VERSE FOUR: COFFIN FODDER

There was a nip in the autumn air; this night was colder than the last. Richard wanted to do up his jacket but he needed to keep it loose in case he had to draw. Instead he held it closed with one paw to keep the straps of his holsters from drawing attention at least. The risk for that was certainly greater than it had been, last time.

"Couldn't pick somewhere more secluded to go on a rampage?" The mustelid muttered the question to no one in particular while he kept to the shadows as much as possible, which was hardly at all. Paris didn't strike Richard as being especially bright compared to other cities, but that didn't inspire confidence in his ability to keep a low profile amidst downtown, near a hub for international tourism.

As if the bright city lights weren't enough, the crowds were no thinner for the sun having set a couple hours ago. This didn't surprise Richard, but it was certainly inconvenient. He didn't like crowds at the best of times, let alone when he had to shoulder his way through them. Then again, if the throngs of people were getting that much thicker...

The otter's round ears fluttered, picking up the sound of a helicopter in the distance. He was getting close now, he was sure of it. He wanted to pull out his phone to double-check his GPS, but the last glimpse had given him a good enough idea of where he was and he needed his paws free to keep his jacket closed and gently nudge irritable locals and tourists aside as he made his way down the crowded street.

A cold gust of wind blew some of Richard's long, curly hair across his face, catching on his muzzle. He shook his head to free it and snorted unpleasantly at the girlish scent; he'd have to remember to pick up some shampoo to replace the awful complimentary stuff at the tavern. When he looked up he glimpsed a street sign that seemed like it ought to be familiar - Rue d'Arcole - took a right and...

Balls.

The crush of inquisitive people came to an abrupt end against a police cordon. A canine officer was manning the other side of a barricade, arms spread as he paced back and forth and did his best to placate the discontent masses in at least three languages. Behind him a squad car idled, lights flashing, more police standing around it in conversation. Beyond them...

At least I'm in the right place, Richard thought glumly. A helicopter circled in the distance, adding its spotlight to the glow of dozens of sirens. These combined with Paris' usual nocturnal luminescence to pick out an unmistakable shape: just over the trees and blockade of vehicles farther down the road Richard could see then north tower of la Cathédrale Notre-Dame de Paris.

Found you, Damon. Well, Richard couldn't have been certain of it, but he was as certain as could reasonably be. At least the frantic dispatch calls Richard had heard while stumbling out of the shower has left little doubt in his mind. After all, it was hard to belief there were that many psychopaths in the city willing or capable of staging a series of vicious attacks that had escalated so rapidly.

As soon as the media caught wind of what was going on the incident was being labeled a terrorist attack, but Richard knew better. At least, he hoped he knew better. He didn't exactly fancy the idea of being caught between terrorists and France's renowned GIGN counter-terror military unit.

Was it really any better if he got caught between them and Damon, though? The bounty hunter chewed his lip nervously as he fought his way out of the crowd closest to the barricade. One he had some space to breathe he took better stock of his surroundings and muttered a frustrated "fuck" under his breath.

They'd blockaded all roads at least a couple of blocks from the cathedral, he was sure of it. On top of that Notre-Dame was lit up like a Goddamn Christmas tree even when it wasn't the centre of the entire city's attention. Even if Richard could find a way around back he knew the rear of the cathedral could be seen clearly from across the river.

He was about to resign himself to being unable to get any closer to the scene when the otter recalled there was something for which Paris was famous. Well, besides lights. Or sex. Alright, perhaps it was not as high on the list as a number of other things, but the city nevertheless had a world-famous sewer system.

As he stole further away from the masses congregating at the police blockades the otter chanced a glance down a small back-road and spied a round manhole cover. With a few discreet looks to make sure no one was paying attention to him - and thankfully, people were growing more intrigued by the gathering crowds - Richard ducked down the alley and carefully withdrew his nightstick from inside his jacket.

A flick of his wrist extended the collapsible baton, and as Richard crouched next to the sewer exit he was surprised to find the end of his nightstick fit the catch on the lid rather well. The end of the stick was able to bite under the lip and with some grunting and exertion of sore muscles Richard managed to pry the manhole cover off. He carefully slid it aside slowly so as not to draw attention and peered into the pitch-black opening.

The smell that rose to greet him made the otter wish he hadn't. He gagged, turning aside to catch his breath and keep from dry-heaving.

"This has got to be the worst idea I've ever had," he groaned. A quick backward glance told him he hadn't yet drawn attention to himself. It was now or never.

Sheathing his baton, Richard drew his phone out from one pocket and toggled the assistive light. Turning his wrinkled nose aside he ventured to peer into the ominous tunnel, shining the bright LED down into the darkness. He could make out some sort of dry-looking platform where the iron rungs ended.

But God, the stink! Richard chewed his lip and stared into the abyss. _If I don't go, the cops could get to him first. Then what the fuck did I come all this way for? The fuck else am I supposed to do if I can't even go back?_His stomach churned as he made up his mind.

Clutching his phone tight in one hand and against the protestation of his nose and aching muscles, Richard steeled himself and descended into the blackness.

"Just a little closer..." Damon's voice, or something close to it, rumbled with more rasp than usual. The creature wearing his body made the fox's eyes squint in displeasure at the gurgle in Damon's lungs. "Always with the smoking," it sighed, exasperated. A pulse of darkness rippled beneath Damon's shirt, expunging toxins from the body. The fox's jaw worked as a foul clot rose in the back of its throat, and not-Damon turned its head to spit a mouthful of tar onto the floor. "The shit he puts me through..."

Pointed fox-ears twitched alertly at the scuff of combat boots on stone.

"Sang...?" Preternaturally sharp hearing that Damon had no idea how to properly utilize picked out the hushed word loud and clear. One of the infiltrating military officers had come across the creature's bloody handiwork. Good.

Not-Damon crept forward to peer over the top of a pew. A team of eight members of the esteemed Groupe d'Intervention de la Gendarmerie Nationale had stopped at a gory smear on the floor of the cathedral's darkened nave. The point man followed the chain of command like a good little soldier and radioed in the find while his comrades kept watch.

Well, he tried; the radio squawked and garbled unintelligibly. Electronics were unreliable in the presence of the creature. The thing within Damon chuckled, blood-thrill gurgling in their shared throat to be birthed in a cackle. The insertion team went on high alert. It wouldn't be enough.

Moving more swiftly or nimbly than Damon could have on his own, the fox-thing shuffled and hopped into a better position. Its advance made the officers' flashlights go haywire, throwing them into momentary confusion. A moment was all that was needed.

"Watch the footsteps, but never follow...if you want to live tomorrow!" The last sing-song word to leave Damon's lips was punctuated by a killing blow. The Damon-thing leapt from the shadows in a flying kick that connected with the GIGN point-man's head with enough force to snap his ballistic visor and split his helmet in half. His head hadn't fared much better, judging from the ribbon of blood that trailed the crumpled form as it sailed into the darkness. Damon's body didn't pause and landed with a light flourish in front of the seven surviving soldiers.

"Mon Dieu!" one of them gasped, unable to fathom the full extent to which he was fucked.

"Dieu n'est pas ci..." It borrowed Damon's voice to speak and the words dissolved into another bubbling laugh. The soldiers didn't seem to share in its amusement.

One of them fired, breaking Damon's tibula. The thing inside Damon howled, clutching one of the fox's legs as it faltered and fell down on one knee.

"Fuck!" It snarled. "Just because I can't die, doesn't mean it hurts any less!" It hissed through Damon's teeth, struggling to rise to its feet again and adding as an afterthought, "cunt!"

"Arrêt!" one of the officers ordered, and the rest were fanning out around it, weapons at the ready. It gritted Damon's teeth and strode forward with measured, purposeful strides, savouring the agony each time it put weight into that fresh fracture.

"Je ne pas compris..." They didn't like that.

"Faire feu!" the same soldier that had shot at not-Damon was the one to issue the order, but wielding the chain of command just made him a more tantalizing target.

Damon's body was put into motion almost faster than the members of GIGN could react, but their reflexes were sharp and they snapped off a series of shots. Bullets ripped through the shoulder of the coat Damon had just gone to all that effort to mend and crippled the fox's arms and legs. Its advance almost faltered under the fusillade.

Almost.

The thing extended a tendril of its consciousness, drawing on the well of unnatural power hidden in Damon's unassuming form. It had learned to tap this power long ago. Its fingers curled just in time to grip the handle of Damon's sword as the blade materialized from a wisp of smoke. It was the same weapon Damon had so dutifully brought with him to Paris, though unlike its master it could not mask the nature of its power and its noble exterior was twisted and barbed to reflect the wicked nature of its wielder.

One artful, upward swing, and the officer before not-Damon was cleanly bisected, the halves of his body falling to either side in a spray of viscera.

"N'est...n'est pas possible - faire feu! Faire feu!" One of the shooters seemed unconvinced that his chums were really doing their best to stop the Damon-shaped abomination. It turned to face them, sneering. Strings of blood swirled around it as the injuries to Damon's form mended.

Another shower of lead erupted, but this time the creature was ready. It rolled to the side, bringing the sword with it in a downward spiral that literally took the legs out from the nearest soldier. As it rose again it buried Damon's sword in the chest of another, the blade sinking effortlessly through the badger's body armour to pierce his heart.

Damon's wrist took a round before the blade could be pulled free, however, and the fox-thing snarled as the latest victim tumbled into a pew and took the sword along with it. The shots were flying more sporadically by this point as the soldiers instinctively dove for whatever cover they could find. Four to go.

Not-Damon vaulted over a couple of pews and dove down where it had seen one of them retreat. It came down on top of the soldier in the midst of reloading, and he screamed as his weapon was knocked aside. In an instant the fox-thing pinned its prey by the throat and a newly-healed hand clawed the soldier's vest enough to reach behind the breastplate and pull his intestines out through the body armour. The gurgling scream this brought forth was like music.

A gunshot took off half of Damon's ear and the thing turned in annoyance, baring the fox's teeth. It plucked a grenade from the vest of its latest kill with a gore-soaked paw and hurled it with unerring accuracy. The heavy sphere contacted the shooter's helmet with a loud crack, knocking him flat on his tail. That blow had sent the grenade straight up into the air, and when the explosive came down on top of the soldier that had been felled by it he had the briefest of moments to register his fate before disappearing in a cloud of red mist and organic shrapnel.

Taking the time to appreciate its handiwork cost the creature a load of buckshot that riddled Damon's chest and coat full of holes. The creature growled through Damon's bleeding throat and shambled closer to the terrified soldier who had fired it from behind a column. Another shot went wide; the grenade blast had disoriented the man with the 12-gauge, giving not-Damon time enough to snatch the barrel. It pulled the weapon up against Damon's stomach, the scent of burning fur joining the bouquet of battle while the entity toyed with its prey.

"Hit me again," it flung Damon's arms up like a front-man taking the stage after an opening act. "ENCORE!" It screamed, blood drooling down the fox's chin.

The soldier shrieked and fired, the blast ripping through Damon's body to leave a gaping hole. The fox-beast used Damon's talon-like claws to latch onto the officer's shoulders and pulled its body forward, impaling itself on the weapon. It lamented for a moment no other impalement was taking place, feeling a bit frisky with so much carnage in the air.

The Frenchman tried to escape, but Damon's claws were embedded, hooked inside the soldier's collarbone. The thing leaned Damon's head in close to lick its victim's throat, savouring first the taste of fear and then blood as it tore that neck open with Damon's teeth.

With a mouthful of ragged flesh the not-Damon stood erect and let the seventh body go limp at its feet. The musky scent of fear pheromones saturated the air beneath the stink of blood and gunpowder and...urine? The thing pulled Damon's mouth wide in a smile; had someone had an accident? Lurching, its newly-healed ear cocked to the scuffle of boots as the remaining member of the insertion team turned to flee.

Damon's body had healed, and without a half-dozen different distractions, the force that drove it forward caught the young man quickly.

The fox-thing leapt upon him gleefully, taking the soldier by the throat and whirling to pin him against one of those tall Gothic pillars. This last member of the counter-terror unit was smaller than the rest - a rodent of some sort - and it was trivial for not-Damon to lift him clear off his feet.

He struggled, of course, unable to do much more than clutch at the arm that trapped him in place and threatened to choke the life from him...if only he were so lucky. The abominable fox hadn't had the luxury of time with which to enjoy its other most recent victims, so it took its time to appreciate the fearful, wide eyes that bulged behind the soldier's visor. Leaning closer, it drank in the intoxicating fragrance of fear, youth and urine.

Delightful.

A carefree thought bid the sword rematerialize in the monster's free hand and it hummed pleasantly through Damon's throat while taking its time sizing up this new piece of meat for the choicest cuts.

"Halt, daemon!"

Of course, all good things must come to an end...

"Stay your blade an' let the man go," Avinglad demanded, his Scottish brogue in a tone that would brook no argument.

He took measured, deliberate strides to emerge from the shadows of one of the cathedral's dark chapels. As he stepped into a beam of light streaming through one of the high stained-glass windows, Damon turned to regard him curiously. The GIGN officer restrained against the pillar continued to struggle, heavy boots pressing against Damon's chest for leverage, but the fox easily kept the soldier in place with one arm.

Avinglad's lip curled at the display of casual cruelty, his blood beginning to boil. The muscular wolf made a show of hefting his weapon - a monstrous double-bladed battle-axe. Damon's only response was to grin, that wicked expression sending a momentary chill down Avinglad's spine with its familiarity.

That's him.

The fox gave his victim a cursory glance, looked back at Avinglad, and then...Almost before Avinglad had time to process what had happened, the soldier was killed. Damon's fist clenched hard enough around the rodent's throat that there was an audible crunch, and the fox's sword flashed as it delivered a series of frenzied stabs to his victim's abdomen. In conclusion, Damon thrust the blade deep through the young man's ribcage, the sound of steel grating on bone and stone making Avinglad's ears shrink as Damon pinned the soldier to the pillar like an insect in a display case.

The Hellish fox turned to face the new arrival with dramatic flair.

"He is released and my blade is stayed, Scot." Damon spread his arms to the side in a mocking gesture of peace. Avinglad's jaw set as he watched the last spasm of life leave the young soldier's body, and the wolf tensed his paws on the haft of his own weapon.

"Fiend! That settles it! There's no doubt in my mind you're the one I've sought..." Avinglad's heart was racing as he took another few steps. This is it. "I've waited long for this day, Hellspawn," he spat, blade at the ready.

"Why wait any longer?" Damon lunged. He was fast. Faster than Avinglad would have believed...if he hadn't seen it before. The burly wolf brought his axe crashing down in an overhead swing and missed - just barely.

The heavy weapon split one of the polished stone tiles on the floor and snagged the end of Damon's coat, but the elusive vulpine had dodged just inside the blow. "Missed me!" He leapt at Avinglad, swiping a paw across his face. The wolf managed to turn aside, sparing his eye, but he took a couple of deep gouges across his face from the fox's wicked claws.

Avinglad didn't even feel the pain in his anger and determination. Instead, he lunged back at Damon, ducking to head-butt the fox, who was considerably shorter than he. Damon staggered back, wheezing through a broken nose. This gave Avinglad just enough time to leverage his axe from the divot it had scored in the floor.

He pressed the attack, but by the time he swung the heavy weapon 'round, Damon's sword rose to deflect it. Again, Avinglad's study of his enemy had seen him well-prepared, and he wasn't caught off-guard by the fox's ability to rematerialize the weapon at a moment's notice. He shouldered forward and brought his axe down again, and again, sweeping the broad blades back and forth as quickly as he could to keep his opponent wrong-footed. For his part, Damon managed to knock each blow aside, the crash of steel on steel ringing through the cathedral as they sparred.

Frustrated, Avinglad lifted a heavy boot, connecting it with Damon's chest in a powerful kick. The dark fox grunted, winded, and stumbled back against one of the Gothic pillars. Seizing the opportunity, Avinglad slid one paw inside his overcoat and withdrew a long-handled Crusader's axe from inside. He wound back and threw the weapon like a tomahawk; it sailed through the air to cut cleanly through Damon's collarbone, embedding in the fox's shoulder and the pillar behind it.

Damon shrieked in agony, and for a moment Avinglad allowed himself a satisfied smirk. He reached for the second axe inside his coat as Damon attempted to grasp the handle of the one in his shoulder, and Avinglad set the next one soaring. Its blade bit deep into the fox's other shoulder, trapping him there. Avinglad felt there was some poetic justice in so crucifying this blasphemous entity against the sanctified walls of a place such as this.

"Feel free to die when you've had enough, lad." His enemy trapped, Avinglad permitted himself a moment's reprieve to catch his breath. He allowed the head of his battle-axe to rest on the floor and again reached into his coat while Damon screamed and lunged against his constraints, the axe-heads only biting deeper.

"Enough? No, this is just...the...beginning...!" The sickening cracking and popping sounds told Avinglad that the mad fox was breaking free at the expense of his limbs.

Doing his best to remain unperturbed, Avinglad withdrew one final weapon from inside his coat. He disengaged the safety and brandished the shining chrome frame of his Desert Eagle. He held the weapon to his brow for a moment in reverence, calming his nerves with a few deep breaths.

Damon snarled, frothing at the mouth as he tore away from his arms at the socket. Like the nightmare creature he was the fox surged forward, trailing gore and spitting curses. Avinglad countered with a dedication of faith and brought his weapon level with the charging monstrosity.

"In nomine Patris, et fillii, et Spiritus Sancti!" The discharge of a .50 round in the nave was deafening, even over the prior din of their combat.

In the sudden silence that followed, Damon's charge was halted. His head snapped back, absent a significant portion of cranium, and the fox toppled onto the floor. The sleeves of his coat had been torn away, revealing bare arms that glistened; half-formed extrusions of flesh and bone that never finished recovering from their dismemberment, sanguine strands trailing all the way back to the axes embedded in the pillar still. Avinglad regarded the graphic scene coolly, though his heart was still hammering inside his chest.

The stillness didn't last.

As expected, the fox-beast began thrashing and howling on the ground, writhing as the strands of Damon's body resumed stitching his body back together. Avinglad cocked the hammer on his pistol as Damon rolled back to his feet and sneered.

"What are those, mate? They've got some kick!" Avinglad wrinkled his muzzle in contempt.

"Sterling silver crucifixes, blessed an' melted down into .50 calibre rounds, just for ye!" He fired again, but the ebon fox was too quick. Damon leapt off to the side and circled around for another attack, bringing his sword to bear.

Avinglad grunted and hefted his axe; his gun wasn't about to stop that sword, after all. Again the clash of steel resounded through Notre-Dame. A few more lunges, a few more parries and the combatants backed away and circled each other. Avinglad took the opportunity to holster his sidearm - Damon's reflexes were supernaturally quick and the wolf had barely staved off the attack wielding his axe one-handed. He tensed as Damon took a step closer, but the fox merely smirked and said:

"You may be more fucked up than I am, friend. Come to think of it, you do smell a little familiar, at least..."

"Oh, aye?" Avinglad's hackles stood on end and he charged, roaring as his axe came down and smote the pew where Damon had perched less than a second before. The fox circled and danced away farther, goading him.

"Yeah, I remember now, I'm sure of it - I've left an impression, it seems." The bastard sounded pleased with himself. Avinglad huffed and turned to face him head on, axe at the ready.

"Oh aye, now just wait 'til I leave my impression on ye!" The hulking Scotsman spun to deliver a massive blow that took a chunk of masonry from a pillar, but predictably missed the evasive fox. Avinglad was getting careless. His anger and bloodlust were getting the better of him.

He recovered swiftly, bringing the broad blades of his axe around in a few wide sweeps. Damon dodged or deflected them all. In a flash the vile creature ducked a swing to get inside Avinglad's guard, and the wolf let out a surprised yelp of pain as Damon's jaws clamped down on his right bicep. The grip on his axe weakened and he let the weapon crash to the floor.

With Damon latched onto him like a lamprey, Avinglad balled his left paw into a fist and began pummelling his assailant. He huffed and gasped, panting raggedly as he broke the fox's face again and again until Damon was forced to relent and back away. He left a tooth or two behind in Avinglad's arm.

"Mmheh-heheh...this is going to be fun...but we'll have to finish another time, I'm afraid..." The fox spoke as unfortunately, predictably, his body restored itself. Avinglad gasped as the teeth were plucked from his wound and returned to their master. Wincing at the pain in his arm, he reached back into his jacket before Damon finished recovering.

"No, this ends now!" Five shots sounded out, accompanied by five red geysers erupting from Damon's body. The demonic fox staggered backwards, wavering unsteadily as the gore stitched itself together yet again. Is there no end to his infernal power? Damon certainly seemed more exasperated than injured.

"Nnf...y-you don't understand, yet..." Bracing against a pew, Damon looked up at Avinglad. He spoke as his face repaired itself, bone re-forming, muscle creeping over it to obscure the glistening white like a macabre mask before pale skin and coal-black fur smoothed into the too-familiar face of the enemy. "Another like you is here...patience, Avinglad. Just...a little longer..." A chill ran down Avinglad's spine.

"Wh...how d'ye know my name, you bastard-" he bit down on the slide of his gun to pull it back, hurriedly reaching into his coat with one paw for a fresh magazine. It took him less than two seconds to reload and re-aim the weapon, but by the time he had, Damon was gone.

A cackle sounded out, echoing through the vaulted ceiling. It seemed to come from everywhere at once. Cursing the acoustics of old churches, Avinglad stumbled in his haste, turning desperately on the spot to locate the source of the infernal laughter. It was no use; wherever he pointed his pistol he found only shadows.

"Hehehahahahahaaa! Soon, soon..." the demented fox was practically singing. The notes began to fade, however, echoes dying away and making it clear that he had retreated. Avinglad's keen lupine ears stood erect, twitching to and fro. After a few moments of solemn silence he muttered a curse and slumped against a pew.

The adrenaline high began to fade, and suddenly Avinglad felt exhausted. He slumped in one of the less-splintered pews for a moment and set down his gun to take a look at his arm. It was throbbing in time to his still-quickened pulse and a sticky red stain was spreading out through the thick fabric of his coat. He prodded the injury carefully and hissed in pain, but there was no time to see to it now. He had to get out of here before- those pointed ears pricked up, alert.

Footsteps.

Richard slowed his run to a trot as the sounds of conflict died away, chased by a haunting laugh that made his fur stand on end. By the time he made his way through a door into the cathedral proper it was silent as a crypt.

The bounty hunter crept forward cautiously, weapon drawn (the .45 with live rounds, of course), scanning every nook and cranny for a potential ambush. Gothic architecture didn't exactly make that easy. The whole place reeked of gun powder and-

Richard yelped as he rounded a pew, boot skidding across the slick stone floor. Even in the dimly-lit cathedral it was easy to make out the dark puddle that had set him wrong-footed.

"Oh fuck...fuck me...blood...there's blood everywhere...fuck fuck fuck...!" The otter trembled and gripped the back of a pew to steady himself. He doubled over and shielded his nose with the sleeve of his jacket, biting it to keep from retching. The metallic scent of blood made his head swim and his ears ring as bile crept up the back of his throat. There was an unidentifiable mass on the floor just out of the corner of his eye and he fought to keep from looking at it. He didn't want to be able to identify it.

Richard wasn't no incapacitated by his nausea that he failed to hear the scuff of a boot on the floor, however. His tiny ears twitched and the mustelid looked up quickly, bringing his weapon to bear. His eyes locked on those of a hulking shape that certainly wasn't Damon, but was no less intimidating for it.

"You're not police, so ye've three second to explain yourself before I fill ye with holes, lad." The voice was deep and authoritative and set Richard on edge, though he normally would have been charmed by the Scottish accent. Being threatened certainly didn't help.

"Jesus! Don't sneak up on me like that - who the Hell are you?!" he demanded keeping his weapon trained on the stranger. There was the click of a hammer as the highlander cocked his Desert Eagle - the shape of that massive sidearm was unmistakable.

"An' don't take the Lord's name in vain!" The Scot demanded, "one second!" Richard bit his lip. The wolf was massive. Built like a brick shithouse: he must have been at least 190cm tall and even though he was wearing a heavy overcoat it was hard to mistake the sheer muscular mass of his frame. He had steely blue fur, dirty blonde hair tied back in a ponytail, and piercing green eyes.

"Fuck!" Richard determined that discretion was the better part of valour, here. "Damon! I'm looking for Damon Vulpes! But I don't see him anywhere; just a shitload of dead GIGN and a big fuckin' Scot pointing a gun at me! So I'm inclined to start shooting, myself, unless you tell me who the fuck you are!" Richard was rambling a little and speaking too fast; that happened when he was under pressure.

"The fox is mine, lad, and way out of your league. Now beat it!" The stranger kept his weapon fairly steady, but Richard could tell he wasn't used to wielding it left-handed; he took note of the fact he was favouring some sort of injury on his right arm, to say nothing of the bleeding gouges scored across one side of his face.

"Alright, hold on...let's just...let's just calm down, here. Did...is this Damon's work?" Richard nodded toward one of the...messes nearby, but kept his eyes on the hulking canid. He didn't want to acknowledge his surroundings or take his eyes off this stranger.

"It wasn't me if that's what ye're wondering, whelp." The wolf narrowed his eyes and his weapon wavered, but the barrel remained trained on Richard. "What're ye doing here, now?"

"I told you: I'm after Damon. I'm a...a freelance fugitive recovery agent." Richard replied, truthfully. The Scotsman snorted in wry amusement.

"Heh, well this ain't no simple fugitive ye're after, lad." Richard lowered his weapon a little. He didn't take it off the stranger, of course, but he held up his other hand, palm open, webbed digits splayed.

"I'm...I'm getting that. Look, can we...talk, maybe? Friendly-like? Where I don't have to stand around a bunch of dismembered corpses?" Acknowledging it out loud sent a shiver down his spine, and he felt sick as he was reminded of the...smells again. It even made him forget the stink of the sewer that had followed him above-ground.

Before the brawny fellow could reply, there were some dull thuds from without the cathedral. Somewhere at the other end of the nave, several canisters flew into the dark space and began filling the ancient citadel with thick, acrid yellow smoke. As it billowed, more canisters flew in from behind the plume in a creeping chemical barrage.

"CS gas," Richard surmised out loud. "Come on, we don't have all day - and you'll need someone to look at that wound, right?"

"I'm fine," the wolf replied tersely, though he was edging away from the billowing smoke. He kept his eyes and weapon trained on Richard and attempted to stoop to pick up...an axe? - and winced, unable to lift it with his injured arm. Richard holstered his firearm and strode over, bending to retrieve the weapon, himself. Christ! It was heavy...

"Well, we'll see about that later on..." he wheezed, swinging the weapon over one shoulder and held an open paw to the wolf. "Now, I don't want to shoot you, and for all your bravado I'm...fairly certain you don't want to shoot me. So let's get out of here. I'm leaving - with you." The wolf frowned as he stared up at Richard.

"...Alright, lad. Alright." He refused the helping hand, but when he stumbled in a bid to rise, Richard moved in for support. Between the weight of the axe and letting the wolf lean against him, though, he might have made a mistake. The chemical front had crept close enough that the otter's had begun to water and the skin on his neck and face felt sunburned.

"Oof...c'mon, I know a way we should be able to slip through the police barricades." The otter panted as he guided them back toward one of the chapels in the rear of the church, away from the gas and the beams of light from militant searchers in masks picking their way through the cloud.

"I've got a van parked along the river, not far from here. We can use that to put some distance between ourselves and this place," the wolf replied. He wrinkled his nose now that he was in close proximity with the otter. "You stink, lad." Thanks.

"You're really not gonna like where we're going next, then," Richard warned as they ducked down a stairway leading into the cellar, slipping out of sight as the cathedral filled with cloying gas.