Chris' Flashback to the Spencer Estate Incident

"You...you must be Albert."

The large castle-like chamber was solemn, much like the old man himself. It was primarily illuminated by the silver celestial body, taking in light from the floor-to-ceiling glass windows.

The characteristic low, deadpan chuckle sounded through the room, echoing off the high walls.

"We meet at last, Spencer," said the man with the shades, halting beside Spencer, head raised slightly. "I have been dying to meet you."

Ozwell E. Spencer did not look at Wesker, but simply leaned back into his wheelchair, putting his hands together in a haughty manner.

"I know why you are here," he said. "You want to reestablish our great company, do you not? However..." he coughed as Wesker paced about him, a smug look on his face. "All was lost with Raccoon City...

"You want to build another Umbrella...under your own name."

Wesker laughed quietly, moving behind Spencer, gazing out of the window at the obscure sea far off the cliffs.

"I have all of the data, Spencer," he began. "My plan has carried on since before the initial outbreak. You and your colleagues contorted the original meaning of the word "umbrella" and played with fire. Now," he stepped in front of Spencer, a gloved hand raised. "now I am going to "reopen" the parasol!"

Spencer looked up at the cruelly smiling face of death, a subtle smirk spreading across his terribly aged features.

"You can try."


Jill and Chris cleared the dark corridor quickly, hoping that their target was still around.

"Chris, this might be it...

"Yeah, we can put a stop to all of this," Chris stated; he stopped, having heard a sound coming from a pair of doors to their left. He gestured to Jill, and she nodded, moving to open the door.

Chris rushed past as soon as she gave him entry, and stopped, his heart suddenly going cold.

Jill moved to his side, gun aimed at the man in front of the huge window as well. The man in black turned around, facing them with a grin on his face.

"Wesker!" Chris immediately opened fire, Jill following suit; their shots, however, meant nothing to the former S.T.A.R.S. captain. Wesker moved towards them, appearing in one spot, then another, the bullets not even coming close to striking him. Chris kept his cool, though, hoping that a point blank shot would do the trick.

Before he knew it, though, a cool hand grabbed his, and his Beretta flew aside; his breath was driven from him in a single strike and an swift uppercut sent him staggering backwards. The inhuman man turned his shaded sight to his partner.

Jill kept firing, trying to step over to Chris. Wesker suddenly appeared by her and, in an instant, had her against one of the chill stone walls, off the ground. She gasped, feeling her assailant's grip tighten; Wesker simply stared at her, not saying a word.

A cry came from his right and he took a blow from Chris. He spun away, frowning, and block several more attacks from the determined man. One of his fists finally collided with Wesker's face, but it did no apparent damage--Wesker did not even flinch.

Chris, shocked, stepped back; he received a backhand from his adversary, and Jill stepped in for him. She was punched aside, then Wesker evaded a fast knife swipe; annoyed, he stepped behind her and pulled a fist back, then thrust her across the the room--nearly thirty feet--with a powerful palm strike. Jill hit the wall with a sickening, painful crunch. She half-dropped to the floor, her arms keeping her up, trembling.

Chris threw another punch--at the air, then felt a punch to his gut; before he knew it Wesker had beat him into the air then caught him in his waiting grip. Letting out a grunt, he suddenly took a running step and ran Chris all the way over a sturdy dining table, throwing him off at the end. Chris' back hurt, his body twisting as he sailed over the steps, hitting the floor and skidding to a halt before the window, unable to move. He caught a blurry glimpse of his nemesis approaching at a walking pace.

Jill, body aching, saw the two. "No!" She pushed herself up and made for Chris.

Wesker flexed his left hand, reaching the top of the steps and grabbing Chris up from the ground, raising him above him. He smiled, feeling a strong sense of accomplishment. It was time for sweet revenge!

He watched as Chris struggled to free himself, too weak to even swing; Wesker raised his arm in a threatening manner, relishing his last few moments with one of his best men.

"Let's finish this!" he said with feeling, and made to drive his fist into Chris--when, in an instant, he was falling into the window.

Without a word, Jill had thrown herself into the powerful man, sending them both crashing through the window and into the cool night air, glass shards raining all about them. Chris leaned out over the sill, seeing Jill wrapped around Wesker, both of them plummeting to their deaths. He gasped, not believing it...

"JILLLLLL!"

Resident Evil is copyright to Capcom

written by Drew Caine on March 7, 2009

FINDING ~wip~

"This is the second part to my take on American history. While writing the chapter, however, I did not exactly like what I was doing with it...I will add notes to sections that I deem are "out of the style", and I would enjoy having readers' input in this.
Well, enjoy what is written so far!
drewcaine"

note: oh, and sorry for the serif font...I copied it from wordpad...I will remember to change it to verdana or something next time.

He was staggering down an alley, the walls themselves threatening to crush him without abandon. His head felt like it was splitting open wide, yet he made no sound.

Above, fire and debris rained down. Many people were running past him, screaming in terror obsenities and faintly mourning those that had immediately died. He crossed the "yellow line", not even thinking, and kept moving towards the base of the indignified twins.

He then came to a halt, hardly able to see anymore. A doomed employee had thrown herself from the building; how long she had to fall in terror, he did not know. Something had drug him to come to this lifeless body...an object that sparkled in the crimson painted on it.

"You...?!"

He fell to a knee, consciousness struggling to leave him, and reached out for the object. He held his paw up in the orange light mingling with the rising sun and stared, eyes wide, at the cross-shaped accessory besmirched with bright red blood.

***

"...the World Trade Center was completed in 1971. They...they were the two tallest buildings in this great nation. However, just because these terrorists have caused them to a loss to us...does not mean America is going to fall. The towers are still there, in spirit. The deaths, of everyone, their deaths will not be in vain. This tragedy will only give us strength to persevere through this time."

The retriever hit the POWER button in disgust.

"It has been an hour...but it will take an eternity for this to all go away," he said, eyelids wavering.

"You haven't had any sleep," the bat minister said. He paced the room.

"I don't care, John...I can't sleep knowing what is happening in New York," he said loudly, wanting the bat to stop nagging him about his health.

"I am just showing concern, Kevin."

"Forget about me. Go pray for those people dying."

"What do you think will happen to them, Kevin?"

The dog's ears perked up, and looked at the minister. The bat's eyes were watering behind his spectacles.

"The Bible implies that...that suicide is not advocated by God." The bat looked up at the ceiling. "What will happen?"

"What would you do if you were trapped, John? What for hell to consume you?" the dog said spitefully, not desiring a response.

An hour later, the golden retriever was in black attire and sitting in a meeting the New York City branch of the National Security Agency. Timothy Swyn, the aged director, was silent for several minutes. They all knew that this was going to be a long meeting.

"Yesterday was quite a terrible day for all of us," he began sternly. "We lost family. We lost associates. We lost a great American trademark."

"However, we all know that the United States is not going to lie down and die. We, the NSA--we are going to track down these bastards and make sure they get what they deserve. Our lack of information allowed this tragedy to happen. That is not going to be acceptable again. From today on, every single type of communication is going to be reviewed by our offices, and any questionable line will be investigated singularly..."

***

Jason's eyes revealed the sterile room to him at their own slow pace. His mind cleared; he looked to both sides, then he closed his eyes again, not wanting to wake up.

A door opened minutes later, allowing three people into the room. One of them was a young male nurse, a fox like himself.

"Welcome back, Mr. Azalia," the fox nurse said, smiling somewhat. "You don't know the trouble we went through to save you...I'm glad you're alive."

Jason stared at him for a moment, then passed his confused gaze over the the other two bystanders--a coyote and a human female.

"How did I end up here?" he asked weakly.

"You wandered off from that taxi driver," the woman said; she had an expression that said she would be beating him to death if he had not just escaped it. "I wish he would punched you in your face...you idiot."

The nurse grinned, then said, "Yeah...you were overcome by the massive debris when the towers collapsed--"

"What?" the fox jumped up slightly, nearly dislodging one of the many IVs stuck in him. "The towers what?!"

The coyoted explained. "Yeah, man...the Trade Center...they're searching for all the bodies of the people that died. It's gone, man." The young canine looked terrible.

Jason let out a strangled cry, the memory coming back to him.

"I...I could have died that day..." he muttered, paws over his face. A tear rolled down his cheek.

The other fox, however, wanted to reassure his patient. "You are actually doing better than you were before...during your examination, we discovered that your cancer has receded."

The fox let out a surprised yelp, amazed...and with the feeling that a burden had been taken off him.

***
(This is a soliloquy, something new that I decided to tack on to the story. I think they will add much to the mood and provide tidbits of backstory to each of the characters. Let me know if they get out of hand, though.)

"A year ago, I had gone to see my physician because I had been losing consciousness. I also vomited frequently, even after going for a day without eating. I did not know what was wrong with me. I did know, however, that my stepfather had died of tuberculosis a few ago, and my sister had recently been diagnosed with diabetes. My mom...she died when I was still in high school.

"Eye cancer. She claimed her own life. Ironic. She always accepted what that god of hers had given her.

"What a healthy bloodline...my family keeps dying of some disease or illness that hardly anyone suffers fatally from. Why am I being spared? Why did my cancer go benign? If there is a god, then why didn't that bastard take my life? Why am I still here? Huh? Huh?!"

***

The fox dug into his pocket and pulled out the same key that had allowed him into his sanctuary every evening after he left his office. The only difference tonight, however, is that he was not returning from the office. He would never return from his office again.

The main interior greeted him in pitch blackness. Inside his head, a voice spitefully reminded him that he had not yet paid the electric bill.

"I like candles, anyway," Jason muttered, throwing his attache case onto the case and slamming the door shut; he stepped over over to the bookcase and found the flashlight so conveniently placed next to a copy of PlayDog magazine. When the beam cut through the velvet darkness, he noticed the blood dripping from his paw. Curious, he slowly unclenched his fingers.

A pendant had cut deeply into his black pads, the warm substance flowing deeply down his hand, acted on by that Newtonian force. The same force that invited those poor "jumpers" to the earth, taking them from this world not-too-many hours ago.

"It's that thing I picked up by that dead woman...but...wasn't that just a dream? No...a nightmare? Or...it was real."

It made perfect sense now that he contemplated what he had done yesterday. He wondered off from Mark, found the pendant...then the tower collapsed, nearly killing. Instead of screaming and throwing the cross out the window, however, the fox fell onto his weathered couch and just stared at the accessory--why had he nearly given up his life to claim the damn thing?

He did not sleep at all that night.

***

"Mr. Alexander, may I have a word with you?"

This was one of the many lines that were shouted as the man in the trench coat quickly navigated through the crowd and into the Associated Press's office. He let out a small sigh of annoyance and proceeded to his office that bore the plaque "MANAGING EDITOR".

The long-haired man shut the door quietly and walked behind his desk, rearranging his name plate as he took his seat. He sifted through his folder, seeing what needed to be reviewed before it hit the press.

"The falling man, huh?" he said to himself. "I doubt the public is going to react well to this...that's the news, though, so I could care less." He dropped the folder on his desk and leaned back in his chair comfortably, thinking about his nice it will be when he heads for home, picking up the love of his life on his way.

His lover's picture was on the cluttered desk, right his computer monitor. The male was ethnically ambiguous and wore a delighted expression on his youthful face. A collar was fastened around his neck, contrasting greatly with his executive attire. Quite uncanny, the man was, who was posing against the main doors of his company's office building.

The man sighed and went to work, looking forward to the end of the day.

***

The visage of the desert fox in the cafe was a clear shot of him taken from the airport records database. Every single detail--from the clear orange eyes to the unshaven whiskers on the muzzle and chin, even the over-sized ears--was visible on the American standard paper posted to the bulletin. Well, five of them. Even more were outside.

The agent took a step back, examining his handiwork. The suspect's name was Aariz Afig Rafeek; he was a desert rat that had been accused of aiding the terrorists in bringing down the plane that had crashed into the Pentagon. Smirking, the agent turned away from the board and squeezed past the ten or so customers that had gathered around the board.

"Ten million dollars?" one said, amazed. "Damn...he must be up there with Osama!"

"I could buy ten new prom dresses...no, make that ten hundred!"

The golden retriever shook his head--sometime's these Americans really got to him...how materialistic. Sighing, he pushed open the door leading out into the city and pulled out his vibrating cellular.

"Steel here."

"This is Hunnigan, Mr. Steel. I am your assigned secretary on this investigation," a charming voice informed him.

"A new girl, eh?"

"I've had just as much college as you, thank you." The dog was taken aback by her moodiness. "Anyway, I am sending some files to you. One of importance is the list of contacts that this Rafeek-guy has...you'll be surprised."

"Right." The dog glanced at the phone's screen, seeing the download bar complete. "Let me know what's going on back at headquarters, Hunnigan."

"Will do."

Standing in the sea of naught
Not giving in to faulty haught
The dog is lost in thought

"Why did I fall here?" I ask
Wondering why not I did not bask
"I should have left him a long time ago"
Well, I did now, and now I know

Standing on the island
Wondering in the sand
Is the cat that needs a hat

"Ahoy, there!" I say gladly
Wondering why I came back madly
"I should be grateful that you are still here"
And so, I think, I now tug his ear


drewcaine

Friday TORTURE Night

Yesterday I joined my colleagues and friends on a forty-five minute trip to the north. Our motives were different, though. Shane and a few others wanted to participate in an event viewed by me as being
MASOCHIST
and
INSANE!
I, on the other hand, wanted to enjoy the night and watch the others suffer at the hands of everyone's favorite buffalo wings.

According to Shane, the rules of the competition were simple: eat six wings in twelve minutes; spiciest selection; no drink; no wiping your paws or mouth. They expected a somewhat pained yet short task.

Well, six and twelve can be two different things according to how you organize them above. When we arrived in the northern city and found a seat in the crapped buffalo wings restaurant we discovered that Shane had unintentionally relayed the information to us--you were supposed to consume TWELVE WINGS in SIX MINUTES.

As they waited for all the contestants to pile in and receive their deathplates, I socialized with some of the others and played with Adam, the puma (one of the past crushes, a twenty-four year old graduate student). When the spicy wings come, however, the entire mood escalated.

The first three persons to walk into the furnace were Will, Mike/Heath, and Matty. Will was having trouble but hid it well. I could see that Matty was tearing as the heat invaded his taste buds and attacked at his constitution (Adam stated sometime during the event that "Better be glad he invested points into his Constitution.", a tRPG reference). Heath handled everything in a calm manner, even appearing to actually be enjoying the meal. We all cheered and picked at the three of them as they painfully ate the hellish poultry.

The three of them all pulled through and headed off to the restrooms to clean themselves up. Will, though, bailed soon after; I do not think he received his "crown". A few minutes later, Shane received his basket of twelve wings and proceeded to attempt the ordeal...solo.

The whole audience nagged at him and ridiculed his tears as he silently consumed the fiery chicken. His wife and we backed him up throughout the entirety of the challenged; he succeeded as well.

In the end, though, it was all fun and games. I do not think anyone meant true animosity towards the sufferers. I had a blast (although I did get a bit of a stomachache, and my food was not near as spicy as what the contestanst had to bear) that night and was bouncing around in the van the whole journey back (three glasses of sweet tea and a grande chocolate chip frappuchino from the cafe was mostly to blame). I would gladly do something like this again!


drewcaine

The Disgusting Challenge in Ad Design

Monday, Wednesday, and Friday I have Advertising Design I at college. Last Friday, though, harbored the first "torture" event of the day (that evening will be discussed in a separate blog).

Our instructor, Travis, is similar to the other graphic design instructors--laid-back and possessing a sense of humor (we force ourselves to laugh at their jokes, though...sometimes). He does not usually get upset, but he will not hesitate to put design restrictions on you if he feels you need improvement in a particular area.

Well, we found out that we needed improvement in the automobile knowledge. He offered to buy us a soda if we correctly named the car that was in place as his Mac's desktop background. We all gained an "EPIC FAIL".

Due to the lack of success with us, Travis once again offered sodas to anyone that would consume straight Fizzies in their mouths for an indefinite period of time. Sara, Lois, and I stepped up to the challenge and took the harmless-looking, yet ominous, packets, leaving Kurtis the only other willing individual out. However, upon watching Lois struggling with the fearsome endeavor, I promptly gave up my Fizzie and sat down to gladly watch the ordeal. There were many comments said and statements made; I honestly almost vomited from hearing the descriptions of what the root beer Fizzies looked like on the tongues of my classmates...not going into detail there. If I can acquire the photos then I may post them.

Only two of our students got the sodas...pretty interesting way to start the class that day.


drewcaine

Thoughts on a friend

I know this intelligent young male in my multimedia II class.
Mark Dakota Roberts
He is not that bad of a human when you really get to know him. His attitude is controlled yet rebellious...he speaks in an eloquent and non-crass manner...and he can be quite cold but honest when he chides you.
Like myself, this individual is a mature soul trapped in a teenager's body.
When class is dragging along at a painfully slow pace, Mark and I might engage in conversation. However, this is not the lame banter of some students you might hear.
No cheerleading rants.
No "futball" bullcrap.
No planning to stab you phylosophy instructor in the back.
No...
This is deep, phylosophical conversation, ranging from discussions of honor contrasting today's society and the feudal era of the past; the hypocrisy of religion and why I follow Jesus and he chooses not to; or simply a short endeavor into why human beings act the way they do. No matter what the topic, the debates and discussions are well worth it; I would not trade those moments with Mark for hardly anything else. I can not find those kinds of discussions with anyone else (excluding Shane or Jeremy).
Mark and I stand out from the class...in a positive way. We both do not believe that grades reflect ability, and we both love writing. Mark, though, is a journalist, and a pretty good one at that (I myself considered journalism once...well, here I am). I plan to minor in the new creative writing area...he will probably major in it.
I appreciate Mark's company; he is the reason that I have a laptop right now (and needless to say this computer has gotten me through some pretty rough times) and I am glad I took him up on his offer! Personally, I found Mark to be more Christ-like then some Christians themselves; I will always remember him for his unique and original character.
drewcaine1-22-09

TRAGEDY

"This is a piece I wrote earlier this week.

I was pacing around the book section of America's favorite discount chain when my eye caught the title of this Christian book. It was aptly titled "HELL".

What happens when one's life if shaken beyond a certain point? What will they do?

Here is the beginning of one fox's path..."

The average worker is many.

The television set was on; mute, though, as the only owner of the apartment never watched TV. He always had either generic cereal or bland leftovers from the Asian cart down the street on his way to work. He would usually thumb down a cab and then go to the office.

The spoon clattered into the empty bowl as the guy put a padded hand to his forehead, cringing at the minor pain shooting through his head. Eyes half closed, he stood up shakily from his chair, knocking it over in the process, and moved over to the rusty old sink; in the dim lighting he combed the bottom of his cabinet.

A few seconds of pained scrabbling at the old wooden boards rewarded the kitsune nothing—he simply banged on the wall thrice and walked away from the kitchen section of the cramped efficiency, scowling madly. “Son” and “bitch” escaped his lips, too.

The New York morning was cold, and the second day of the work week was never the kindest. The fox had to listen to some wolf of the cloth preaching around the corner of the trade center, always stopping him with a supposedly kind paw to the shoulder which the vulpine simply retracted with a neutral verbal statement or two.

“Good sir, have you thought about coming to our congregation?”

“...not really...”

“Church of Our Lady of Mercy...good sir.”

The fox smiled grimly and walked off.

“The frost is not kind...sir, you can warm your heart with a praise or two to the Almighty.”

“Maybe...some day I will.”

The fox briskly returned to his path.

“Hey!”

Then there was the wild 'yote that owned the well-kept Harley. He seemed to be the typical twenty-something year old punk that had his ears and nose pierced and wore leather.

“Dude, man...how much d'ya work?”

“...” The fox checked his mailbox that was in the center of god knows how many others; he sighed...how many more bills came on Tuesday, again?

“You must not work much, dude,” said the 'yote, padding over to the fox, standing at a]the side so he could pass.

“If only you knew...”

The fox and 'yote walked out from the breezeway and into the cold morning. The tall fox knew just by repetition that any trustworthy clock would read “7:59”.

“Man, I don't know if I would want to work that much...especially just typing and throw paper airplanes at people.”

The fox “psh'd”. “If my job was like that I would laugh.”

“Good one!” The canine laughed, watching as the fox pulled his worn leather gloves on. The temperature had to be around 25...

“You know...why don't we go hit up the diner down that'a'way?” the guy suddenly asked, pointing in the opposite direction of where the tired fox was headed.

Through the constant pain of his headache the fox could only see moving vehicles and flashing lights. He wondered if the kid had lost his marbles.

“...you serious?” he checked, hoisting his attache case with a jacketed arm.

The 'yote actually looked nothing like one of his mischievous kind; he stepped towards the fox and said, “Dude, I'll cover your meal. Just...you really shouldn't be workin', is all...especially today.”

The fox nearly dropped his case right there...he could take a well-deserved day off.

Saturday I was in the doctor's office for all afternoon...damn humans and their babies...and my diagnosis...

Sunday I was cursing at the tax officer...I never needed the electricity, anyway.

“You know what, you go your own self, you damned kid.” The fox pushed the 'yote off and headed towards the two towering skyscrapers in the sky...the great “twins” of this world.

The fox scowled three minutes later, removing a newspaper from his face. The near-mint bundle stated that a Catholic priest was found guilty of assaulting a twelve-year-old boy.

“...hypocrites, all of them,” the fox said simply, tossing it aside.

In the corner, Tuesday the eleventh was displayed.

“Five dollah.”

The fox took out his crummy, taped-together billfold and pulled out the money.

“Sir. Sir, this is only four dol--”

“I know, just...let me get some change or something,” said the fox wearily, digging into his old slacks for coins...or luckily a crumpled bill. He dropped three quarters, two dimes, and several pennies on the fried rice stand.

The Asian male pushed three pennies back towards the fox, who let out a sigh of relief. His emergency funds were lost to a local business. Figures.

Two months after Independence Day; the fox never got to celebrate it. He had been off in Arkansas working on his old man's farm...and the bastard had not even had respect to pay him anything.

“Yeah, I spent my vacation in the Bahamas,” he overheard a fruit bat say, brushing past him on the busy sidewalk. The fox shook his head, still in pain, and held up an outstretched thumb. To his left, a plasma screen TV in the electronics store “A-Z Game Hardware” read “8:23”.

“Hey, pal, you don' look too good...” the rottweiler driver mention as he took a seat in the back of the cab.

“I don't have any money, either...damn, I forgot!”

“Nah, pal, just...if ya really wanna go to work, I'll drive ya for free.” The rotty hit the gas and pulled off from the curb.

“...for some reason I don't wanta thank you.”

The fox stared out over the streets; as he did so, he noticed a young vulpine child sitting on the curb, wearing a mangled white dress. The vehicle came to a halt behind twenty or so cars. Red light, as always.

“So, pal...how ya liking the year? Pretty dreary, eh?”

“Well, only the second of this century...we have ninety-eight...”

“...and a half,” the driver jumped in.

“...more to go.”

He looked back—the child was still there. The fox's lip trembled lightly...she reminded him of his daughter. The light switched to green; the fox was about to look away when he saw a rough-looking man kick her teddy bear into the road.

“...” The fox just opened the door and stepped out--

“HEY!” A car horn blared in his right ear; he kept walking, the Mustang squealing to a halt. He bent down and snatched up the bear, and saw that one of its button-eyes was popped out. Not much of a gift to a child, but this is America...

“Hey, little girl...” the fox kneeled before her, a smile on his beat face. The vulpine child raised her head to him, and he could see tear streaks running down her furred cheeks.

“--Bear!”

The fox nodded gently, holding out her [plush/stuffed] animal. She took with thankful arms, staring into the fox's green eyes. “Thank you, mister!”

“You know, you...look like my daughter,” the fox said, not even thinking it. His heart was faltering, and behind him he could see several people, humans and furs alike, stepping out of their vehicles.

Above, he heard the sound of a jet airliner approaching...

“Get the hell of the street, asshole!” A gruff human yanked him up by his collar.

“Officer to headquarters, there is jet flying below the permitted limit.”

The fox did not say anything...he just stared at the sky, then at his office—one of the twin towers a few buildings away from them.

“Hey, where's that plane going?!”

“Jesus...Christ, it's not gonna--?!”

Then time froze; the fox was running through his entire life, seeing his first love; the day he signed up for Selective Service; the day he graduated from the Marines; the day he wore all black to the funeral of young loved one; the day he--

His ears were overtaken by the massive sound of the jet plane colliding nose-first with the side of one of the towers. The shrieking of a multitude of glass panes mingled with the sound of metal crushing and mortal screams of terror.

“Oh my god! Oh my god!”

“Jesus, Jesus! What the fuck just happened? WHAT THE FUCK?!”

The fox cried out and fell into the road, shocked beyond all comprehension. People were leaving there cars and running away by foot, knowing that driving would be useless. Patrolling officers were responding to the emergency and following orders. The nearby one picked up the child and shouted to him, but he didn't understand. He couldn't even think. He didn't think he would ever again.

“Pal! Pal!” The rottweiler driver dropped down beside him and forced him up, shielding him from the mass of screaming people. A woman was crying as she was being dragged away by a man, screaming that she could not leave her son “somewhere”.

The fox's heart was faint, and he struggled for something to say. “Mark...Mark, what just...?”

The dog helped him along, carrying his case as well. Fire trucks struggled to navigate through the escaping crowd, and sirens of all kinds only made the mess of cries, screams, and shouts incomprehensible.

“I'm gonna...” the fox's legs gave out, and the dog nearly lost him.

“--hang on, I see an alley...”

The drive pushed through the outraged citizens and into the alley, evading a cop. The fox's vision was giving out as he was lowered onto the dirty ground, heart pounding wildly against his chest.

“...I can't...I don't know what happened...”

“Easy there, Jason...just, don't talk...”

“But...he was...he was...”

The driver's watch states that it is “8:49A.M.”.