccuped and rubbed at his own eye. "That's some kind of nasty." His gaze shifted to Weiss, whose face was soaked in blood as well--a shard of glass lay embedded just above the temple.
	Quinn pulled himself up, brushing woodchips from his shoulders. He heard sobbing nearby--the waitress had hidden herself behind a tipped barstool, the squirrel laying completely flat against the ground. Quinn looked around to make sure no one else remained in the restaurant--the kitchen door was open, the cooks having ran off--and stepped forward to help the waitress up. She clung tightly to his arm, sharp claws digging into the cuff of his shirt, whimpering and sniffing. Quinn whispered something to her, she nodded, then released his arm to dash through the open door and into the night.
	"Malcolm, get up," he said, rubbing his wrist. "We're leaving."
	"Yeah, no shit," Tillman said angrily, obviously forgetting who he was addressing. He stood and looked out into the restaurant, then pointed at Weiss and Merrick's prone forms. "What about them?"
	Quinn shook his head. "What about them?"
	Tillman laughed again, a little too loudly, then quieted himself. Quinn straightened his shirt and walked calmly through the dining room, stepping over Weiss (but being careful not to bloody his shoes). They left the restaurant, unknowingly leaving behind Carson and Mena, who still remained hidden under their own table, silent and still.

	CARSON
	"Just keep your eyes closed, alright?" 
	He had his arms around Mena, leading her away from the carnage. Someone had died, he knew--there were telltale sprinkles of red dotting the far wall, near where the overturned table lay. The last thing he saw as he tugged Mena out the door was a pair of legs protruding from behind a chair. She didn't need to see it.
	Mena was keeping her head down and her paws over her head, as if to shield herself from gunfire. Carson opened the side car door for her and helped her in, doing his best to keep calm. Barely had he rounded the vehicle to open his own door when he heard Mena screaming from within--Carson yanked on the doorhandle, the door flying open, and jammed himself inside to look: lying on the backseat was the dark-furred fox who had been sitting behind them, his jacket open to reveal a tattered and bloodied undershirt. His eyes were wide, fur standing on end and claws digging into the leather seat. Mena didn't stop screaming; Carson seized the fox by his shoulder and threw him out of the car. He raised an arm to strike the invader, but suddenly felt Mena tugging painfully on his tail.
	"Don't do that, he's hurt! Look at him," she wailed.
	Carson could almost hear the young fox's heart pounding--his chest rose and fell rapidly, his paws up in submission. There was no sign of a wound, and he didn't look to be in pain.
	"You hurt?" Carson asked after a moment.
	The black fox shook his head slowly. Carson wiped his forehead, reeling from the adrenaline rush Mena's screaming had given him. "What were you doing in my car, huh? Nothing in there to steal."
	Silence. The fox just looked up at him, saying nothing. Mena was tapping rapidly on Carson's shoulder. "Get him in, get him in, he needs a doctor or something!"
	Carson stared down at the fox for a while longer before grabbing his paw and pulling him up. He peeled back the jacket to look at the torso--the blood was dried, and there was no gunshot wound, as he had suspected.
	"I don't think he's hurt, just seriously freaked out," he said over his shoulder, keeping the fox at an arm's length. "Where you from, kid, what's your name?" Carson asked.
	The fox's eyes seemed unfocused, his brow furrowed. "Tymon," he said quietly, lips barely moving.
	Mena tap-tapping on his shoulder. "Ask him if he needs a doctor!"
	Carson looked over Tymon again. "So, what, you need a hospital, or what? You don't look hurt."
	He shook his head. Carson exhaled loudly through his nose, then stepped aside. "Well, fuck it, you can't stay here. Get in."
	Tymon twitched, half-blinking and shaking his head as if to clear it, then did as he was told. He laid down across the backseat just as he had before, and Carson slid in after him. Mena turned herself around in her seat to look at Tymon, fussing over him like a mother hen.
	"Carson, look at him, his clothes are so worn down--look at all the blood! Where did it come from, huh? Poor thing..."	Tymon obviously wasn't used to this sort of treatment, and was staring back at Mena suspiciously. Carson keyed the ignition and pulled the car door shut. "So where you from, kid?" He asked, looking into the rearview mirror. "Better yet, where you headed?"
	Tymon raised his head and pointed out the window. Carson shook his head as he started backing out. "Yeah, I don't know what that means, be more specific."
	Tymon said nothing, and laid his head back down. Mena clutched Carson's wrist tightly. "Come on, let's go, I don't wanna be here anymore," she said in a small voice. "I wanna leave, now."
	Carson pulled the car out of the parking lot and onto the road, flooring the gas. "Was your idea to get Italian," he said bitterly.

	23 YEARS PRIOR
	Her name was Mariah. Quinn loved the name, and said it as much as he could, whenever he could. She sat now before him in a desk, bouncing Quinn's lovechild on her knee. They were alone together in his classroom--his lecture had ended, and Mariah had remained behind with him for an extra "study" session. The radio behind his desk was playing, the breathy vocals of Sarah McLachlan echoing around the near-empty room.

Passion chokes the flower, 'til she cries no more
Possessing all the beauty, hungry still for more...

	"Why is his fur so dark?" She asked him, running her smooth, pale fingers beneath the pup's throat. "I mean, I know this stuff happens in the wild, but aren't Con-wolves suppposed to be gray?"
	Quinn hefted himself up onto the desk behind him, resting his leg across the seat. "It's a kind of natural compensation," he said, looking down at the woman fondly as he flaunted his education with amorous intent. "Like a mutation, just...not an accident, really. See, albinos are born without sufficient pigmentation, and are almost invariably without resistance to ultraviolet rays. They live without sunlight, and thusly lose a good number of nutrients they can't or don't take in with their diet. But this is the opposite of that--it's called melanism, and it means that he was born with too much melanin, Mariah." He tapped his claws on the desktop. "Now, normally this means nothing, only that the organism is much darker, almost black in color. But this little guy..." Quinn stepped down off the desk and crouched in front of Mariah, scritching behind Argyle's ear. "He's a natural born. He didn't have to go through the conversion process, since he was conceived after I went through mine."
	Mariah took Argyle's tiny paw in between her fingers, and the pup yawned widely, showing his bright pink tongue. Quinn sat up next to his student as he went on: "He's gonna grow up faster than other children, will probably be tougher, more accepting of things. He'll be much more adaptable to his environment. Something that we can't see right now happened during gestation, something during genetic translation, and this black fur is what he has to show for it."
	Mariah was rolling her eyes; Quinn laughed. "What, you're not interested in biology?"
	"Not whenever you're preaching it," she responded, looking up at him. Her hair was long and straight, auburn in color. She brushed it out of her eyes, her gorgeous almond eyes. Quinn loved those eyes.
	"But you're so attentive in all my lectures," he said, looking hurt. Mariah giggled to herself, petting the tired wolfpup in her lap. 
	"Like I said," she continued, "It's because you're the one talking."
	Quinn nodded understandingly. "Ahh, I see," he said, taking Argyle from Mariah's lap. "You're more concerned with the practice of the subject."

Heaven holds a sense of wonder
And I wanted to believe that I'd get caught up
When the rage in me subsides...

	Mariah rested her arm against Quinn's knee, smiling dreamily. She looked out the wide window, at the setting sun, squinting as she watched the sky change colors. "The less reasonable parts of it, anyway."
	Quinn tilted his head, resting the now-sleeping Argyle against his stomach. "What do you mean by that?"
	Mariah turned back to look up at him, her smile not having faded. "Well if all this," she said, pointing to Quinn's pup and to the sunset, "Can be explained by all your logic, your equations and your big vocabulary..." She leaned in close, as if sharing a personal secret with him. "Then what is there leftover for us to admire?"
	Quinn thought to himself for a brief moment, then smiled. "Ha. I get it," he said. "I know what you want me to say."
	Mariah pouted and shook her head. "I haven't the faintest."
	Quinn took her hand into his paw, rubbing the thick pads against her flesh. "I don't know about the rest of the world, but...." He kissed the hand, breathing in her perfume, the heavy scent warming his insides. "You're definitely worth admiring to me, Mariah."
	She rolled her eyes again, and Quinn laughed again. The songs closing notes reverberated around the couple, and they watched the sunset together, hand in paw.

I have seen you, in this white wave
You are silent, you are breathing
In this white wave
I am free...

	6 MONTHS PRIOR
	Tymon had to wipe his hand across his eyes to see--blood was dripping from his face like water, and his clothes were soaked in it. His hand stung from the pistol's recoil, the weapon itself lying spent at his feet. A small, square handgun, the kind someone would choose to use as a mode for self-defense, and to protect his family. The air reeked of sulfur, gunsmoke hanging in a low, thick cloud. The heated air and carbon burned his lungs, making his breaths short and shallow.
	The room was completely dark; the television which had been pandering its broadcast moments before now sat silent, a wide, jagged space in the screen where the bullet had entered. Tymon couldn't see them, but he knew where the bodies were--the mother slumped in the kitchen doorway, the child prone on the couch, and the father laying spreadeagle before him. He'd landed on the coffee table, shattering it. Glass crinkled beneath Tymon's feet when he moved.
	He stepped backward, over the home's threshold, into the evening air. He turned away from the dead house, footsteps slow and easy, painstakingly taken. Tymon couldn't move very fast for very long, the gaping hole in his chest saw to that. He ignored it at first, treating it as if it were a scratch, an annoyance. Time passed, and soon it made him tired, so he settled himself down on his knees. It grew darker with each passing second, an angry black halo forming around the bloodied crater. He was unfamiliar with the term, but Tymon was entering the preliminary stages of exsanguination. His hands and feet grew cold, then his arms, his legs. His vision swam with dark colors, his head buzzing with meaningless words, thoughts, images. They grew more erratic as the minutes went by, slowly, ever so slowly, hypovolemic shock setting in.
	It couldn't have been longer than a year or so that Tymon stayed kneeling there as his life poured out of his lungs. Soon he was tired of that, too, so he decided it was time to lay down. It took hours, days, years for him to finally die.
	But that was alright.
	He had died before.