02: Death Throes

Fletcher stumbled back, suddenly out of breath, leaning back on an old tree for support. His father simply stared, and Thume let out a low whistle.

“Well boy." The old goat said, hefting his gun and stepping towards the corpse. The wound was significantly larger than Fletcher had expected, a sizeable chunk of the beast's head blown away. It had all happened in a blinding snap of action and reaction; his rifles crack in the air, the Orikabu's dizzying head flick and subsequent meteoric crash. After his shot connected, the head had dipped down as the legs kept working for a few driverless strides, until suddenly they just didn't. The massive beast had slammed into the soft earth with the grace of an earthquake, the snake-like antlers etching a randomly complex pattern in their wake as it slid to a grinding halt, it's momentum ending only a few feet from where Fletcher stood. The eyes stared blankly towards the heavens, the back legs twitching sporadically as the final slivers of life drained from the cooling husk.

Mason circled the dead Orikabu, reaching a paw out to touch its flank. Thume's own hand snapped to the Baron's wrist, freezing it in place. Standing before the near-lifeless body of such a foreign creature, the goat seemed even more alien than ever.

“The barbs." Thume said plainly, glancing to the body. Mason blinked away his flash of anger, retracting his arm. Orikabus had venomous barbs growing in their coat, a final fuck-you for anything strong or lucky enough to bring it down. “Good shot Fletch." Thume continued, tilting his head towards the younger coyote.

“Indeed." Mason added, arms crossed. “Now the locals can stop whining at me every other week." The older coyote looked to Thume, a scowl on his muzzle. “How do you know another one won't just settle in here?"

“Oh, we should be good round these parts for at least a year, I'd say. They're solitary creatures, and one that was this wild and estranged? Nobody wants to live near crazy." Thume explained, lighting a cigarette. Finally finding his breath, Fletcher slid the bolt on his rifle back, popping the empty casing.

“Are we going back to sleep?" He asked, setting the rifle down carefully. Mason snickered, remembering his son's state of undress.

“You wonderin' if you need pants there boy?" Fletcher blushed, looking down at his boxers and boots.

“Er, something like that." He said, rubbing the back of his neck.

“By my reckon, we're an hour or two away from dawn anyway." Thume said, staring up at the sky. “Not much point now really. You takin' a trophy?" He looked to Fletcher, narrowing those weird, alien eyes. The younger coyote quickly shook his head.

“I'll send some boys up here when we get back to Gallentry." Mason said, already folding up his tent. “I want the antlers, maybe one-a them big teeth. Make a good gift for Neremiah, and the antlers'll go in the gun range. That'll show the bastard." Fletcher couldn't see Thume's eyes as his father spoke, but he could imagine them rolling.

The trio hastily packed away their things, choked down an acrid-tasting attempt at coffee and started back on their hike. There was less chatter this time, and Fletcher found himself starting to doze off - even as they walked. They eventually found their way to the path again, following it back north an hour or so to where they'd left the buggy.

“Fletch, get 'er going would ya?" Mason cried over one shoulder, striding into the brush to relieve himself. Fletcher groaned, but plodded over to the rear of the steel skeleton frame where the engine was. He flicked on the fuel gate, checked the levelling, and finally yanked the starter. It took four or five good heaves before the thing finally turned over, coughing up a lung of foul smoke as it spurred loudly to life. The group stashed their kit on the roof, pulling themselves into the janky seats and letting Thume whisk them away.

With the low revs of the diesel engine roaring, it was too loud to talk without screaming, so Fletcher stared out at the fiefdom; losing himself as they were carried down the Baron's Way road to the tune of Dead World horsepower. Sleep was impossible, but eventually they got close enough to Gallentry that they started seeing denser clusters of barns and homes whoosh by. A few times they had to slow for a caravan or two of trade wagons, pulled along by lumbering ferals. When they passed through more populated areas - places just large enough to be called villages - young pups and kits would come tearing out of their homes; so eager and elated to see a real-life buggy in work. Fuel-powered engines were a thing of the Dead World, and few outside the exceptionally wealthy and influential ever got to ride in one; especially in the Fulbright Province. It was a testament to the Baron's egotism that he took his own out with such readiness.

Fletcher had always hated the thing. It was a long angular vehicle that resembled a rusting cage, with wheels jutting out grotesquely from the sides, the once-chrome rollbar body stripped of shine and rough to the touch. The engine stunk, and the whole car rattled fiercely as it moved, feeling as if any minute it might fall to pieces and leave them broken in some ditch.

The height of luxury. He thought, for once relieved to see the taller-than-average buildings of Gallentry approaching. The Baron's gunslingers and feraldrivers waved as they passed, and Thume began slowing the buggy to a more civilised speed. Gallentry was not an exceptionally dense city, but it also was far from small. The swamps and bayous of Mason Fulbright's fiefdom were expansive, and it was easy to set up a new lot of foundations and move even farther out from the central districts. The iron mines laid to the north end of the city, surrounded primarily by small shacks and refineries inhabited by those employed there – almost a town within a town.

The metaphorical centre of town was called the Brigade Quarter, despite being to the west of the geographical centre. It had the highest buildings, powered street lights lining the streets, and members of the Baron's Justice on every corner. Affluent workers bustled across the roads, clearing for the buggy but continuing hastily on their way. They were dressed mostly in cloths, occasionally braced with bits of leather, goggles or wide-brimmed hats sitting atop their heads. Revolvers were cheap, and they sat on just about every third hip, holsters rocking slightly in time to their relaxed gait. Gallentry was a civilised town, for the most part, and its citizens rarely felt the need to have their paws close around their grips.

“Bring us round to the manor front Thume, good man!" Mason cried loudly. Thume nodded, adjusting his neckerchief and making a hard right. Fletcher watched Gallentry's guts roll past with mild disinterest; parliament house, the old church, the city gaol, the bank, one of countless gunsmiths, a high-end tailor…he saw them nearly every day and hated each one. Fletcher's father didn't like him wandering too far out of sight, and he was typically relegated to spend the majority of his time in the Brigade Quarter.

Even if he wandered off on his own, one of Mason's goons was more likely than not to stop him. “Yer Pa know yer out here Master Fulbright?" Then they'd drag him right back.  

The gates to Fulbright Manor peeled back with a squeak as two armed foxes let them in, each giving polite nods to their Baron even as he ignored them. High walls hid most of the house front from street view, gardens of muted colour decorating the lawn, the old badger housekeeping crew tending to it as usual. The Baron craved a green and opulent oasis, but this deep in the swampy south it simply wasn't possible; the ground was too sick and dry, filled with leftover dead-civ flavouring.

Finally, Thume murdered the bastard machine engine, and they all clambered out, stretching and groaning as their bodies popped. Fletcher's ears were ringing, and he yawned, feeling a slight headache build behind his eyes. Thume lit up a smoke, and Mason peeled off his jacket.

“You did good boy." Thume said, clapping Fletcher on the shoulder. His voice picked up and he tilted his head towards Mason. “Might be one of the best shots I've ever seen; you got something real special 'ere Baron." Mason just grunted. Things had to get a little more formal, now they were reunited with civilisation; Thume would fall back into his 'respectful advisor' role.

“Thank you." Fletcher said awkwardly, not sure what else to say. A secret part of him wished his father would go on, but the old coyote simply handed his muck-covered coat to one of the waiting badgers and strode off inside without another word.

“Why yes." Thume began, watching after him. “I enjoyed my time with you too sir, you're very welcome." He shook his head. “Don't play stupid games Fletch; you know what kinda prizes they net."

Fletcher slipped his paws into his pockets, sighing. “What are you gonna do now Thume?" The goat groaned, rubbing a hand across his jaw.

“I don't rightly know. Might sleep." He said, blinking, squinting as if at something very far away. “I don't sleep much these days though, or really at all if my brain can help it. But…it's been enough time awake, and I've got these…blots, swimming in my vision. A haze, y'know? Makin' it real hard to discern exactly where the boundaries are. I wouldn't wanna get…" He sighed, glancing to Fletcher. “…lost."

Wouldn't wanna get lost. He thought. What would a lost Thume even look like?

“Er, no I suppose not. What do you mean by…a haze? Should you have been driving?" Thume said nothing for a passing moment, swaying slightly on his feet. Fletcher was about to prompt him, when he finally spoke, voice a low pitch.

“It's circular, you get it? My mind's long lost Fletch, damn borders keeps getting shifted on me, mostly by folk like your father. I can feel it in my cavities, this world, that sun." He looked up and over a shoulder, holding a hand against the harsh sunlight. “It separates me, divides me into little pieces, segments, slowly but surely sliding them apart. Men like your father see it - then they worm their way into the cracks and hold tight, like a fuckin' parasite." Fletcher almost gasped. He'd heard Thume make offhanded comments about Mason, little jabs, tiny things always in jest…but never something so direct. Certainly never called him a parasite.

That's enough to be hung for, on a bad day. He thought.

     “Ya ever think about dyin'?" He continued, swaying even more, a cigarette held forgotten in one hand. “I ain't supposed to be here, that's fer fuckin' sure." The old goat seemed on the cusp of saying something more, but he stopped himself.

     “Are you sure you're okay Thume? You're making less sense than usual." Fletcher asked.

     “I'm makin' more fuckin' sense than I ever have before, you best listen." He swallowed, looking as if he'd suddenly been woken from a nap. “But…that said…maybe it's best you pretend we didn't have this conversation. I'm just…tired. Gets like that."

Then he was gone, and Fletcher was left alone.

He – politely - had one of the house staff prepare a bath, and once he was alone Fletcher began to strip. A fresh pair of clothes were already sitting on the bench waiting, so he left his swamp-stained ones on the varnished floor, sliding his aching feet and tail into the steaming tub. He sighed, feeling his joints relax, his fur floating in the water. He let his head sink beneath the surface, closing his eyes and coming back up after a momentary pause. His head fell back against the lip and he dozed lightly, paws tracing lazy little circles on his stomach.

His mind wandered, as it was want to when he was in a bath. It'd been a few days since he…his paws wandered down his stomach, tracing little lines closer and closer to his sheath. Inside it, he felt himself stir a little at just the thought. One finger slid along his slowly firming length, tracing over the tip and making increasingly smaller circling patterns. He let out a soft breath, eyes still closed. In his mind he saw a well-built wolf, a faded red one, hovering over him, tongue hanging out. The imaginary wolf was well endowed, with firm muscles and an angular jaw. Fletcher had never done anything, but that didn't stop his imagination running. He stroked his length gently, imaging the wolf's own member hardening, the precum leaving him slick and…

The fantasy was shattered completely as a fist slammed on the bathroom door. Fletcher shook himself up and covered his erection with both paws, looking to the door. It cracked open and his father poked his head inside.

“Oh, there you are!" He exclaimed, sounding almost annoyed.

Yes, how dare I want to be clean. Fletcher thought, furiously blushing beneath his golden-brown fur. Can't I just get off in peace? It had been days, nearly a week, and he was almost hurting.

“Uh, can it wait?" He asked, wincing as soon as the words were free from his lips. Mason's eyes hardened and his ears flexed.

“I'm sorry, of course young Baron. I'll just wait around all damn day for you then right? You always whine and argue Fletcher, it's unbecoming."

“No I don't…" The younger coyote mumbled, looking around, unsure what his father wanted exactly. He hated being naked around other people, even if his father couldn't actually see anything, he still felt exposed and unprotected.  

“Yes you do, don't talk back. I think you should keep an eye on that mouth boy, I won't have disrespect under my own roof. You wanna be out on the street? Nobody else would keep you in the kinda comfort I do." Fletcher shut his eyes, resisting the drive to sigh loudly. He'd heard this all before, a dozen times over. Frankly, he wouldn't entirely mind being 'out on the street' if it meant his father wasn't there.

“What do you need, father? May I please get dressed first?" He asked, once the rant was done. Mason paused.

“Yes, of course." He said, pausing as if the idea hadn't occurred to him. “But we need to talk." Mason sighed dramatically, rolling his eyes but mercifully disappearing. Fletcher relaxed, pinching the bridge of his nose. He quickly dried and dressed himself, donning more gentrified clothing appropriate for city life; faded striped slacks with a hole for his tail, a plain white buttoned shirt, a brown vest with silver buttons, and finally some slightly cleaner boots. After smoothing his head fur down in the mirror he made his way reluctantly to the den.

We're all so tired, could this not have waited? He thought, muttering under his breath. He wondered where Thume had gone, the old goat was acting so strange, but his presence always made Fletcher feel a little better. He was solitary, but he knew the goat wanted what was best for him. They had a strange relationship, distant yet close; he wondered if Thume knew he liked boys.

“You'd like a drink boy?" Mason asked as he entered, pouring out a serving of scotch before Fletcher had a chance to even answer. “Here, taste that." He said passing it.

“Thanks." Fletcher said, lifting the glass. Mason shot a paw out, grabbing his forearm, eyes intense.

“Sip it." He hissed, before releasing. “Scotch this good can't be wasted gulping it down…taste it, let it sit in your mouth before you swallow." Fletcher turned away, rolling his eyes, but drinking as his father instructed. The two took a seat opposite one another in the centre of the room, the older coyote staring into his glass.

“Mmm. Good huh?" He asked. “I've been thinking recently, and I wanted to talk to you about something. About Neremiah Ablish, and that girl of his." Fletcher's heart sunk, and he looked away. This again? His eyes itched and he still felt dusty despite the bath.

“Ah, what of him?" Fletcher asked, sipping his scotch. He hated the taste; it burned like fuel smelled, and he half suspected most people only pretended to like it because it made them look sophisticated.

“Well, you did say there've been no women on your horizons…I asked, because last month Baron Ablish and I met for a dinner. We'd like to see you and Dessica married before the month is out." He said flatly. Mason had been blunt from the instant he could speak, but even so Fletcher wasn't ready for that kind of news; it was like a punch to the face. He spluttered, snapping his posture up and putting his drink to the side even as Mason went on. “Neremiah showed me a vowing contract when I visited, it's very favourable for you – and the family. She's a nice girl, bit quiet, but with those wide hips…you don't want them too mouthy anyway." Fletcher felt sick. He'd thought…he could have courted her maybe, as a show. He couldn't…couldn't marry a woman though, and certainly not her.

“I don't know…" He stammered. His heart was throbbing in his chest, and his limbs were shaking, fur on end.

“Neremiah offered us a generous serving of his oil take for the marriage, in exchange for some iron supplementation, but we have plenty of that to spare." A lie. “You'd get together; she'd squeeze out a few pups or…foals I suppose? Whatever it is deer are called…and be merry. Both counties take in a much higher revenue as we can correlate prices, and everyone is happy." He grinned stupidly, ears up and excited. Fletcher's paws twiddled relentlessly in his lap, he couldn't get still. His mouth was so dry. He…he couldn't get married. Not to her. Not to any woman. That wasn't how it worked for him.

Fawns. He thought, that was the word. Offspring. Mating. His mind pictured a feminine body, all curves and wrongness. There was nothing inherently ugly about it, but also nothing he found particularly enticing. He'd made peace with his preference years ago, but he'd never had the courage to speak to his father about it. Mason was old money, he had very traditional values and was strict about how he thought the world should work.

He also had no tolerance for those that saw things differently.

Mating. He couldn't.

“I…don't even know Miss Ablish. And-and she doesn't know me! We've barely ever exchanged two words between us!" He said. He didn't know how to say no outright. But he knew he had to, this was insane, even by Mason's standards.

“I initially dismissed it as well." The older coyote said. “A marriage contract? Preposterous really - in this day and age, but the terms…Fletcher, if you haven't got a girl by now, it would be a fool's gamble not to take this opportunity!" Mason stood dramatically, pacing. Fletcher got up too, if only so as not to be cornered in his seat.

“What…what kind of terms did they set?" He asked hesitantly, quickly trying to think up some excuse as to why he couldn't marry a woman he didn't even know.

“Well, you know about the trade agreements. No more embargos through the Ablish province, free access to their metalworkers, likewise from us. Not to mention the hefty Ablish dowry. Plus…well, Fletcher I looked it over, of course. States that you both have the right to…side activities." Mason strode quickly now, closing the distance between them. He clapped Fletcher on the shoulder, staring into his eyes, his face almost deranged. “Most women, your mother, the others before her…after her…you want to try something else you've gotta sneak around. Lies upon lies, deceptions you both tell each other and yourselves, to live with that crushing guilt. It's wrong, it's sick that the world makes mutts of us! There's nothing wrong with loving more than one woman, it's natural in some cultures – I hear Baron Macedon has three concubines at a time." Mason sighed, releasing Fletcher and pacing.

“You don't understand yet." He said, using his paws to emphasise. “But these vows, they state that so long as you father calves or pups or whatever, and don't kick up any bastards, the marriage remains. You can still play around, do what you want." He came up to Fletcher quickly, fists held up before him as if seizing some imaginary fruit. “Can't you see? It's perfect!" He insisted.  

Perfect. He thought.

“Plus you've got Dessica there, waiting as always to warm your bed."

Like a corpse. Fletcher thought. He remembered the girl, the few times he'd seen her. Nearly thirty, unwed, and mostly uncourted. If the rumours were true, she could be cruel. The children of the Ablish manor hated her, and most men who did court her gave up after a few weeks. His father was so obsessed with sex; acting like marriage was just some ploy to force someone to sleep with you.

“I…don't think I'd like that father. She seems nice enough but…I don't mean to be disrespectful…she isn't my type of lady, I think." Fletcher said, as gently as he could put it. Mason stared back at him, wild eyes narrowing.

“I need you to trust me in this Fletcher." He said in a low voice, stepping closer again as his voice grew in volume. “I need you to – for once – pull yourself up by the bootstraps and be a man. I waited! Neremiah first brought this to me two years ago, and with better terms! But I declined, politely. I said; my son has his own choices to make, so you see I tried to give you room. And yet it's been all this time and I've not met a single girl. Never seen you with one, never heard of you talking about one even. I thought maybe he's shy…but no. Just incompetent? Perhaps." His father's words were almost a growl, and Fletcher felt himself take a gentle step backwards. “People have talked son. I won't stand for seditious rumours about my house, and my family! So I am making this choice for you."

Fletcher had never seen him this deranged. He swallowed, trying to hold his paws up as a sign of truce.

“I just…like to keep to myself sir. I guess I could try harder to meet a girl, if you like. But I…I really wouldn't like to marry Miss Ablish. Thank you for thinking of it, but I just don't think we'd be a good--" Mason whirled,

“I don't give a shit!" He snapped. “What you like anymore boy. The agreements are a quarter less of what we were offered two years ago, and I don't want this house to suffer more because you want time to wait before giving in. This is a good deal; it'll open so many doors for us! Have some fucking faith in your own father!"

“I-I do."

“Clearly you do not." Mason said slowly. “Son I think you could make a happy life with Dessica. And I don't think it's very respectful of you to just spit on me the second I bring you a good thing." He laughed incredulously, wiping at his muzzle and looking away.

“I'm sorry sir. I can't." Fletcher said, hating the whine in his voice. He couldn't marry her, he couldn't make…the thought of her laying down, stripping clothes back and expecting him to put his…no. It seemed so wrong. He felt so sick, why was everything spinning?

Wouldn't wanna get lost. He thought. Circular. They keep shifting the borders. Did Thume know about this?

“Irregardless." Mason went on. “I'm not bringing this to you today as a question Fletcher. I'm telling you." His voice was sour, and Fletcher felt his stomach drop out. He fell back into the chair, suddenly cold. “I already signed the contract boy. I wanted you to enjoy nature as a single man once more; I wanted you to come back to a nice surprise. You're so ungrateful, you're all. So. Ungrateful!" He slammed his glass on the table nearest him.

“I won't." Fletcher said suddenly, standing before he realised what was happening. It was somebody else in his skin, he was a passenger relegated to watching his body try to ruin his life. It felt unreal. A nightmare manifest. But to be forced to have sex with someone he didn't want to…it felt so wrong. To have something like marriage, like love, written into a contract, including permitted adultery clauses…it was sick. It was a violation of his spirit and self. He closed his eyes. “I won't marry Dessica."

“You will." Mason said quietly, pouring another drink without even looking back. “I shouldn't say, but our finances are on the decline. Gallentry needs this alliance, I need this alliance. You will not bring ruin to this house by throwing away a generous offer. We do things for the good of the house boy. I don't care if you don't like her, I barely tolerated your mother, but if they end up pregnant you do what you must! An unwed lady of her age is unseemly, and the desperation is driving old Neremiah to offer more than he realises.

Just breed the bitch son, let her squeeze out some pups, have a side piece, and drink." He knocked back his glass, slamming it down on the small table yet again. “It's what the rest of us do." He didn't wait for Fletcher to respond, turning on his heel and storming out of the den.

Fletcher gasped, struggling to breathe as he felt tears stinging his eyes. He couldn't be married off like that, could he? Was it legal? But who would stop it, no judge in the Fulbright province would dare contradict the Blood Iron Baron about his own son.

Fletcher fell into a chair, tears slowly leaking from his eyes.

For how long he sat there exactly he was uncertain, but by the time he found his way outdoors again it was nearing dusk. The sun sat near the horizon like a huge eye peering over the earth. The air was thick and humid, and the gathering clouds made it look as if might rain later on.

“Nice night for a walk." Fletcher jumped as Thume stepped up next to him, a lit cigarette already in his lips. The goat was dressed in plain slacks and a vest, his shirt sleeves rolled up past his elbows. “Am I intruding in on your think-piece time Fletch?"

“No, you're fine." Fletcher said. “Did you get some sleep?" He peered at the goat out the corner of one eye, suspicious. He relaxed when Thume nodded.

“Woke up half an hour ago. I think it's…probably better if you just pretend I didn't say anythin' to you earlier. I'm sorry for losing myself like that."

“Yeah." Fletcher replied. He didn't know what to say, he wished he had something to take his mind off his father, off Dessica. He couldn't marry her, couldn't have sex with her. Suddenly it all bubbled up, thoughts of a lifetime spent with a woman he couldn't love; even if he wanted to. The visions frothed to the top of his awareness; an awkward ceremony, the consummation, children.

“It sucks. It really sucks." He swallowed, eyes welling up with tears. “Thume I can't do it." His voice cracked and he held a forearm across his eyes. It was too much. He sobbed quietly into his arm, and after an awkward pause Thume patted him gently on the shoulder.

“I know." He said softly. “It ain't right, what your father does." It was difficult to breathe, and the young coyote wiped at his eyes, trying to catch his breath. “I tried to talk him down, but he wasn't having none of it. He's not the man I once knew, he was always trash, but this…derangement. It saddens me."

“I think I have to leave." Fletcher said, swallowing. “It's the only thing I can think of! I have to get out of here…and…I don't know…come back in a year or two, when he's calmed down maybe."

“Fletch…" Thume said gently.

“He already signed my life away!" Fletcher exclaimed, slamming his foot against the ground like a child. “He didn't even ask he just sold it! Can he even do that!? I just…I don't know what else to do. I can't marry Dessica Ablish Thume, and I tried saying no – he won't have it." He knew he sounded like a child, pleading as he was, but he was desperate. He'd never felt quite so alone before.

“Your father's people will never let you leave. The second you start running they'll grab you, everyone knows he doesn't like you wandering about, and it'll be ten times worse if he puts the word out."

“Then I'll wear a disguise!"

“You're being childish."

“Thume I can't marry her! Even if I wanted to!" He hissed. The goat paused, indecision written across his features. “I don't even…" Fletcher stopped himself.

“Don't what?" Thume asked, cocking his head. “Go on. I know it's difficult to articulate, but try for me would ya?"

“I don't…" Fletcher mumbled. “It doesn't matter."

“You have to find peace with your own nature. Say it." Thume said. “Say it and…and I'll help you." He shook his head, almost as if not believing himself. “It's all circular, how many times have I done this before? You know where anxiety comes from Fletch? It's a lack of both foresight and control. When all the other shit falls away agency is all we got. Three distinct elements, all interacting characters in this psychic apparatus doctors call a mind; leave your super-ego behind Fletcher, there's no use for it now." Fletcher had no idea what a super-ego was, but he could hazard a guess at what Thume was trying to say.

“You'll really help? Help me get away from him?" He asked softly. “I can't do it anymore. I can't be around him. He's…he's poison." Thume inhaled deeply, tilting his head back and letting the breath go.

“Shit, it is a bad idea…but, if you're gonna go at least I can try and make sure you don't get killed doing it."

“I don't like women." Fletcher said. “Romantically. I like boys…I always have. I don't know why." He sniffed. His skin felt hot and his bones felt cold.

“It's okay." Thume said. He sighed, lighting another cigarette and inhaling deeply. “This might be the worst idea I've ever had. And I'll hang if they catch us. You're sure?"

“There's no reasoning with him, you know that." Fletcher said, staring at the ground. And it was true, even aside from the marriage – Mason Fulbright had a way of sucking the life from the world around him. His home was a tomb, and the only thing left there now were ghosts and broken dreams.

“Yeah, I do. Bastard." Thume nodded, seemingly to himself. “Okay. Get upstairs, pack a bag, very light. Don't bring anything sentimental, essentials only. Make damn sure you pack your rifle; that's the most important part."

“My…rifle?" Fletcher asked, glancing up. It seemed unreal, were they really going to do this? To leave Gallentry, his father? “What, you mean right now? Can't it wait a day; we need to make a plan right? Where are we gonna go? What will we do for money? He..." He bit his lip, tail pulling into his legs as he realised just how unrealistic and large a goal it all was. “He might send bounty hunters."

“He will for sure." Thume said. “But they won't find us. I've got an idea, you heard talk of that new show in town?" Fletcher paused, biting his tongue. Suddenly he was unsure of Thume's mental capability, what if he was still 'lost', and this was just his sleeplessness talking?

“Uh a little, it's like a circus right?" He said slowly.

Thume chuckled softly. “Sort of. Tonight's their last night in the city Fletcher, and that's you need to pack right now. We're gonna join the Midnight Meridian acting troupe."

This is crazy. Fletcher thought, still stunned. Thume dropped his cigarette on the ground, stomping it out.

“But you'd better be ready to impress them."