Barracks/Imperial Condos Completed A Secret Worth Dying For?

[Jill (The Beast)]

Beast was in trouble. A particularly nasty fight left them with a deep stab wound in their abdomen, leaking a lot of blood. Beast kept their paw gripped on the wound, trying to stem the bleeding. They weren't sure if any vital organs had been hit. They didn't have time to think; they were being pursued. Local criminals, they weren't too happy with this so-called 'vigilante', and Beast knew they were gonna be killed if they got caught by the fiends. So, despite the immense pain they felt, they grabbed onto a drain pipe and started to climb onto the roof of one of the buildings nearby.

"You know something, Beast? I've realized that your life is double-sided, two-faced if you will. Not unlike a coin."

Not now, Mask! Beast grimaced, looking back to see that one of the more athletic criminals had climbed up after them. She turned and started running across the rooftops.

"Which side of the coin is more important to you?"

Not NOW, Mask! Beast jumped the first gap, disappointed when she turned back to see her pursuer clear it with equal ease. She turned back to keep running, but it was growing increasingly difficult because of her injury.

"It doesn't matter to you if you get heads or tails; You just don't like to flip all the time, but if you spin it, then you get to see both sides. That's the thrill of the double life."

Why is this an important conversation to be having right now?! Beast jumped another gap, wincing as they landed.

"You're heading to the hospital. They'll probably ask who you are. Who will you be tonight? That's the question."

I don't care about that right now! Beast shook their head. A paw grabbed their shoulder, yanking them back. The criminal had caught up to her, a wiry-looking weasel wearing an eyepatch. Beast whipped about and punched the weasel in the face, knocking him back before running again. You were the one who encouraged me to do this in the first place, Mask! I'm done talking about this. I need to make it to the hospital!

"You're right, Beast. I know you've heard my concerns. You must get over to it right away. If anyone can do it, you gotta get there soon, you're not okay."

Beast could see the large building ahead. It was so close, but so far away. I'm almost there!

"If only you had a carriage to drive. Or maybe you're intending to fly?"

Is this really the best time for jokes? Beast looked behind her to see she still hadn't lost her pursuer.

"I'm being serious. When will you arrive? You're running out of time."

SHUT UP- Jill's thoughts were interrupted as a sharp pain pierced her back, making her gasp. She managed to crane her head to see a knife protruding from her body, right under her shoulder. She wobbled in place, this pain being too much for her, and she fell from the roof. Time seemed to slow down for her as she started to plummet to the ground.

"Don't you see that everything is on the line? So I'm sorry, but you have to choose a side."

Jill was falling. It seemed so slow. Seconds spanned into minutes, minutes into hours.

"You'll never know when it's your time to go." Jill's mind was a haze. She could barely comprehend what she was hearing. Side?

"And where you end up in life, that's code." More philosophies from Mask she didn't understand. It made her head ache more than the wounds in her body. Side?

"You can't ignore, you're spinning your life." Jill's body was flailing through the air, cape fluttering in the wind. Side?

"Your watch is broken 'cause you spent all your time." Jill could see the weasel poke his head out from the rooftop before moving away. Though everything still seemed to be in slow motion for her. Side?

"It's now or never on this; everything rides." Jill saw a way she could cushion her fall. A large pile of snow. She didn't know what was under it, if anything, but it was her only chance. Side?

"Before the spinning stops, you must pick a side!" Jill focused on the snow, her sense of time returning as she slammed into it. The snow cushioned most of her landing, but she still ended up bruising her ribs. Jill sat up with a groan, still holding her bleeding abdomen as she started to limp her way towards the hospital, which was only a few feet away now.

"Who will you be tonight? That's the question." Mask's question echoed in Jill's mind.

"Who will you be tonight? That's the question." The same sentiment echoed in Beast's mind, too, as they threw open the doors to the hospital, before nearly collapsing onto the floor.

"Who will you be tonight? That's the question." Who will I be tonight? That's the question.

 

[Peter Morrey]

"Whoa there friend!"

A ferret, flat cap pulled low over his face, long, baggy coat covering his turtleneck sweater, jumped up from his chair in the waiting room of Pyrostoat Memorial Hospital, rushing to catch the Beast as they collapsed in the entrance. As he noticed the blood getting on the fibers, he looked up and called to the receptionist, "He's stabbed! Abdomen, right side." There was something broad in his accent, nearly unplaceable, the kind of voice that could have been from two streets over or five continents away.

The receptionist hurried to find the doctor, and the ferret looked down at the beast, peering through the eye holes in the metal mask. "Ya got a name, friend?" he inquired, putting his own paw over the one Beast rested on the wound and pressing lightly. "Hey, stay with me here, doc'll be here in a moment, so don't go nowhere."

 

[Jill (The Beast)]

Beast grimaced, their wounds throbbing. As the ferret peered through the eyeholes of the Mask, they saw piercing blue-grey eyes that were wide with fear. Beast's mind was racing. Should they tell the truth or lie? They froze for a moment before uttering a reply. "Beast." They said, their voice not only hoarse but also muffled by the Mask. Beast reached over their back, feeling the knife lodged deep into their flesh. "I am The Beast in The Iron Mask."

That's what Sean said the last one who wore Mask called himself, so Beast decided to take that name as well. Unaware of the history it came with.

 

[Peter Morrey]

If the ferret knew the title, he made no show of recognizing it; he instead squeezed the Beast's paw, trying to gently pry it away from the blade. "Easy now," he advised. "You were smart and strong to get all the way here with that thing still lodged in ya; don't make a wasteful mess of it now."

There was the sound of running footpaws in the hallway, and a ferret jill, likely older than the pair of them combined and wearing a doctor's white coat, came into the Beast's limited field of view, alarm registered clearly on her face. "I need a gurney, compresses, and gauze, she called to the nurse who had run to fetch her, and she knelt, pulling out a length of white bandage, which she started to wrap around the blade close to the wound. "Sir, I'm Doctor Volsci," she called, her voice slightly raised as if trying to be heard through the mask. "I need you to stay with us, okay? We're going to get you into surgery. You," she addressed the other ferret, "I'll need you to help me lift him onto the gurney and push once it gets here. We're critically short-staffed right now and I need a steady pair of paws.

If the newly deputized nurse had any objections, he kept them locked behind his lips, affording just a nod. The front desk attendant came running, a mess of gauze and folded bandages tucked under one arm, a flat stretcher tucked under the other. "No gurneys this side of the hospital, Doctor," she addressed Dr. Volsci. "This is all I've got."

Dr. Volsci muttered something about budget shortfalls as she took the bandages and compress, tucking both into her coat pockets. "Alright, we'll do a shift onto the stretcher, then a lift and carry," she instructed, nodding her head to her assistants. "Marsha, lift around his hips. You, the shoulders. I've got the legs. Three, two one - lift!"

Despite their best efforts, the maneuver inevitably produced some additional pain; such was unavoidable with a blade in the gut. As soon as the Beast was on the stretcher, Nurse Marsha and the unnamed helper picked up the ends and started carrying it. Dr. Volsci kept pace beside, talking to the patient. "Sir, can you tell me your name?" she inquired. "Is there any family or close friends we should be sending a Missertross to?"

The other ferret spoke up as he carried the back end of the stretcher. "Called himself 'the Beast in the Iron Mask'. Probably a vigilante, I'd have to guess."

"As if we don't have enough of them filling graves around here," Marsha muttered from the front.

 

[Jill (The Beast)]

I'm not dead yet. Beast thought to themself as they were lifted onto the stretcher. The doctor was asking something. Family or friends? Who even was there...?

"Father Mordecai..." Beast muttered, half to themself. "The abbey..." The severity of what they had just said hit Beast worse than any punch, and they covered their mouth. If Father Mordecai showed up, he might figure out that Beast was actually Jill. Not to mention it would be putting him in danger, regardless. "Shit!" They cursed aloud before turning their head to the doctor. "Don't summon the Abbot... please."

Beast reached into their pocket and pulled out a handful of gilders. It was all they had after weeks of saving and scrounging. They held out the five pitiful little coins to the doctor. "I want this... off the records."

 

[Peter Morrey]

The doctor looked down to the gilders, and her snout winkled, as if they had a bad smell. "I don't believe in charging my patients for my services," she noted, distaste in her voice. "Right now, you're a John Fox. We get a hundred of those a week, at least a quarter of those with knife wounds. If you want to remain anonymous, that's fine, but I'm going to do everything in my power to ensure that you get proper care. And," she added, her tone more urgent, "if this Father Mordecai is someone you want present for last rites if things go badly, then I need to know that now. I won't summon him unless it's clear that my realm of expertise has crossed over into his. Is that acceptable?"

 

[Jill (The Beast)]

"Only if I'm dying..." Beast replied. "Which I'm not. I've suffered worse than this..."

They grimaced and shifted, placing the coins back into their pocket. "Mask stays on my head..." They clarified. "No exceptions."

Beast was suffering from the blood loss now, drifting in and out of consciousness. Surely they weren't dying? It was only two measly stab wounds. No, no. They were going to be fine, Beast was sure of this. They'd just be unable to fight for a while...

"I can't die... not here..." Beast muttered, their eyes fluttering shut as they fell unconscious.

 

[Peter Morrey]

"Beast? Beast!" The doctor snapped her fingers in front of the mask, testing for a response.

"Still breathing," Peter confirmed, noticing the rise and fall of the chest and the tinny hiss of breath in the confines of the mask. "He's with us yet."

Doctor Volsci was developing her own doubts about the accuracy of that pronoun choice, but she let it go. "Let's get them into surgery," she instructed, leading the way.

Marsha had done the right thing in sending an aide ahead to notify the surgeon, so he and his team were already preparing themselves by the time that the Beast was carried in. With a heave, the Beast was shifted onto the surgery table, and Dr. Volsci led the pair out of the room as the surgeons and anesthesiologist descended upon the patient. The next hour was spent in getting their accounts of what had happened, filling out the most rudimentary account and description in a patient chart (one that, true to her word, was virtually indistinguishable from the numerous other foxes they had in their wards who also refused to provide their names), and a note to call for Father Mordecai at the abbey if they reached the point of rites being necessary. Then she went about her rounds, checking in on her patients, and was surprised to find that same ferret, the one whom she hadn't realized until ten minutes after they parted ways that she'd never gotten his name, was in with one of her patients.

"Ah, our Good Sampetran," Dr. Volsci noted before she turned her attention to the patient, a stoat who was recovering from a truly impressive set of contusions, bruises, and bone fractures that he claimed to have gotten from 'falling down the stairs'. Judging by cause of injury, Dr. Volsci had noticed, beasts who lived in areas where the crime families held sway seemed to be in terrible danger from the stairs in their vicinity. "And how are we doing today, Gian Marco?"

The stoat licked his dry lips before speaking, his voice croaking slightly. He spoke with a Callisparian accent, one that always reminded Dr. Volsci of a young teen she'd known once who had worked for... She pushed the image of Karath Nicolas out of her mind, tamping down the longing and sorrow that came with it. That her relationship with the Minister of Misanthropy-turned-Niceties had never come to fruition, ending in the unresolved emotions of lost contact, remained one of her greatest regrets well into her middle age. She focused on the stoat's words, ignoring the ghosts of her past that they conjured.

"I am well, dottore," he managed, bringing a small smile to her lips. She knew that the word wasn't proper to her role: medica, she'd learned in her years of study prior to her (ill-fated) marriage, was the proper term for a femme doctor such as herself, but the word chosen by Gian was picked for its similarity to the Vulpinsulan term. "Ze pain, it non is so bad now," he remarked, gesturing with one arm at the whole of his body, with a wince that didn't evade the doctor's notice.

"I see. Well, another few days and we can release you," Dr. Volsci promised. "At least you'll have the company of Mr...?" She raised an eyebrow, looking to the ferret.

The stranger stood, smiling broadly and offering a paw. "Oh, jus' Jon, a concerned neighbor," he remarked breezily. Dr. Volsci thought that perhaps his accent was slightly thicker Trenches than it had been in the hall, but she'd also been distracted at the time. She accepted the paw and his introduction, though she noticed he'd managed to avoid giving a family name again. She made a note to swing by and check the visitor sign-in log later.

"A pleasure," she returned politely, dropping the paw and looking to Gian. "Well, just ring the bell if you need anything from the nurse on duty, alright?" She picked up the chart at the foot of his bed, glanced over it cursorily, then set it down. "A pleasure meeting you, Mr. Jon," she directed to the guest before leaving the room, trying to figure out what exactly unsettled her about the jack.

She was out in the hall when one of the orderlies ran up to her. "Dr. Volsci!" he addressed her, excitement in his voice. "That patient you brought in, the Mask -"

"Excuse me?"

"The Jon Fox," the orderly amended, "or Jane Fox, as it were. The one in the ugly mask."

Dr. Volsci frowned. "What led to that conclusion?" she inquired sharply. A stab wound to the abdomen shouldn't have necessitated exploring any further than the immediate area, and she'd been explicit in conveying the Beast's request that the mask stay on their face.

The orderly looked sheepish, and he remarked, "Well, the surgeon had to check in the wound to make sure there wasn't any debris, you know, or internal organ damage, and he noticed something in there that he definitely wouldn't expect in a todd. We corrected the sheet, though considering we have no idea who she is, we left 'John Doe' in place on paper."

Dr. Volsci put a paw to the bridge of her snout, considering whether or not to refresh the orderly on the finer points of the sensitivity seminar she'd hosted two months before. "Are they in post-op?" she pressed.

"Yes," the orderly confirmed, "though they're doing well enough that Matron Dierdre wants to move her into the ward once she's awake."

"Right," Dr. Volsci noted with a sigh, looking around the hall. Admittedly, space in post-op was at a premium, and Dismembre, appropriate to its name, gave them no end of patients in need of surgery. Getting a less critical patient into a recovery room was only good management practice. "There's space in Gian Marco's room, 224, so put h- them in there," she corrected her near slip. "I'll let him know he'll have company."

As the orderly walked away, Dr. Volsci padded softly toward the room, debating how to tell Gian Marco that he was about to lose his privacy. She paused just around the corner from the door, her ears pricking up. The sounds of murmured conversation in the room did not sound like Callisparian to her. It had been decades since her lessons in the proxima language family, named for their spread among the islands and small continents surrounding the MSC, but she could still tell the difference between Callisparian and whatever this was. Her ears strained, picking up only phonemes rather than words. It almost sounded like Alkamarian? It had some similarities to the formal language she'd learned from books and tutors as a young jill, but this was broader, perhaps a dialect. She debated leaning in to hear more, but she reminded herself that patients deserved confidentiality. She took a few soft pawsteps back down the hall, then, at a safe distance, she bustled up to and through the door. The conversation cut off before she even reached it, she noticed; they had heard her coming.

"Good news, Signore Marco," she addressed the stoat with more cheer than she felt. "You'll be getting a roommate, perhaps someone to keep you company. I think you'll find them to be quite the character."

It was Jon (if that was his real name; Dr. Volsci had her doubts) who spoke up. "Our masked friend?" he inquired, finding his answer in her expression. Intrigue flickered across his face, and he mused, "I might stick around to meet with him proper. I'm much intrigued by this unusual character."

Dr. Volsci didn't update him on the controversy as to the Beast's gender. "Well, give them time to rest," she advised. "I think they'll need it. Ah!"

A gurney was being wheeled in, the black-robed, iron-masked figure atop it. Dr. Volsci smiled as an orderly pushed the gurney into position and locked the wheels. "Good to see you again, our mysterious friend," she remarked, approaching the foot of the bed. She picked up the chart and examined it briefly, noting the edit to the "SEX" field, before passing the chart over. "I know you're still woozy from the surgery," she remarked, "but I wanted you to have a chance to look over your chart and see if there was anything you wanted removed or corrected on the file while you're here."

 

[Jill (The Beast)]

Beast had only just regained consciousness, and some document was being thrust into their paws. Oh, Hell's... should I tell them I can't read?

Beast looked around, too many beasts. Too many new faces. Likely too many questions. Questions they didn't want to answer. I gotta get outta here!

Beast brought the chart close to their face, as if thouroughly inspecting it, before handing it back to the doctor.

"It looks fine." They signed with their paws. "How soon am I going to be able to leave?"

Without waiting for an answer, Beast tried to stand, only for searing pain to shoot up through their body. They let out a loud yelp and sat back down, grumbling and tapping their foot in agitation.

 

[Peter Morrey]

Peter Morrey watched intensely as the doctor communicated her response to the Beast's sign language. "We can let you out of here tonight, if you have someone willing to come pick you up and care for you for the next seven days while you heal," Dr. Volsci noted. "Otherwise, if you intend to leave of your own reconnaissance, I'm afraid we'll need to keep you another day. You really shouldn't be walking on your own for a while. We can send a Missertross to anyone in the city requesting that they come here, if you'd like. You can dictate the message as you please."

An orderly poked his head in the door, calling, "Doctor, they need you in 403."

Dr. Volsci sighed, nodding her response, before looking to the Beast with sympathy. "You're safe here," she assured the vigilante. "I don't know what trouble you're in, but Pyrostoat is neutral ground. No one will set the precedent of killing another in here, lest their own life be in our paws someday. Rest up. If you need anything, just ring that bell, okay?" She pointed to a string hanging from a small silver bell mounted above the bed.

 

[Jill (The Beast)]

Beast nodded to the doctor, their mood unreadable behind Mask. Seven days?! Beast's jaw dropped, but luckily Mask kept anyone from seeing their shock.

"Looks like you're going on a bit of a vacation." Mask chuckled within Beast's mind.

"Not now, Mask..." Beast muttered, not realizing they had said that aloud.

Beast sighed and wrapped the meager blanket provided around themselves before turning to the other two occupants of the room. "You don't need to worry about me. As you can see... I don't talk much." They explained in sign.

 

[Peter Morrey]

Peter Morrey's ears perked up in interest as he picked up on a bit of murmuring from the Beast. He hadn't heard much; only 'Mask' had been clear. Still, in a city like Bully Harbor, where madbeasts didn't just run free, they were elevated to high office, the possibility of a true lunatic was surprisingly intriguing. The doctor, for her part, looked too tired to be alarmed. "I know now isn't a good time," she allowed, "but if you try to go back to your, ah... normal activities," the stress on the word making it clear that 'normal' was highly relative in this case, "then you're going to wind up right back at our door for a stay twice as long, and with diminished capacity afterward. Despite what certain macho beasts might tell you, pain isn't something to be pushed through all the time. Pain is there to tell you the limits, and those limits shouldn't be pushed past on a whim. Even exercising too much without proper care and precautions can do your body far more harm than good. Keep that in mind next time you decide to exercise around dangerous individuals, okay?"

Sighing with the resignation of somebeast who knew her sound advice was going to be ignored, she pulled a pocketwatch from her coat, glanced at it, murmured, "I have to go before they send out a search party. I'll check up on you later," then left the room, leaving the Beast's clipboard at the foot of the bed.

Gian observed all this quietly, though once the doctor was gone he leaned over and murmured in conversational lowland Alkamarian, "At least we aren't as crazy as cette salope, n'est-ce pas?"

Peter Morrey shot him a dark glare before getting to his footpaws and approaching Jill's bed at an easy, unbothered pace. He picked up the chart, idly flipping through the pages, checking to see what had been recorded about the strange Beast. He raised an eyebrow at the crossed out M and stylized F that had replaced it in one box, then hummed thoughtfully before licking his thumb, letting a good drop of saliva gather on the pad. This he applied to the page, carefully smudging the "SEX" box into an illegible mess. "I don't reckon that you need anyone knowing, or even guessing, what's in your pants, now do you?" Peter remarked, looking up at the masked beast with the carefree smirk of a hunter who had stumbled upon an injured duckling in the woods. "Really, that's what I love about Vulpinsulan: it's such a sexless language. There's no gender to anything; in most every other language around, you have to be thinking about 'is that table masculine? what about this pile of feces, is it feminine?' In Vulpinsulan, none of that - though the Vulpinsulans do seem to make up for it by being one of the most rambunctious peoples in that regard," he observed with a chuckle. He moved to sit himself at the foot of the bed, avoiding the Beast's footpaws. "Peter Morrey," he introduced himself, offering a paw. "I don't believe we were introduced properly."

 

[Jill (The Beast)]

Neither Beast nor Jill cared for the way Peter was looking at them. It was unnerving, and frankly quite frightening. Again, they were grateful to be able to hide their face. Beast took Peter's paw warily and shook it. "Beast. Just... Beast. The full title is... a bit much."

Their voice was very hoarse. "Sorry, I switch back and forth... I can talk, but... it hurts." Beast explained, hoping that Peter would understand. "So... I learned sign language..."

Thinking that was a good enough explanation, Beast opted to continue the conversation in sign. "I don't want to intrude on you or your friend. I can ask the nurse to move me to another room. I prefer to be alone anyway."

 

[Peter Morrey]

Peter Morrey's smirk wasn't dissuaded by the switch to sign. He easily signed back, moving through the gestures as if born to it. "Not a problem in the least. My younger sister, bless her heart, was born hard of hearing, and so mother taught us all." He considered mentioning that Vulpinsulan sign was actually derived from Alkamarian sign, which had a bit of fascinating history behind it, but he decided that sharing the fact would come too close to outing himself. He continued, "And no need to feel so shy, we're all friends here. Who was it that you angered so much they decided to turn you into their knife block? It wasn't the Furotazzi Family since you aren't a flattened puddle. The Fyadorians usually go for beheading or disembowling, so maybe you got away, but that wasn't a Fyadorian knife. The Vulpinists, perhaps? It would take a lot for them to attack a vixen, but then, under all that garb, it's hard to tell you're even a fox."

 

[Jill (The Beast)]

“I don’t know.” Beast replied. “It was just a group of thugs. I didn’t stop to ask them which crime syndicate they may or may not have been affiliated with.”

Beast gingerly placed a paw on the stitches, wincing. “They were talking about, I don’t know. Extortions, embezzlement, counterfeit coins. They were criminals, and I wanted to stop them. I’ve been doing this for a while now, but these guys got the upper hand on me. Still it’s only a minor setback. This city never rests. So neither can I.”

Beast tried to stand, but again the pain proved to be too much and they slumped back down. It wasn’t just the wound on their hip, but their shoulder too. Even if they could stand, Beast reckoned they wouldn’t be able to throw a punch for a while.

“It’s not going to be today, or even this week. Likely not even this year. But I know, slowly but surely. I’m going to serve justice to the wicked for all the innocents of Bully Harbor.”

 

[Peter Morrey]

Peter Morrey clicked his tongue at the description of the group's activities. So, the Callisparians then. That was a significantly elaborate operation they had going, one that Peter had his eye on for a while. He mulled over the matter as this strange little vixen described her aspirations. He thought it more likely she was going to get herself killed long before she could serve anything other than her own head on a silver platter, but that wasn't the sort of thing that she would take kindly to hearing.

"You ever wonder why beasts turn to crime?" he mused aloud, letting his tone do his work for him. "For some it's greed and laziness, yes; beasts naturally want to make the most money for the least amount of effort, and when it goes well, crime can be very lucrative. That sort of criminal is rare, though, because crime is actually very, very hard work. Developing the skills necessary to succeed when every bit of practice can land you in a cell is a difficult proposition. Sure, some have aptitude, and in a large organization that provides protection they can have time to develop, but again, that's hard work.

"No," he exposited, shifting to cross one leg over the other as he leaned on one paw, "the truth of the matter is that most of your criminals are desperate beasts. In this town there's ten beasts for every nine jobs available, so what is that odd beast out to do? The few charities there are in town are swamped and underfunded. The Epicurean Bank won't lend to a poor financial prospect, and even then, the interest rates they charge are crushing - after all, that 2% a week on large deposits has to come from somewhere. Most of these dispossessed beasts fall to begging or petty crime to survive, easy pickings for the Fogeys to sweep off the street and into a cell so they can make their arrest quotas."

He peered at Jill, examining her eyes critically. "I can tell you know this kind of petty criminal well, and they aren't the kind you want to fight. You want to take down the big sharks, the syndicates and gangs. But, honestly, do you really believe that the Imperium isn't aware of them? With all the resources of the Ministry of Justice, that they don't know exactly where each and every one of these gangs is headquartered? They know, but sweeping them up off the street is bad business. See, these peons of the Empire want to make the most money for the least work as well, and the Empire pays them relatively little, barely enough to get by. So, they turn to the very kind of activity they're supposed to arrest beasts for: extortion, blackmail, protection rackets, this time for those gangs and syndicates. They make sure those endless investigations go nowhere, that crucial evidence disappears, that the Fogeys let the goons out of their cells in the morning. 'Confidential informant', they say, or 'undercover operative', anything to make any do-gooders swallow their conscience and look the other way. And," he leaned in, "if someone comes along who threatens their revenue stream, they make sure that threat disappears. How many 'good cops' do you think are at the bottom of the harbor? How many wind up alone in a dark alley on a bogus tip?"

He straightened up, waving a paw. "There will always be more gangs," he remarked, "and more petty crooks. You're swinging at the wind right now, trying to beat it back before you falter and fall. All the while you just keep drawing attention to yourself, so soon enough the real threat will notice. Sure, they might just take you out, but they might put out a wanted poster and let the Fogeys do the work. Vigilantism is a crime, after all; in their eyes, you're no better than the crooks they're supposed to arrest, but they can't shake you down for protection money. In the end this whole rotten system will close in around you, and you'll go down, having accomplished nothing."

He leaned in, his eyes gleaming. "That is," he added quietly, "unless you want to start going after the real threat. There I think I can help you."

 

[Jill (The Beast)]

As Peter leaned in, Beast leaned back. Something about this ferret sent a chill down their back.

“Mr. Morrey.” They started. “With all due respect, I don’t think I’m ready for the sort of action that you are describing. It sounds like politics to me, and I’m not exactly anyone special. I’m a common beast, I can’t just rub shoulders with the nobles.”

They sighed. “I mean, do I want to change the system? Of course I do. If I could make things better just as easy at that, I wouldn’t need Mask- to wear this mask.”

Beast cursed themself mentally. They needed to be careful with their words, least they end up in a psychiatric ward.

“I want to stand up for the little guy, and that starts with little steps… if that makes any sense.”

 

[Peter Morrey]

Peter leaned back, giving Jill a little more space. "Who said anything about rubbing shoulders?" he mused. "I don't think you can change things from the inside. I don't think anyone can. No, I was thinking more about... accountability. It's corruption in the Imperium that allows the kind of criminal you hate to flourish. It's the rotten beasts up through the government who stamp out any seeds of hope, any kindling of inspiration. As long as they're in place, your work will be meaningless."

He reached a paw into his jacket pocket, pulling out a leather flip notebook. "I can give you names," he offered. "Home addresses, routines, favorite hangouts. All the places where the beasts on the take, those who fill up the contact books of mobsters and keep them untouchable, are most vulnerable. I can feed you them for you to get justice for the ones who suffered - the ones whose justice they denied. And, this time, just maybe you can actually make a difference in this 'Gates-damned town."

 

[Jill (The Beast)]

Beast was immediately tempted by the book. It was precisely the thing they were looking for. Direct access. They leaned forward a bit, almost reaching out for the book before drawing back. "So you give me the book, and then what?" They asked with an eyebrow raised. Not that it mattered, Peter couldn't see their eyebrows in the first place.

"I won't kill anyone. It's wrong. If I did, I wouldn't be any better than them."

 

[Peter Morrey]

Peter laughed at that. "Just as bad as them? Lass, let me venture you an idea here. Say there's a male who's in the habit of killing a random femme once a week. You know who he is, but you've no way to prove it to anyone with the power to stop him. You can follow him and try to stop the killing, but every time you do so, you run the risk of him killing you first, or him leading you into a trap with his powerful friends. Even when you hit him hard enough to put him in the hospital, in a week he's back on the street, killing again, this time the wiser to your methods for it. How many deaths are you actually preventing? How long until he learns you well enough to just kill you?"

He settled back, considering the vixen critically. "You want to be a hero," he allowed. "So, let me tell you this: the idea that killing is always wrong is the biggest lie that those in power ever told. You know why you always hear from the papers, the abbots, the politicians the line that killing is always wrong, and yet crickets when a badge does it? Because what they really mean is that anyone but them killing is a threat to their power. As long as they teach you to be passive, to stay peaceful, to 'trust the system', then they can kill you while you still have your paws raised and know that not one beast will come after them for revenge. So, vixen," he asked, leaning forward, "do you want to be 'good' by the standards set by the very beasts who want you dead, or do you want to make a real change?" He held out the book to her.