CHAPTER 1 - SPIRAL DOWN

Among the stars, a ghostly white ship flies, dodging asteroids amid showers of laser fire. Four ships close in. To the pursuers, the ship ahead looks like a white and red bird T-shape, threading through gaps too quickly to follow. It vanishes between the rocks, before laser fire returns their way.  

In the silence of the cockpit, the pilot in the lead gears for his escape.

Torin Laikin Wolfe, a large timber wolf, wedges his frame into the seat. Outside, the universe tries to kill him. 

The hull shakes around him. The readout screen on his right flashes and chimes. Damage to the starboard wing flap, atmospheric intake, offline. No—No, no! I can't land… I need to find a stretch to make it down with wheels—if I even manage that. He scans the view ahead, frantically; spotting an opening, he wrenches on the yoke.

The ship cuts past two moving, large rocks. The collision behind the ship shakes him to the bones from their concussive force.

The ship doesn't follow a clean path. It flies with quick turns and direction changes, anything to lose its tail. On its rear, a pursuer closes in. It slips between the gap, asteroids filling the space it vanishes in.

It veers around the rocks, finding an opportunity to return fire on the ship biting at its heel; the shots find their mark, blowing out the engine. A large ship flies, spinning to its doom amidst the surrounding obstacles. A blinding flash of light illuminates the area, creating large silhouettes of the deadly rocks around.

Another two ships slip in, flying on either side of the white T. The left one swoops in, raining green laser fire down on the ghostly ship. Several blasts land, leaving a combination of scorches and damage along its top plates.

Inside the ship. Alarms scream loudly along with the distracting flashes of the screens, lists of damages scroll down one. He tugs at his flightsuit’s collar, panting loudly. At his back, vents and pressure pipes erupt in bouts of steam.

Torin lifts his left paw, hitting keys on the control board in front of his throttle. He changes the vent directions, before returning his paw to clutch the throttle, pushing his poor ship even faster. The polymer coat on the yoke creaks under the knuckle popping grip his paw exerts on the stick. His screens begin to flicker, power is cycling down in his reactor.

Smash.

An ice shelf tears into the starboard wing—with a metallic scream of pain that throws the ship off course. It spins out of control.

Torin’s arm shakes, the yoke rattling in his grip, straining to regain control. Red warnings flash all around, giving the cabin a grim glow as he flies and falls through space.

Asteroids fly towards him, his eyes widening, searching for a path—a way to survive. He rapidly hits buttons on his failing screen, purging the reactor with coolant—his power restores amid a blast of cold air.

He hits a blue button under the throttle, placing his paw on the screen that slides out of his chair. He activates the remaining Atmos thruster to slow his chaotic descent, avoiding a rock as he slows.

His pursuers don't rest. Red and green blasts fly through his field of vision, pushing him forward to stay alive. I need to get out of here! He scans the view for a path. His eyes see it; a planet.

Below the ship, a green sphere resides. A beacon of hope in this despair. The ship dives, aiming at the heart of the unknown planet below. A large triangular engine, sitting in the middle of his ship, ignites. It throws the ship down at a speed unlike what has been used, sliding by the rocks with no margin for error, and no time to waste.

The ship begins to glow as it enters the atmosphere. A burning halo of red and gold surrounds the hull, as it burns.

From inside, he shudders along with the frame. The metal groaning under the strain. He strains against the yoke, eventually levelling out in the upper atmosphere, a series of green hues fill the canopy. The colour darkens towards the land, revealing a world of trees and rain. He peers through the ventral view glass; to the left and right of his feet, he watches the landscape fly by.

I have land. Now I need shelter, I need to get down in one piece.

The radar pings as two dots appear on his rear. He dives again, sending the ship towards the forests below. A smaller ship, looking like a cluster of three triangles, flies closer, firing lasers. Two hits land, blowing out Torin's port engine. The gravity in the cabin changes. The view outside shifts in a different direction. His stomach churns, entering his ribs when the downward pull is strongest. He careens downwards out of control, in a mad descent.

Torin activates the retrogrades, trying to slow his drop. Taking a deep breath to steady himself, he launches four torpedoes. They create hollow thuds under his chair, before flying outside. They sweep by upwards; scattering the dots on his radar.

 His teeth clench. The trees approach, engulfing him in more green. He reels, the metal floor kicks against his feet. A blinding blur of green colliding with the below canopy from multiple collisions. A loud broken scraping sound emanates from the hull. He lands with a wet squelch.

CRASH.

The ship finds its home in a dark marsh. All around are massive trees with tangled roots and spreading full branches that block out most of the light.

Torin groans, his ribs screaming against the straps holding him tightly. The canopy overhead is a mottled mix of black, brown, and green. Rain, streaking down the clear points where the world outside, is visible.

A groan comes from the wolf, slumping forward to hang limply. Every motion is painful. Little whines accompany every wince. No. Please don't be broken. He gingerly touches his ribs, hissing from the pain as he whines again. Shake it off, Wolfe. Broken is better than dead. 

He unlatches himself, holding his ribs tightly. He presses the white button on the left armrest; which turns and moves the chair away from the console. He gets up, moving slowly towards the back of his ship.

Behind the cockpit is the living quarters. His spacesuit hangs on a rack to his right, beside is the exterior ramp of the craft. Across is a door to the wash-pod. Beyond that, is his home. A small bench that doubles as a bed sits across from a small matter-reclamator—a device that uses materials to create any food registered on the device. At the rear wall is his reactor housing.

He walks to the panel, not noticing the slow shift to the environment. He opens the panel and peeks at his reactor: status green. Nothing is wrong with the device—good. He flicks screens, seeing a rising temperature value, he floods the chamber with coolant manually from the control screen.

He begins the power down sequence, until the world turns under him. The ship sags downward—he grabs the opening to the reactor housing, to keep himself from falling to the port side. Another, larger shift occurs. His ship is moving, and not in the direction he would want—it is moving forward.

What now?

Torin turns to rush back front, wincing and grabbing his ribs. A line of brownish-green muck engulfing his view, slowly creeping as it devours his ship.  

He reaches up with a hiss of breath, turning a latch beside the overhead canopy. The hidden roof hatch begins to depressurize—a hiss being his signal. He grabs the bag hanging from the back of his chair, turning to touch the ladder dropping from the ceiling. The glass hatch above opens with a pop—hot rain and foul-smelling air assault him.

Water streams into the cabin, forcing his rush. He climbs the six rungs to stand on the roof of his craft, whimpering loudly. Time not on his side.

Torin looks around frantically, moving down the starboard wing. He runs down the wing, quickly losing his road. The ship below slips further into the dark, brackish water. Jumping from the tip of the wing, the reflective stripes on the sides and arms of his flight suit catch the low light and glint.

He lands on the ground with a soft squelch and a loud yelp of pain. He is covered in mud and muck—the hot rain pouring down on him, soaking the thick, navy fabric of his flight suit—filling him with the harsh smell of the air.

He struggles to pull his arm from the mud below. The viscous mess sucking at his pads, and coating his fur. It tries to pull him in, despite his attempts to rise from it.

Getting to his knees, panting from the strain on his limbs. He hears a noise, ears snapping forward. Lifting his head, his eyes catch the bubbling mess of the swamp ahead. His beautiful ship sinks further into the brackish water it rests in. The gold trim and accents flash in the low light. A name embossed on the ship's port intake shines like a beacon in the gloom: PHOENIX.

He stands, watching his craft vanish from sight, the muck giving a satisfied bubbling gurgle. The world grows silent and still, his ears folding back. No—No, no. It's gone… His shoulders slump, tail hanging between his legs.

His fur, already a sticky mess—grows wetter, the rain mixing with the mud in his fur and at his feet. He is trapped—his ride is just a set of bubbles in the muck.

“Another great landing, Wolfe. Way to go—not only did you make it, you're trapped here.” The wolf snarls and growls in the air.

He kicks a loose stick. It whizzes out over the pool, splashing with a thick, viscous noise.

He pants and zips his flightsuit further—pausing as he reads the name written in reflective fabric down his left sleeve, Phoenix. He growls again, thinking about his ship sinking to the bottom of a pond—zipping up the collar, he feels his damp fur.

I need more cover than this.

He grabs his bag, moving to take shelter under a tree. Crouching low to dig through his pack: rations, flasks, poncho; he rips it free of the fabric, wiggling into its protection. He flicks the hood up, his ears drooping forward to finally be free of the rain.

Fumbling under the vinyl fabric, he unzips his flight suit, tying the arms around his waist to secure it—he reads the other arm saying his last name. Both sleeves end with silvery reflective cuffs—he proceeds to dig through the bag. Locating his spare wrist-comp: a personal computer wrist guard.

He tugs it on, securing the strap, and turns his arm to look at the screen along the underside of his forearm. “Okay, where the hell am I now?” He scrolls through the last sync data with Phoenix. He locates the planetary data:

[MR-3: sector 8.]

[Terrestrial Planet: Verdiant]

[Main Inhabitant Species: Alligator, Crocodile, Iguana, Monitor Lizard.]

[Spaceports:]

[Whirlpool-Weld.]

[Bosties-Bog.]

[Mandern-Marsh.]

Torin flicks his screens, searching for his cargo details. He sinks to his knees with wet squelches.

[Phoenix Manifest: UDID 1256-34]

[Level-10 Stasis: SECURE]

[Crate Durability: 98/100]

[Temperature Stable]

[Moisture Level: Green]

He sighs, rubbing his face with dirty paws. The package is fine. It isn't damaged. I can finally deliver it—once I fish out Phoenix. I don't deliver Level-10's often, I heard they can survive a neutron explosion—here's hoping that isn't just a myth. He looks at the pool beside him, a scowl forming with each bubble slowly popping on the thick, dark surface.

He opens the bag when his head snaps up, the hood falls back as his ears turn and pivot. He jumps, pressing himself against the rough trunk at his back.

Overhead, the sky lights up. A strong beam of light shines down, moving about on the ground, breaking up as the canopy obscures even that.

A roar shakes the air. The sound fills his chest, making his ribs ache from the vibration. The broken light wavering against the violently swaying trees. The light moves, quickly heading past and leaving the area in a deeper darkness.

Torin takes a peek, looking up to see the giant silhouette moving, like a great winged beast; searching for him. On its rear, another loops low, blotting out the sun again.

He remains rooted, waiting and listening for the ships, dreading their return. After ten minutes, he slowly roots around in the bag, pulling out a small beacon. He looks about, seeing a small crack in the tree, reaching out to cram it in with a whimper. He pushes it in deeper.

Looking at his wrist-comp, he reads the signal. Time to get out of this swamp. He looks over his connection from Phoenix, the DSN—Deep Space Network, allows for planetary details on connected systems. This allows him a planetary map; as well as locations. The closest town flickers onto the display, giving him a heading.

“Alright, Wolfe, let's get you a way out.”

Torin walks, following the directions from his wrist-comp. The rain and low light create a hazy mist, the same colour as everything else. He is soon panting and whining, hugging at his ribs from under the poncho. Slipping and stumbling over wet, mossy rocks, hidden tree roots, and patches of marsh that resembles solid ground. He is forced to duck under low-hanging branches, driven by a dire need to stay hidden.

Twice more, the ships from before circle overhead. Torin remains in hiding, waiting for them to leave. Only after several minutes more does he feel it clear enough to continue on his journey. He is forced to hide again, this time due to a wailing, screeching cry. Some creature in the gloom is around, he has never heard a sound like it before. It raises the fur on his neck and arms, forcing him to flee as quick as his injured ribs can allow.

An hour and a half in, having only cleared 3 out of 8 KM, he encounters his first real obstacle. A large cliff face. It forces him to go around, as it wasn't on his map at all. Stupid. I hate these systems—they never work when you need them to. Idiot. He silently rages, too afraid to utter a word, with the origin of the scream still unknown.

I bet it's this damn weather—scattering the wireless signal from the satellites. Could this get any worse? 

He continues forward, using any form of structure as support. He aches, though he doesn't have any other options than to continue or stop; there is no going back. He takes a break, leaning against a tree as he fumbles through the soaked pack searching for a flask. Grabbing it, he attempts to open it but drops it from between shaking paws.

It lands with a wet squish, little flecks of mud spattering his already coated feet. Torin stares past his shaky paws at the flash on the ground. Rain striking the metal surface with little tings.

“I'm going to die out here, aren't I?”

He focuses on the flask, then raises his head to feel warm droplets caressing his fur. He just wants to sleep, but that might spell his end in these strange marshes.

Then a noise. His ears snap forward, searching for the source. Again! An engine, this time. Not a ship's fusion drives, but a vehicle's grumbling engine. That means salvation, regardless of whom he finds; even prisons have food and a bed.

CHAPTER 2 - STRANGERS

Torin runs as fast as his ribs will allow, crashing through the underbrush, frantically searching for the source.

He sweeps the final bits of brush out of his way to show a town, lights blazing like the rising of many suns. He drags his feet, until the suffocating marsh gives way to a soft, dry dirt road. He is on the edge of a town; the word village almost fits better. The buildings before him are all hewn from the same cast, either built of clay brick or wood.

A timeless feeling settles over him, an agelessness holds the town, time forgot—too many years spent among the great metropolises and stations of the Quercian Imperial Dominion—looking both ways before he crosses the street, dodging beaten-up vehicles chugging by.

Are those combustion engines? That's old-world tech… 

His stomach clenches as he proceeds into the town.  Eyes turning to follow his path, the sounds of distant, faint snippets of conversation all around. He hunches his shoulders, catching words of foreigner, furry and stranger. He continues walking in the town, turning his head as he sees scales—scales and more scales. All the inhabitants of the town share the colours of their home, aside from their eyes. Angry reds, oranges, and yellows glow out of the mist like spotlights, targeting him as the other.

He spots a small group sitting on the porch of what could be a bar. He approaches the group of four.

“Excuse me.”

 A turtle, wrinkled and aged, looks at him openly. The iguana, crocodile, and gecko all turn their heads away to mutter among themselves.

“You ain't from around here, lad.” He takes a long moment, appraising the ragged, wet and messy wolf. His words have a soft drawl to them.

“If you have a moment, my ship crashed. I am looking for a mechanic to help me. Could you point me in the right direction, please?”

The turtle points up the street, past a large entrance that could be a store. “Y'all want to wander on that way. Up two streets. Will be the first door to your left. If you see a big ol' bog, then you wandered too far.” He eyes the wolf, still.

“Thank you very much.”

Torin nods to the group as he walks away. The fur on his neck prickles, a sensation of the physical weight from the gazes upon his back. He feels utterly alone, walking through a world with no one else looking remotely like himself.

He follows the street, turning reptilian heads and words invade his eyes and ears. The countless hues of scales flickering in the low light, his eyes catching them like stars in a dark sky; continuing forward, he attempts to slip past unnoticed. He hunches his shoulders more and draws up his hood, though it can't cover his long muzzle or hide the tips of his ears.

He passes a store, bright light flooding out onto the street as he peers in. The interior looks to be an old general store, selling essentials, groceries, and goods. He continues, feeling the shadows grow darker when no longer in the light.

Looking up, night has truly fallen now—he can see a spattering of bright lights filling the sky. He stops, staring. I didn't think those rocks would be this pretty. He smiles, then follows his directions to the edge of the town—he approaches the end of the road, where it turns to the left along a rusted fence separating a dirt yard.

The shop in front is old and beaten; barely larger than a shack, with a swinging sign, the letters faded or missing from age, the remaining ones spelling: Me han c. Beyond the door is miles of marshland. The same one the turtle mentioned.

Torin shifts his feet. He begins to drag, his legs growing heavier with each step he takes. The ground looks comforting, but he must stay awake. He takes the three steps up a wooden set of stairs, and knocks on the door.

He waits, then reaches for the handle when the door flies open, light pouring out to reveal a colossal shadow within. Jumping back with a cry of shock, he reaches for a weapon on his waist, only to find his metal gun plate empty.

Crap, did I really leave it on Phoenix?

“Whatcha got there?”  

The words roll out from the doorway, heavily accented with a thick drawl. The large shadow steps into the light, revealing a massive alligator. He stands there, wearing a tattered black muscle shirt and dirty overalls.

A towering mass of emerald green scales, a little yellower around the inside of his throat. Amber-gold eyes glowing in the low light, as he takes in the wolf before him.

“You gonna stick me or somethin'?”

A flash of white enters Torin vision, the gator showing teeth in a massive grin. The wolf takes him in—massive, corded arms cross over an even larger torso. Muscles pop under the scaly skin—an even, cautious gaze in his amber eyes.

”I'm.” Torin stumbles, reaching out for the railing to his right. “I'm looking for a mechanic. My ship…”

“Well, I reckon you found one. Don't see no ship though, or you gonna reach for that too?” He closes in, his footsteps shake the two-step porch, stopping on the last one.

Torin looks up, his hood falling back. The gator is at least half a head taller and twice as round. He cranes his neck to see the amber eyes glaring down.  

“I crashed.” Torin points with a wince, though his arm feels like it has grown heavier since this morning. “Swamp.” It drops to his side, hanging limply.

”Whole lotta swamp ‘round these here parts; you know where you landed?” The gator leans against the stairs, which creak ominously under his weight.

Torin lifts his arm again, looking at the wrist-comp. “3.23 KM West-by-Southwest.” His arm drops before he finishes reading, a tired slump.

The green mass of scales whistles toothily, putting a hand over his eyes as he turns his gaze that way.

“Ooh-wee. You walked that whole way?” He flicks his eyes back to the wolf, who is swaying dangerously. “Well, we can make tracks in the mornin'. You can give me a ride back in your bird.”

His vision is flickering in and out, the use of his limbs escapes him. “Will need a crane…”

”Why you need a crane? Lost 'er somewhere?”

“Sunk…” Torin slumps forward, his knees giving out under his exhaustion and pain.

The gator snaps forward, grabbing the heavy, wet bundle of fabric and fur in his large arms. He turns him over, seeing him passed out and trembling. Gently, the gator scoops up the wolf, draping him over his shoulder and walking back inside the shop, closing the door with a click. Inside, he turns to walk across the room.

There is a small waiting area with a reception desk. Everything is dark and closed for the night. He passes two doors to go to the one across from the entrance. Opening the door, he steps out a matched set of steps, to the enclosed yard. Across from the shop is an old beaten up crane-truck, a large hangar, and a shabby cottage. He trudges to his home, leaving crater-sized footprints in his wake.

Entering the door, he turns on the light, then closes the door behind him with a soft click.

***

Torin lies on an old, beaten couch, the seams showing wear as some stuffing spills out in small tufts. The rest of the room is bare of all but a rickety table with two lone chairs. The kitchen is opposite to the couch, across from the table. The only division being dirty, cracked tile, separate from the wood flooring.

Pots are piled on a tall metal set of shelves, sitting between the fridge and stove. A single counter is set to the right of the stove, then a miniature island with a large, deep basin sink in the middle.

There are three doors, the far one the entrance; the remaining on the opposite side, one on the back and left walls.

Torin rolls and tosses, giving off little whimpers of pain. A particular twist forces him to yelp loudly. Sitting up as he hugs his torso, he whips his head about, alert for danger; his ears turn and shift, searching for any threats. Nothing.

Torin rubs his eyes, looking around the room blearily. Wasn't I being attacked by a scaled giant? He gets gingerly to his feet, wincing and rubbing his side more.

A loud groan. “Well, I never. You got any lick of sense what time of night it is?” a gravelly voice echoes from out of sight. The giant lumbers in, wearing less than Torin expects to see.

“Why ya gotta go shoutin' like a wailer on the hunt for skooga? It ain't exactly doin' my old heart any favours.” He scratches at his bare torso, claws scraping audibly over his scales.

“I, uh — sorry, I guess I was having a bad dream. You — how did I get here? Where am I? Can you put on pants?”

Torin looks upwards to a spot above the gator's head, a heat creeping up into his cheeks. The image burnt into his mind, the gator in very little clothes. His focus lands on a patch of rough wooden panels, making up the ceiling. A loud, rude snort is all that Torin hears from the gator's vicinity.

“Well, I never. I've been told I got a fairly strikin' figure. You don't agree there, fluffy?”  

“Fluffy?!” Torin squeaks incredulously, his voice cracking. He angrily lowers his gaze—filling his eyes with the grinning gator, standing there, stomach hanging over the lip of his trunks—his tail drags on the floor, the tip flicking almost eagerly.

Torin shuts his eyes, turning his muzzle down a bit to angle towards the floor. The brute has him, and he knows it.

“Oho! Look at that blush—you gettin' flustered there—fluffy?”

Three large, heavy steps punctuate the words. The floor quivers, old wooden planks creaking under each footfall. Torin remains still, the aroma of dust and timber fills his nose. He breathes hard, his nose picking a deeper smell, this is a heavy odour. An earthen musk, similar to fresh soil after rain.

Along with it is a spicy smell he can't place, like the burn you get upon eating hot peppers; though as an aroma. He snorts, shaking his head and rubbing his muzzle. The burn lingers, dwelling in his nose like smoke.

Bump. A moving wall of hard flat scales, warmer than he expects, press against him, the gator playfully nudging Torin with his bulk. The gator stands there, grinning down with no force, but all presence.

“Not a fan of what you're seein'? Or you one of them bigots from the inner rings?”

Torin snaps his head up. Words ready on his lips to argue back, but they die when the gator’s flat amber-gold gaze scrutinizes the wolf, giving a judgy glare.

“No. I just.” His ears fold back. “I wouldn't…” He moves away, stepping against the tail curling around his leg. A loud, boisterous laughter breaks him out of his shock.

“Oh boy, you're wound up tighter than a manual pressure-valve in a high-burn meltdown.” 

Torin is shaking. His paws clench, his nails cutting into the pads of his palm. He's making fun of me! I wonder how much fun he will have when I punch him… 

“Fine,” the words are loud in his ears. “This clearly is a mistake, I'll just find a real mechanic to help me. Not a me-han-c!” He shoves past the gator, storming to the door.

“Woah there.” 

Torin gives a great yelp. A massive force grabs his tail, forcing him to stop. The muscles and sinew in his tail scream when the hand closes tight.

“Let me go!” He glares at the gator, who is no longer smiling. Tears burn in the wolf's eyes from both the pain and humiliation of the past few days.

Torin glares at the gator, who has the good grace to appear upset for once. Immediately letting go as if the tail burns him. He grabs his tail, holding it protectively by his side, feeling a phantom weight of the hand still on his tail. He angles himself, to keep it away from the brute. A bubble of rage and humiliation forms inside Torin.

“I.” The gator steps back, his hands clutching one another by his stomach. “I'm sorry. I was just tryin' to make light and cheer you up. You…” A frown cuts his face. “You look like you needed a little help there.” His shoulders droop along with his head.

The wolf sniffs loudly, shaking and struggling to contain a small whine. His tail throbs. His whole body is spotted with aches and pains from the flight to the crash to the blind dash through the messy marshes.

The two just stand, unmoving. The gator gives in first, with slow, careful movements he steps past the wolf. Stopping when Torin flinches and holds himself away from the mountain of scales. The gator lets out a shaky breath before continuing.

“I'm fixin' to go get ready… Go see to your ship,” the words are low, as the gator walks back the way he came. His tail drags behind him and then slips past the wall.

Torin remains standing before he releases his breath shakily, unclenching his paws, and looks towards where the gator went.

“Hey.”

A grunt is all he hears.

“I didn't say thank you. For taking me in like that. I don't even know your name?”

Waiting for a response that doesn't come, he begins to walk towards the couch he awoke on.

“Atticus. You can call me Atticus Caiman.”

The voice is right behind him again, turning to look, the gator is leaning in a tight tank top and overalls. “Pleasure to make your acquaintance, Sir,” he says solemnly.

“Torin. Torin L. Wolfe.” He walks to the gator and holds out a paw, struggling to hide his winces. “I apologize for getting loud. I — I didn't mean to yell at you. I just…”

“It's alright. I gotcha. I may have gone too far there… Fluffy.” 

He grabs the wolf's paw in his large one. Torin snaps his head, surprised by the genuine smile on Atticus; no mockery or spite.

“That is going to be my nickname now, isn't it?” The words sound exhausted.

“Dunno. I reckon you're gonna have to stick around to find out. Now, didn't you say we have a ship to fetch?” He sticks his thumbs in the straps on the overalls.

Torin smiles a bit. The feeling of it is foreign with everything that is happening. Shaking the whole house, Atticus walks up to and opens the door, turning to look back at Torin. Light shines into the room, silhouetting the gator as he steps through the threshold.

CHAPTER 3 - MELTDOWN

Following Atticus, Torin exits the house. The yard is mostly dry from the torrential rain. Puddles dot the open field between the three buildings, a bright sun and clear skies overhead. 

He looks about, taking in the yard, sky, and clouds. So that’s the shop I was at yesterday; that’s the fence I saw from the road. Was it really only yesterday? He shades his eyes, blinking in the harsh light. Between the space, marshes and the dark interior of Atticus' abode, the clear skies and open sun poke at him.

Where did this come from?

“So, where we off to?”

Torin looks towards Atticus. He rests against a filthy crane-truck. Moving closer, Torin rubs a paw along the side. It appears to be from the last age, the panels are old enough to have started rusting off. He glances under the carriage and imagines it crumbling in place.

“Did you ask for a ride because you thought this wouldn't make the journey both ways?” He looks up from his stooped posture.

“Why, I never.”

Atticus places a hand over his heart, shaking his head at the words. “Shirly is a beaut. She has weathered all sorts of storms, never failin' me once.” 

He gazes at the vehicle, his eyes crinkling a bit as a smile creeps onto his snout. He reaches into the cab, noises of rummaging float back to Torin. A click making him jump and turn about. The aged gate shakes and opens slowly.

“What gives? Are you doubtin' me now? You can always find another mechanic to save your precious ship…”

“What? Holding that against me? I was mad at you.” Torin crosses his arms. “I even apologized, didn't I?”

“Your words, fluffy,” says Atticus. “Just lettin' you know.” He points over his shoulder towards the south. “The next half-decent mech' is a three-day drive that way.”

Torin raises his paws above his head. “I admit defeat. You win. I'm sorry, Shirly is a lovely lady. Can we go now, please?”

Torin walks toward Shirly, seeing Atticus open the door and swing his bulk in. His tail hangs down to the ground, before being pulled inside by strong hands. The door shuts with a snap.

“You comin', fluffy?”

The goliath leans a massive arm, Torin spotting the flash of white teeth. I might actually kill him. He jogs around the front of the cab, opening the door and jumping to get in.

I'm not short. Why is this so hard? 

He straps himself in, and glances around. The inside is clean—much nicer than the outside. Everything is polished and organized—not a single crumb or a bit of trash. “Why doesn't the outside look like this?” he asks, strapping himself in.

“We can work on your bird here, once we get back.”

Atticus grumbles loudly. His hands turn the wheel, steering Shirly out of the yard. With a bump that shakes the cab, the wheels are off the lot and turning, to head into the trees.

Torin's ears perk up as he looks slowly towards him. “Um. I promise I'm not criticizing you — how are you, with working on warp cores?”

Torin looks at Atticus, one arm holding the wheel loosely, the other hanging out of the window. A rhythmic tapping cuts through the rattle of the drive beneath.

“No clue. Never seen one.”

The cab grows dark. The trees loom overhead and blot out most of the light.

***

Atticus clenches the wheel, a little tighter. Questions roll through his head, non-stop since this odd, little wolf dropped into his lap. Where this boy from? He has a funny talk to ‘im, he clearly from the inner rings. He glances at the wolf. The shiny bits of the flightsuit catching the light, flickering like candlelight.

He turns the wheel, taking them down a right path, waiting on corrections from the beeping pad on the wolf’s arm. Wonder where else he been to? Probably seen many things grander than this here swamp. He shifts his arms, bringing the left back inside, as the right rests on the seat next to him.

“Could you take the next right, please?”

Atticus glances. The wolf is leaning back in his seat, shoulders slumped as his tail is hanging between his legs. The furry appendage sways with the motion of Shirly. Wonder if he actually a decent pilot; he did crash and all. The receptors in his palm senses the wolf’s presence. The paw, inches from his hand shouting to him.

He slows, ready to turn the corner. He takes the moment to really look at the wolf. I reckon his fur is real soft. His tail was, but the rest of ‘im looks softer. He sits, a minute too long.

“Are we going to move?”

Atticus jumps, breathing hard and nodding. “Yup, just makin’ sure there ain’t no problems.” He turns the wheel, and presses the gas. Taking Shirly down the road.

The whole time he drives, a beeping from the wolf’s tech grows louder and more frequent. That’s an annoyin’ sound—wish it would quiet. His breathing picks up, the silence feels suffocating, but in the tight space he is picking up a new smell.

He sniffs, there is an odd woody smell, something foreign mixed with fresh soil. Is that his smell? He breathes more, turning his head to pick it up. A warm feeling spreads inside him as he sighs happily.

“So.” He glances at Torin again, then clears his throat. “Just wanna share my bona fides with ya. I was kiddin’ before about the warp core. I recently did a rebuild of a Foundry-7, F7-K. Stoker, I think they named her. Well, I was there, knee-deep in a bilge of the busted up hauler, and the pilots—some slickers, with more credits than sense—well one was just yellin’ at me that his thruster was coughin’ out more smoke than a wet fire. I spent three hours checkin’ the fuel lines, the injectors, the sparkers… not a thin’.” He looks towards the wolf, looking to see if he has his attention. The wolf hasn’t moved.

“Well, then I went and checked the secondary bypass. The seal is blown clean wide. I reach on in, hopin’ it ain’t a fried circuit, and my claws hit somethin’ with a squish to it. I went and pull it out, and I’m lookin’ at someone’s half-finished lunch. It’s been slow cookin’ in that there rocket for weeks!”

Atticus takes this moment to look over towards the silent wolf. “Right? I can't believe I didn't notice the ham sammich jammin' up the intake manifold.” He laughs loudly. “Am I borin' you there, fluffy?”

“No—No, not at all. Just lots on the go. Can I ask a question?”

Atticus nods, flicking his glance from the rough road, and the wolf at his side.

“You always want to be a mechanic?”

“Ever since I saw my first engine.” He smiles, showing plenty of teeth to the wolf.

Atticus slows Shirly, taking her wheels over the overgrown roots of a mangrove tree. A large snapping enters the cab before it shakes, when Shirly crushes the roots under her weight, tugging the flatbed in behind.

 Atticus leans more against the wheel, grinning. “Though, gotta admit I'm nervous and excited to see your bird, ya know?” He turns to look at Torin, and the smile begins to slip. “You good? Ya don't look real good.”  

He watches the wolf nod, his head laid back against the seat while he looks at the road through partially closed eyes.

“Well, I should let you know. Phoenix is a Class-Two Interdictor modified from an old Ignition Dynamics Vanguard-6.”

Atticus clenches the steering wheel with both hands, tightening as his knuckles pop. He has a V-6? Those are legendary—that there ship hasn’t been in production in forty years. He pictures the classic T-shape, with the foldable dorsal and ventral wings. The three engine make up.

“You're out of your depth, huh?”

“Gotta admit, fluffy. Ain't ever worked on that there model.” Atticus shakes, the excitement filling his blood with rocket fuel. He holds his grip steady, not wanting to hurt his girl. “I – I reckon I've been dyin' to get my mitts on a bird like this since I was knee-high to a lug nut.” 

“You mentioned before. Building a ship—how did it fly?”

Atticus feels a quiver along the bench. Torin shook beside him.

“Crashed.” Atticus snickers, turning his head to catch Torin’s expression. His eyes are wide, mouth slightly open. He has little sharp teeth, mixed with dull flat ones.

“Ain't cause of me. They were crap pilots. Took her up.” He gestures with a clawed hand not on the wheel. “Then took her down.” He slaps Shirly's dash with a loud laugh as he grabs the wheel.

Atticus looks out the window, then slams on the brakes. Shirly skidding and dragging to a stop, Atticus needing to control her slide with the extra weight on back.

“What in tarnation?!”

Shirly slides to a halt. The once green and wet marsh is turning a dry, mottled colour. All around, trees are drying out, most losing their leaves or lives. The wet patches deeper than puddles are bubbling, as if boiling from beneath. The shallower pools leave hollow holes where water once was.

Atticus stares. Why’s it all lookin’ dead? What in tarnation is happenin’ to this here swamp?

“MOVE, ATTICUS!”

Atticus feels a small impact on his arm, turning, he watches Torin leap from the cab and run. The stripes on his navy suit flashing in the sun.

Atticus drives Shirly up behind the wolf, who is rooted to the spot. Atticus is really giving it to her. He has never had difficulties like this when driving her. The old crane-cab is struggling, as if the engine is fighting to drive and move a mountain.

“Come on, ol' girl, you got this,” Atticus says in a soft voice, rubbing her dash with a free hand while he pushes her to get to the edge.

“Atticus! We need to pull it out, NOW!”

“Well, you need to hold on a sec there, fluffy,” Atticus starts. “This here ol' girl needs to — rest— a mo'….” He stares at the surrounding horror. The marsh is dying, as he turns to look at the wolf. His guts drop to his feet. He sees fear and desperation in Torin's face.

He gets out, moving to the rear. He activates the gravity rig on the back of Shirly. The machine clanks and whirs to life as it emits a cloud of dust from the exhaust. He flicks a few more controls and two stabilizer legs slide out on either side of Shirly, digging into the dry ground with a soft crunching noise.

Atticus holds the controls and swings the extending boom-arm, as a massive magnetic connector swings overhead. He wipes dust and cobwebs off a small display screen, then squints. “Why I never. This here display is jumpier than a wailer pup lookin' for its momma," he says. “I can't get us a lock. There's some sort of interference with the controls.”

Atticus gets shoved as the weight of Torin collides with him. The wolf wiggles up his front, a hot feeling spreading along the point of contact.

“Why I never.” Atticus splutters, watching the wolf ignore him and take the controls himself. Shirly’s crane head begins to move, the arm turning into position.

“Listen here. This ol' rig is mine, you don't have the right trainin'…”

Over the wolf’s shoulder, Atticus watches him navigate the distortion as if it wasn’t there. Damn, he’s good. A loud, wet, sucking splash is heard before a distant clang reaches Atticus, the magnet found home. Then a sound from the display, the screen flashes red:

[ERROR: MAG-LOCK DISENGAGING.]

A loud bang pulls Atticus’ attention back to the wolf, his paw on the UP button. The weight against his front vanishes quicker than it arrived. The wolf is running, slipping past him, and dashing up to the cable in the muck. Atticus holds the controls, waiting for the ship to emerge. A massive gout of hot air blasts upwards in a whoosh.

“Torin, whatcha doin’? What in tarnation is happenin’ to my swamp? You answer me, Mister!”

He watches the wolf cover his face, then jump straight onto the moving ship. A loud yelp of pain cuts the still air.

“TORIN! You alright?”

He stops the ship’s movements, then heads five large steps to the shore. Just in time, to watch the wolf standing next to a hatch, before he steps off the roof and vanishes from view.

Atticus stands, staring. That crazy sumbitch just… Atticus grabs his chest, his heart beating faster. He reruns the moment, and feels a coiling desire forming, something he hasn’t felt in many, many years. That is the bravest wolf ever.

***

Torin drops into the ship. He wants to scream, the whole time onboard he is being cooked—every step on the outer hull burned his pads, the inside is a furnace of hot, roiling air. Well, you officially leapt out of the pan and into the fire, Wolfe. The walls look shimmery despite the metal covering every inch. All he smells is heat—and the sharp aroma of burning fur. He notices something behind him, then smiles.

He wastes no time. He steps in and pulls up the legs of his spacesuit. Years of practice have him in, and tugging the torso down in seconds.

It slides over him as he shoves his paws into the preinstalled arms and gloves twisting his waist, the parts snap together. His gloved paws find the switches on the sides of this collar, yanking them forward into position with a click.

The helmet slides out from inside the collar in several smooth parts. Hissing a little as they slide over each other, then all the noises, stimuli, and smells stop.

The helmet clicks closed, and he is alone again, fresh cold air filling his lungs as the suit regulates his temperature slowly. He allows that feeling a second longer before launching into action.

The twelve steps to the reactor take no time; however, he wades through the hot air like it is the muck outside. The heat makes waves in the air, feeling like physical barriers he needs to push through. He grabs the cube, blinking lights in his suit note errors and warning, the temperature control is failing. The cube generates heat higher than he can record. The suit feels as if it is melting in this onslaught.

Torin examines the cube, glancing towards the little monitor screen. It's smashed. The Numbers from hours ago still read on the flickering screen, forever stuck on the final measurements before failure.

He grabs the latch in the middle with both paws, hissing a bit as the temperature controller in the suit is in full failure. He winces, a loud popping and shriek deafen him. Another error, his communication system in the suit is dead. He strains his aching muscles to turn the latch; nothing.

He hits his helmet, wincing as the heat burns him again when it starts to retract.

“ATTICUS, I NEED A WRENCH!” he screams towards the hatch.

Distantly, he hears swearing.

“CLEAR THE HOLE!” 

Three seconds later, a series of loud clangs follow the progress of a wrench, the metal clanging. The tool ricochets and clatters into the ship.

Torin closes the helmet, running to the rear and sliding back into his previous position. With the wrench, he slams the head into the groove of the latch, using every ounce of strength and weight he can muster, he heaves into the tool. He feels a budge, and pushes more.

The vibration—even his soundless suit unable to drown out the noise. The reactor whistles like a kettle. A loud, shrill whine that is growing louder—he pushes more as the latch continues to turn, ever slowly.

Yelling into the helmet mutely, he leans into the wrench and gives one final push of effort. It has made it around and clatters to the ground. The latch releases a cylindrical tube, the pressure behind it is extreme. It launches out of the cube like a torpedo from a ship. Unfortunately, it rams into Torin's sore torso and knocks him back, landing with a clatter.

The wolf lies on the floor, panting and gasping in the spacesuit. His frantic breaths puffing against the clear helmet. He hits the button tiredly, and the helmet retracts to assault him with smells and noise once again. He distantly hears Atticus hollering, though he is too tired to make out what he is bellowing about.

A loud YEOUCH clears Torin's mind, and he looks towards the hatch. From his vantage on the floor, it appears to be upside-down.

“You alive in there, fluffy?”

He sees a green face lean into the hatch, then hears a hiss. The face vanishes.

Torin pants, waiting as the surrounding temperature lowers. The cabin smells of burnt fur and a similar smell to electricity.

A loud crash comes next. Atticus drops to the floor, creating an almighty bang. Torin winces, imagining his floor bending under the gator's bulk.

“Ho, this here is an oven. You a fan of flying death traps, eh? Fluffy?”

The floor beneath Torin trembles as he hears the thunderous footsteps echo in the metal ship. A loud hiss stops the trembling and banging.

“If you can't take the heat…” Torin sounds tired, his voice dry. Hearing a snort from the gator’s direction.

“So what, you get your bird, and now you go and get all snippy? I reckon I liked you, fluffy” The footsteps continue along with the shaking. Atticus’ face fills Torin’s view from his partially open helmet. Seeing a wide flash of teeth, and the gator pointing past Torin’s spot.

“But tell me. What is that?”

Torin doesn't need to look to know what has Atticus' attention. “That — was just the pilot light.” He closes his eyes again. “Atticus, meet my reactor.”