VERSE THREE: CAUCHEMAR

"Miranda!"

Damon sat bolt upright. His heart pounded against the inside of his ribcage and his ears rang from the blood rushing through them. That damned dream. Again. The same bloody nightmare he'd been having ever since...

"Oh Hell," Damon muttered, glancing to and fro through the fingers splayed over his face. Where am I? He wondered. It appeared he had found himself in a hotel or inn of some sort, from the look of the place. What happened last night? More pressing yet than that question was the one the fox voiced aloud as he lifted the bed sheets to confirm the suspicion his waking mind had developed. "Where the Hell are my trousers?!"

There followed an immediate knock at the door, jolting Damon's attention from one mystery to another. He had half a second to contemplate a response before the door burst open. Across the threshold spilled a bustle of commotion in the form of a young skunk-girl with a breakfast tray. The pretty young thing was literally bouncing and her bright blue eyes lit up when she saw that Damon was awake.

"Oh! Vous êtes éveillé! Comment allez-vous?" She asked with an adorable tilt of her head. Damon was still registering the skunkette's sudden appearance so at first all he could manage in reply was to blink. He tried again.

"Er...J-Je...ne parle Français...?"

"How about English, then?" The she-skunk's English was impeccable, her accent slight. Damon blinked again, stupidly.

"You - you speak English?"

"Ze Queen's own! I was born in Manchester." The effervescent stranger had deposited her tray on the edge of the bed by this point. "Here, I brought you some breakfast!" Damon politely accepted it; a modest offering of coffee, a baguette spread with butter and some sort of fruit jelly and a small croissant with a light chocolate drizzle.

"Erm...thanks. Sorry, miss, but...where are my-"

"Clothes?" the she-skunk interjected. "Well, when we found you out back zis morning they were a little torn up. I managed to patch them up, mostly. Your trousers are on ze chair in the corner but I did not have any, er, material for your coat..." She trailed off, giving Damon the opportunity to jump in this time.

"'Out back?' Where am I, anyway?" His question elicited a friendly smile. The mephit had her fingers interlinked in front of her, but it was clear from her fidgeting that she rarely remained still for long. The bracelets, necklace and earrings she wore jingled as she bounced lightly on the soles of her thongs.

"The Foxtail Tavern! Best inn or pub zis side of Paris! I'm one of ze maids around here; my name is Natasha. Natasha LaFleur." Another winning smile, and her bright eyes shone. Damon found it a little early in the morning (assuming it was still morning) for her cheerful demeanour and was a little self-conscious of being nude beneath the sheets of the bed, besides. Still, he cleared his throat and mustered an introduction of his own.

"Er, pleased to meet you, Natasha. I'm, ah, Damon. Erm, listen...I should have had-"

"Zat sword of yours?" She interrupted again, and Damon might have been annoyed if she weren't so damned pleasant and bubbly. "Don't worry; I made sure no one else knew about it when zey helped me bring you in. I'm not sure Monsieur Renard would have wanted you staying here otherwise...I figured it might be something you wanted kept secret, though. But you'll tell me all about it later, oui?" Damon wasn't quite sure how to respond. This Natasha was pleasant, but disarming, and just talking with her seemed to keep him wrong-footed.

"Ah, of course...but... Weren't you at least a little...concerned about it?" Now it was his turn to catch her off guard, at least. Natasha cocked her head bemusedly.

"No...?" A sweet girl, but a touch naive.

"...Alright then," was all Damon could think to reply while he took a sip of his coffee. There followed a palpably awkward silence.

The fox, for his part, took advantage of it to take better stock of his surroundings and his hostess. The room was serviceable enough, if drab: the wallpaper was several decades out of date and peeling in places, but the room was otherwise tidy. Spartan, he would have called it. True to Natasha's word, in a corner by the window his pants were draped over a chair. Propped up next to it beside a small dresser was the unmistakable shape of his sword, barely hidden by his tattered jacket draped over it. Of the rucksack he'd brought with him on the road however, there was no sign.

As he allowed his gaze to wander back to the skunkette Damon noticed Natasha staring at him while he nursed his coffee. The young woman was writhing with scarcely-contained energy as she inquired:

"Are you not hungry then, Monsieur Damon?" The question jolted him back to his senses and reminded Damon of the food on his tray.

"Oh! Er, r-right, ah...ah, thank you Natasha, miss..." The fox smiled awkwardly and took a bite of the croissant, pleased to find it was home-made and still warm. As Damon chewed he noted Natasha continued to watch him expectantly, so he nodded his approval at the confection and smiled uneasily. "It's quite good," he added reassuringly, "thank you. I'm just not terribly hungry, I'm afraid."

"Well just hang onto it zen, in case you change your mind, yes?" Swifter than he could react, Natasha had removed the tray from the bed to deposit it on the small night stand nearby. "Now, is there anything else I can help you with?"

The absence of the tray in his lap made Damon once more acutely aware of his nudity. The thin sheets granted him some decency, of course, but even being bare-chested in front of a stranger made the fox uneasy. The visual allure of his jewelry didn't help matters, either, the way the gold stood out against his fur. Damon could feel Natasha's eyes wandering from the thick loop in his left ear to the barbell piercing in his left nipple. Not content to stop at the jewelry, her gaze continued down over his toned chest and midriff; the definition of his muscles was visible even in spite of the jet black that covered Damon head to toe. The fox shimmied toward the opposite side of the bed, closer to his belongings.

"Ah...n-no," he replied at last, "I just need a shower and my, ah, clothes, I think...pack of fags might do me a world of good, too..."

"In your trouser pockets, monsieur - I took them out of your coat." Natasha was moving even as she spoke, and thankfully fetched the garment in question for Damon. He was grateful not to have to get up out of the bed to retrieve them. Natasha had clearly seen two of his piercings and no doubt noted a third on his tongue when he spoke; he didn't feel the need for her to learn the location of the fourth.

With muttered thanks, Damon took the trousers and clumsily pulled them on beneath the veil provided by the bedspread, blushing furiously all the while. At least that blush was something he knew she couldn't see through his ebon fur.

"Monsieur Damon, you're awfully shy for a visitor in Paris, non?" Natasha hovered by the window, her great bushy tail idly swishing to and fro.

"N-not really here by choice, luv," Damon replied, slipping free from the bed and standing up to stretch, feeling less awkward but keeping hold of his half-done-up fly with one paw just in case. "I need a shower...there's one in this suite, yeah?" Natasha giggled.

"Oui, monsieur - right behind you. We aren't done talking yet though, are we?"

"You're ah...persistent. But no, I don't suppose we are" Damon replied, excusing himself and turning around to find that the alcove housing the door through which Natasha had arrived contained another leading off to a small bathroom.

A stumbling shamble carried him into the space and Damon steadied himself on the edge of the sink. The bathroom was small, but private. He shut the door with his foot and took a moment to examine himself in the tiny, tarnished mirror. He looked like he'd had a wild night.

If only you could remember it, the fox thought bitterly to himself. Were the episodes getting worse?

He shucked his pants and checked the pockets, removing their meagre contents before folding the garment and placing it on the lid of the toilet. From the pants the fox had retrieved a crumpled pack of cigarettes, which he placed in the dry basin of the sink, and his wallet. A cursory glance through it assured Damon that everything was still accounted for, but that did little to ease his anxiety.

Crap, he thought, she went through my coat and moved everything to my pants. He unwound the rosary from the matted fur of his left wrist and removed his engagement ring, setting both pieces of jewelry on the folded pants. These were followed by the spike-studded leather bracelet he wore around his right wrist.

She's seen my wallet...has anyone else seen it? Damon's golden eyes gazed back at him from the reflection in the mirror without an answer to the question. He contemplated removing his piercings, but after a brief internal debate left them in place; it wasn't as though he could properly clean them, anyway.

Has anyone seen my ID? Does anyone know who I am? Damon played with a long strand of his silvered hair, anxiously, while studying the nozzle configuration inside the cramped shower. He fiddled with it briefly, found a setting that was just as hot as he could handle and stepped inside as steam began to waft up over the edge of the shower basin. He had just managed to draw the curtain closed when a chipper voice sounded out, muffled from the other side of the bathroom door.

"Is everything to your satisfaction, Monsieur Damon?" The vulpine leapt in surprise, smacking his head on the low ceiling.

"Gah! Fuck!" Damon clutched at his head as it throbbed, the sensation made worse by the heat. He blinked through the water beading on his eyelashes, groping for the faucet with one hand to turn down the temperature. "N-now? You meant continue talking right now?" he called out to the door and bit off further cursing.

"But of course," came the reply. "Are you alright in zere, monsieur?" Natasha asked, concern in her voice.

"Y-yeah, fine. Just...I'm a little rattled, I suppose. I ah...I had a rough sleep," he explained to the persistent maid, eyes closed while he let the water wash over his face.

"I can imagine. How did you end up in ze alley last night?" She continued, much to Damon's dismay.

"Um, I..." he fumbled for a reason, "I can't really say." How had he ended up in an alley? It was a question he no doubt wanted answered even more than the inquisitive mephit. "Not...not right now, at least, I mean..." Why wouldn't she leave him be? "I'm sorry, I'm not really used to answering so many questions. Not from someone I don't know, I mean. That is..." how did one politely tell somebody to fuck off?

"But without asking questions, how would we get to know one another?" Natasha's tone was innocently...flirty? Or was he reading too much into things? She seemed so innocent it was hard to tell.

"I...I guess..." She had a point about questions, at least. Maybe it applied both ways and he could make it work for himself. "Do you mind answering a few of mine, then?" Damon spoke up to be heard clearly from without the bathroom. "Such as how I got here? You just...found me out back when you started your shift in the morning?"

"Oui!" The reply was cheerful and clear, "Monsieur Vulpecula helped me carry you in before we opened ze pub zis morning. I had to pester him an awful lot, though...he wanted to leave you out there, can you imagine?!"

Damon wrinkled his nose at the overwhelmingly feminine scent of the complimentary shampoo he'd found in the wire basket hanging below the showerhead. He began scrubbing it deliberately through his hair while he replied, "that's the second time you've mentioned him - who's Vulpecula?"

"Ze tavern's owner! He goes by Vulpecula or Monsieur Renard, er, Fox. He's very kind, but not so trusting..." Damon could appreciate that. "Can you believe he wanted to rummage through your wallet and your...your things?! Ze nerve...he can be very rude. He says he's trying to keep us safe but I swear some people don't know anysing about manners!"

Irony, thy name is Natasha LaFleur. Damon chuckled lightly. No one had rifled through his effects, at least. Well, no one who seemed to have sense enough to care. That made this a prime location to lie low, for the time being. He sniffed again and made a face; he'd have to buy a new shampoo, though.

"Still...I was able to talk _some_sense into him," Natasha continued to talk in Damon's silence, "he said today for you is on ze house...but he wants you out of here by five this evening. Unless you plan to pay for ze rest of your stay up front." She paused, "...you _will_be staying here for a while, won't you, monsieur?"

"Oh, er..." Damon shook himself to attention. "I suppose so...for a few days, at least." He attempted nonchalance.

"Magnifique!" Natasha cheered as Damon shut off the water. He shook himself off as much as the cramped space allowed before drawing back the curtain and reaching for a towel to take care of the damp he couldn't shake out. Natasha was carrying on, "So...so you wouldn't mind if we spend some time together over ze next few days, would you, Monsieur Damon?" Her voice seemed hesitant through the door; hopeful. Damon made his way over to the mirror, rolling his eyes as he wiped steam from its surface. "I love meeting new people and...and I find you very interesting!" LaFleur added.

"Ah, I...I suppose not, miss, er, Natasha." His response was distracted as Damon looked around the bathroom for a way to brush his hair before remembering his circumstances. "Uhm...say, do you know somewhere I could get my hands on some toiletries? Unless my bag happened to be with me when you found me out back..."

"Oh! Oui! I have some sings here for you, monsieur, since I thought you might be needing them!" The voice faded from the other side of the door as Natasha left the threshold to grab something out in the bedroom.

Damon wrapped the towel around his waist and opened the door slowly, steam billowing out through the opening. Must be hard to keep the mold out, he thought absently before noting that Natasha had stopped in her tracks, sizing him up while she held a folded shirt with an assortment of items balanced on top. Taking note of her gaze Damon became very painfully, acutely aware of just how close to naked he was.

His hand gripped the knot in the towel and he stepped back into the room, unable to meet Natasha's gaze as she stepped forward and for once stumbled with her words. "Um...h-here you go, Damon. Er, monsier..." The fox awkwardly accepted the offering one-handed, mumbled his thanks and disappeared back into the bathroom, closing the door again.

Damon spent a few minutes in refreshing silence finishing his ablutions and dressing; the plain white dress shirt was a bit short but otherwise it fit him well. It didn't bode well for his own shirt that he'd been given it, though; it seemed picking up a new wardrobe was in order. Once dressed, he donned his personal effects and grabbed his pack of cigarettes to shake one loose. He lit is on exiting the bathroom. "Much better," he exhaled the smoke blissfully, "um, thank you, Natasha...for everything."

"It's my job, monsieur." She smiled, downplaying her hospitality while she lounged against the side of the dresser. The skunkette bit her lip for a moment, seeming reluctant. "I need to get back to work now. I'll come by again later to check on you. We can talk some more then, yes? Remember: today is your only freebee! Speak with Monsieur Vulpecula to arrange for any additional nights you'd like to spend here - he tends ze bar downstairs, normally."

"Mm, I think I shall," Damon sucked back another drag. "I'll make arrangements when I go to get my coat tailored. Oh! Thank you again for the shirt, miss." Damon smiled, feeling much more friendly and relaxed once he was clothed and had some nicotine in his system.

"Je voue en prie! It's one of Mr. Fox's, anyhow!" Natasha bubbled on her way out the door.

"Wait, what?" Damon inquired to no avail.

"Au'revoir!" The young woman's striped tail followed her like a streamer, barely clearing the door that swung shut behind her. Damon blinked a few times, then shrugged it off and took a few moments to appreciate the quiet left in Natasha's absence.

"Nice girl," he considered aloud, pulling another drag. Bit of a nutter, though.

Damon turned to examine where his belongings had been stowed, in particular concerned with checking on the sword he'd lugged with him all the way from Manchester, thus far discreetly. He carefully picked it up from where it leaned against the wall, extricating it from the tangle of his coat slowly so as not to nick himself. In the process Damon noted the sorry state of his coat: the comfortable, thick fabric with its characteristic faded blue was riddled with holes as though someone had taken an overlarge hole-punch to it.

Grumbling, Damon set the outerwear aside on top of the dresser and held the sword out before him, balanced across his hands. The midday light streaming through the window glinted off of the wide, flat blade and intricate little patterns inlaid across its surface. It was a large, two-handed weapon with a cross-shaped hilt and elaborate pommel. The hilt and handle of the artifact was redolent with the iconography of medieval Christianity - from the Crusade era, one appraisal had informed Damon.

It made for a peculiar keepsake, perhaps, especially in light of his life on the lamb. Still, it was the only tie Damon had to his past and whatever life he might have led before he met Miranda...and it was the only nonessential belonging he'd taken with him on the road that didn't have anything to do with his beloved. Even his guitar he'd abandoned to its fate in Manchester.

Damon's ears swiveled in response to a knock at the door and he found himself shaken from his reverie. The fox's brow furrowed as he set the blade back down carefully against the wall, just out of sight on one side of the dresser. "Back already?" he mused, making his way to the door.

He opened it wide to greet the chipper skunk but instead found a voluptuous, busty vixen wrapped tightly into a slip of a black dress, her hair in a perfect coif on top of her head. This new stranger leaned against the door frame, rubbing her body up it invitingly.

"Bonjour, Monsieur Damon!" The way she spoke was just as inviting; full of insinuation. "Coma ça va? Je suis-" Oh Hell. Damon cleared his throat and forced himself to make eye contact with this woman.

"Je ne-"

"Relax, darling," the she-fox purred, a playful glimmer in her eyes. "'Tasha already told me zat you know only Anglais, oui?" She favoured Damon a toothy grin.

"She - she did?" Damon was having difficulty figuring out when that might have happened and who, exactly, this newcomer might be. He had trouble imagining someone as innocent as Natasha could be associated with someone so...

"Mm-hm. By ze way, around here, zey call me Mel. It is short for Melodie...but you, monsieur, may call me...whatever you like..." while she spoke she continued to rub up and down against the doorframe, like a stripper working a pole.

What the bloody Hell is going on right now? Damon wondered. The thoughts he actually ventured to voice were a little less assertive. "Alright, erm...Mel's fine..." the male fox rambled nervously as Melodie moved closer. Damon took a half-step back, uncomfortably, and the vixen pressed closer still, just shy of contact with him. She smelled like raspberries and lust.

"Whatever keeps you happy, beau," Mel winked at him, coyly nibbling her bottom lip. Damon craned his neck slightly to look past Melodie, to see if there was anyone else out in the hall; there wasn't, as far as he could tell.

"S...so, you know Natasha? You...work here, then, hm?" Damon had inched away farther and was close to stumbling backward into the bathroom. Melodie pursued him with predatory grace.

"Something like that," she chuckled. "I pay Monsieur Vulpecula ze bills and maintain a room here. I run a little business of my own but you could say I'm self-employed...an entrepreneur, oui?" Melodie had positioned herself inside the door and tucked her tail in to let it close behind her. This brought her tantalizingly - and awkwardly - close to Damon. He wasn't sure what to do with his hands, so one stroked his chin thoughtfully while the other fidgeted on his hip.

"B-business...?" he managed to question. The word came out as an embarrassing squeak.

"Mm-hm. Which brings us back to why I am here, mon cher. I want you to know zat I will be able to see to your needs zat Natasha cannot. She's a nice girl and all but I may be able to offer you..." Damon almost jumped out of his skin as Mel's delicate paw went right between his legs and made its acquaintance with him, "other services." The vixen finished her sentence with a wide predator's grin.

"I...I...erm..." Damon squirmed uncomfortably. He had fought back a yelp at Mel's sudden and...direct advance, but he could not keep from writhing helplessly while being manhandled by a complete stranger. This was not going well. Well, part of Damon thought things were going fantastically, but Damon was fighting to think with the head on his shoulders.

"I uh...that is," he fumbled for the right words. Or any words, really. Mel's dress was very, very low cut in the chest. Had his trousers been this tight when he'd put them on? "Trousers!" Damon exclaimed the word like he'd had an epiphany, extricating himself from the decreasing space between Melodie and the bathroom doorjamb. "Tailored...I mean, coat!" His coat! Damon needed to trouser his coat! Or tailor it - something like that! He stumbled over his own feet, backpedalling to grab his torn-up coat from where he'd set it on the dresser and practically bulldozing Melodie as he bumbled his way out of the room with her. He couldn't even look at the vixen as he made for the stairs and practically skidded down them.

"Au'revoir!" Mel laughed, her words chasing Damon down the stairs and 'round the corner. "Suit yourself, mon cher! Room nine, should you change your mind!"

Damon's heart was beating at the inside of his ribcage as he neared the bottom of the staircase. He placed a shaky paw on the bannister to steady himself and sucked in a deep breath, noting that the filter clenched in his teeth was all that remained of the cigarette he'd lit up earlier.

Well that was...that was an experience, he thought wryly while taking the smouldering stub from between his lips and casting his gaze about for somewhere to put it. The bustle of the ground floor drew him up short as Damon stepped off the stairs.

Oi. Tavern. Right. He had nearly forgotten that his room was situated over tavern. Despite being midday the little establishment was packed, looking for all the world like a pub from back home in the late evening. Things seemed normal enough in spite of the early hour, but when Damon's roving eyes found the bar he was struck by how similar the scene seemed with some kind of old crime movie.

The barkeep, a red fox who looked ten years Damon's senior, served drinks with practiced ease but most of his attention was occupied by a female feline patron. The cat was lounging more on the top of the bar than her chair. Between sliding drinks across the well-lacquered bar-top and chucking the chin of his favoured client, Mr. Vulpecula, Damon presumed, was also having a hushed conversation with some border collie fellow. The chap was wearing a fedora and vest over a button-up shirt and looked, ludicrously enough, like some kind of 1950s mobster. Or a hipster.

A wretched hive of who and the what now? Damon pondered, taking a few moments to soak in the strange atmosphere of the place. Deciding he ought to see to arrangements for his room before stepping out into the daylight, the black fox straightened his back and brushed off his shirt - Mr. Vulpecula's shirt, he reminded himself - and made his way over to the bar.

Damon sidled up to the bar and found a suitable tray for the butt of his fag. This earned him a sidelong glance from the vulpine barkeep and his...business associate, who muttered a few more words before stepping back to linger by the liquor cabinet. The border collie made a good show of pretending to let his eyes wander, but Damon felt scrutinized enough to know better. Grain silos were less seedy than this establishment.

The barkeep had turned his attentions back to his female companion, apparently giving Damon the cold shoulder. The black fox rapped the top of the bar with his knuckles to get the attention of the red.

"Excusé moi?" Damon ventured after clearing his throat. The man he presumed to be Vulpecula grudgingly looked away from his feline femme.

"Une moment, mon Cherie... Oui?" He sighed when his attention turned to Damon, put out. There was a subtle flicker in Vulpecula's gaze, a glint of recognition in his eyes, and Damon was acutely aware that the older vulpine knew the origin of Damon's borrowed shirt. Damon tried to ignore this as he fashioned a reply which ultimately came out in English.

"Er, right...about my room," the dark fox began, speaking as clearly as possible.

"Merde, les Anglais. 'Hold on, friend.'" The other fox's English was forced - something he had memorized which held no meaning for him behind the syllables. Vulpecula cocked his head in the direction of, presumably, the kitchen, and bellowed a deafening "'TASHA!" which actually made Damon jump a little.

"Oui!" Natasha piped up just behind Damon's left shoulder, where she hadn't been a moment before. That time he jumped more than a little.

"Gah! Bloody Hell! How long - how long have you been s-standing there?!" Damon yelped as he whirled around. At this rate he was going to develop heart problems before the day was through.

"Long enough!" The skunk chirped with the same bubbly enthusiasm she'd displayed earlier. "Monsieur Vulpecula speaks English probably as well as you speak French, so I handle transactions with tourists. You'll have to handle things through me - I hope you're not checking out, Monsieur Damon?" She looked as stern as she could manage, which wasn't very.

Damon shook his head and ran some fingers through his hair, brushing it out of his eyes. "Alright, erm, no, I think I'll be staying here. At least another week until-"

"Done!" Natasha chirped with glee. Damon cocked his head.

"But...I haven't paid, or-"

"Yes you have, Monsieur Damon," she nodded vehemently. "I took some Euros from your wallet while I mended your trousers. Enough for one week's stay."

Damon made a few abortive attempts to speak. He should have felt violated or incensed, but Natasha was so damned cheerful - was he being swindled? Damon gave up, though he made a note to double-check his wallet later and actually count how many Euros remained compared to what he could last recall.

"Alright, then. Thank you, Natasha...I'll...see you later this evening, I suppose." A courteous exit from the conversation was about all Damon could manage.

"Oui! Au'revoir, Monsieur Damon!" She chipper she-skunk saw him to the door and waved him out of the tavern before bouncing off to offer alarmingly cheerful service to some other patron.

Damon stared at the door a moment or two after it had closed behind him, then turned to take in the bustle of the street, squinting as his eyes had not yet adjusted to the harshness of natural light. Pedestrians and cyclists were going about their business on what looked like any other small back-road in Paris.

The relative serenity of the scene gave Damon a moment to take a deep breath of fresh air, which served to remind him that he needed a light. Coat tucked under one arm, he fished out his cigarettes and put another to his lips, lighting the end and sighing in relief as he took a long draw from it. Upon putting the lighter back into his pocket, Damon made sure to pull out his wallet and skim through it again, and indeed he noticed it was about two hundred Euros lighter than it had been the last time he could recall.

I can't believe the nerve of that chipper little tart, Damon thought, shaking his head as he stowed his wallet. For whatever reason, though, he found it hard to stay angry with Natasha. A week in this sort of neighbourhood did seem like just the sort of thing Damon needed to lie low and get his wits about him, at least.

In the meantime, however, he had more pressing concerns. His borrowed shirt felt uncomfortable whenever Damon inhaled too deeply or arched his back, to say nothing of the holes that riddled the only jacket he'd brought with him to France. The Hell was I doing last night?

Damon draped the coat over one shoulder and took his first step out into the street, carefully weaving his way through the crowd. Whatever awaited his stay in Paris would have to wait for him to sort out his wardrobe situation, and the way he saw things it only made sense to start his day at the beginning. Finding a tailor would be as good a way as any to get a lay of the land at any rate.

As long as they speak English, the fox reminded himself.

I feel hung-over.

Richard's eyes opened slowly, reluctantly. He could tell without the use of a mirror that they were bloodshot. It hurt his pounding head even more to look at the light, and the room he was in wasn't particularly well-lit. Strange. He didn't get hangovers - not typically.

The otter fumbled at his muzzle with one paw, clumsily adjusting his glasses over the bridge of his nose. Tired as he was, having the lenses pushed into place snapped the room immediately into clear view. He wished they hadn't.

I'm not hung-over. Richard reminded himself, and as realization dawned he grunted and fell forward onto one knee, hands scrabbling through the dust and grime on the floor for his pistol. His webbed fingers closed around the handle and he swung his arm, bringing the USP to bear rather ineffectually. It made him feel a little better to jab it in toward the dark corners of the storeroom, however, as a raspy hack escaped his throat.

"Damon...Damon!" It took a few more attempts for the sound to graduate from a hoarse exhalation to the status of a genuine word. By the time Richard began to gather his wits about him he realized through a combination of weight - and the locked-back slide - that his weapon was as empty as the rest of the room around him. He fell back on his ass with a pained grunt.

Where? How? When? Did I pass out? What the fuck happened?

"The fuck happened!?" Richard fell back against the wall and slumped, clutching his throat with a pitiful groan and deciding that he should have kept that question to himself. Damon had done a number on his throat last night and he was beginning to remember how that had happened.

Still craving answers, the bounty hunter dug his smartphone out of his pocket and ran his thumb-pad over the screen to bring it to life. One o'clock? He'd been out all night. And most of the day.

Damn.

"Why am I still alive?" Richard winced, but pushed himself through the discomfort of his ragged throat. In part, talking to himself helped calm his nerves, and at any rate he reasoned he couldn't afford to become a mute today of all days so he may as well get used to the pain while he could. "I'm not complaining, or anything, but...why didn't that schizo finish me when he had the chance?"

Richard forced himself to stand on shaky legs and held his pistol in the light to examine it. It would need a cleaning when he could get the chance, but it wasn't damaged. He pressed the slide release and switched the safety on, stowing it away and noting the casings all over the floor.

"Sunnova bitch," the otter groaned, getting back down onto his knees and pulling a re-sealable plastic bag from his coat pocket. He painstakingly crawled around on the dirty floor, scrounging up all the brass he could find and stowing the casings in the bag: twelve .45s and one 9mm in all. A full clip of .45 ACP rounds? Who could shrug something off something like that? He even found a number of intact .45 slugs lying on the floor.

"Better be all of 'em...did I really unload that many?" He stuffed the bag back into his pocket and buttoned it. That would have to do; there was no way he would be able to find where all the rounds had gone.

Richard picked himself up with another grunt. He hurt all over. After giving his pants and sleeves a lazy dusting, he gave the room another weary once-over before shambling through the door the way he'd come in. "Trail's gonna go cold if I sit around playing 20 questions with myself all day. C'mon now Richard...gotta find somewhere to lay low. Get your bearings...get ready to...take this guy on again...maybe." He tried to put any thought of Damon from his mind for the time being; that subject was making him more than a little uncomfortable. The bounty hunter chewed his lip anxiously as he shuffled out of the grungy alley back onto the street.

"There's bound to be an inn or boarding house nearby..." Richard grumbled to himself, holding up one hand to shield his eyes from the overhead glare of the sun. Webbed digits came in handy for that much.

After retrieving the duffel bag of belongings he'd stowed prior to confronting Damon, Richard had made his way slowly out of the shipping and storage district where he and the fugitive fox had squared off the previous night. In that time had even managed to stop limping and put on the façade of a normal fucking person. He still hurt all over, though. And he was sure he was grungy and looked like Hell. Richard found it hard to care about appearances however in light of how badly he wanted a shower and to sleep in a real bed.

He rounded a corner where a number of cafés faced off against each other, hopeful, when a familiar scent caught his attention. The whiff of tobacco normally wouldn't have elicited more than a nose-wrinkle of displeasure, but Richard was certain that the aroma in question held significance as a flood of unpleasant memories welled up from the previous night.

Heart pounding in his chest, eyes wide and ears flat against his head, Richard turned on the spot and looked around anxiously. He clutched at the grip of his pistol through his jacket, huffing and coughing to clear his throat while looking in vain for any sight of that fiendish, black-furred fox.

Nothing.

That momentary panic attack earned the otter more than a few sidelong glances from strangers, and at length he managed to calm himself, feeling more self-conscious than normal. It's just a fuckin' cigarette...calm your tits, man. Half the damn country smokes. Richard cleared his throat and dusted himself off once again, taking a few deep breaths to further sooth his nerves.

The familiar-smelling smoke faded away soon enough and Richard's efforts to clear his head proved fruitful as a sign caught his gaze.

"Aha - La Taverne de Vulpin. See? Clear heads prevail." He wasn't entirely sure if he was convinced of what he told himself, but at least the mustelid's heart had stopped racing so frantically by the time he made it beneath the tavern's old, painted sign and pushed its heavy door inward.

Stepping inside, Richard was greeted by a rush of warm, close air, thick with the din of conversation and more than a little cigarette smoke. There was a bit of that alarmingly familiar edge to the smell, but the otter bit his tongue and forced down his anxiety long enough to assess the room.

Just past the entrance was a wide, dimly-lit space with a set of stairs on the far wall and a bar over to the right. It looked like any other European tavern or pub that had managed to tough it out from the middle ages all the way into the modern era. Also, thankfully, it was free of black foxes, though surprisingly busy for an establishment of its nature given the time of day.

It was also, Richard decided, aptly named. The shapely backside of one vixen in particular caught his attention as she lounged by the bar, chatting up some lucky-looking canid fellow.

"Foxtail Tavern, eh? Fitting name indeed,murr..." The otter mused, noting that the she-fox's black dress was a little out-of-place for this sort of setting - but then this establishment appeared to operate under the assumption of some sort of perpetual twilight from what he could tell.

"A little seedy, but that just makes this a better place to lie low," Richard told himself, prying his eyes from that alluring feminine figure and taking another quick look to assess his surroundings. Apart from some servers, the only other employee Richard could see was the red fox tending the bar, so the otter made a beeline for that fixed point in the room.

"Ahem - pardon, monsieur?" The barkeep didn't seem thrilled about being distracted from the she-cat he was in the process of charming and exhaled a sigh as he turned his half-lidded, dismissive gaze to Richard.

"Oui?"

"Je suis dans le besoin d'une chambre." Richard adjusted his glasses and smiled as winningly as he could manage, continuing capably in French: [for just a few days, I should think. Three nights in advance, and I'll pay for an extension if need be?] He couldn't see himself needing more than three nights, after all, and offering to pay up front was usually a good way to curry favour.

The Frenchman assessed the foreigner carefully before deigning to reply.

[Your Française isn't bad, but you're not European - American?]

Richard furrowed his brow, nonplussed, and replied, [What? No - I'm Québécois-]

[That's it, then,] the fox cut him off, [better than nothing, at least.] He gave a discreet nod then, and Richard turned just in time to catch its target. A ludicrously-overdressed anachronism of a border collie had evidently been keeping tabs on him from the door and now went about his business, having been dismissed. Richard didn't like feeling so scrutinized. He turned back to face the barkeep, who continued.

[However, even though we might able to talk like normal people...it's not often that we get a lot of foreigners in this part of town.] Richard began to feel less and less welcome as the fox continued, examining him all the while with a cool, calculating gaze. [Too much is going on lately. I do not like it. I don't like people that I do not know. Unknown factors complicate business.]

Richard wasn't sure he'd made the best decision stumbling into the first place with a vacancy. It was at least clear that there were some elements of this fox's business which were not entirely legitimate - but perhaps that would work in Richard's favour? They could at least find common ground in wanting to avoid undue attention from the law. Any port in a storm, right...?

[I can understand that,] the otter sympathized, adjusting his duffel bag over one shoulder. [Really, though, I'm just in town for a few days at most and need somewhere to-]

[€150,] the fox interrupted again, [all cash, all in advance.] That was...steep.

"Je...quoi?"

[€150,] he repeated. [Three nights, no questions. We will renegotiate an extension.] The bartender seemed eager to end their conversation and get back to his lady-friend, who was making eyes at him and mouthing sweet nothings. Richard could feel another pair of eyes on him from somewhere else in the room again and at this point he just wanted a damned bed...

"Très bien," the otter grunted, fishing out his wallet. "Bon," he fingered a wad of money out of it, leafing through it and depositing €160 on the bar-top. [Keep the change,] he sighed; pursuing the leftover €10 was not a task he felt like taking on in his current state. [Just give me a key, please.]

The vulpine host snatched up the bills without a word and turned to consult the keys dangling in a display behind the bar. He tossed one against Richard's chest and the otter caught it, barely. Room five.

"Fantastique," he mumbled, turning and waving at the fox with a tired paw. "Il a été un monsieur de plaisir, vraiment." He realized he'd been screwed, but it was getting harder for him to muster the energy to care. Twirling the key idly, the bounty hunter turned to head up the old wooden stairs against the back of the tavern.

The upper level of the tavern formed a hallway which circled around the space up which the stairs had led. Past the first two rooms on the wall facing the stairs was a longer stretch with doors to at least another six rooms, and the hall looped around another corner at the end which led to year more. Room five was easy enough to find.

Once inside, Richard leaned back against the door to his room to close it and nearly slumped to the floor right there in an exhausted heap. He shook his head vigorously to stave off his weariness a little longer, locked the door and made his way to the centre of the room. He noted a small bathroom just off of the entrance before slinging his bag onto the small bed in the middle of the small room.

"Everything in Europe's so fuckin' small," the otter grumbled, wincing at the tightness in his shoulders while he worked his jacket off and draped it over the small chair by the small fucking nightstand. It surely didn't help that he was tired and in a poor mood. "'Bout time knowin' some French came in handy, at least."

The bounty hunter pawed at his tired eyes and readjusted his glasses while rummaging through the bag on his bed, fishing out a sequence of items by rote memory: police scanner, gun cleaning kit, toiletries. He found an electrical outlet by the (small) dresser against one wall and ventured to hook up his police scanner, then grumbled to himself as that endeavour reminded him to get out the European adapter for its plug.

With the scanner set up, Richard tossed his cleaning kit onto the dresser alongside it and unfastened the straps for the holsters on his torso. He grunted in discomfort while working himself free of the harness, setting it down with a clatter and voicing a weary sigh while he fished yet more belonging from his pockets and tossed them up there as well: phone, keys, wallet, loose Euros, the flight itinerary he hadn't yet thrown out, his Canadian passport...

"Gotta clean my guns, meet up with my contact for ammo and supplies, take a damn shower, get some damn sleep..." Richard spoke out loud while running through his mental check-list and tallied up the assortment of personal effects by jabbing his finger at the empty air over the dresser.

"Helps if I turn the police scanner on," he grumbled, reaching over to do exactly that. His rounded ears momentarily flattened against his head at the unpleasant static squeal that issued from the device as it came to life and sought out an active frequency. He hated the ungodly noises the thing made, but at least it would help him in tracking that...freak.

Richard shuddered at the recollection of his encounter with Damon. Did he want to find him again?

"I must've been hallucinating when he throttled me," the otter told himself, stroking absentmindedly at his tender throat. There was no way the things he remembered could be real...right? "He was just...hopped up on heroin or something, got the jump on me." The words sounded hollow as he gave voice to them. "Maybe he knows Krav Maga or some shit," Richard mumbled before he abandoned the quest to reassure himself altogether.

He braced his arms against the top of the dressed and leaned over it and in that moment felt the overwhelming urge to go home. Richard was not often prone to homesickness, but the more he thought about Damon the more his stomach continued to twist into knots and the more he just wanted to board a flight back to Montreal and have that be the end of it.

In a bid to reaffirm faith in his cause, Richard flipped open his wallet and retrieved from one of its pockets a worn string of pictures - the kind dispensed by one of those old-fashioned photo booths. He thumbed over the images of an awkward teenage otter he didn't recognize any more and other familiar faces he hadn't seen in far too long...not least of which was hers.

Richard gasped, jolted suddenly from his reverie by the vibration of his phone against the top of the dresser. It took him a moment or two to come back to reality, but he picked it up, swiped the screen quickly and held it up to his ear without even checking the call display.

"H-hello?"

"Rick!" the response from the other end was frantic, that much he could tell, even in spite of the poor reception. "Fuck, man, I've been trying to get ahold of you all day!" Richard knit his brow for a moment before realization dawned.

"Kevin? Fuck, it's good to hear a familiar voice right now. Hey, that tip we got from 'M' was on the money about Damon, but-"

"That's great, man, but just shut up for a second and listen! You haven't booked a flight back or anything yet, have you?" The otter blinked, bewildered.

"Wh-"

"Well don't!" Kevin cut in from the other end of the line. "Look, you told me to watch your back for this sort of thing, right? You can't come back right now! They know!"

"What?! What do you mean 'they know'? Who's 'they'!?" Richard's guts were twisting into a knot all over again.

"Who do you think, genius? Look, they found the body and it won't take long for them to piece stuff together. I know you were careful and all but you're going to wind up on a suspect list eventually - you testified in court against the guy!"

"You've gotta be shitting me..." Richard swallowed a painful lump in his throat and steadied himself against the dresser. He noticed his paws were shaking. "Jesus, just...just calm down," he began, uncertain whether he was making that request of Kevin or himself.

"Don't tell me what to do - I'm sticking my neck out for you and you need to listen to me because this shit is what I do, bro! " Kevin's tone brooked no argument - not that he stopped speaking long enough for Richard to interject, anyway. "They don't know shit yet but they'll put the pieces together, and when they do _you're_going to be one of the missing pieces. You've gotta stay that way!"

"L-look, we can figure something out together, like last time," Richard's head was swimming, but he did his best to try and reason things through, at least to keep himself from dissolving into hysterics.

"You can't come back now, man! Maybe you can't come back ever! I don't know - look, we've already been talking too long. They survey everything electronic these days. I'll be in touch one way or another. Just stay wherever the fuck you are!"

Richard was about to voice another objection when his phone chimed, signalling the end of the call.

The otter's jaw hung open for a moment, the words dying on his lips. He clicked his teeth together and stared at the screen on his phone, still trying to process the conversation he'd just had.

"FUCKING DAMNIT ALL!" Richard snarled, slamming his phone down on top of the dresser with enough force that it probably would have shattered if not for its gel case. He wavered on his feet uncertainly, unable to process the flood of anxious emotions overwhelming him until at last he threw up his hands in despair and took a few steps to fall back onto the bed.

Richard stared up at the cracked, peeling paint on the ceiling until the details blurred and swam together. He closed his eyes to stem the flow of tears welling up in them and draped one arm over his face so that the sleeve of his shirt would catch the droplets that threatened to spill over his cheeks.

"Fuckin' bullshit...gotta getcher life together, man..." the mustelid mumbled, critical of himself even as the exhaustion of the past 24 hours began to impress itself upon him fully.

"It's alright. It's alright." More hollow self-reassurance. He bit his lip and continued to give voice to some positive thoughts in an effort to make himself believe them. "I'll sort this all out once I get back home. Just gotta take care of this whole mess first. Put Damon back behind bars and then I can say I've put that much behind me, at least... Assuming I can find the schizoid fuck...wherever he's run off to..."

The words trailed off into less- and less-coherent mumbling, and Richard was dimly aware that by the end he'd stopped making sense entirely before he gave up and let sleep claim him.

Damon stepped out into the afternoon light and flexed his shoulders and elbows, testing the stitching on his coat. He gave a bit of a twirl, felt foolish, and held up the end of his coat to inspect one of the patches. It was far from unnoticeable, but he didn't mind really - if anything the new patches on his coat and pants complimented the punk accessories of which he was often fond.

Damon cast a glance back at the façade of the tailor shop from which he'd emerged and noted the tailor, a friendly black-and-white vixen, who waved amiably through the shop's display window. He felt his cheeks redden as he returned the wave. Damon then checked the bag of extra clothes he'd bought and turned to make his way down the street. He couldn't recall having been more embarrassed by so many encounters with women (or anyone, really) in a single day. First there had been Natasha, then Melodie, and then that woman - Myara had been her name - practically fawning over him while taking measurements for his coat.

The measurements had seemed unnecessary to him - particularly when she insisted she take them once he'd removed his ill-fitting shirt. But the language barrier and Damon's general easy-going attitude had seen him comply, if abashedly. The attention had been flattering even if it was outside his normal comfort zone. Perhaps Paris was the city of too much love.

At any rate, Damon was far from ready to accept that sort of attention any time soon. Flirtation merely re-opened a wound that was still raw and fresh. The fox smiled to himself, sadly, letting the crucifix of the rosary he wore around his left wrist dangle, catching it in his paw. He held the talisman up for inspection, brushing his thumb over it in reverie. That particular item's significance had grown more emotional and less spiritual for him of late, in no small part because it hadn't been his to begin with.

"Not quite what either of us imagined, but hey, we're in Paris," Damon murmured to the piece of jewelry. He felt foolish again, but this time he didn't let that stop him as he carried on down the street. Miranda has always said she'd wanted to see more of Europe. And the world.

"Paris isn't bad for a first stop," he continued. "Where else did you mention...? Berlin, Madrid, Rome, Stockholm, Amsterdam..." Damon was certain that some of the place-names he rattled off were destinations he'd had in mind, not her. It was hard for him to keep them straight, though - they hadn't talked about their travel dreams all that often. He'd been more interested in traveling to see rock and metal concerts; Miranda had set her heart on cultural and spiritual experiences. Damon swallowed a lump in his throat and rambled on to the necklace.

"Paris was more your idea, I think... I think you'd like it. Even the shite parts of town are pretty nice." He chuckled to fight back a choking sound and forced himself to smile. "The people seem friendly enough. Maybe too friendly." Damon found himself at a loss for something to say beyond that.

He stopped to take stock of his surroundings and took note of a paper stand. One side of it was stocked with brochures and maps and other sorts of paraphernalia one would associate with tourism. Damon made his way over to it, squeezing the crucifix tighter in his fingers and murmuring while he picked up a brochure of attractions with a map in order to leaf through it.

"I bet I can guess what you'd like to see first, luv." As tourist attractions went it was well-known, so it hardly took Damon any time at all to find what he was looking for. He scanned the map and found the spot, retrieving a few Euros from the pocket of his freshly-patched jacket to deposit absent-mindedly on the top of the stand by the register. He turned to depart without awaiting his change.

"Found it. If I guessed right, will you tell me?" Damon folded up the map and stuffed it into a vacant pocket, paying careful attention to the street signs as his stride took on a new sense of purpose. He felt less foolish talking to himself now, if only a little, but he kept it up and held the rosary tighter.

"I'd like it if you told me," he whispered. "It would be good to hear your voice again." The fox was talking to himself, he knew, and of course he didn't expect any sort of response. But he couldn't help clinging to that most vain and feeble of hopes, much as he clutched desperately the token material object he had that recalled for him the presence of his beloved.

If there was anywhere he could hope to hear her again, it had to be there at least, right?

All he could do was pray.