Unnatural Selection - Ch 9: Three, Two, One ... Zero by Dikran_O

Unnatural Selection - Ch 9: Three, Two, One ... Zero

Dikran_O, Action, Bat, Canine, Cat-Bat, Coyote, Espionage, Fellatio, Fox, M/F, Oral, Poodle, Siamese Cat, Skunk, Wolf

#9 of FOX Academy 6 - Unnatural Selection

FOX Academy VI - Unnatural Selection

Chapter 9 - Three, Two, One ... Zero

Ansin struggled with the larger, more powerful cat-bat for control of the gun. The barrel wavered between them, now pointing at Ansin, now pointing to the ground, only occasionally coming anywhere close to the hybrid. Ansin fought to keep the creature's digit off the trigger guard and to get his own in there. The safety was built into the trigger, and until one of them could squeeze it properly the Glock would not go off.

Ansin tried flipping them in mid-air. It seemed to work, the big cross-breed looked startled and the gun turned toward it. But the sun was now in Ansin's eyes and he was breathing too hard to send a proper sonar signal out. Before he could repeat the move the gun went off, deafening him momentarily. Instinctively he let go of his opponent and waited for the pain to overcome his numbness. But no new pain appeared. He screeched to get a picture of the situation.

He caught a quick image of the gun tumbling into the tall grass and he marked where it landed. He also saw the cat-bat that he had been fighting plummet to the ground, barely able to slow its decent. It landed hard, and rolled with both paws clutched across its abdomen, ending up on its stomach. The rest of the clan seemed to have fled.

Ansin did not see the wound, and there was too much blood in the air to tell if there was any new source. But the creature was crawling in obvious pain, crawling with one paw clamped to its side ... crawling toward the fallen gun! Ansin gathered his wings and prepared to dive, just as Zac screamed out Anabel's name. Ansin paused, but just for an instant. He wanted to fly straight to Anabel's side, but he knew that the priority was to finish off his opponent and get that gun. He could not use it himself with his poor eyesight, but Zac could. If he could kill this one and get the weapon to Zac before the rest of The Collective returned they had a good chance of surviving.

Ansin stuck his arm, the one holding the fighting knife, out in front of him and dove like an eagle on its prey.

When he was twenty feet above the ground the hybrid rolled over on its back and bared its claws. Ansin knew that acting wounded was a ruse, but he was confident that he would still win. His paw-to-paw combat skills were proficient, and the stunted wings of the cat-bats were no match for his new-found flying ability. Fearlessly, he continued his dive.

Just before his knife should have struck home the grass around his opponent erupted. The rest of The Collective, minus Saira, leapt out from cover and wrestled Ansin to the ground. Ansin struggled, slashed and tried to fly away but their combined weight was too much to overcome. Knives bit into his sides. He could feel his energy draining away. The world began to go red.

Ansin knew that there was only one chance now to save Anabel. He flipped his knife in mid air and caught the blade neatly in his paw. Pulling back his arm he used the last bit of his strength to throw it as hard as he could. One last screech confirmed that it found its target, and then Ansin knew no more.

* * * * * * * *

The next thing Ansin knew, he was standing in a long line of every type of creature imaginable. He could barely make out the head of the line some kilometres ahead of him. He and all the other creatures were shuffling along at a pace barely above a standstill. It should have taken days to reach the front of the line at that rate, but he arrived there in what seemed like no time at all. Certainly before he could think of asking any of the others where he was or why he was there. It was almost like time had ceased to exist.

Ansin found himself in front of a dais with a figure behind it. The creature was dressed all in black, at least for the portion visible above the dais. Its head was shrouded in a cowl that overshadowed its face and its robe had long, loose sleeves that covered its paws, so Ansin could not tell what species it was. There was a rusty old scythe leaning against the dais, but it looked like it had not been used in a hundred years. The creature was banging away at the keyboard of an old-fashioned personal computer, something from before Ansin was born he was certain. The PC was as black as the figure's cloak.

"Hang on a sec, be right with you." The voice came from somewhere inside the hood. It continued to pound at the keys with hidden paws. "You wouldn't believe how busy it has been around here the last couple of centuries. It's the population explosion. Over a billion Chinese and almost as many Indians." The figure shook its head under the hood. "Glad I don't have to deal with the Asian religions. Oh come on!" It slapped the side of the monitor. "Piece of shit. I swear this thing dies every time I touch it. Wait, okay, there we go." Ansin could barely make out two glowing points of red under the hood. They were focused on the glowing green screen of the computer. "Faraday, Ansin. Born in Stalingrad?" The figure leaned ominously over the dais, and though he was very close Ansin still could not make out any details of its face.

"Y ...yes." The skinny bat answered, suddenly nervous.

"Last door on the left. The very last. It's your own fault if you end up in the wrong place." The figure went back to hammering the keyboard. "Next!"

"Excuse me, could I ask ..." Ansin began.

"No. You can't. It's not allowed. Now move on. Next!"

Ansin was shoved aside as another took his place. The hooded figure ignored him as it pounded the keyboard and slapped the monitor again.

"You're not an IT guy are you?" It asked the weasel that had replaced Ansin at the front of the line. "No? We're getting a lot of them lately, strangled by clients mostly."

Ansin stepped past the dais and saw a wall that had numerous doors. It had, in fact, more doors than wall. The doors were of every description. Wooden doors, iron doors, stone doors, even doors woven from savanna grasses. There were large doors, low doors, and wide doors. Fancy doors, plain doors, and doors scared by the claws of unimaginable beasts. He looked to the right. The wall disappeared in the distance. He looked to the left. Again, it shrank to the vanishing point far, far away. Ansin turned left and started walking.

He was not alone. Quite a crowd of creatures was making their way along the wall, most of them looking nervous, like him, and all of them studying the doors as if their live depended on it. Ansin noticed that some the doors were marked, but many were not. Of those that were marked a fair percentage bore a simple number, six sixty four, six sixty-five, six sixty-six, and so on. Others had words, many that looked to be in foreign languages and unfamiliar script.

Every now and again one of his fellow travellers would find the door they were seeking and step through it. Some opened the doors boldly, others timidly. A few just stood there, and did not go through for as long as Ansin could still look back and see them. Some beamed with pleasant surprise, or relief, when they opened their assigned doors and were bathed in golden light. Others screamed and tried to retreat when they found less pleasing accommodations, but they were inevitably pulled inside by creatures with huge, black, scaly paws tipped with claws like sabres.

Ansin could not be certain but the percentage of 'bad' doors seemed to be increasing the farther he went. He gulped, seeing that he still had a long way to go. He wondered what would happen to him if he just refused to open a door. Would someone come and push him through? Would he become a lost soul? Would that be better or worse than what fate had in store for him?

The crowd thinned as he went along. A family of four that looked like it had just stepped from a car accident stepped through one of the good doors and Ansin was alone. The end of the wall was barely in sight. Filled with uncertainty, he continued.

Finally, he came to the end of the line, so to speak. The last two doors were massive oak structures, banded with black iron and scarred by time. They had familiar symbols on them, Asatru symbols, Ansin was sure, but they looked incredibly old. He paused between them. There was frost rimming the second last door, and he could feel the cold if he stuck his paw out toward it. Suddenly the door shuddered, like something was trying to get out. Ansin quickly withdrew his paw. The other door looked just as imposing, but instead of frost it was rimmed with fiery light and radiated heat.

Fire or ice, he wondered, what is my fate to be? Well, here goes nothing, Ansin thought as he gathered his courage. He boldly stepped up to the last door and placed his paw in the centre of the symbol carved there. He pushed.

The door opened astonishingly easily considering its bulk. Ansin was momentarily blinded by a radiant assault that spilled out of the door and lit up the gloomy foyer for a thousand metres around. Just inside the door stood a pair of golden braziers with flames three metres tall. The flames were white hot. Their light was reflected and intensified by an arched bridge that seemed to be made entirely from precious gems that were glowing all the colours of the rainbow. At the foot of the bridge there stood an imposing figure, a tall muscular female bat who was wearing archaic armour and holding a sword as if she knew how to use it. She smiled down on the stunned Faraday.

"Welcome to Asgard, Ansin."

* * * * * * * *

In a gully in the middle of nowhere, a Gerber fighting knife spun through the air and stuck in the ground at the feet of an eastern Canadian wolf. Zac bent down and pulled it from the ground, marvelling at Ansin's presence of mind to throw it so far and so accurately while being hacked to death by The Collective. With this weapon to add to Anabel's improvised spear, and considering the wounds already inflicted on the clan of cross-breeds, he and Anabel might stand a chance.

"Anabel, look!" Zac turned to where the English toy terrier lay clutching her wounded side. His words dried in his mouth and the paw holding up Ansin's knife dropped to his side. Anabel did not look good. Here skin was pale beneath her short coat and her eyes were glassy under half closed lids. She was panting in short, sharp breaths that hardly seemed to keep any air in at all. The dark puddle spreading from her side was much larger than before.

"She is dying." Zac whirled to face the speaker. It was Saira, standing on the verge of the gully with her clan ranged behind her.

"Leave us alone, God Damn you." Zac brandished the knife. "You might get us but I'll take out at least three of you for trying."

"There is no need for that Zac." Saira said softly. "Anabel is going to die anyway. She is mortally wounded and there is nothing you can do to help her. You can still live though, if you join us."

"She's going to make it. I do not want anything to do with you. Get out of here. Go!"

Saira shook her head sadly. "Haven't you seen enough death to know when the collector of souls is near?"

"No. I'm a machinist." Zac said, bewildered and suddenly wondering how he ended up here, in the middle of nowhere, surrounded by enemies and defending a lover that he had not even met a week before. "I make things."

"So do I." Saira said, stepping closer and lowering her voice. "I take parts and put them together and make things that work. But my brothers have become convinced that there is a higher calling for us ... for me." She sighed and looked at her feet. "I don't share their fanaticism, but I can't abandon them ... they are the only family I have." She tried to move closer still, but Zac raised the knife and backed away, tripping over a loose rock and barely catching himself in time to ward her off. Saira retreated to the safety of her brothers with a hiss.

"Stay back or I'll ... I'll ..." His voice trailed off. Zac was not sure what he would do. Fighting for your life was one thing, but could he kill someone in cold blood?

"Zac, Zac, Zac." Saira chided as she stepped forward deliberately, her breasted brothers closing in behind her. "Whoever thought that they could make a FOX agent out of you?

"I did." The new voice had a familiar ring of command. Saira and her brothers looked around in shock. Standing in gully not ten metres away was the silver fox that they had dumped into the river and left for dead. "I always thought that he had it in him."

Zac was as surprised as the group of hermaphrodites that were about to kill him. The Chief of Staff was alive, but he looked like he had barely made it. His fur was matted and dirty, he had sweat running down his face and he was breathing hard, like he had just finished a marathon. And was he smoking? Zac looked carefully at the white, smouldering object that dangled from the fox's mouth.

"I see that you have picked up some supplies in your journey back from hell." Saira motioned with a paw and her brothers gathered around her, to protect the womb that represented their path to perfection. "What is that thing?" She was asking about a large shiny metal canister that Silver had strapped to his back.

"It's called an Indian Pump. It is used for putting put forest fires when you are too far off the road to get a hose in." He explained as he undid the straps and set the heavy canister down at his side. He rolled his wide shoulders and sighed with relief now that they were free of the load. The canister had a rubber hose with a metal shaft on it that looked like a bicycle pump. "You pump it like this to build up pressure," he demonstrated, "and when it won't go down anymore you squeeze this nozzle, and viola." He aimed it over the side of the gully and a stream of clear liquid shot fifteen metres out over the prairie grass.

Saira threw her head back and laughed. "A water pump? Who do you think we are? Wicked witches?"

"No, but it rhymes with that." Silver pumped the handle again and removed the thing that looked like a thick cigarette from his mouth.

Zac, who had spent a lot of time recreating muskets and canon in his father's machine shop now recognized what it was the fox was holding between his lips. It was a Slow Match, a short length of woven cotton rope that had been lit at one end. Once the flame was extinguished the rope would smoulder for hours. It was perfect for lighting the fuses of black powder weapons, or any other flammable substance for that matter.

The big fox started spraying the closely packed group of cat-bats, and Zac immediately picked up the smell of whatever it was that Thomas has used to light the fire back in the gravel pit. Evidently Saira remembered that odour too because she began to scream a warning just as Silver blew on the end of the rope until it glowed bright read and then tossed it at her. The entire group was engulfed in the ball of flame that ensued.

Zac would never forget the next few moments of his life. The minutes while Silver pumped and sprayed fire on the hybrid creatures while he herded any that tried to escape back toward the big fox. He would hear the screams of the hybrids until his dying day. He would relive the nightmare image of the half-dozen burning creatures late at night after a few beers for years to come. He would smell the odour of burning flesh seasoned with the accelerant that Silver had doused them with, the one used for starting back burns to counter prairie grass fires, wafting from every backyard barbecue that the wind choose to blow his way. Mostly though, he would never forget the look of satisfaction on the face of the silver fox as the last of the big-breasted hermaphrodites collapsed onto the burning pile of his siblings.

"Come on." The Chief of Staff urged Zac, who was standing there stunned with his ears and tail down. Now that the excitement was over the shock over the events of these last few days was settling in on the wolf. "We have to get out of here." The fox told him."

Zac was confused. The danger was past. Saira and her brothers were dead, defeated. Now it was time for the one called Silver to produce the first aid kit he must also have found and sew up Anabel's wounds. Then the rescue team would show up and ...

Zac was rudely jerked back to reality by a hard slap across the muzzle.

"Look." The Chief of Staff was pointing out into the grassland. Zac saw a wall of flame moving toward them. "One of them tried to fly away and started a brush fire. We have to get out of here before it jumps the gully."

"Anabel." Zac exclaimed, and pointed. The silver fox ran over to her side and gently pulled her paw away from her wound. He shook his head and laid it back where it was.

"She's a goner Zac."

"I'm not leaving without her." Zac's eyes were round in shock and his voice was frantic. The fox studied him for a moment before speaking again.

"Then give me your shirt."

Zac complied and the veteran agent quickly fashioned a bandage and dressing around Anabel's waist. He picked her up and passed her to Zac.

"I'm too tired to carry her; you'll have to do it." Up close Zac could read the fatigue and weariness in the fox's face. The old guy must be near to exhaustion, he thought, and here's me just standing here, being useless. Zac stepped up quickly and cradled Anabel in his arms.

"Which way?" He asked. The calm, quiet mood of certainty that he had shown the last few days had returned, but he content to follow the big fox's lead.

"Along the gully and then upwind." The fox had to yell over the roar of the approaching fire. "Let's go." And with that he took off at a sprint. Zac hurried to catch up.

* * * * * * * *

Several hundred miles above them a satellite designed to measure thermal emissions from the surface of the earth collected data and compared it to a set of rules in its firmware. A condition was met and a signal was sent down to a ground station outside of Ottawa. The technician on duty heard the alarm sound and checked the display. After reading the information he picked up the hot line, a deliberate pun, as it was a direct line to the Canadian Wild Fire Service.

"We have a big one." He informed the scientist on duty. "I'm sending the data over to you now."

Deep inside the bowels of the ground station's computer, the geographical coordinates of the fire's leading edge were compared against a set of rules that he was not aware existed. A condition was met, and a signal was sent to an operations centre located in the middle of an Agriculture Canada facility known as the Central Experimental Farm. There the Duty Officer, an Arctic fox named Kain Algorath, put the information up on the big screen and overlay it on a Google Earth image of Grasslands National Park. He zoomed in until the thermal image of the fire's leading edge filled most of the screen.

From space, the fire looked like a big arrowhead pointing to a dry gully. The Director of the facility, a large golden-furred fox who was known by many names, smiled and put his large paw on Algorath's shoulder.

"I told you Silver would figure out a way to signal us. Send in the recovery team."

* * * * * * * *

After a mad dash through the smoke and flames of a prairie wildfire Zac and Silver found themselves standing on the same gravel road that they had landed on. They stood in the relatively safe centre of the old emergency landing strip as the fire swept by them. Zac cradled Anabel against his chest to protect her from the fumes. Before he could wonder what they would do or where they would go after the fire had burnt itself out he heard the roar of an approaching plane. Silver motioned for him to join him on the verge and wait for the craft to come to a stop.

The next few minutes were surreal. A dozen canines, wolves, dobermans, rottweilers and German shepherds, all dressed in camouflage uniforms and carrying advanced weapons, piled out and deployed around the smoky trio. Silver called out a series of codewords and the leader allowed him to approach for positive identification. After a word from the Chief of Staff the leader relaxed and motioned for the rest of the team to de-plane. The second wave was dressed in bright orange, and was more diverse in their species, but they all moved with an athletic smoothness that comes from years of practical application. They immediately focused on the bundle in Zac's arms.

"Let me have her son." The words were spoken by a dachshund a head shorter than Zac that looked to be at least fifty. The tone of his voice and the experienced look in his eyes convinced Zac to hold out the suddenly heavy burden of the wounded Anabel. The dachshund took her with ease and ran swiftly back to the plane where his compatriots were setting up a gurney. He laid Anabel on the table and Zac's view was obscured by the squad of medical personnel that set to work on her.

Zac was given a quick once over by one of the medics and pronounced healthy. Two others tried to treat Silver's multiple wounds while he briefed the response team leader, until the big fox grabbed one of them by a sensitive appendage and told them to go away. Now Zac found himself alone and ignored. He squatted on the edge of the road and covered his face with his forearms so that no one would see the fatigue there, or the tears.

Eventually one of the orange clad Search and Rescue technicians led him onto the aircraft and helped him to strap in. Zac kept his head down as the rest boarded and prepared the plane for takeoff. When he looked up he saw that Silver was seated across from him again, just like on the flight in. The silver fox was sitting in his harness, half covered with bandages, staring at the eastern Canadian wolf. Zac stared back. The fox looked to the rear of the plane. Zac followed his gaze.

Anabel's gurney with was secured in the middle of the cargo bay. She was covered by a sheet that had once been white, but was now stained with red. Her pointed muzzle made a tent of the fabric where the sheet was pulled up over her head. The medics were seated along the sides, speculating on what more they could have done to save her. Zac looked back to the Chief of Staff with no expression on his face. He would grieve later, privately. Right now he could sense that he was at a nexus in his life.

"You're in kid." The fox said after another minute of silent eye contact.

"Huh?"

"You're in. You graduated. You're a member of FOX, if you still want it."

Zac shook his head in disbelief. "Why? I didn't do anything heroic, or clever. I would have died like all the others if you had not come along and saved me."

Silver shook his head indulgently. "You're a survivor, and lucky. Those are two traits that we can't teach. As for the rest, the rest is easy, it will come."

"But I'm not experienced like some of the others were. I've never even been in a serious fight, let alone killed anyone. Not like you."

"Taking a life is too easy these days." Silver tilted his chin to indicate the Special Forces troopers with their modern weapons. "Its knowing when to take one that's important. You were prepared to fight to the death back there to save Balfor. Who knows, if I had not come along when I did maybe you would have defeated them by yourself."

Zac thought about that. He had certainly felt like he could have taken them all on in those last few moments. But was this the life he had envisioned when he applied? He was no longer sure. He looked back at the table where Anabel's body lay.

"How often does a mission end like this?" He asked.

"Too often."

An appropriate, if somewhat open-ended answer, Zac thought.

"Can I give you my answer when we get back to Ottawa?"

"Take all the time you need." Silver said with understanding. Then the Chief of Staff leaned back in the harness seat and immediately fell asleep.

* * * * * * * *

Several thousand miles away, The Director of the Foreign Operations eXucutive had just gotten off the phone with a certain English sheepdog from the ministry. He faced the assembled staff with a satisfied smile.

"It seems that our former Director's knowledge of the character and the, uhm, sexual deviances of his fellow senior civil servants has turned out to be very useful. Thank you, Marie for retrieving it from his archives." He nodded towards Mademoiselle Chienne-Caniche, who was taking the minutes of the meeting.

"Merci, Monsieur." The white poodle with the black ears, and dark spots in more private places, looked distracted, like she had forgotten something but could not remember what it was.

"Thanks to this information the Academy is no longer in jeopardy. After revealing what we knew I managed to convince the Ministry representative to show some restraint, otherwise the inquiry would last until we were all old and grey."

Miss CC's head came up at the word 'restraint' and she squinted when the Director finished his sentence. She shook her head, making the pom-poms at the ends of her ears fly to and fro. But she went back to her note taking as the Director continued.

"Now all of the loose ends are tied up." Miss CC rubbed her wrists unconsciously. "They can't blame us for not recognizing the threat immediately; after all, all cats are grey in the dark." The party poodle bit her lip and stared at the wall as if what she was trying to remember would display itself there.

"Of course there is bound to be an official investigation, but we have to remember that not everything is black and white, there are shades of grey." The Director continued, but Mademoiselle Chienne-Caniche, whose head had come up at the word 'bound', interrupted him.

"Excusé moi, monsieur, but what did you just say?"

"I was just saying that the rules governing this type of investigation are not well defined ... it's a grey area."

The buxom poodle in the tight skirt and high heels stood up suddenly and clutched her paws under her chin.

"Grey! Oh mon Dieu!"

She fled the briefing room in a flurry of swaying buttocks and bouncing breasts.

* * * * * * * *

"How is that, mon p'tit, comfy?"

"It will do my dear, for now." Grey Muzzle lay back on the soft chaise lounge in Mademoiselle Chienne-Caniche's studio apartment and sighed contently. She had piled the lounge with down-filled pillows while he soaked the filth out of his fur in the largest bathtub he had ever seen. Then she had gone out to dispose of the soiled leather wear and bought the thickest, softest bathrobe she could find while he soaked in a mountain of bubbles and lavender bath salts. After he was done she had dried him with her own towels, dressed him in the robe and set him down with a chocolate martini and a tray of odorous French cheeses.

"I ham so sorry for leaving you tied up for so long, mon cher." Miss CC crooned as she knelt beside the couch. "Ow can I ever make it up on you?"

"Up to you." He corrected

She slid a paw between the folds of the robe and stoked him in a sensitive spot.

"Non, up on you." She said with a twinkle in her eye as she squeezed his penis gently. Despite its recent tribulations the little fellow forgave her and swelled to fill her paw like an old friend. She parted the robe and leaned down to take the tip in her mouth. Blood designated to run brain cells drained south and Little Grey became Big Grey.

Chienne-Caniche worked his cock with her lips and tongue as she used her paws to strip off the little clothing she wore. The white blouse was tossed aside to reveal a lacy black undercut bra. The tight tweed skirt dropped to show matching panties. Before Grey could tire of the lingerie show she unsnapped the bra to set her round, soft breasts free and slipped the panties off.

"Ah, freshly shaved." Grey observed, and did he catch the scent of peppermint lubricant? How did she know that was his favourite? The FOX background checks must be more thorough than he thought. He toyed with a hard pink nipple while she tried to swallow his cock whole.

After the ordeal in the safe house, locked in the leather britches with his paws cuffed and nothing to do but watch the shopping channel and sip whatever liquor was within reach. Of course, had he know how long he would have to spend in the restraining pants he would have forgone the liquid intake. One look at his shrunken and sodden member and he was sure that it was ruined beyond repair. But, unlike the blood of King Duncan, urine washes off and his current state of hardness was testimony to the restorative powers of Miss CC's mouth.

She licked the length of his shaft a few times and sucked one of his testicles into her pointed maw while she stoked his cock gently. The pressure was already building up down there, but Grey did not try to hold back. Chienne-Caniche had said that she had the whole weekend free to take care of him. He lay back, sipped his drink, and waited for her to engulf his penis with her warm inviting mouth again.

But she didn't. She stood up instead and stepped back from the lounge with a wicked grin on her face. Grey suddenly became very nervous.

She stood there, tall, fit and firm, with her breasts pointing straight out and just a hint of her labia showing where her thighs joined her torso.

"Can you say 'hwoof' Monsieur Grey?"

"Oh, don't start that agai ..."

"CAN YOU SAY 'HWOOF'?"

"woof?"

"Tres bien." Her countenance relaxed and she walked backward with exaggerated swings of her legs that made her muscles jump and exposed her sex in an interesting way. She stopped beside the closet and rested a paw on the handle. "I 'ave a surprise for you, mon p'tit."

Grey's lip shook and his eyes watered as he remembered the last surprise and the soggy aftermath.

"Please, no ..." He managed to squeak.

But mademoiselle Chienne-Caniche was undeterred. She swung open the closet and pulled out her surprise. Grey's heart stopped for an instant at what she revealed.

There, posed in front of the closet where Miss CC must have hid them while he was bathing, were a perfect pair of matched female Siamese cats, twins, and they were perfectly naked. Their china-blue eyes laughed at his open-mawed expression and their tails flicked playfully behind them. With his eyes locked on their perky, chocolate-tipped breasts Grey closed his mouth with one paw and whipped the droll from around it with the other.

"Marie, I love you."

* * * * * * * *

Epilogue - Several Days Later

No agency can afford to keep experts in every field on salary; instead they rely on a network of consultants. Such consultants may provide technical or subject matter expertise, like producing sniper rifles in foreign lands or advising on the best method of hiding emergency funds during a strip search. In real-life they may be gun runners or proctologists, but when the bills are submitted to the treasury they are all listed as consultants.

Two such consultants were the anthropologist Doctor Joseph Littlecrow and his graduate student assistant Raymond Paquette. Doctor Littlecrow was often called in when cleanup required finding, separating, and removing every trace of creature's remains, especially if non-traditional methods of execution were used. Re-assembling bodies that had been destroyed by fire, acid, explosion and wood chippers were his specialty.

They were based out of the University of Calgary, which was conveniently close. The pair also had a government security clearance, due to some previous work for the RCMP, which made them perfect for FOX's special needs.

This job was far from routine, even for the Academy. The gangly coyote had to recover a half a dozen bodies, separate out the remains of an agent for delivery to his next of kin, and catalogue the rest for the archives. Not only had most of the bodies been reduced to ashes by some form of accelerant, they were not sure where the body of the agent had come down, so Joseph and Raymond had to search a hundred-metre radius from where they found the main depository.

They had set up camp in the park, which would remain closed until they were done, much like they did when examining the burial sites of Joseph's ancestors. They had a nylon tent for sleeping, a mesh tent for a kitchen and a large shelter over two folding tables to examine the remains on. Other than their camping gear they had packed light. Shovels, brooms, dustpans, tweezers, latex gloves and sheets to cover the detritus when the wind picked up were all the equipment that they needed for this job.

By halfway through the second day they had two distinct piles, a small one where the bones were charred but mostly intact and a large one where the bones had cracked and broken up in the firestorm that had consumed the flesh around them. The small pile was easy to identify as every bone corresponded to that of a long-eared bat, which matched the description of the agent, and ninety-nine percent of them had been recovered. Joseph could already tell how the bat had died but he let his assistant present first for his own development.

"Multiple stab wounds." Raymond pronounced after examining the bones again. "From at least four distinct weapons. These here, here and here," he pointed to a femur, an ulna and the skull, "were post mortem. The others were perimortem. I would say that the fatal one was ... this one here." The skunk from northern Ontario pointed to a pair of ribs that were scored near where the heart would have been.

Very good." Joseph complimented him before turning to the larger pile. Littlecrow had only been told that he might see some unusual results, but not the exact nature of the group. "Now, what do you make of these?"

"Hmmm." The skunk put his paw to his chin in thought and then consulted his notes. "Looks like about eight or ten individuals. I get at least five big felines, male from the pelvic bones, and another possibly five bats, probably female from the skull and rib configurations. But there are big gaps in the collection. I found no cat paws at all, just feet, and the paws I did find were more like a sloth than a bat. And those tail bones! Stunted, useless things. Are you sure that the Academy isn't pulling a prank on us?"

"They are not known for having a sense of humour." Joseph said dryly. "Why do you ask?"

"Because this reminds me of those jackalope and fur bearing trout get ups that you see in rural tourist traps." Raymond picked a few bones from the pile and laid them beside each other as he spoke. "Long femurs from cats, ulnae with extra tendon anchors like bats, three-digit paws like Sloths, tail bones like ... like ... like humans." He looked up anxiously. The human comment had just slipped out. Doctor Littlecrow, though a good boss and a great teacher, had a short temper and even less of a sense of humour than he claimed for FOX. But Littlecrow's brow was wrinkled, showing as much confusion as Paquette was feeling.

"Not bad considering the conditions." Joseph said slowly. "But if you look carefully at some of these samples," he picked out more bones and arranged them with the others, "you can see that they fit together." Working quickly he assembled about seventy percent of a single skeleton. It was missing a leg and half an arm, as well as many smaller bones, but there was enough to show that it was all from one creature, albeit a strange one.

"I would say that this one was at the bottom of the pile of burning bodies, which protected the bones from the kind of damage the rest suffered. But if we have one creature with aspects of several species we can assume that the other bones will make up more of the same. I make it as five of these hybrids. They would have looked like big female felines with some obvious bat-like features."

"No Females?" Raymond wondered.

"No. These were all female-pattern hermaphrodites. I've found a few of those buried with some ceremony in the Sioux and Iroquois sites I've excavated." The Doctor of Anthropology replied. "Unusual to find five of them together. Wonder what the Academy was up to this time?"

"Five?" His assistant asked. "Didn't they say to expect six?"

"They said 'half a dozen', but they were probably including their agent in that. He makes six."

"We should report that just to make sure." Raymond proposed. His picky meticulous nature was one of his strengths, Littlecrow thought, but his tendency to blurt out absurdities was a weakness.

"Sure, mention it in the summary when we ship the remains and the report off to their archives." Joseph decided. And maybe someone will actually read it within the next ten years, he added to himself. "But one thing Raymond, don't mention anything about humans or other mythical creatures. If the faculty hears that it's game over for our funding, and these spies, while they pay good, don't hire often enough to pay for our research."

* * * * * * * *

The End ....

...... maybe.

The FOX Academy series:

Book I - The New Breed

Book II - The Werewolf of Odessa

Book II.5 - The Love who Spied Me

Book III - The Curse of the Yellow Monkey

Book IV - Wait for No One

Book V - Dawn of Vengeance

Geno © Coyotek

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