It was a cold, wintery night of 1819- nineteen years since the start of the apocalypse. 

The snow was an unforgiving guest to the Old Westmeister; it tightly hugged the doors of each building, forming a large, white cascade throughout the streets of the British Isles. The unforgiving, snowy weather aroused a testament of survival for men and women; as heat was difficult to obtain, it would be a matter of time when white powders would soon solidify into something as hard as stone. Henceforth, it was preferable that people would begin clearing the streets in order to not starve to death inside of their own houses. 

Hull of Bethenway, a city that was inside of the region of Gizmovale (formerly England), had a critical idea when it came to shoveling their paths of snow: to not virtually shovel at all. 

Gizmovale, being one of the largest body of cities of all of the Old Westmeister, and the birthplace to steam technology, had no qualms of mowing the streets of the snow through their Gas Ignition I G.N, an early invention of flamethrowers used during the Seven Decades War. There were two separate muzzles, a smaller one below the base of the flamethrower to ignite a flame, and a larger one which was directly connected to the base of the weapon to expel gas. Obviously, both muzzles came with two triggers under the barrel. With the thin, metallic instrument, came along with a brace-belt which holstered two different-coloured canisters: one was red, for butane, and the other full of gas. Constables mowed through the snow, dissolving the white chunks into mere vapor into the air. 

Within the rows of large, tall apartments being cleared of snow, stood an oak mansion at the very southern peak of the Bethenway. It was much larger than any infrastructures of the lines of buildings, belonging to one of the formerly-most successful English companies of the Old Westmeister, the Wayton Residency. 

Upon the many windows of the mansion, a slim, young leopard idly glimpsed at the tiny dots of people walking by through the Hull’s streets. As the view from the towering mansion was a nocturnal, lonely sight, for Colt Wayton, was a temporary break from his jarring evening studies.

“Hm…” Jonathan Wayton’s eyes quickly scanned through the historical summary of the Seven Decades war in which his fifteen-year-old son had adeptly written down. The older leopard’s hum reverted the younger feline’s attention back to his father. 

Despite the almost-malevolent toll it took, Jonathan Wayton was resolute on expanding the pierce intellect of his only son. It did not matter that he put his son’s mind into rigorous and harsh practices of mental acrobatics every single day. Senior Wayton bedeviled his young kin by grooming and refiguring him into a vessel which could secure the future of their family. Anything to impress the royal highnesses with Colt’s wit and intellect, and anything to place the young leopard into the role Lords-In-Waiting for the Marquess of Gizmovale, Kier Onslow. 

The Onslow bloodline had actively stewarded the Wayton Industrial Transline since the dawn of the 18th century. As steam-based technologies began to revolutionize the world and the culture of industrialization, the management of coal, oil, brass, copper, and metal was the only monumental task only ever done by the automatic transportation unit the Wayton Industries have provided. 

However, the seventy-years of war resulting in the complicit burning of resources, and the unexpected death of the sun following after, made it difficult for Lord Onslow to continue their diplomatic support due to the company’s finances diminishing in an instant. However, Senior Wayton was not ready to forfeit the vain of his father’s tireless efforts. Hence, putting his son as a liaison was his final push before an inevitable demise of the company. And, the only way of achieving this as soon as possible, was to put Colt into the University of Urmore. 

The boy’s heart beated out of his torso as he timidly stared at his father, who still scanned through his handbook to seek out any written flaws.

The post-secondary studies were daunting enough for him, but the validation for his own intellect made his situation a lot more tense than before. The silence between the two was not helping their cases. True to his nature, Colt’s intuition bled all over his angst as he read over his father’s soon-to-be furrowed expression.

“Colton.” Jonathan replied, his eyes still glued to the book. “Step forward.” 

The young leopard nervously complied, his hands fumbling against himself as he looked down at his father’s porcelain desk. 

“...Is there something wrong?” Colt finally had the courage to look back up, surprised to himself that he did not stammer his words. The feline had asked his father the same, four-worded questions on a daily, autonomous occasion. 

Holding the notebook down towards the table, the older feline had to take off his glasses, pinching the bridge of his muzzle while he stared down at his lap.

“On the top of your mind, recite to me the significance of the Storming of Kirkcaldy.” 

“The Storming of Kirkcaldy… was… Um… considered the final battle which defined the colonization of the Scottish. The conflict was led by Field Marshal Sir Kris Hayden of Weshire. And…- And… The Scottish were provided weaponry supplements from the Irelands, and the English had no choice but to initiate a nine-hundred men attack...” Colt stammered, looking down at his own shoes to focus.

“How did Sir Hayden and his men earn their victory in battle?” Senior Wayton’s expression did not change a bit. 

“...The…- The use of… Mmm… propelling machine barrel muskets… air-pressurized mortar bombs… Hayden… used three Leviathans in order to haul these weapons mid-air. As the forts of the Kirkaldy were armed with the same level of guerilla commodities, Hayden took advantage of the obstacle through the use of airborne tactical assaults, and used gyrocopters to infiltrate enemy lines.” The young leopard half-blubbered.

There was a silence from the other end, another deafening lack of response from Colt's father, and the boy’s anguished heart could not afford to disappoint his elder. 

“Step closer.” The elderly leopard ordered, standing up from his seat. His chalantless expression was undeterred, making it impossible for his son to read him. After all, he knew his son was great at speculating judging from people’s behaviors.

The lump on the young feline’s throat did not seem to go away on its own, the tension inside his chest thickening as he slowly turned and walked in front of his father and stood before him. 

The two traded glances: Colt could see his fearful reflection against Jonathan’s glasses as he propped them back onto his muzzle. 

In a swift second, the young boy was met with a swift, alarming strike against his left cheek. As he was taught to not cry, nor let out a single gasp in motion, Colt naturally composed himself after being stricken by his own father after faltering onto the ground. 

“I cannot even look at you.” Jonathan muttered with an expression of resentment. Slumping back onto his comfortable chair, Colt’s old man had rested his eyes against his own face in an expression of sheer disappointment. 

The young leopard remained silent, letting the sparkling pain of his father’s palm linger on his cheek slowly diminish. The ball stuck in his throat felt enlarged, as the boy swelled and restrained a few tears from his eyes. 

“F…-Father,” Colton managed to whimper out, his hands softly rubbing his grazed face. “Why have you stricken me? I have gotten the answer correctly.” 

“Colton.” Jonathan breathed out. “No one, especially of you, cannot advance inside the Royal Brigade should they remain to stumble in their own words. Especially when reciting the accomplishments of the former England and its victories.” 

“Forgive my o…-Objection, father, but… I still got everything…- I got everything correct.” Colt looked down at the ground once more, the claws of his fists basically digging into his palms.

“Indeed you did, and yet you tore the words directly from the book itself. What would you do if Professor Hughes would think upon hearing you… parrot your words? If you truly care for the sake of our bloodline, you would have to satiate him from the heart of your tongue.” Jonathan let out a guttural sigh, before slumping back onto his cushioned chair. “I would not act so harsh, had I not known if you were failing your examinations.”

“I’m… Sorry.” The young feline whispered, biting his inner lip to hold back any more negative reactions. 

The mention of Professor Hughes made Colt’s ears fold down onto the floor. Feeling his angst building inside of his chest, the leopard remained to inaudibly cower over his mistakes. He would have to face the consequences of his ineptness in the facility tomorrow, something that the leopard wanted to avoid at all cost. 

The silence, again, was deafening, but Jonathan’s ears picked up drops of liquid pitter-pattering on the floor. The senior had traveled his eyes towards the source, and realized that his rug was sustained with Colt’s blood, dripping from his palms. He watched as both of the young leopard’s fists quivered with visceral anguish as his claws were buried into his palms; unable to absorb the sight before him, John pinched his eyes together with a shred of regret. 

“Go. Clean yourself up, and rest.” Jonathan ordered, unable to look at his son any further than he had to.  

Colt did not speak, but only responded with a silent nod before making his way out of the main office. The luxuries surrounding him did not seem to compensate for his turmoil; it constantly clamored him on what was at stake here. He could not give a single care in the world on losing materialistic value. Though, the weight of letting down the hard, integral work of the Wayton’s legacy lingered in his mind like a curse. 

Returning to his dark, lonely bedroom, Colt sat down at his desk and began to enwrap his wounds. Having to disappoint his father despite his deliberate efforts of academic hardships was daunting, but having to think about going back to the campus knowing it was not enough was something he did not wish to think about.

The boy finally climbed onto his bed. From under his pillow, laid a switch dagger that he had stolen off Jonathan’s table, one that he used for final adjustments of self-defence. 

The leopard held the dagger against his neck, the cold, keen blade pressing down into the side of his throat, where the arteries remained. 

Just like always, Colt’s hands quivered while he pressed the tip right into his skin; he grazed a skin long enough until it could draw a small amount of blood. 

However, in a moment of weakness, the leopard feared the gentle kiss of death, and instead, out of anger, threw the knife across the room and right onto a wall. The room was dark, but he could only hear a gentle, clatter of iron across the room.

Disgusted for himself, he sank into his bed and wept into his pillow. 

_____________

The chandelier lights in the empty corridors of Urmore were barely dimming. The infrastructure of the university was large, and two out of the three buildings in the domain had reached up to six floors, with over 40 facilities stretching from each layer. While Oxford and Cambridge are celebrated for their ancient infrastructures, Urmore stands apart, distinguished by its vast expanse of land. This university, once a sprawling military training facility in the 18th century during the war of seventy years, holds the largest campus in the region. It was one of many artifacts of the forgotten and forbidden past of the era of steam. 

By the end of the fifth floor of room 510, laid a lanky, husked deer who seemed to await Colt’s arrival. Compared to all other teachers out there, Hughes waited for his pupil at an abnormally early time, specifically at four in the morning. Although arriving earlier than scheduled was not a prerequisite for a better score, it was something that Hughes had led the leopard to believe as substantial leverage to his education. 

Hughes put his pen and ink down upon hearing three knocks in his office, his smile widening as the buck was met with the smaller leopard, dressed politely for their one-on-one seminar. 

“Colton. Welcome in.” The buck put on a warm smile. In a moment, he looked down at both palms of his pupil, realizing the white-wrapped bandages covered in a small smudge of red. Holding Colton's hand for a better view, the buck studied the wounds through his thin glasses. His hands against the boy's. 

“Are you okay? Why are your palms painted in blood?”

“I'm fine… No…- No need to worry, Professor.” The leopard pulled his hands away, trying to hide his inner turmoil by looking to the side.

Unable to further read the mentally-beddraggled state of the leopard’s expressions, the elderly deer sat back on his chair and pulled out his handlebook after a moment of a concerned glance. 

“Apologies, I don’t need to pry, son. Come. Sit. We've got plenty to discuss.”

He gestured towards the desk, and towards the seat across from the professor’s office chair. 

“Have you accomplished the summary like I had requested yesterday?” The deer inquired, his smile still stained across his face.

Colt only stared at the empty seat across from the buck. Fear and a mild sense of disgust only lingered in his mind, which traveled down to his stomach. It did not help with the fact that the office was tight and compact, the crowding feeling made the leopard’s angst simmer deeper than it had to. 

“Colton?” Hughes repeated once more. 

“Right. Yes, sir. My…- My apologies.” The feline replied, before approaching his seat. Swiftly, the leopard slouched onto the chair and scrambled for his notebook through the pouchbag of his. 

“I know that I've been tripping through the classes, I do have to say. But I am sure you will be satisfied by my…-”

Hughes watched as Wayton’s expression would change into a wince, as both of them realized that Colt had forgotten his written assignment at home. He had forgotten to ask for it back from his father before he dismissed him the night before. 

“...Oh, no… I…-” Colt froze, realizing his handbook was still back at the mansion. 

“I’m…-I’m terribly sorry, Professor. I think- I think I forgot my handlebook at home.” Colton stood up, pushing back the chair behind him. Even though he had forgotten his assignment, the leopard thought of it like a saving grace. He wanted to get out of this tight office as soon as possible. 

“I… I’m sorry for wasting your time… But I think I must go back and-”

“No.” Hughes stood up as well. The cheerful demeanor in his voice switched to a firm tone, causing the leopard to freeze. “You do not have to apologize.” 

Hughes, with a slow movement, sauntered over towards Wayton, whose hand remained to be holding the knob of the office door. As Hughes drew near, Colt’s heart began to profusely beat out of his ribs. 

“Relax.” Two large, firm hands grasped onto the boy’s shoulders. “I know that this assessment would… plunge your score effectively. But, I understand your personal significance of you being here. After all…”

The leopard's throat began to dry, his mouth and nose tightening as his airway felt increasingly constricted. Colt knew that his daily nightmare would begin just like this: two hands, gripping each of his shoulders.

Wayton could hear the professor’s mellowed breathing, the buck’s muzzle inches away from the feline’s ears as his voice turned into a hush. "Remember what I have promised you, boy? I know how you can… always…- always make it up to me."

Colt looked down at the ground, feeling his palms dig through his own claws while he quivered upon the grip of his teacher. 

His stomach began to churn with revulsion, a sensation that plagued him daily whenever this occurred.

Admonition felt more merciful than the daily commodity of his own innocence. 

“...No.” The young leopard gritted his teeth. 

His eyes narrowed angrily towards the ground, tracing the contours of the shadows in front of him: he did not see Hughes through the reflection. He saw an abomination. A fiending degenerate.  

There were no words to describe the reasoning for Wayton’s newfound revelation for this sudden refusal. He did not care if he had lost everything in this world. The only thing that Colt would ever want now was the small shred of dignity he had lost since the dusk of his birth. 

A silence had buzzed through the air once more.

“What… What do you mean no?” Hughes’ melatonin expression finally mustered down to a confused raise of a brow. 

Colt jerked both of his arms away from the grasp of his superior, quickly turning his head over to lock his scowling eyes towards the buck. Hughes was the first person he did not want to- in his father’s own words- to satiate. 

“I’m done.” The leopard replied, stepping away from the inching distance between himself and his professor, and against the door. 

“C-...Colton…” The husky buck stammered. His expression soon developed into something more of one of pathetic despair. “You cannot utter such words and then leave from my domicile… You must know that once you step foot outside of here, that I would have no alternatives but to fail you. And…-And there would not be anyone else to leverage yourself to the royal circles. None- None other than me.” Hughes persuaded, slowly approaching Colt in a cautious manner.  “You are aware I have succeeded many of our highnesses into their ranks!” 

“Unlike you, I want to live with myself rather than to BASK into your demands.” The leopard growled back. Tears streamed down from his cheeks as his paws jiggled the doorknob. 

Colt was mid-way from latching the door open before Hughes grappled the leopard’s small wrist, causing the boy to grunt in frustration while he tried to writhe his arm out of the buck’s grasp. 

“Let go of me.” Wayton warned, his growl becoming stern. 

“Colton… Please…” The buck persuaded. As his left hand was occupied with Colt’s arm, his other hand leisurely snaked its way onto his shoulder once more. “I am aware of what your esteemed father would say if you failed to meet these expectations… I beseech- I beg of you, please. Please stop and listen to me… for me.”

“Let. Go.” Colt looked down. Tears dripped to the floor as he looked down. His grip against the knob tightened. 

“You’re brilliant, perceptive, and kind-hearted, Colton… And I see that for you, and virtually only for you. Please. Let me assist you. To prove to you my guidance!” 

“And I do not wish to ask you again. Let. Go.”  Colt’s free hand slowly dug into his pouchbag as he realized that Hughe’s squeeze began to hurt him.

“Not if I know if you can trust me!” 

The next few minutes was a blinding mix of red and black which enthralled Colt’s mind. 

“FUCK YOU!” 

The blade of Jonathan’s dagger was small, but the blade’s slit against Hughes’ throat served its duty. Mists of blood flung the air in a frantic dance, staining against the walls, the ceiling, the floor, and all over Wayton’s body. 

A single incision across his professor did not seem to do justice. Belligerent screams shrilled across the rooms as the young leopard’s calamitous desire to repeatedly plunge the blade into his teacher’s face was appeased even after he passed in an instant. 

“ROT IN HELL, YOU FUCKING MONGREL! WHERE YOU FUCKING BELONG!” 

His screams were most of his collective sufferings, but most of all, it was one of rejuvenation. One of freedom that he believed he reverently deserved. 

The disturbing commotion attracted an arousal of attention from another scribe just down the hall, eventually busting the door open to unravel an unkempt scenery: the feline pupil, knelt on the ground, stared at the puddle of blood which was gushing out of his colleague’s gaping wounds. Hughe’s antlers were ripped out of his head and shredded into nothing but scraps of bones, and what was the professor’s green eyes were amassed in shriveled grapes of blood. There were more holes to his face than were to his nose and mouth, and had no one had known that this was Professor Lannister Hughes’ office, it would be difficult for anyone to identify the deer which Colt had just murdered. 

Colt dropped his iron dagger onto the ground, his breath eventually coming back to a crescendo as he looked at the mangled face of his former teacher. The boy did not follow another scream, nor let out a smile. He stared, the reality of all of this was quite too unsettling for anyone to handle. 

With exhaustion and a heavy weight against his chest settling into his guts, Wayton finally fell downwards, his stained eyes staring up at the ceiling. 

Only one thought ever remained: The nightmare was finally, at last, over. 

________________________________________

The cell felt cold against the leopard’s skin. The blue garments he wore only reached up towards the pits of his arms. Having to be locked up in a small, isolating black box was punishing enough, but suffering through the wintery cold with a sleeveless tunic with hay-frail leggings was something else. 

For the first time in his life, Colt did not sleep in the gentle hands of his bed. 

Being in his small cell for nine days, Colt had about two hours to anticipate being hanged in downtown England. 

Having a wool sheet over his body did not comfort his slumber; the thought of inevitable, instant death felt more of a blanket over his soul. 

After all, there was nothing left to lose now. 

Given he was a Wayton, the constables handled the boy with care, suspecting that the leopard had turned insane, judging from the bloody mural he had painted in the office of Lannister Hughes. There was no point in pleading an excuse to the officers; there were no witnesses to prove it, and no evidence to back up his claims. Slaughtering Hughes inside of his own domicile was the last, complicated decision that Colt believed he would make before his forthcoming demise. 

As Colt finally counted the last of his thoughts, a guard finally came forth to his cell. The leopard soon sat up from his wooden plank of his bed to face the older dachshund before him. 

“Unit twenty-five-five-zero-four-eight.” Began the canine guard. Colt expected metal cuffs as the officer raised his hands towards the boy. However, he was surprised that the sentry held out a few, neatly folded clothes that were bundled in a rope. 

"The court has stayed your execution, and you shall be released into the custody of your father.” Dropping the clothes on the floor, the dachshund left the cell and locked it, facing away from the leopard. 

“Once you are dressed, you will be relinquished.” 

The leopard blinked twice, his jaw opening in disbelief from the news. 

“Re…- Relinquished? How?”

“Just thank our Creator that the estate of your father…- well…- Gave the court of law a new noggin. Not many people have the luxury of goin’ out after something like this.” The guard replied, his eyes focused at the horizon of the prison corridors. “Don’t bugger about, kid. You don’t want to catch a coldy in this weather.” 

Colt, dismayed by this current progress of life, finally compelled his shattered mind together and dressed into the outfit given to him. 

The only thing that was left unshattered was his reluctance in even pursuing the outside world after his atrocities. 

_________________________________

Two years rolled around, and Colt was a shy of seventeen. 

Waking up in the heaping pile of rubbish in the alleyway of Renby Street, the leopard was met with a crumpled up newsprint to the face. The circumstances of sleeping behind the dump of the Shameless Glutton had one flaw: Wayton had to deal with the endless unknown items of garbage people hurl towards. 

The young feline had the same clothes as he wore when he was out of the Linbay Prison, but it was now a different, darker color upon being mushed in with dust and garbage. His outfit did not seem to grow out: The more that Colt grew, the skinnier and malnutritioned he became. 

He fancied a flat-cap he found on the side of the road to match his outfit, in order to hide his visage from those who were able to recognize him. He had been in many altercations in the alleyways due to his upbringings. 

After he was released, the young feline was exiled from his home by his father, upon hearing that the death of the Industrial Transline would meet a slow and inevitable end. The company which stood for nearly a millennium was now known for its ‘heathened son,’ and Lord Marquess Onslow had no hesitation to discontinue their alliance. 

There were no words uttered between them after; the day which the young Wayton had been released was the finale of their father-and-son relationship. 

Luck did not seem to bless Colt, but he could not give a sewerrat’s bottom. Although the consequences did not seem to go in his favor, the leopard only ever lived with himself without being stringed down like a ventriloquist puppet. 

The leopard had some difficulties with gaining shillings to eat, as no one wanted to be an advocate of a psychopathic murderer. Wayton even tried the Vaughenhouse Automobile Engine Factory, as the facility was notorious for delivering printed adverts of recruitment to every male child in nursing homes of Gizmovale, but to no avail. 

Despite these terrible inconveniences, Colt did not care. 

Compared to what he had when he was living his luxurious life, laying out the foundations of his own survival was much less of a burden. Although, he did miss the miniscule pleasures which came along with it. 

Upon waking up from his slumber, Colt began to do his daily dumpster foliage in which he has done for the past years. Not many establishments were enthusiastic of having a tramp rummage through their disposed items; some owners threatened violence upon realizing that the boy was a gentry. Many people of the Old Westmeisters were avarices, but yet hated those who were rich.

Finally finding himself a half-eaten mushroom bake from a can, the leopard gleefully swallowed the remains before searching through the piles of litter once more. 

The leopard’s little heist, however, came to an end as the door from the tavern swung forth from behind. From there, Wayton’s neck was suddenly grabbed by a burly grasp of a scar-ridden crocodile. His eyes only narrowed to a scowl while he strangled the small cat with his one left hand. His grip was not enough to be lethal, but it was enough to send some sort of a physical warning. 

"Oi! This is my fuckin’ gaff and pub, ya’ mug! What in the cock of a horse are ye’ diggin’ through?!" The scruffed reptile demanded, his other hand arched into a fist. 

“P…-Please… Let… Go… I cause…- Grk…- N-No harm…!” Colt finally choked out, trying to use the maximum amount of his powers to squirm out of the bartender’s grasp. 

"You kiddies think ya’ can just roll up in here and act all bossy?! ‘should bang yer’ head in!" The crocodile growled, his grip remained to be constricting against Wayton, who seemed to quench his eyes closed to brace for impact of the predator’s fist. 

"Ey, chill yer’ sack of yours, Varon. Find someone yer’ own size to have a scrap.” A cockney accent called out from the open door, following a large figure behind the bartender, who, in a doubt, had released the boy’s throat with a grunt. 

Colton wheezed the filthy air and roughly coughed out from the unnecessary abrasion. As his vision finally paired into its proper senses, the younger feline finally caught the muscular silhouette, one of a white lynx. 

A lynx with an eyepatch. 

"I ain’t payin’ you to choke out young blokes behind yer’ building, no? The corgi’s comin’ round from his wee and is shoutin’ for you, and Old Man Jay’s ‘bout to come in for… Several of yer’ pints.” Wojtek Zuev pat Varon on his back, before stepping forward. “Off ya go, I’ll handle it."

Varon let out a sigh and left, leaving the door closed behind the two felines. Zuev watched, hands in his pockets, as the leopard finally pulled himself together. Still holding his throat, Colt became confused as to why he was spared. 

"Yer’ geezer must’ve knocked his head clean off when he found out ya’ ripped that teacher to bits, no?” 

Colt looked up at the older feline. “I’m…- I’m sorry?” 

“I don’t wanna be- What’s that word…- speciesist, but aren’t ye’ that Wayton kid? The one during the Urmore Murder of ‘19?” Wojtek pointed at the leopard, but not in an accusatory way anyone else would have done. “C…- Cunt Wayton, yeah?” 

“It’s Colt. And yes.” Colt felt his muscles tense up. Normally, the question Wojtek was inquiring was the segue to a street scrap. “I’m assuming you want to use that as leverage to beat me? Seems like everyone wants the title of ‘striking the psychoboy.’” 

“I’m not here lookin’ for a bit of fun, mate.” Wojtek pulled his occupied hand from his last pocket, holding a fried mackerel towards the leopard. 

“Is…- Is this a test?” Colt looked up and down, his mind still reluctant of the kind-hearted gesture. His eyes narrowed towards the lynx with intuitive doubt, as no one has ever been so forgiving. 

“I don’t mess about with men like yourself. That’s a boy’s game.” The lynx eventually tossed the fish towards the leopard, turning around towards the door behind him. 

"Come in, mate. I don’t know if yer’ after a glass o’water or a pint, but there’s somethin’ to wet your gut."

Colt looked down at the mackerel pressed against his palms. He did not know if a demon from hell had sent him a final meal before the great unknown, or if this was an odd dream he was having. The pain of his formerly-strangled throat only confirmed that the reality he lived in was no illusion. 

Wojtek clutched the handle of the Tavern’s backdoor before Colt eventually took a step forward, an arm reaching out towards the cat. 

“Wait…! Just stop! Just stop for a moment!” Wayton breathed out. “Why… Why are you being so… So kind to me?”

Wojtek stopped, letting go of the handle and turning around to face Colt. Despite Wojtek’s sinful routes, his gaze towards the boy was none other than pure of heart, something that Colt did not have a memory of experiencing. 

“Because unlike you, I can barely read.” Wojtek cracked a smile. 

Something about his tone of voice made Colt believe that there was more to the lynx’s intentions, but he did not have the momentum to pry any further. 

Wojtek finally opened the door, the muffled pirate chants of his men boomed lively throughout the building. “You look like you swam out of a cow’s shithole. Come. Sit with me and my crew. And we can get you some new pairs after we have our fillings.” 

Colt, after a few seconds to build up courage, slowly began to make his way inside. 

For the first time in his life, he had found his family. 

___________________

Epilogue

Colt looked down at the Gizmovale ocean. He admired how the moonlight reflected in the water, giving a translucent silhouette of his own visage. 

The dock of the Ol’ Bessie was calmly rocking. Being alone on the Wolfhound’s means of ocean transportation, it gave him time to reflect on his upbringings. 

Another year had passed since the leopard had joined the Wolfhounds in their scavenging efforts for pleasure and survival. Although Colt had clearly expressed his distaste for the cultural taboo of fighting and killing, Wojtek had made the deal that the leopard would contribute to cultivating information regarding odd jobs around Old Westmeister. His skills in bartering for a bit more gold, his charisma, and his broad knowledge made Wojtek feel confident in his decision.

However, within the years to come, the question of Colt’s release remained to not stagnate from his mind once more. 

Jonathan Wayton could have just left his son to die at the hands of the law, and Colt knew that having him thrown out of the mansion and onto the streets would have achieved a similar result. Colt was well aware that there had to be more to his father’s decision to keep him alive, spending enough money to avoid a hanging.

His thoughts, however, got interrupted as Wojtek placed his foot onto the docks, climbing up to join the young feline. 

“‘Ey. Frye and Ollie has been askin’ for you at the Tavern.” 

“I’ll be there. In a moment.” The leopard replied, his eyes concentrating on his reflection.

“‘In a moment’ should be in less than a minute. They made plans of goin’ to the bawdy house for a few. At least give them the honor of sharing a glass with you.” 

The leopard, drowned out in his own thoughts, did not respond. Having to be pensive at a time like this, all of his surroundings felt like a blank space.

Wojtek eventually mirrored Colt’s mannerism, looking down at the glossy water below them. Both of them shared an interest in the ocean’s ripples. 

“You know in a few fortnights, boy, will mark the third year since your little wank-up?” The lynx inquired, after a minute of thinking.

“Is that so?” Wayton looked up, confused as to why Wojtek had mentioned this so suddenly. 

"Eyup. It’ll be a quarter past January soon. Urmore can’t stop milkin’ the same news over, and over, and over. Blind me, they’d do anythin’ to bump up their numbers." Wojtek lifted himself up from the edged rails of the docks. 

The leopard eventually lifted his head up to turn to his captain. “It’s not like their numbers are going to get any higher than its improbability, given that the essence of living is in… Well. Decay.” 

“What a world this world is, huh?” The lynx followed suit as well, leaning his back against the edge of the rails this time. 

After another few moments of silence, Zuev had finally slipped a previously-opened letter towards the leopard, who took it upon seeing a highly familiar cursive pattern of that of his father. 

‘To Pf. Hughes’ was said on the very front of the envelope. 

“I found this in that old Wayton place of yours. Some fiends were nickin’ what was left of the place, and I managed to spot this under… what I reckon was your old man’s library room. You might want to read it. It’s a good reference for ye’ to come drink ‘till out of your memory.” The lynx looked down at the floor. As much as he needed to deliver the letter, he did not want to pain himself from looking at the leopard’s reaction. 

Colt looked over the letter, his curiosity shifting to a somber expression by the time he reached the end. The leopard gazed at the dark, gloomy horizon of the ocean, his arms holding the letter slowly lowering to the ground. The thin sheet of paper tightened in his grip. He did not shed a tear, but the letter had devastated him completely, enough that the perception of everything that had happened to him would drastically change. 

He finally found the reason why his father did not follow through with his execution. 

“So… This is all…” Colt stammered a little bit, his voice deduced to a whisper. 

“Yes.” Wojtek replied, just as serious as the younger feline. “Your pops didn’t care what tossed around inside of that ‘versity, as long as you got the scores that he needed for you to become much higher.” 

Wojtek let out a sigh, crossing his arms close to his own torso. Both of them were in equal dismay, but Wojtek knew that this type of scandal is what granted Old Westmeister this title. 

Despite the lynx’s seemingly calm demeanor, his heart ached for the leopard, as he finally took a breath back in.

"He made a deal with that fuckin’ monster.”