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Chapter I:

A Little Inspiration

Neirin did not know how to feel about his work. Sure, the words flew effortlessly across the page. The story forming, yet something seemed to be missing.

He sighed in frustration and reclined in his seat, the rest of the world coming back into focus as the realm of his story faded.

He looked out the sliding glass door, upon the flaring embers of the setting sun in the late November sky.

From the radio on his countertop, the voice of a newscaster met his ear.

“A moment of panic earlier this afternoon, as a 47 year old man, Joshua Smith, was viciously attacked at his Myrtle Grove home on North 71st Avenue, by his collared Rottweiler. Eyewitness reports suggest the morph had been kept chained in Smith's garage for weeks on end. We now go to Lilah Buford."

Neirin's gut churned and he put his head in his hands. The rest of the bulletin came to him in pieces, parts drowned out by the pleasant singing of the homely woman living in the next apartment over, coming back with her laundry.

“A few of the eyewitnesses-… -Smith's neighbor-….the canid morph-…jumped his owner as he went to fe-…-jaws biting down on the shoulder…-even as Smith administered shock after shock."

An ample feeling of anxiousness stirred within him. Closing his laptop, Neirin got up from his desk and slipped into a dark, carmine jacket, as well as a brown boilerman cap.

Right. He thought with a sigh. Time to get out for a bit.

It was well into the evening by the time Neirin strode into the cramped car park of Bertie's, a modest, two-floor establishment nestled in the residential district of Prieto. It was flanked on the west by a 20s styled, two level house where an Asian couple lived; and flanked on the east by a small cul-de-sac, linking many other homes. The faceless individuals who lived there were of no concern to Neirin, just as he wasn't to them.

The empty houses all around gave the place a bittersweet feeling. Despite this particular path being familiar to him, he still felt as a stranger amongst foreigners and with that, a certain amount of peace.

As Neirin entered the café, a short breeze chilled his bones. While the smell of food, seasonings and the occasional secondhand smoke enveloped him like a dense mist. A few of the patrons' heads turned to regard him, he remained silent as he strode past the lounge. Only his footsteps on the polished wood flooring and the distinct melody of some Tears for Fears song playing on the radio in the bar graced his ears.

The entirety of the café's interior was bathed in incandescent light. Furnished with early nineteen hundreds styling, the foyer forked immediately upon entry. Ahead lay the bar and the first cafeteria. To the right was a decently spacious lounge with a snooker table in the center which was currently occupied by a trio of patrons. Retro posters flourished amongst other décor on the walls. To the left was a stairway that led up to the employee area and next to it, a second flight of stairs led down to the second cafeteria, where morphs often gathered.

Neirin made his way towards the bar. The smell of alcohol made itself known to him, along with a muted but musky whiff of Canis latrans.

As he collapsed onto one of the stools, Neirin could only grimace softly. He kept his head low, his back nearly hunched, while he pulled the confines of his trenchcoat tight around himself. In spite of it all, the man felt the gaze of another looking down at him.

“Evening Mr. Booker. Another sleepless night?" The voice which graced his ears was low, and laced with a soft English accent.

Neirin shifted while he sat up to his full height. His gaze soon met that of a thin, mustachioed man leaning towards him. Concern for his young guest evident in his eyes.

For a moment, Neirin's brow furrowed and a shaken look crawled across his features before relaxing into one of neutrality. “In part, I suppose." He answered calmly, yet with an evident amount of unease.

The older man, dressed in a green jumper and grey slacks, was Bertram Foster. Much like Neirin, Bertie was from abroad. He never spoke of his decision to leave, and very few bothered to ask. The Englishman leaned back against the bar, nodding softly. His gaze returned to the letter that he had been reading prior.

Behind the counter stood a morph in the process of cooking. A twitch of his ear indicated he had heard the conversation. He was a tan furred coyote about the equivalent of twenty two in the years of humans. He was clad in a short sleeved, button up shirt with suspenders rising from short navy blue trousers, with a hole cut in the back for his tail.

With his luminous lemon-yellow eyes, the canine morph turned to face Neirin and Bertram. Neirin was struck by the electrical box of his collar peeking out from under his shirt. His eyes darted away, back to the elder man beside him.

“Mr. Booker…" Bertram stopped himself, exhaling. “…Neirin, are you sure you're well?"

For a moment, Neirin merely peered back – no, through the older man. “I'm fine, Bertie."

Bertram nodded silently, lips curving into a nervous smile. “Well…if you insist everything is tidy, I've some business to take care of." He took a few steps behind the counter and tapped the coyote on the shoulder. The canid's ears perked in response, his paws tightening around the handle of the pan he held.

No one knew for sure why they existed, these humanoid animals or 'zoomorphs' as they were often called, but they had been around for as long as any could remember.

Neirin pulled his memo pad from his jacket, his notes would be a sufficient distraction in the meanwhile. He missed most of what Bertie whispered into the coyote's ear, save a hushed “be careful."

The coyote responded with a quick nod of reassurance before returning to the dish he was preparing, the smell of which caused Neirin to feel a twinge of nausea. If he were to fancy a guess, It was probably roast beef.

“Give Milo a holler if you need anything." Bertie said to Neirin, tipping his head in the coyote's direction.

Neirin looked up, acknowledging the other man's words with a small smile and a dip of his chin before he returned to his notes.

Flipping to the tenth page, Booker looked though his details…over his characters and events. Everything was largely in line – save for a few remnants he couldn't come to terms with.

Neirin cleared his throat, getting the coyote's attention. The canid morph didn't spare a moment to stop what he was doing and swung around to face the Welshman. The other patrons seemed to eye the coyote's every movement as he approached Neirin at the counter.

“What's this? We're letting them cook now." Came the muttered grumble from a gruff looking man in the corner.

Neirin's gaze lowered shyly as he shifted in his seat, tucking the memo pad back into his jacket.

“A Three Choirs. May Hill, make it a double if you would."

Milo crouched down, leaving only his swishing tail visible as he opened the wine cabinet. For a moment, Neirin thought he saw the playful beast wink at him and tentatively, he could only gaze back, a slight smile on his lips. He thought he heard a mutter from the morph, though he couldn't quite catch the words.

The sound of footfalls gradually made themselves known to the man, just barely able to be heard over the music and the patrons. Nearest they came, it became apparent that there were two sets of feet – one lighter than the other.

Neirin looked over his shoulder slightly, he was doubtless that it wasn't the individual he was here to meet. Indeed, after a greyhound was led up the stairs, in came a woman he didn't know. She appeared to be in her late thirties and in a grey jacket with blue jeans. Beside her was a young boy in a baseball cap of about five or six who looked around in wonderment as his mother led him to a table. First time here perhaps? Or maybe he had gotten a glimpse of downstairs?

Neirin returned his attention to Milo, the coyote having finished preparing his drink. A slight queer feeling tickled at Neirin's senses, but he decided it best to ignore. The last thing he needed was for more pressure to weigh on him, straining his mind further. The coyote sat two thin glasses upon the counter by the stems, each filled to the brim with white wine, a soft grin on his muzzle.

Neirin wrapped the stem of the glass within the fingers of his right hand, three of which were a shade of ghost white, and raised the glass to his lips. The taste and the aroma of it never appeared dull upon his palette.

“My thanks." The man whispered back – he'd rather do without the perplexed looks of other patrons - with a good deal of sincerity despite his hardened expression.

Neirin took a second sip, letting the alcohol caress his lips. Then he heard the door closing. More footfalls, just a single pair, greeted his ears. It's about time Neirin thought as the other individual came nearer and the stool next to his was pulled out, soon occupied by a balding, slightly portly Hispanic male, about mid-forties in age, wearing a red flannel shirt and jeans that were torn in a few places. Neirin set his wineglass down.

“I've begun to think you wouldn't show."

“Look who's talking. So I'm a bit late, happens to the best of us."

“Fair enough." Neirin noted, reaching into his jacket for his memo pad, he slid it over to the other man.

“These are some notes I took for the next chapter, Joseph. I was wondering if I could have your opinion on them."

“You haven't finished it yet? You started at the end of last month, has writer's block been holding ya up?"

“It's not quite that. I just can't seem to breathe life into the most recent part. It's stumped me."

Joseph looked through the various details and lore that Neirin had jotted down. “Which part exactly? The shipwreck scene in the middle?"

“The first scene involving the panther clan, when Eoghan and Achre are captured by the tribe. I haven't been able to get it to come out how I'd like." the younger man said matter-of-factly.

“You weren't shit-faced while writing, were you?"

Neirin shook his head slowly, only just resisting the urge to take another gulp of his wine.

“That reminds me." Joseph murmured. "I stumbled across something which might interest you a few days ago. Maybe it'll give you a little inspiration." He pulled his smartphone from his jacket, fiddling with the touchscreen for a moment before setting it on the counter and sliding it over to Neirin. It was a webpage, more specifically a news article. Luckily the alcohol hadn't hit Neirin particularly hard.

'Abandoned Village of Alleged Morph Tribe Discovered in Former State Preserve' was the title.

Reading the short article, he paused. It was unusually vague for a news report, almost secretive in a way. The two individuals who must have wearily stumbled upon the aforementioned village had chosen to remain anonymous and were only mentioned twice, despite providing photographs and broken pieces of pottery according to the description. Two of the photos of the area itself were blurry, one could barely make out the dome-shaped husks of what were most likely once huts.

The third, on the other hand, was much clearer. It depicted a simple harvest vase, a meander pattern chased itself around the bottom and the rim of what have must have once been a bowl, in an unmistakable Hellenic style.

What the…

What really caught Neirin's eye were the figures painted so intricately upon the surface – spotted feline morphs engaged in various activities, stalking prey through trees, sparring with spears and swords and playing what looked to be lyres and pan flutes. He first thought them to be ocelots. But upon closer inspection at the markings – a large rosette shape with a dark patch in the centre – this, combined with their bulky physique left little doubt to Neirin that these were jaguars.

It had been surmised that zoomorphs, let alone jaguars, were not known to form tribalistic societies such as this. The common sentiment was; even if their bodies seemed more human-like, their minds are either vacuous or insentient, they are just animals after all.

Yet, a more concerning question gnawed at his mind.

Why had this place been abandoned?

“Is this legitimate?" Neirin leaned back a bit, his arms folded over his chest.

Joseph had pulled out and lit a cigar, he took a puff and soon exhaled, unintentionally blowing smoke into the younger man's face.

“It ain't exactly front page news, but yeah. I'm certain it is."

Wrinkling his nose and narrowing his eyes in irritation, Neirin scowled and took a sip of his wine briefly, while his gaze turned reflective. This was another thing about Joseph which perplexed Neirin to no end – no matter the situation, he never got serious and it was because of this that Neirin always had a difficult time telling if the self-proclaimed, independent publisher was speaking in earnest or simply cracking a joke.

In silent offer, Neirin moved his second wine glass over to Joseph. “Thanks, I think I've had enough for tonight. Enjoy."

From the corner of his eye, Neirin caught Milo rounding the edge of the counter into the seating area, his scruffy tail lashing subtly. A few patrons shifted in their seats, while others simply continued to gawk.

“No desire to repeat last year's fourth of July?" Joseph let out a snicker, leaned back and took a healthy gulp of the wine. “Maybe it's for the best."

“Don't remind me. The entire neighborhood hounded me for weeks after, they did." Neirin had dropped a twenty dollar note onto the bar counter and stood up with a stretch. “Maybe I'll do some digging tonight then, see if anything ignites a spark." His voice was soft but tired, his eyebrows raised as if they were all that could keep his eyelids open.

“As long as you have that chapter done by the end of the month." Joseph shrugged. He stroked his beard, moving to snuff out his cigar in the nearby ashtray, which Neirin hadn't noticed was there before. Milo must have set it out he figured.

Neirin turned to face the hall, his strides slow as he crossed from the bar to the doorway. Suddenly, a high-pitched yelp caused him to spin back around as the scene played out in his periphery.

There stood Milo, his tail rigid, holding a notepad and pen. He gave the small boy and his mother what was as much of a smile as his canid features could manage. He only briefly made eye contact with the woman before he remembered his etiquette; lowering his gaze and motioning from the notepad to the menu. Milo took a deep breath.

“It's alright, Caleb." The mother soothed the boy, placing a hand on his shoulder. The woman tugged at the collar of the turtleneck that she wore beneath her tweed jacket. The child blinked before softly muttering. “Mommy, can I have a coke…"

“Sure, dear."

She cleared her throat, flicking her eyes at Milo, before returning them to the menu.

“A coffee a-and…the Chili c-con…carne…" The coyote had it written down before she had finished. He cocked his head towards the child. “…Oh, a coke…a-and a sloppy joe for him." The mother continued. Not once did she take her eyes off of the coyote.

Milo affirmed the woman's words with a nod as he jotted it down. A moment later, his nostrils began to flare with the smell of smoke. The morph's eyes widened and a panicked bark escaped him.

The boy let out a frightened gasp, his tiny hands clinging to his mother's jacket before it slipped from his grasp and she slid from the booth onto her feet; which she planted firmly before shoving the coyote away with a strike to his shoulders.

The impact was enough to send Milo stumbling back unsteadily towards the bar, eliciting a hushed choir mixed with gasps and snickers from the other patrons around them.

“What in god's name-“ “What a woman!" “Is the doggy going to be okay, dad?" “Of course…I don't think it understands what's happening." “Why the hell does Bertie let a mangy mutt in here anyway?" “You can't trust them kind."

The canid's body struck two of the stools and sent them crashing with a thud. Fortunately, he was able to regain his footing. The coyote heaved out a quick grunt, spun around and rapidly moved behind the bar, towards the oven.

With his hands clenched into fists, Neirin took a deep breath.

“This is why you don't let a goddamned coyote cook!" An older patron groused.

Neirin whirled, a retort on his lips when his eyes met Milo's. With a subtle shake of his head, the coyote cast his eyes downward. Neirin whirled back around and stalked out the foyer.

He reached the door and quickly swung it open, wrapping his jacket tightly around his form and stepping into the frigid air of the night. It was as if he was fleeing from some intangible pursuer.

Neirin miserably brushed his ink-hued bangs out of his eyes, his breathing beginning to calm. The sharp scent of pine mingled with a sour note of oak greeted his senses. He shoved his hands in his pockets, stumbling out of the illuminating warmth the entrance had provided and into the cold streets. The veil of darkness had long descended; covering everything, save for the flame-coloured streetlights which cut through the darkness like a blade.

He wasn't in any hurry to get home and he had enough liquor in his system to prohibit him the luxury of moving swiftly. Other than the occasional zoomorph or pedestrian, the streets were mostly empty and silent. Normally such surroundings calmed the man, but tonight it brought only a creeping dread.

Memories don't resurface easily, right?

The question had intruded into Neirin's mind, somehow clear amongst his clouded thoughts. The echo of his footsteps upon the pavement only added to his unease. His thoughts strayed towards the events of the past two years, ending with his estrangement from his kin, even as he tried his best to keep them at bay.

He came upon a creek, the channel completely cloaked in darkness. Neirin had, for a time, considered exploring it despite being told it wasn't exactly safe. But since then; times had changed. The man thought little of it at present. The sound of breaking twigs emanated from within the black abyss, followed by the rustling of leaves and branches. Nothing unusual in these parts he thought.

Yet the sounds drew nearer. The hairs on Neirin's form stood on end, until the sense of foreboding drew him to a halt, still as a post. Holding his breath, the man turned slowly to face the entrance again – nothing. Until he looked closer; in the shadow. He could just make out the light being reflected off a pair of eyes. The quadruped creature took a few steps closer and Neirin was greeted by the sight of crimson fur as the fox regarded him warily. Neirin could scarcely hold back a nervous chuckle as relief escaped him. The fox had taken the succumbing form of a mouse in her maw before she circled around and darted back into the darkened cover of the creek.

A moment later, Neirin continued on his way, just as the fox had. And any who crossed his path didn't pay him any mind, to them he just as well had never existed.

The moon was out that night, shining floods of ivory light upon the humble apartments nestled along Lawrence Street; elevating what, to many, would have perhaps been the most mundane sight and yet, it could not have been more comforting to young Neirin. Whenever he ambled up to the place, past the beige cutlass ciera which used to belong to his old man, he felt a sense of ease and took his keys from his pocket.

Closing the distance, Neirin's eyes narrowed when they caught sight of the sign haphazardly taped to his door. ' Rent past due' it read. He breathed in a sigh before he tore it free and crumpled it in his hand. Once he slid his house key into the lock with a click, Neirin slid the door open, a musty scent wafting from within as he entered the confines of his apartment.

He shed his jacket, as well as his cap. The lamp which seemed antique in and of itself illuminated the living room the moment Neirin switched it on. The place was - as always - a mess. Letters were scattered along the floor, surrounding the oak coffee table where other unopened letters and an old rotary phone sat. Over by the window, the desk which served as a study lay, it collected dust even when seeing use. A stack of books rested atop it, along with a laptop computer. The desk was flanked by an old spruce bookshelf.

The only sound came from the radio sitting atop the kitchen counter just behind the living area, next to an old faded photograph; playing a broadcast of the all night sports center. Neirin gave a sigh of irritation, this was the second time he had left it on, and crossed over to the counter in a few strides.

“Once again ladies and gentlemen, the Pensacola Ice Flyers lost a close, tight checking battle to the Columbus Cottonmouths by a score of 2-1 on Saturday night inside the Pensacola Bay Center-“

With a click; all was silent. Save for the man's breath while he walked wearily back into the kitchen, he placed the rent notice aside and fetched a pack of pomegranate seeds. Neirin planted himself at his study and crushed a single seed between his teeth before powering on the laptop.

He minimized the document his work currently occupied, but left the one containing his notes in case they were needed, before he opened up Mozilla.

'Zoomorph ruins in former nature preserve' He typed into the search engine and was immediately presented with a slew of results; many of them seemed long outdated from when the area – a strand down south, from what the news article had described - was still protected, along with some real estate pages for the nearby town which had taken shape since. Those were of little concern to Neirin.

Fakahatchee flora…Abandoned village of alleged morph tribe discovered in-…no, that's old news.

He brought the cursor to another article which caught his eye, this one published by the Conch Herald and dated September sixth 2005.

Beth yw hyn (what's this)...?

** 'On Tribalism in Wild Morphs'**

** By**

** Johnathon Roberts**

Neirin was unfamiliar with the site. However, the reason soon became clear when he found the link led to a preserved page on an internet archive.

Of course. Neirin told himself as he skimmed the words.

'…Perhaps the most recent and remarkable, yet controversial example is of the Maka, this multispecies group seemed to have lived in the Floridian wilderness for decades in something of a primitive hunter-gatherer society. '

A mess of code prevented any further reading. Vexed, Neirin scrolled down to the next clear passage.

'…The perplexing part, however, comes when we examine what little surviving evidence a scouting party brought back in '02 – Pottery, clay figures, instruments and possible tools. All surprisingly well-preserved. The original assumption was that the tribe was composed of only jaguar and wolf zoomorphs…'

Wolves and jaguars…? Both are nearly unheard of in Florida as it is… Neirin took a breath as his thoughts trailed off and he continued reading.

'…Further study revealed hares and deer were also, implausible as it may seem, a part of this group. A week ago, I met with Dr. Ardrey Raymond Ph.D, of the Florida Museum of Natural History. He elaborated extensively on the lives of the four species, and the possible relationship between them.

In his report following what I can only assume was his initial contact with the tribe three years earlier, he described such a relationship as a sort of symbiosis. I suppose it's comparable to a farmer and his livestock.

*In this regard, although one may scoff at the possible implications. One can't help but fathom if this means these zoomorphs are more human than not. Conclusions could not be drawn then, nor will they be now, as the site is now the location of a large housing development. *

The most recent news regarding the Maka zoomorphs concerned the relocation of a group of surviving jaguars (which Dr. Raymond referred to as “clan Enapay" in his report) to Homestead in mid-2003. They were placed under the ownership of an associate of Harris Estates. Rumor has it, that this individual was part of the group who found the tribe three years ago. Since then, it's gone silent.'

Neirin recalled what he had overheard after leaving the café earlier tonight.

“Is the doggy going to be okay, dad?"

“Of course…I don't think it understands what's happening."

“An entire clan of jaguars…in Homestead? It all seems too fantastical." Neirin's voice was little more than but a whisper to himself.

The idea of a tribe of at least four different morphed species living in south Florida for who-knew-how-long – and that next to nobody had found out about their existence until the turn of the century – seemed quite farfetched. Not to mention a mix of carnivore, omnivore and herbivore within the same group.

Probably coincidence, I doubt this could be the same tribe in the news article. Maybe there was more than one.

The only linked source at the article's footer was of the report Roberts had mentioned. Feeling intrigued, Neirin eagerly clicked on it.

'Page Not Found'

Neirin sunk back into his chair, his body slackened. Within a few moments, he found himself drawn back to digging around on the archive. A quick look three years prior to the publication of Roberts' article yielded only a grainy scan of a newspaper editorial.

'Authorities of Naples, FL in search of site for the development of a new industrial facility and town center.'

The man's brow furrowed as he skimmed the brief description. Much like Joseph's finding, it was suspiciously devoid of any meaningful details, nor did it add to the mental puzzle. But then something in the description caught the corner of his eye. A single, solitary sentence:

'Progress has been delayed on account of a group of zoomorphs which Prof. Ardrey Raymond calls 'the Maka.'

I guess that answers my question. Could any of them still live?

He leaned back, eyes turned toward the ceiling.

Tool-makers, artisans…

Now he leaned forward, head in his hands. Silently, he wept.

The stillness remained for some time and Neirin felt the usual thoughts intrusively, violently eating their way into his head.

You couldn't save them before...the other ill-fated ones.

There's nothing you can do… They whispered. There was never anything you could do.

Neirin caught his breath as the torturous litany continued, his body tense. Defensively, he tried to rationalize his way through it.

They don't matter...They can't matter. _The man's hands clenched into fists, how badly he wanted those thoughts to betray him, to leave him. _It's not your fault…it's just the way it is. The articles must be wrong!

This litany was shattered by the shrill tune of the Grande Valse. Startled from his panicked daze, Neirin stood and shuffled towards his jacket, slipping his hand into its pocket. He snatched the Nokia 5110 within and put its receiver to his ear.

“Hello? Oh, Joseph…" Neirin failed to suppress a yawn from passing over his lips and started to amble over to one of the nearby stools. “…What has you calling at this hour?" Abruptly, he stopped in his tracks. “It was nothing." He nearly yelled the words into the transmitter. “I just…wanted to get back home. Quickly."

“C-could we change the subject?" Of course the older man wasn't going to drop it, especially when he felt something was up. “Please?" Neirin took a seat, the gears of his mind continued to turn.

Here he goes…

He pulled the handset from his ear and cocked his head, to spare himself the portly publisher's rambling, unpreventable lecture, and to allow himself to dwell on other things.

Two articles, a paper which may or may not have existed and an editorial. Not quite inspiration. His eyes drifted to the window, then to the floor.

“Alright, alright…I'll spill my guts for you when the day comes." Neirin heard a chuckle on the other end, a bit of relief sneaking into its tone.

“About what you showed me earlier. I looked into it and it was by a slim chance I found anything at all. It seems like either very little information was released to begin with or there was a massive cover-up." Neirin moved back to his desk.

“That aside, I should probably continue on this chapter of mine…always nice to hear from you, old bastard." He allowed his mask to slip.

“Goodnight."

Neirin placed the Nokia back onto the desk and welcomed his closest friend, the silence, once more. He slipped back into his chair, returned his attention to the computer screen, and brought up the tale he was currently working to weave.

Hour after hour ticked away. Neirin had made a frustratingly low amount of progress that evening. What seemed to impair the storyteller most was how his mind continuously wandered away from his story and back to what he had read regarding the Maka tribe. The photograph of the vase, the images upon its surface, and this jaguar clan by the name of 'Enapay.'

“Curiosity, quite the bitch." He muttered softly. Neirin held the backspace key, deleting the work he had spent the last few hours meticulously crafting before his typing ceased.

Neirin opened the browser a second time and once again typed the same phrase into the search engine: 'Zoomorph ruins in former nature preserve'

He scrolled past the links he had found before, digging deeper. There were only six pages, however by the time Neirin had searched the few which seemed relevant, he had found nothing new.

The man let out an irritant sigh. It seemed clear someone didn't want such information getting out and it did nothing to help quell his intrigue. He scrolled back to the search engine, and chose to attempt a different angle.

*'Zoomorph clan Enapay' *

Once again – naught but what Neirin read already.

Dammit! This can't be all there is.

It only added fuel to the fire as he clicked on the link to the Conch Herald article again and reread it, specifically the bit mentioning the relocation.

Homestead. That's ten hours away.

He was about to resume the story he had been writing. But paused just as he was about to bring it up again.

Silently, his gaze drifted to the window. His focus wasn't towards the night-cloaked landscape on the other side, instead he looked into the brownish eyes of his own reflection.

Even as shadows fell over his features, Neirin could still make out the dark circles under his eyes and the in-grown hairs upon the blemished, sand-coloured flesh of his cheeks. Despite this, his face still held a youthful look about it, which clashed heavily with the weathered look in his eyes.

So many times, he had simply run and hidden himself away, and this was the state it had left him in. Afraid to die, yet more afraid to live.

“Right. Something different."

Neirin grasped his phone and inhaled softly.

Dialing the number, the Welshman placed the receiver to his ear. Joseph's phone rang once. Twice. Thrice. He tensed, feeling a bit insensitive.

Should at least leave a message.

As he expected, Joseph's voicemail started up and proceeded to go through the usual spiel that simply boiled down to “leave a message if it's about business, otherwise get lost."

Neirin blinked, inhaling again.

“Mr. Brooke, I'm going to be out of town for a few days. Starting tomorrow I'll leave for Homestead…this whole thing with that article has me far too intrigued to simply leave it alone. I should be back by the next weekend…and will have more than enough time to finish my work, and more of a catalyst to spur it. If I don't, feel free to reject the project entirely and I won't trouble you further, you have my word."

Neirin returned his gaze to the window. The darkness surrounding it promised him so many outcomes, similar in nature to the sight of a blank page in a book. “Good night…and wish me luck." The Welshman hung up and not soon after, retired.

Neirin exhaled a sharp gasp followed by a fearful whimper as a nightmare held him in its grasp.

“With a bit of blood and sweat…perhaps we can wipe away those debts."

His heart pounded intensely. His breaths grew brief and quick. His right arm lashed out frantically, intent on striking an assailant who never was.

“Right now, this all may seem like the most miserable time for you, Neirin. But trust me. It does get easier..."

“See you next week?"

“I…don't know if I'll come in next week."

Another lash of his arm, then another.

“This one's gonna be a bleeder! Up for it, boy?"

_ “Quit hesitating Neirin! Put it out of its misery!"_

Neirin became conscious and tore himself from the nightmare, wrenching upright. He blinked and panted rapidly under his breath. The man's form covered in sweat.

Gradually, his breathing calmed and his heart rate returned to normal.

Neirin let his body go limp and silently wept, curled up in the sheets of his bed. Not a moment later, he sat up slowly and took notice of the daylight which had flooded the apartment, he turned to look at the watch which sat upon his nightstand. It was Midday.

An hour later, an open suitcase lay upon his bed. Which Neirin packed with a week's worth of clothes, some of them neatly folded and organized, others tossed in haphazardly along with other necessities. The Welshman himself had slipped on a beige buttoned shirt and darker, brown slacks.

In the distance came the horn of a train. The sound lulled him unexpectedly for a moment. Its familiarity a balm to his battered emotions.

Neirin was in the process of slipping his computer into a laptop bag, after having printed out directions. There was a knock at the door. Quickly, Neirin got to his feet with a questioning glance and to his relief, it was only the postman.

Strange he thought, usually doesn't come by this early.

Stumbling across the room to answer, the man's leg clumsily smacked against the coffee table. Cursing under his breath, Neirin stood awkwardly as he pulled the sliding door open.

“Mr. Neirin Booker?" His voice was pleasant enough, a polite southern drawl but somewhat rusty from his more than half a century of life. He had to be in his late fifties, or at least from what Neirin could tell.

“That's me." Neirin glanced at the older man's nametag as he was handed a clipboard. Which was quickly signed, he only stopped when he noticed the postman giving a curious glance at the three pale fingers of his right hand.

Neirin's eyes narrowed slightly, more in irritation than any sort of attempt to intimidate.

“Isn't it considered rude to stare, Alton?"

The postman managed to tear his sight back to the younger man's face as if coming out of a daze before Neirin went back to his signature.

“Yeah…it is. I'm sorry, I was jus' wondering. Was it an industrial accident?"

“Nothing I want to talk about." Neirin handed the clipboard back as the postman in turn handed him a large, padded envelope.

“Have a nice day, hope the hand gets better."

Neirin thanked him silently and slid the door shut. Resting against it, he gave the envelope a look. The return address indicated it had been sent from Burgin, Kentucky. Written above was the name 'Aeres Kellen.'

The unopened envelope was promptly tossed into the bin.

Piss off.

Neirin slipped his trench coat on once everything was packed. He made his way out into the near blinding sunlight. The apartments didn't look any more flattering in the day, each patch of uncut, weed-laden grass and graffiti-tainted wall fully exposed.

He strode towards his car, one bag tossed on his shoulder while he pulled his suitcase from behind. Although Neirin did his best to keep the homely, beige Olds in decent condition, scars from the previous owner's mishaps were still evident, dents in the right rear door and the warped front fender.

The Welshman slid into the driver's seat, directions in hand. He started the Oldsmobile's ignition; its four cylinder engine rattling to life. With a glance at the rear-view mirror, Neirin took a breath as he backed out.

Once out of Pensacola, he passed through Pace along Woodbine road. He pulled onto the Spanish trail and proceeded to make his way onto the I-10, past Crestview and starting south.

Neirin found himself passing through the outskirts of Gainesville. It was a bustle of activity. People walked the streets in droves, and many of its multi-coloured buildings were lit up like holiday trees, silhouetted against the setting sun.

He pulled into the first petrol station to catch his eye, amongst the distant groan of buses and the occasional wail of sirens. As Neirin stood at the pump, his gaze drifted to land upon a slumped figure.

With the man's chin dipped towards his chest, he appeared to be asleep, with only his cardboard sign standing at attention.

Neirin stared at him a few moments longer, he realized this one too had felt as if earth had crumbled beneath his feet, and struggled to survive moment by moment. He felt the click of the pump in his hand.

The mini mart's door opened with a bell's chime as Neirin crossed over its threshold. He wrinkled his nose at the strong scent of coffee which had been left out for hours, and with disgust noted the fried chickens impaled on a rotisserie.

What Frankensteins mankind has become.

He averted his gaze, and reached for a couple Larabars, as well as a cup of sliced fruit. As he leaned back up, Neirin's gaze caught the camera near the door. Yet disregarded it just as quickly, as though no more than a passing instinct. Once he had fetched two bottles of iced tea, Neirin approached the counter, paid up and took his leave.

Stepping into the waning daylight, Neirin extracted a single Larabar and bottled tea before setting the paper bag next to the unconscious, prone figure of the other man.

Pushing himself back on heavy feet, Neirin climbed back into his car and sparked the ignition. The afterimage of the old soldier fresh in his mind as he eased onto the accelerator, as if it were some kind of unspoken kinship.

He too, was intimately familiar with the precariousness of life.

From here, it was a straight shot along I-75. Neirin took the moment to slip a cassette into the Olds' ancient tape deck. How it still worked, he couldn't fathom. Immediately his ears where graced by eerie synths, accompanied by tribal drum beats and followed by Ian Curtis' haunting vocals, the ghosts of a time long lost.

He shifted in his seat with a sigh and let his frame slacken while his mind wandered. There was a comfort and a safety in his growing up in Betws y Coed. A cocoon of familiarity.

…And all of the times I advised people not to attempt to pronounce it.

The Welshman chuckled to himself. The memories flickering past his mind like a calming breeze, the quaint north Wales village had seemed like his own corner of nowhere.

Neirin could still recall the days where he'd cycle along Old Church road, past the flowing tide of the river Conway and the mountainous, rural expanse beyond. The old railway museum and Snowdonia National Park had become akin to second homes throughout those years. The views and the fauna, feral and zoomorph alike, were old friends.

He had always kept to himself for the most part. The act of reaching out having become more and more of a struggle. Yet, even if for a few brief moments, there was clarity.

Along with those memories, came faces. Fading by like reflections in the windscreen, most only partially recognizable and whose voices had long since grown silent in Neirin's mind. All except for her.

Neirin's eyes squinted, his form illuminated by each pair of passing headlights before being plunged back into darkness. The hum of the Oldsmobile's engine, the sounds of passing traffic and occasional snarl of a motorbike kept his eyes focused on the dark road ahead. His own headlights just caught the twisted metal of an old wreck off to the side.

“Ceinwen…" Neirin whispered silently.

When finally, he had worked up the strength to talk to her, to reach out. Everything changed.

The time had come to leave the old behind, and a land of new opportunities awaited – or so he had been told. It must have been a course of three or four months, Neirin couldn't remember exactly.

The day his parents said they would all be moving to the States, It had felt as though he were running on black ice, falling helplessly and utterly out of control, and nothing he could have done would stop his descent. If only he had been an adult, he had thought at the time, then he would able to decide his own destiny.

It was only upon looking back, he realized being a man didn't make any difference at all. For still, he treaded that irrevocable path.

At that time, Neirin had thought he had known pain, guilt and loss.

Yet, unprepared was he for what awaited…