Chapter Text
“Stop struggling.” Harbinger hissed to the guard, whose neck she’d wrangled into a head lock. She pumped her arm deeper into his throat, squeezing more air out. His legs writhed, jerking and bucking like a blinded donkey. Eventually, his struggles tapered out, and the man slumped into unconsciousness, tipping off his chair.
The wolf shunted the body out of her way, staring up at the wall of security cameras. Her mask’s overlay kicked in, revealing to her the circuitry; which wire to sever. With a nimble flick of her knife, the deed was done, and the room plunged into darkness. Comms nixed.
Deftly, she flipped the guard over, patting him down and swiping his security badge. Harbinger patted her uniform off, grey military slacks with satchels of ammunition hanging off its contours. With an electronic sigh, she adjusted her mask, sealing her identity behind a cold slab of grey steel. The machinery hummed in her ear, the software plotting a route forward, having already digested her newly stolen clearance level.
She slipped back into the lobby. Once again, modern and sleek. A rotating ornament hung in the air, breaking apart and re-composing itself with wooden blocks. Seemed like overkill for a corporate building like this, especially when every floor was for lease. Nobody owned anything.
Harbinger ducked into a shadowy annex, waiting for the duo of patrolling watchmen to pass her by. An assassin with less scruples would’ve shot them dead, no questions asked. Yet Harbinger saw fit to torture herself further with a wonky moral compass. A guard spoke jovially, her mask’s translator bringing up that his daughter’s birthday was coming up.
Coast clear. Grappling hook out. It was a nice piece of kit, the launching function muffled its pop, the rope was long enough to lift her to the tenth floor. An open design had its advantages, Harbinger silently mused as she glided up and up.
She hoisted herself onto a balcony that was, thankfully, empty. The tiling shone from a polishing - the janitor missed by what, she wagered, was a couple minutes. She trekked her boots over the clean surface, finding the elevator. But she didn’t call for it, too risky.
With an industrial pry, she darted into the empty shaft. By some fortune, the actual elevator stationed itself below her, which allowed her to loosen the mechanism with a sprocket. Prepare for all eventualities, especially for the timeline where you might end up squished by someone taking the much simpler route up.
Attaching a belay to the metal wire, Harbinger commenced her long, aching climb up to floor seventy-two. Squeezed her thighs, tug herself up, shuffle shuffle.
Her mind tended to wander whenever she found herself in mission lulls. Scaling, driving, scubaing, any time when the quiet surrounded her like a cold, sterile blanket, thoughts of Tangle bubbled to the surface. Her trigger finger ached, reminiscing about the vile time she yanked it back and decimated a close ally without a second’s doubt. The bang that heralded a murder, the splash of hot red coating-
A twinge of pain ricocheted through her wrist. She’d lost concentration, gripping the wire at an odd angle.
“C’mon Whisper. Get it together.” Harbinger snarled at herself, beating her chest as if to dispel the guilt-fueled ghosts.
She began her ascent anew, re-centering her focus on the mark.
Escobar the Puffer. Mid-forties. Unknown associates, but fairly high up the totem pole of an insidious organisation.
The client refused to show their face and spoke through a voice changer, which would usually be a big ol’ red flag in her book, but the money they gave her was enough of a convincer for her.
And cursorily, their story added up. Escobar was a bad man, he’d employed an impressionable teenager as a drug mule, then had him shot dead once the deal was done. Lo and behold, Harbinger scoured the papers, and there it was, clear as day.
Someone was looking for revenge, and… well, Harbinger would be happy to oblige.
This fish drug-baron was due for some kind of… courtesy meeting. All Harbinger had to do was take aim, hold her breath, and snipe him. It was the kind of kill she didn’t like. Witnesses, a body being left for forensics to find, and an inability to plead their case.
Harbinger liked to hear them out, see what excuses they parroted before their kingdom came. She might even stay her blade, should they convince her hard enough that they weren’t a complete scumbag. It hadn’t happened yet, but she never gave Duo a chance to explain himself - so in some cosmic way, the scales were balanced by her scepticism.
Except Mr. Escobar was a skyscraper away from her. So, he’d have to save it for his arbiter, whomever that would be - angel or devil.
Finally, Harbinger reached her level - fifty-seven. Upon unhooking herself, she entered into what appeared to be a fairly benign office space. Amongst the panes of glass, Harbinger spotted the golden illumination of the building across. A long conference table was being set up by a host, with a bottle of champagne, bucket, and portfolios galore.
Harbinger hoisted the rifle off her shoulder and pushed on through, dodging the empty desks and hanging potted plants (clearly, an eco-workspace). There wasn’t a single solid wall across the entire floor, leaving the darkness exposed to the Yinhai skyline. Electronic blues and searing, scorching yellows bled into hot pinks and harsh reds - flicking and blending together into a tsunami of torrential colour. The bright light almost blinded Harbinger’s viewfinder, but she found her perch soon enough.
The vast emptiness left her with an unnerving sense of apprehension. Endless reflections of herself bounced to the left, whilst insidious copies dwelled on the right. As she selected her glass cutter, six Harbingers did the same.
Absently, she half-watched as the conference room slowly filled with various suits and dresses, coming in and taking their nefarious seats. Some secret cabal - dime a dozen. She found the notion that they were hydras completely asinine. Cut the head off, and the rest of the body tends to perish too.
Instead of dwelling on the whos and whys, Harbinger snapped her scope to the correct magnification, whilst calculating how much she’d have to lead the shot on. By millimetres, if she had to wager.
The glass cutter had done its job. Harbinger activated the plunger, and retrieved a perfect clear circle. The wind howled, the elements exposed through this tiny hole. From there, she slotted her new rifle’s barrel into the empty space, loaded the chamber, and knelt in wait. A silent, unassuming shadow, silhouetted against the vibrant neon of downtown.
An aquatic Islander waltzed into the room, taking a seat at the very head of the table, as the machiavellian type would be so inclined to do. A puffer fish, larger than most of the room, horizontally speaking. Escobar lived well. His porcupine-like spines were arranged into a chinstrap beard, but it didn’t do a very good job of hiding his double chin. Besides that, he owned a very shiny, golden dome. Prime real-estate.
Harbinger tightened her grip, tracing every faint bob and weave of movement. He lounged head on from the wolf, as if they made eye contact. For a brief moment, Harbinger feared they had locked into a visual joust, only for Escobar to summon his host for champagne.
With the class of a beached whale, he downed the glass without a toast, wiping his jiggly barbed chin with his sleeve. Harbinger’s mask activated its lip-reading function, filling her in to the pufferfish’s introductions.
“I see they bought the cheap stuff.” He sniffed.
The host stepped forward. “Sir, it’s a Dom Pérignon-”
“Shut the hell up.” Escobar snapped, not even looking at the poor gentleman. Flashing his expensive watched wrist, he shooed the host out of the room. “Bloody melt.”
A Sovereign citizen? Harbinger figured it out from the slang. Tacky classlessness of a nouveau riche.
“Thank you for joining me tonight.” Escobar suddenly leaned back in his chair, just far enough that Harbinger couldn’t adjust properly through the opening. “I promised fireworks, and you’ll get it. But first, business.”
He paused for a moment, itching his cheek. “The Don sends his regrets. He couldn’t make it. A United Federation border and compliance officer apparently needed greasing. Could’ve sent Scambio or old man Cult to spit in their palm, considering the hoops I jumped through to prepare this shindig, but y’know. The big man likes the personal touch. Unless it’s his mistress. In which case,”
Escobar mimed a pair of scissors, before bursting out laughing. His audience remained deathly still. Harbinger felt the chill of the faux pas frost up both window panes.
“You can tell him I said that. He won’t care after tonight. For starters, we’ve opened six new heroin plants across the country. I personally negotiated a deal with the Triads, so don’t worry about any blow-back on their end. Going further, we’ve secured ourselves port access right here in Yinhai. A personal dock for our mule boats too. Oh, and guess who rubberstamped that arrangement?”
Prodding a thumb into his chest, the pufferfish blew up his torso with some air. Harbinger knew it was nothing if not hot, but frustratingly he continued to hover outside her crosshairs.
Juuuust a little to the left, old man, and she’d rubberstamp his death certificate.
“Anyway… that’s not the main course. It’s the garnish. If you would turn your attention to the window in front of me.” Escobar finally swung back to meet Harbinger’s sights. She wrapped her finger around the trigger, ready. Inhaled a sharp breath… when she stopped.
It wasn’t in her head, the pufferfish stared directly at her. So was everyone in the room, with varying levels of bewilderment that matched Harbinger’s own. Escobar winked, before twirling out a salutary greeting.
“I present to you, the death of an assassin.”
Harbinger twinged for a moment, mind racing to decipher what he possibly meant. An almost imperceptible click echoed out behind her, and the wolf’s body suddenly kicked into autopilot.
She spun around, taking aim at the closest approaching figure. They barely had a moment to step forward when-
BANG.
Their neck ratcheted back, blood and brains splattering against the glass of the office. The body went tumbling after, shattering the recent paint job into a deadly sea of shards.
Harbinger went to re-chamber her next shot, but the deceased wasn’t alone. Another hand seized out of the refractions to wrench her barrel up to the ceiling. A second attacker went for her neck. She collided with the outer window, the grip squeezing the air out of her throat, clamping down, suffocating her. The other goon ripped the rifle out of her possession, ramming its butt into her snout.
She tasted iron; vision swimming, teeth ringing. The assertive thug wore a balaclava that covered his species, but his eyes were piercing yellow; slitted pupils that resembled a vicious lizard. He compressed harder, slamming her head into the pane again and again. There was no tact, but the splintering cracks and the looming plummet were enough of a threat.
His partner yanked the rifle back, loading the next shot and taking deliberate aim. Harbinger analysed, in between her beatings, skimming her body for purchase. Black encroached the edge of her vision, sensation leaving her fingertips. She needed oxygen, a dose of adrenaline. Numbness met with a cold holster, and Harbinger ripped out her pistol.
She pumped one shot into the pressing threat. The hands left as their owner stumbled backwards, smoke pouring from his torn jumpsuit. Harbinger inhaled, regained some sense of surroundings, and immediately hit the deck.
BANG.
The rifleman missed, the shot skimming and shattering the window. Wind whipped up, the honks of traffic and the churning engines of planes eating the tense quiet away.
Harbinger swiveled, resting on her back. The gunman panicked and went for another shot. Nothing came out but a click. Benefits of foresight, the assassin reckoned. Bolt-actions aren’t semi-auto.
Her pistol was, though. BANG, BANG, BANG. The rifle went tumbling out of his hand as the bullets thudded into his chest.
She didn’t get the chance to see him slump down the wall. The last attacker recovered enough to stomp on her hand, kicking the pistol out of the opening and into the depths of downtown.
Harbinger spun on her knees, hoping to trip him up with a sweep. She hit the ankles, but not enough to unbalance. So, she pivoted; punted her boot into his chest. It connected with a hard surface that absorbed the blow. Bullet proof vest - of course, of course.
She scrambled to her feet, in time to block a violent swing to her jaw. Her elbow screamed with exertion, the force travelling them both further to the edge. Harbinger punched, scratched, fumbled. Her aggressor did the same, yanking her into a bodylock.
The two struggled, grabbing at random hanging snags and flailing body parts. Harbinger was thrown into the support pillar, the air whipping her hair into a mess. Her spare hand hung onto the support for sheer life, her right foot lightly swishing at nothing but a fifty story drop.
Panic prickled her hackles. She leapt up, and wildly kicked her legs, hoping to create a buffer zone. The lone thug floated and prowled, looking for his opening. At last, he took it, dashing forward. Harbinger’s heart peaked up to her throat, and she pushed herself away, to a more solid purchase. With his back to the city, the invader grasped at dead space. The moment Harbinger was waiting for.
With the dignity of a cornered animal, she stumbled forward and shoved him with all her might. Genuine fear flashed in his reptilian eyes. He’d lost his balance and tilted back, but that wasn’t good enough for Harbinger. She nabbed his windmilling hand, and held him in suspension.
The wind screamed. A cyclone was brewing, static crackling in the humid, sickly breeze.
Harbinger tilted her mask up. Her prey wouldn’t see her disdainful sneer, but she peered down on him through the length of her muzzle.
“Nice try.”
“P-p-pull me up.”
Harbinger ignored him, remembering she had an audience. She tilted her gaze lazily over to the conference room, a sinister part of her relishing that she’d won so totally. Rarely did she ever receive an opportunity to embarrass the mark.
Except, the room was empty. Escobar turned tail and ran like a coward. Papers were strewn about, champagne glasses wetting the floor with effervescence. The only soul left was the host, who raised his shaking hands in surrender.
She turned her attention to her ensnared, dangling prize. “What was your objective here?”
“K-kill you.” The reptile stuttered. “It-it was politics. The boss wanted to-to ‘ice someone uniceable’!”
“So he set me up?” Harbinger snarled. “Me?”
“Y-yeah! We- we spoke over the phone. You and I. So-so we know each other, s-surely…”
Harbinger rolled her eyes. Pitiful. “You’re my client?”
“Technically, b-but Escobar ordered the hit! Y-you gotta understand- I didn’t want to kill ya. But we just had to a-arrange the circumstances to… to-to-”
“Ice me?”
“Right! Please, I don’t want to die- I’m a-”
“Shut up.” Harbinger snapped, tugging him closer to her glowing visor. “Feeling repentant?”
“Yes! Oh, Gaia - yes. P-please…”
His begging faded into a pathetic apprehension. A terrified creature, staring down his own mistakes and missteps. Did she see tears in those reptilian pits? Did she smell the stench of piss wrinkling her nostrils?
“Where is he?”
“What-”
Harbinger loosened the bungee by a smidge. Instantly, the terror overwhelmed her conquest again.
“He lives in the Wūmùmáo Building. Penthouse three.”
“Security?”
“Saferoom under his bed!” The goon cried out. “Now… Now please! Pull me up!”
The wolf pondered to herself, weighing up her options. She didn’t take her gaze off the teetering thug, piercing him with her invisible ire. With a sniff, she straightened her spine.
“Thanks for the info.”
And then she let him go.
“NO!” The reptile hung in suspension for a millisecond, something carnal erupting with his pupils. A part of Harbinger - of Whisper - savoured that despair, before it plunged out of view.
She heard his screech slowly grow quieter and quieter, before ceasing abruptly.
The mission wasn’t over yet. This… Escobar thought he could use her as some prop for his own ascension? Absolutely not. The Harbinger hunted, if not only with a hatred for herself, then with a hatred for a nobody getting one over her.
A dead nobody. She’d make certain of that.
Escobar burst into his bedroom. He’d discarded his dinner jacket and untucked his shirt, his chest cramping up with newly-born stress. Sweat beaded down his shiny cranium as he dumped two duffel bags onto his silken sheeted bed.
He proceeded over to a vanity, sweeping the expensive floral perfumes and branded make-up off the table. With a great huff of exertion, he ripped the mirror off the wall, smashing it behind him. Behind it gleamed a safe.
The pufferfish spun the tumbler, taking multiple turns on account of his shaking fins. With his other hand, he dialed into his phone.
“Hey. Yes, hello- listen to me.” Escobar started, before swallowing a ball of frustration. “Listen to me. Stop talkin- STOP TALKING!”
He yanked open the safe, revealing stacks upon stacks of cash; all one hundreds neatly arranged into proud towers of avarice. Escobar squeezed his phone between his broad shoulder and bulbous, spiky chin, and shoveled the money into the duffel bags without any care for organisation.
“Look- look, I mucked… we need to go. Right now.” He paused, panting heavily. “Then make your excuses and leave. Frickin- Do I sound like I’m pullin’ your chain? This is serious, we are in danger.”
Escobar wiped his brow, throwing the last cinderblock of cash into the bag, and zipped it up. “Gaia damn it, just- I’ll fuggin’ leave without you, that’s what I’ll do! Pick her up and meet me here. Starmy is already on the way, she’ll take care of us. Okay? Okay… See you soon. Yeah.”
The phone clicked dead. The pufferfish spun around, checking for anything else. With a snap of his finger, he scurried over to his nightstand, fiddling behind the wood and struggling to press something.
Eventually, the judder of a motor emerged, the bed rising up on its hinges, displaying a tiny staircase plunging into a fluorescently lighted box. A safe-room that’d strain to contain Escobar in his glory, should he require it. But…
“I don’t think that’ll help you anymore.” Whisper stated.
Escobar froze, his back heaving. Gently, he pressed his forehead against the wall, defeat emanated out of his thick body. Whisper noticed his frame collapse a little, air hissing out of his mouth.
“Oh… Chaos-”
“Look at me.” Whisper ordered. The blowfish hesitated, but soon shuffled around on heavy feet, meeting her front on. The wolf had blended herself into the shadowy corner of the room, mask off for better camouflage. She discarded her cover, pacing into the light of the expensive bedroom. Her muzzle scar glinted underneath the chandelier, whilst her blue irises remained frigidly intense. Escobar grimaced, appearing close to vomiting.
“How-”
“Let’s say you need to pick better contractors.” The assassin hushed. “And don’t tell them where you live. Do you see me shitting where I eat?”
Escobar’s brow contracted, like a petulant child with their hand caught in the cookie jar. “It wasn’t supposed to go like this.”
“It never does.” Whisper murmured. “I could’ve married a beautiful girl. I could’ve sailed around the world with her, and saw the sights.”
“You got half of it,” Escobar growled. “And got famous enough doing it that someone would take a pop at you sooner or later. Just so happened to be me.”
“Reputation is a fickle thing, isn’t it?” Whisper strode past Escobar, peering down into the safe room. It was empty, as expected. “Hm. Very thin steel. I would’ve gotten in. How much did y’pay for that glass house?”
The pufferfish snarled, clearly a part of him embarrassed at the situation - or perhaps the finality of this conversation hadn’t quite dawned on him yet. Hell, he tried to set her up. The Harbinger. Clearly, he was short of two brain cells to rub together.
“I suppose it’s a stupid question to ask where my security has gone?” Escobar began, to the canine’s amusement.
“I hope none of them were close to retirement.” Whisper flatly joked, flipping her ponytail to regale her taller mark. Barely, her lips eked into a smirk. “Did it never occur to you that it was ‘too quiet’?”
Escobar stayed silent.
“No?” Whisper answered for him. “So, foresight and you mix like oil and water, hm?”
“Is this gloating?” The mobster sneered. “I thought you were some kind of professional. You get lucky one time-”
That word. Lucky. It… oh, it flared something primal within her.
Whisper whipped out her knife and suddenly tackled Escobar to the floor. She slipped the edge under his double chin, forcing it in deep and nicking the spines hidden by his flab.
“Lucky?” She hissed. “I’m the unluckiest person you’ll ever damn meet. Whatever happened back there wasn’t luck. That was you, picking a fight with someone who made a business out of murder.”
Whisper leant in, speaking softly into his ear. “You want to mount my head on the wall; sip bourbon whiskey after a hunt well done? Fine, but do your research first.”
Escobar’s eyes narrowed, a second wind brewing within him. “I smell sour grapes. You can’t stand the fact I managed to outsmart you.”
“Yes. But that wasn’t enough. It never is.” Whisper spat, when Escobar pulled himself closer to her. He hoarsely giggled.
“Maybe not. But for all your skill, and all your posturing… you’ve got nobody you can brag about it to.” He taunted, breaking into a toothy grin. “Except me, and let’s face it, the clock's ticking there too. So who’ve you got Harbinger? Think that beautiful girl would still reciprocate? Listen to your exploits?”
Whisper shivered, snout curling into a violent scowl. Her stomach churned, and she felt a grey paw rub her shoulder. The faint pleadings of a lemur reached her head, ethereal and gorgeously sung - ‘don’t do it’, ‘let him live’, ‘choose me, choose me’.
Yet it was far, far too late for any of that, and Whisper waved the ghost of her love away.
“Save the sermon for your lord.” She said, her soul vacating her body. Silently, she slipped the knife away and plunged it into Escobar’s chest.
He convulsed in her grip, bending like a curled chip. Whisper wrenched her blade in further; heard the schinking of organs. Air blew out around the puncture. She’d hit his blow-sack, the mobster deflating like a stuck balloon. Blood trickled out of his mouth, and yet he stared at her.
So Whisper stared back, feeling the weight get heavier, yet lighter. The puffer rapidly faded away, skin loosening and sagging like taffy.
“Tch.” Escobar mumbled out, despite the liquid pooling in his throat. “Y’pathetic.”
With that, his eyes fluttered shut as he exhaled for the last time, settling into a stillness that Whisper yearned for herself.
The knife retracted with a sickening squelch. Some loose droplets flecked onto the carpet, barely noticeable next to the damp puddle threatening to stain her kneepads. The red rug did some favours in covering up the crime. Even so, Whisper couldn’t cherish the convenience. Her snout fuzzed up with pins and needles, fog caressing the ridges of her brain.
She never understood why she did this to herself. Expecting some runner’s high, a flash of victory so that she may feel something other than existential misery.
And every damn time, nothing.
When was the last time she experienced a real victory, opposed to shooting tin cans at a carnival? It needed to include Tangle. Lanolin too. Some minor badnik attack, saving a town. Because it was right, and not lucrative in the slightest. They’d all cheers their mugs together, celebrate a job well done. Her heart would be full to bursting. She could’ve died, just after, and everything would’ve been alright. Whisper’s name, etched on a grave stone; nothing but positive and noble stories shared around the wake tables.
She forfeited a tasteful burial. There’d be no respect for the dead, no matter where she cropped up. Escobar got off easy, if anything.
A thick liquid seeped into her kneepad. Whisper heaved herself off of Escobar’s body, finding a dangling duvet sheet to wipe her blade off with. There existed some standards left in the wolf. She wouldn’t sully her sheath.
Her initial instinct was to just leave. Chaos only knows that’d be the tasteful path to take. And despite that inclination, Whisper spied the duffel bags.
That was a lot of money. Going to waste. Hell, she should be compensated for her time. Whatever shunted the oneness of her.
So, the assassin swallowed the last granule of decency she owned and strode into the main living space; two heavy, heavy bags slung over her shoulders. She felt like a pack mule. She thieved like a pack rat.
Necessity dictated that the elevator be the prudent choice. Who cared if the CCTV saw her? She’d be long gone by the time these charlatans finished picking their asses. The number ticked up, from zero up into the late eighties. Agonisingly slow. The straps were burning a hole into her collar.
After what seemed like an eternity washed over her, the doors slid open. Eager to make her escape, Whisper placed one boot in before she realised that she wasn’t alone. A tiny fish girl stared up at her, no older than five, pupils wide with confused innocence. She hugged a plush anemone in her arms.
Another person floated behind her - taller, older. Her mother, if their shared white and orange stripes were to be believed. The lady had long fins, tastefully made up within the fashion sense of a socialite. But inside her stirred a much darker emotion. Heartbreak and fear, snatching denial away piece by piece.
Whisper’s soul sunk into a black tar pit. She didn’t realise there existed a crevice even bleaker, deep inside her. Well, she’d found it, and it dully throbbed in tandem with her growing stress headache.
“Who are you?” The mother spoke out, pulling her child close to her. Girly fabric was bundled, clutched taut with terror. “How did you get in?”
Whisper said nothing, unable to look at either of the pair. A sickening rush of pounding her inner blood smothered her hearing, barely able to register what was being said to her. The distance was small, but it echoed like the cavernous home of a relentless beast.
The woman’s breathing shallowed, tears beginning to bud. “Where is my husband?”
“Where’s Daddy?”
The younger girl might’ve well shot Whisper. The question thudded into her stomach like a billion fine needles. Worse of all, she earnestly blinked at the wolf, expecting an answer. The surge to protect her welled within Whisper. To save some shred of innocence.
“Listen to me,” Whisper murmured, voice so quiet the mother had to strain to hear her. “Don’t let her into the bedroom. No matter what.”
The elder’s cheeks collapsed into despair, the reality beginning to creep up on her like a venomous spider.
“Why?” She begged, as if that’d change anything.
“Because he’s…” Whisper’s sight fluttered on the child, who bounced between the two adults, trying to figure out why mommy was crying, and who this tongue-tied canine was.
Whisper bit back the hatred and smothered her empathy. The pain still lightly throbbed in her chest, but, superficially, she regained a shred of stoic control. Her admittance was cold enough to freeze an inferno.
“You know why. And you’d be a horrible mother if you let her see him like that.”
Escobar’s partner and daughter mutedly shuffled into the penthouse. The older hugged the younger as close to her bosom as possible, protecting her from this insidious invader. After a strenuous wrench, the woman sobbed into her palm, withholding wails of agony for the sake of the only family she had left.
The wolf dropped one of the duffel bags, left it by the entrance, and exited the disaster of her own making. Rinsed herself clean of the responsibility. She was a destroyer of worlds, and came out of it five hundred thousand richer for it.
Clove stayed silent for a long time after Whisper’s story finished.
The two sat on the lower bunk, shoulder to shoulder. Whisper needed some body contact. She didn’t know why, but she needed it.
“Did you ever find out what happened to the girl?” Clove murmured, her hoofed hands clutching her knees. Whisper knew that the pronghorn’s mind dwelled on her sister, Cassia.
“No.” The wolf admitted.
“If you could… would you help her, like you helped me?” Whisper’s cellmate shifted her purple pupils over, interrogating the canine like a destined parole officer.
“I don’t know.” Whisper stood up, stretching her back out. “I doubt it would’ve ever made up for the absence of her father.”
Clove wrinkled her snout. “A corrupt bastard who made money hurting others. He shouldn’t be missed.”
Whisper levelled her gaze at Clove, sadly balking her lips. “And yet he is.”
She paced over to her sink and splashed some water in her face. In the reflection was a wolf with so much history, she’d be an antique. Scars of regret, and the shine of a new beginning.
“No matter how noble you think you are… there’s collateral. You inflict pain in places that you might’ve not even known existed. That moment, where I stared down a girl who did nothing wrong, yet lost everything - it should’ve been a wake up call. And…”
Whisper swallowed. “And I didn’t stop. I kept going.”
Clove folded her arms, the room dropping in temperature. Whisper stared at her, harshly, hoping to beat her lessons into a pronghorn who might yet make the same mistakes.
“Harbinger was a net neutral for the world. And she was a massive loss for me. Do you understand?”
Her cell mate blinked for a couple of seconds, and nodded. “I think… I think I do.”
Good, Whisper thought, that was one more person saved from the Harbinger’s corrupting grip.