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*The bathroom smelt of rotting ham, * and the cold tiles were glazed by a thick yellow grime which had made this room the oldest looking one on Ronald's Vessel. A twenty-two year old coyote boy sat helplessly in a plastic chair, gazing at the ceiling's phosphorescent lights with his limp limbs hanging down like old moss off a dying tree. A thin, paste-like blood stain ran down the fur of his left arm, and crawled down Kipp's wrist onto his writhing, twitching fingertips. The mouth of this dry stream found itself in a very peculiar place - right in the center of the rabid creature's vein. With that realization, Kipp began to convulse; his eyes blinked furiously and a thick black sludge struggled to erupt from his throat while each of his teeth elected to protest by vibrating until they fell out and froze on the sticky floor.

Finally, Kipp awoke and quickly jerked up his head and perked his ears, attempting to recognize his environment. For a moment, Kipp believed he was homeless, and was only reminded of his little cabin upon noticing the worn brass key secured on a lanyard around his neck. Without much more hesitation, the foolish boy glanced upward to see if he could tell the time, though this was made impossible by the vast arrays of fabric and metal sheets which had effectively blocked out the sky since their installation by the committee a year ago, though little flakes of snow still managed to occasionally slide pass the gloomy barricade. With this observation proving useless, Kipp decided he should look elsewhere for the time.

He continued to pace forward through Mayward until his advance ran into the locality's walls. It was a single cold and featureless structure, whose integrity was only questioned by those Kipp saw in his dreams.

"Oh yeah." Kipp giggled as his cheeks flushed red. Suddenly realizing that the darkness of his surrounding street meant he was out past curfew, Kipp as signed and held his paw over his muzzle before turning back and jogging past many silent, gated stores. Just then a voice could be heard from beneath the twilight's very limited view. Curious, Kipp followed the sound, leading him toward an alleyway. A tall, armored corporate guard stood in front of three young delinquent canines gathered by a trash fire. The blaze's glow revealed a few dark beige furs from beneath's the armor's crevices, and it brought some faint light to his black baton, which he held very contentiously in one paw.

"Go peacefully, curs, and I shall consider anything beyond a fine unnecessary," The guard barks.

One of the canines, a Doberman, stepped forward into the light, revealing his battered face and its aggressive snarl. "Or what? You'll beat us down too?"

"I had nothing to do with that! I am only doing my job." The guard returned feverishly.

"Now wait jus'a minute...I know you! I saw you watchin' them!"

"Just go home men, and you can forget the fine."

"We ain't men till you don't do nothin' but mimic the screams of that dead boy, Sarge." The Doberman paced deliberately, and in a combative stance toward the guard, whose tail tucked as he backed further out of the alleyway. The other goons quickly followed suit. Kipp squinted from beyond a concrete column underneath a bridge only meters from the scene. His heart began to pace rapidly when he noticed a few crude sharp objects held in each canine's paw, and at this recognition he felt a cold wetness on his arm; his blood thickened as his body ran cold, leaving him there paralyzed to collect frost on his shoulders like a winter scarecrow.

The guard quivered as he spoke. "Assault of a guard is a crime comparable to high treason!"

One goon, a mop-dog, rushed to block the exit from the alleyway, with the third, a pit, doing as the Doberman did: pressing ever closer to the shivering mutt.

"I s'pose we outta be careful with the evidence then."

In an instant the chaos had begun, and the officer's baton cracked like gunpowder against the pit's thick skull. Blood and the intermittent tooth started to dot the snow of this uncovered avenue. The guard groaned as the three bruisers promptly overpowered him and repeatedly stabbed him between the crevices in his armor, taking advantage of its blunt, solid nature by kicking him against the brick wall. Kipp was still. He could not blink, nor cry, or close his eyes and shout. He felt as if he were watching from outside of his own body, observing with as little control as a passing pigeon. After forty seconds, Kipp could finally feel his soul being pulled back into his frame. He briefly observed his surroundings and remarked upon a surprisingly intact, though empty, glass bottle.

The officer's cry eventually descended into a dying whimper, as he fell into an expanding puddle of his own glaciating blood with a distinct crunch of ice; this noise, followed by silence, caused Kipp's ears to perk. With all the strengths he could muster, he forced his arm against the blistering cold and threw the bottle against a nearby store window. It shattered instantly, leaving a collection of shiny shards resting on the gray concrete. He heard little now but the belabored breaths of a few night-time thugs. Kipp's heart began to sink until it was abruptly resurrected by the ear-splitting blare of an alarm. The goons stiffened before making their expeditious escape, and Kipp stumbled anxiously to where he had remembered last seeing that pitiful night guard.

The alarm continued its shrieking, but to Kipp it was a muffled and unremarkable background sound. It was if the only sense left under his control were his eyes, which even still only stared infinitely at the ostensibly dead thing in front of him. When Kipp regained feeling in his legs he moved, but where they went was beyond his influence. He stepped forward, with each terribly slow step triggering another growl from the broken glass and gravel beneath his feet. As he approached he noticed a slight rise in the guard's armor, and a hardly audible wheeze matched up with a tiny wisp of icy air seeping from his muzzle.

Kipp's senses returned to him, and he became more aware of the unrelenting alarm. He couldn't tell for how long he had stood there, but he imagined there wasn't much time left until he was spotted, standing over an officer's body. Kipp turned to run, but he was halted by an invisible wall. As if it had come naturally to him, the coyote swerved around and used the remainder of his adrenaline to drag the guard home.

Any usual path now would be impractical, making Kipp's only fast enough route home down Marcus-Valley Road.

The coyote slithered through a brutalist complex of small apartments, with his specific path being indicated by a series of familiar landmarks; a vandalized advertisement for soap, a power-box whose integrity was questionable, and a dead, rotting pigeon all helped Kipp find his way home to a suite labeled _"1990." _The door squealed as nudged it with his shoulder before entering, peering into all corners of this dank, cluttered chamber, with a suspicion (though this had never happened before) that he had probably gone into the wrong room. This would certainly not be a good time for that.

Still without considering the ramifications for anything he has done tonight, Kipp left the guard slumped up against his wooden bed. His muscles were now very sore, and his pace had crumbled into a tired shifting, though he took solace in the idea that he might soon be finally able to sleep. Kipp exited the room backwards so he could face the guard before vanishing into the adjacent room. The guard's unconsciousness had somewhat weathered as Kipp exited the room, though all he could perceive was the sound of a wood cabinet closing before some strange coyote came toward him with bandages.

The guard hastily shut his eyes again as Kipp entered, and he shivered when the stranger began to doff his armor. The coyote took a minute or two to observe the man he was saving. A dingo; dirtied blond fur with some traces of brown around the curves of his athletic body, which was bloodied and patterned by a series of deep wounds. Kipp continued with his treatment, dabbing around with a small disinfecting cloth and wrapping lengths of cotton as efficiently as he could to avoid waste. Upon placing the last strip, Kipp once again lifted the dingo by his shoulder and placed him on his brown, twin bed, prompting the guard to inhale sharply.

"I'm sorry...are you awake?" Kipp whispered, eyes wide.

"Yes. Th-thank you." The dingo mumbled as he placed his paws over his chest and squeezed his eyes.

Kipp left the room again, and returned with a chipped mug of water in one paw and two pills in the other.

"This might help." The coyote said nervously.

The dingo cautiously opened his eyes and squinted at the cup before turning away and closing them again.

"I'll just leave these here." Kipp dropped the mug onto a coaster on the nightstand by his bed. He then tip-toed to a nearby faux-leather chair where after only a few minutes he raised his head in slumber. The dingo tried to lift himself off the bed, but he was held hostage by the incredible strikes of pulsating pain all throughout. He then quietly inspected the water and pills before surrendering to their allure and hungrily swallowing both. The pain gradually subsided, and with some time, he too was fast asleep.