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Neirin did not know how to feel about his work, the words took some coaxing, but with time they flowed effortlessly along the page. Yet, something seemed to be missing.

The words lacked spirit, they lacked passion and soul. The man sighed calmly and reclined in his seat, the rest of the world coming back into focus as the realm of his story faded for the moment.

He looked towards the glass sliding door, out upon the orangish hue of the November sky and the setting sun.

The sound of the radio on his countertop met his ear, the voice of a newscaster talking of the increasing tension involving members of his own species and that of the bestial morphs as a result of some incident in Myrtle Grove. As well as the pleasant singing of the homely woman living in the next apartment over as she was coming back with her laundry.

Indeed, all was calm in the Twin Oaks apartments, even eerily so; but in Neirin's mind, it was anything but. An ample feeling of anxiousness was stirring within him, though he knew not why. Closing his laptop, the human got up from his desk and took his dark, carmine jacket from the coat hanger, slipping it on, as well as a brown boilerman cap. Right. He thought with a sigh. Time to get out for a bit.

Chapter I:

A Little Inspiration

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 that lived there were of no concern to Neirin, just as he wasn't to them. A third of the houses were abandoned as well. It lent the place a very bittersweet atmosphere. Despite this particular path being familiar to him, he still felt as a stranger amongst foreigners and with that, a certain amount of peace.

A short breeze chilled his bones as Neirin entered the cafe. Immediately, the smell of food, seasonings and the occasional secondhand smoke hit him like a brick wall. With few of the patrons' heads turning to notice 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, its entryway forked immediately upon entering. Ahead lay the bar and the first cafeteria. To the right was a decently spacious lounge with a snooker table in the center that was currently occupied by a trio of patrons. Retro posters flourished among other décor on the chalk-white walls, completing its look and feel. 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.

But Neirin paid no mind to either, as he made his way to the bar. The smell of alcohol made itself known to him, along with a muted but musky whiff of Canis latrans.

“Evening Mr. Booker. Another sleepless night?" The greeting came from a thin, mustachioed man in the latter stretch of his thirties. There was concern in his voice as he recalled his young guest speaking of morbid sights that commonly greeted him when he tried to sleep. Whenever that happened, Neirin would often come to the café to forcefully take his mind off of such phantoms.

Grimacing softly, Neirin pulled one of the stools out and rested upon it.

“That's part of it." He answered calmly, yet with an evident amount of unease, his brow furrowed and for a moment, a shaken look crawled across his features.

The mustachioed man dressed in a green jumper and grey slacks was Bertram Foster. As the café's name implied, he ran the place. Much like Neirin, Foster was from abroad; specifically from Surrey. Though he never spoke of his decision to leave and very few bothered to ask. The Englishman leaned back against the bar, his gaze returning to the letter that he had been reading prior.

Behind the counter stood a morph in the process of cooking, the twitch of his ear indicating he had heard the conversation. He was a tan furred coyote about the equivalent of twenty two in the years of humans. He wore a short sleeved, button up shirt with suspenders rising from short navy blue trousers, a hole cut in the back for his tail. When the canine morph turned to face Booker and Foster, his lemon-yellow eyes were revealed - something Neirin often complimented him on - along with the electrical box of his collar peeking out from under his shirt.

Foster nodded respectfully and took a few steps behind the counter before tapping the coyote on the shoulder, the canid's ears perked in response; paws tightening around the handle of the pan he held. No one knew for sure why they exist, just that humanoid animals or morphs had been around for ages, though they have only become more numerous in recent times.

As Neirin pulled his memo pad from his jacket, he had missed most of what was whispered into the animal's ear save for “be careful," which the coyote affirmed with a quick, if slightly reluctant gesture of reassurance as he returned to the dish he was making, the smell of it causing Neirin to feel a pang of nausea. It was probably roast beef if he had to fancy a guess. However, his notes would be a sufficient distraction in the meanwhile.

Flipping to the tenth page, Booker looked though his details – mostly on the characters and the events – and saw that everything was largely in line – save for a few remnants that wouldn't make the cut.

“I'd love to stay and discuss matters with you Neirin, but I have business to take care of. Give Milo a holler if you need anything." With that, Bertram turned to take his leave. Neirin nodded in understanding, though his lips curled into a rather forced smile as the older man exited the bar and headed upstairs.

Neirin cleared his throat, getting the coyote's attention. The canid morph didn't spare a moment to stop what he was doing and turned to the face the Welshman, as he approached the counter; Neirin thought he saw the beast wink at him. The man's gaze lowered shyly as he shifted in his seat, tucking the memo pad back into his jacket.

“A Three Choirs. May Hill. Double."

The coyote gave a nod and crouched down, leaving only his swishing tail visible as he opened the wine cabinet. Neirin chuckled softly at the sight before returning his gaze to the counter, 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 grey horse and a bobtail cat, both wearing collars similar to Milo's had ascended the stairs and headed for the exit with their owners, 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 little boy in a baseball cap of about four or five 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. He felt a slight queer feeling, but he decided it was best to ignore it at the time, 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 them a shade of ghost white, and raised the glass to his lips. The taste and the aroma of it never seemed to grow dull to him.

“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.

“Almost thought you wouldn't show."

“Smartass. Keep pushing it and I'll start rejecting your manuscripts, even if ya wrote something on par with Hemingway."

“Fair enough, old man."

Neirin reached into his jacket for his memo pad, opened it and slid it over to the older 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, I stumbled across something that might interest you a few days ago. Maybe it'll give you a little inspiration." Joseph 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 him 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, in a style not unlike a blending of Hellenic and Lakota-Sioux pottery. But 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 – Neirin could only come to the conclusion that such wasn't the case.

More so, it had been thought that morphs 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, 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 his cigar, he took a puff and soon exhaled, unintentionally blowing smoke into the younger man's face. Wrinkling his nose and narrowing his eyes in irritation, Neirin scowled at the older man.

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

Neirin's eyes narrowed as he took a sip of his wine briefly and turned back to the older man, almost glaring. This was another thing about Joseph that 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 publisher was speaking in earnest or simply cracking a joke.

“Joe, please don't bullshit me."

The older man exhaled, smoke billowing from his nostrils.

“Yeah…I made sure. Look, yer 'a clever kid. Why don't you take a look for yourself?" Joseph took another puff as Neirin rolled his eyes with a sigh before softly nodding, with pressed lips.

“I understand…sorry about that." He responded apologetically, shifting in his seat, about to take a sip from his second glass of wine when he froze and set it back down, sliding the glass over to Joseph, as if to emphasize his words. “I think I've had enough for tonight." In the corner of his eye, Neirin could see the canine form of Milo passing them, most likely to take orders.

Joseph let out a snicker. “Don't want a repeat of the fourth of July last year, eh?" The older man leaned back and took a healthy gulp of the wine. “I suppose it's for the best."

“Don't remind me. The entire neighborhood hounded me for weeks after that." Neirin had just dropped about fifteen dollars onto the counter and stood up with a stretch. “I guess I'll do some digging tonight then, see if anything ignites the creative spark." His voice was soft, his tone relaxed but strained, his eyebrows raised as if they were all that could keep his eyelids open.

The older man nodded and took the wine in hand, sipping it slowly. “As long as you have that chapter done by the end of the month, do whatever the hell you have to." Joseph shrugged, stroking his beard before he snuffed out his cigar in a nearby ashtray, which Neirin had not noticed before then. Milo must have set it there he figured.

Neirin turned to face the hall and wasn't in any hurry to leave, taking slower strides as he crossed from the bar to the doorway. Not giving much thought to the high-pitched yelp of what may have been the child he glimpsed earlier. None the less, Neirin glimpsed the scene briefly out of the corner of his eye.

Milo held a notepad and pen as he gave the boy what was as much of a smile as he could manage, greeting the two with a short flourish, though this was betrayed by his rigid tail, he only made eye contact with the woman briefly it seemed, before he remembered his etiquette; lowering his gaze and motioning from the notepad to the menu.

The woman tugged at the collar of the turtleneck she wore beneath her jacket, her hazel eyes flicking to the menu for but a moment. Her answer was soft, however, not impossible to make out over the establishment's noise. Yet the words themselves seemed forced. The smell of smoke filled Neirin's nostrils.

“A coffee a-and…the Chili c-con…carne." The coyote had it written down before she had finished. The child had much less difficulty in comparison. Milo took a deep breath.

“…Hash brown and chicken…and coke, I guess." Milo affirmed the boy's words with a nod as he jotted it down, then pointed his thumb towards the kitchen followed by a flashing of four and five – his way of saying he would have their food in forty five minutes - on the digits of his paws. The canid morph whipped back around, his scraggly tail passing above the table, and walked towards the kitchen at a quicker pace. The boy stuck his thumb and forefinger into an 'L' shape and aimed it at the coyote's head.

Neirin was tense, his hands were clenched into fists just as the abrasive voice of an older patron (likely the one whose meal Milo had cremated) shook his senses.

“This is why you don't let a goddamned coyot cook!" Looking over his shoulder at the morph, a vacant expression crept over Neirin's features before he looked away and trod swiftly into the hall.

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 slammed the door shut and miserably brushed his ink-hued bangs out of his eyes, his breath 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, the liquor in his system wouldn't have given him the luxury. The streets were mostly empty and silent other than the occasional morph or pedestrian, 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 dark. 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, or at least that was the case Neirin pondered.

Yet as 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 around slowly to face the entrance again – nothing. Until Neirin 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 Booker. Whenever he ambled up to the place, past the old beige cutlass ciera that used to belong to his old man, he felt a sense of ease and took his keys from his jacket pocket.

Closing the distance, Neirin slid his house key into the lock with a click and 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 illuminating 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 to fetch a pack of pomegranate seeds, Neirin planted himself at his study and popped a single seed into his gullet 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.

'Ruins of a tribal morph society in the former reserve' He typed into the search engine and was presented by a slew of results; a couple (now defunct) from when the area was still a preserve along with some real estate pages for the town that had taken shape next to the strand – something that was of little concern to Neirin. Fakahatchee flora…Abandoned village of alleged morph tribe discovered in-…no, that's old news…beth yw hyn...?

He brought the cursor to a particular Conch Herald article which caught his eye, dated September sixth 2005:

** '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 its defunct Neirin told himself as he scrolled down, skimming the words.

'…Perhaps the most recent and remarkable, yet controversial example is of the Maka, these morphs seemed to have lived possibly for years in somewhat of a hunter-gatherer society.' A mess of code prevented any further reading. Vexed, Neirin scrolled down to the next clear passage.

'…But the perplexing part comes when we examine what little evidence the scouting group brought back in '02 – Pottery and clay figures. Originally it was thought that only jaguar and wolf morphs made up this tribe.'

Wolves…jaguars…? Wild wolves are nearly unheard of in Florida, Jaguars too, the closest…normal…ones are found is Arizona…but morphs… Neirin took a breath as his thoughts trailed off and continued reading.

'…Turns out, there were also deer and rabbit morphs as well. Dr. Ardrey Raymond, Ph.D, of the Florida Natural History Museum has elaborated extensively on the relationship between the four species. In his report following the initial contact with the tribe a year earlier, he described such a relationship as a sort of symbiosis comparable to a farmer and his livestock. One can't help but wonder if this means that the morphs are more…human or not, but nothing can be said for sure, and likely won't now that the housing district went up. For those that aren't up to speed, the most recent news regarding these morphs concerned the relocation of the surviving jaguar morphs (which Raymond refers to as “clan Enapay" in his report) to Homestead. Believe it or not, they've found an owner – the Harris Estates associate who found the tribe two years ago. It's been completely silent since.'

Neirin paused.

“Enapay…in Homestead?" His voice was barely higher than a whisper as his mind processed what he had just read, not long ago did Neirin think this whole tale was but a fabrication or a farce, but now it dawned on him; a tribe of at least four different morphed species had been living in south Florida for who-knew-how-long – and to his astonishment, nobody had found out about their existence until the turn of the century.

Probably coincidence, I doubt this could be the same tribe in the news article. Maybe there was more than one? God, this is a job for a detective, not some washed up novelist from the panhandle.

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

'Page Not Found'

Neirin sunk back into his chair, his body slackened for a moment before he continued digging around on the archive. A quick look two 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 population 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 caught the corner of his eye, a single, solitary sentence:

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

I guess that answers my question.

He leaned back, head in his hands and eyes turned toward the ceiling.

The stillness remained for some time and Neirin could almost feel the usual thoughts intrusively, violently eating their way into his head; mercilessly suffocating what rationality lingered.

It's a waste of time… They whispered. There's nothing you can do…

Neirin caught his breath as the thoughts continued to seduce him, his body tensed.

They don't matter…no more than the ill-fated ones. 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. _

Suddenly, this stillness was shattered by the shrill tune of the Grande Valse, startling Neirin from his contemplative daze. Standing up and shuffling towards his jacket, he quickly shoved his hand into its pocket, snatched the Nokia 5110 within and put the handset's receiver to his ear with a sigh.

“Helô? Oh, Joseph…" Neirin failed to suppress a yawn from passing over his lips and started to amble over to one of the nearby stools, meaning to sit. “…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… Neirin thought, pulling the handset from his ear as he cocked his head, allowing himself to dwell on other things to shield himself from the portly publisher's rambling, unpreventable lecture.

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.

What the hell does it matter? Tomorrow will be spent indoors, at my desk - the same as the last six days; maybe a drink...or five on the weekends at most. Best to just focus on finishing the chapter; all that business with these morphs will only serve as a distraction.

“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 in its tone. “About what you showed me earlier. I looked into it and it was by a slim chance that I found anything at all." He ate another seed before he continued. “Because it seems like either very little information was released to begin with or there was a massive cover-up; good riddance too." Neirin explained, moving back to his desk. “That aside, I should probably continue on that chapter of mine…always nice to hear from you; old bastard." He scarcely managed to suppress a chuckle before taking off the mask, as he liked to call it.

“Goodnight."

With that Neirin placed the Nokia down onto the desk as his old friend, the silence; returned once more. He leaned back and reached for a third pomegranate seed before returning his attention to his computer, bringing up the document and briefly looking upon its title.

** 'The Chronicles of Eoghan'**

** By **

** Ashton Hill**

** Chapter IV: The Chieftess and the Nobleman**

The chapter was about a third of the way done.

Hour after hour ticked away, Neirin had made a frustratingly low amount of progress that evening. While he could get the words out, they were yet again largely inert - failing to evoke the mental images and sensations that the man so yearned to shape. But above all, what seemed to impair the storyteller most was that his mind betrayed him, it refused to concentrate on the piece, plagued by the creeping, unwelcome thoughts that had been filling his mind ever since he had left the cafe.

“Curiosity...quite a bitch." He muttered, intending initially to give the backspace key a few taps, he ended up holding it; deleting the work he had spent the last few hours meticulously crafting, feeling that it wouldn't contribute to – or even hurt – the overall piece. His typing ceased and a hand made its way to his forehead as the wordsmith contemplated his vexation.

His thoughts snuck back to those damned articles he had read, to the photograph of that vase and the images upon its surface. The existence of a morph tribe and this clan by the name of 'Enapay', it was such an oddity to him; that such a group of morphs could exist in this day and age. It was at that moment that a simple truth occurred to the man – if he just disregarded what little information he found and forgotten it, he would most likely never come upon such a curious scenario again. It was that thought that made him quietly yearn for more.

Neirin opened the browser a second time and once again typed that same phrase into the search engine: 'Ruins of a tribal morph society found in former reserve'

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

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

*'Morph clan Enapay' *

Once again – naught but what Neirin read already. This can't be all there is He thought. 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 return to his writing, defeated. But as Neirin was about to bring the document up; he paused. Silently, he sat there staring at the nearby window, but he did not look upon the night-cloaked landscape of the parking lot – he looked into the brownish eyes of his own reflection. Even with shadows falling 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, as though his very spirit had long been crushed.

His mind was afflicted with countless doubts and regrets. Neirin grasped his phone and inhaled softly. If that was all he could learn from home, then he was going to change that.

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 inhaled again but this time, it came out as a silent laughter, his shoulders shaking and his eyes blinking. With a cough, the man recovered his composure.

“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. I'll have more of a catalyst to spur it. And 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 gasped sharply and exhaled with a fearful whimper, his heart was pounding intensely, his right arm lashed out frantically, intent on striking an assailant that never was. Then he awoke and lay there, blinking and panting rapidly under his breath. His form was covered in sweat.

Gradually, Neirin's breathing calmed and his heart rate returned to normal. He 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 that had flooded the apartment, he turned to look at the watch that sat upon his nightstand. It was Midday.

The man didn't waste any time getting out of bed, nor with cleaning up or any particularly mundane activities that need not be explained. 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 – mostly hygienic supplies, an extra pair of shoes, and a flashlight. 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 for a moment, an unexpected feeling, but welcome, none the less.

Neirin was in the process of slipping his computer into a laptop bag, along with its charger (after having printed out directions) when 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, polite but somewhat gravelly with a slight southern drawl. He had to be in his late thirties, or at least from what the man could tell.

“That's me." Neirin glanced at the older man's nametag as he was handed a clipboard, which was quickly signed, only stopping 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. Can you still feel 'em?"

“Haven't in two years." He 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 nodded, thanking him silently as he slid his door shut. Letting himself rest against it, Neirin gave the envelope a look. It was sent by one Aeres Kellen.

Why can't they just leave me be.

It was quickly tossed into the bin. Maybe she would have had something useful or genuine to say this time. In all honestly, he wished he could have just politely handed it back to the postman as soon as it was given.

_Oh well. _

Once everything was packed, Neirin slipped his trench coat on and made his way out into the near blinding daylight, taking a moment to lock the door as he slid it shut. Pensacola – or at least the apartments, looked quite flattering in the daylight, and the man couldn't help but appreciate it as his hand returned to the handle of his suitcase.

Neirin took a stride out towards his car, one bag tossed on his shoulder while he pulled his suitcase from behind. Although he did his best to keep the homely, beige Olds in decent condition, the car had still taken its fair share of abuse, as evidenced by the dents in the right rear door and the warped front fender. He popped the boot open and hefted his suitcase in, not a moment later he pulled the driver's door open with a click.

The Welshman tossed the laptop bag on the backseat floorboard; sliding into the driver's seat and pulling the door shut. Directions in hand, he started the Oldsmobile's ignition; its four cylinder engine rattling to life. Looking in his rear-view mirror, Neirin took a breath as he backed out, once the lot was clear enough, eventually pulling onto North Warrington road; from there he travelled westward. Neirin leaned back into the seat, letting himself relax a little as he went either between focusing on the road and studying his directions.

Once out of Pensacola, he passed through Pace along Woodbine road and nearly ran over a stray morphed feline, who responded with a chilling hiss – as he turned onto the Spanish Trail; which cut through the farmland. Neirin stopped only briefly at a rest area just outside of Crestview for a bite to eat, before continuing on the I-10, past Ponce De Leon; the farmland gradually receded, replaced by lush forest against the backdrop of the setting sun.

Neirin found himself passing close by the state capital. Tallahassee was a bustle of activity. People walked the streets in droves, and many of its towering buildings were lit up like holiday trees, visible even in the dark of night. In the distance, the moan of buses and the occasional wail of sirens could be heard. The wretched stench of sewage punctured its way into the interior of the car, he raised an arm to shield himself from the scent, only to be startled by the hum of a passing lorry. Three more hours and he pulled onto the I-75 corridor, starting south.

Rain began rapping upon the windscreen echoed by the rumbling thunder in the night sky. Neirin was just pulling out past Gainesville after a cursory stop for petrol in Lake City. Rapidly though, the light mist swelled into a great squall. Within minutes, the motorway might as well have been coated with a layer of black ice. With a piercing screech Neirin, in his exhaustion, almost lost control. The headlights from oncoming cars – near blinding. Once he regained traction, Neirin continued on, passing by the Villages and into the Orlando area not long after.

It wasn't until he was just past Kissimmee when the Welshman briefly glimpsed Orlando – its buildings lit and seeming to glow in the heavy rain, some with advertisements projected onto them (a noteworthy one featured a scantily clad, snooty poodle morph; a fancy streamlined DCIR collar hung about her neck), its streets filled with traffic, even at this hour. Neirin turned his attention back to the motorway. The only sounds were the swishing of the wipers along with the hum of the engine, the whoosh of passing cars with the occasional snarl of a motorbike and the pitter-patter of rain backed up by booming thunder.

He passed by the tilled fields of Whitter, only the steeple of its church faintly visible in the darkness. A few beams of light breaking through the wall of trees ran parallel with the turnpike. So far, the trip seems to be going smoothly Neirin thought as he took a hard left, then a right in the direction of Port St. Lucie.

Up ahead the squealing of tires could be heard. Panicking, Neirin jammed the brakes and gasped. The guardrail to the right was suddenly alight with sparks in a fleeting moment before the road ahead went dark again; save for the swerving beams of tail lights. The street was illuminated with sparks yet again. One of the front tires of a red mustang about three cars ahead had burst and the vehicle veered to the right; Grazing against the fender of the SUV behind it which began to go into a spin before whoever was at the wheel applied the brakes, yet the larger motorcar slammed into the mustang's rear end.

The authorities had arrived shortly after. Like a hardened vein, the flow of traffic was halted for what seemed like an age with no end in sight. Vexed at the tumultuous display, Neirin turned to look back and put the Olds in reverse. Backing up a foot once the coast was clear, he steered the car off to the side of the motorway, beneath a small overpass, and cut the ignition off. _May as well. _The man struggled to keep his eyes open and weakly unlatched his seatbelt; sliding into the back seats. He stretched and made himself comfortable, pulling his boilerman cap over his face and letting his eyes slip shut. The sounds of passing traffic and the musty scent of the Cutlass Ciera's interior helped lull him into as close to a fitful rest as was possible.

An abrupt rapping upon the back window jolted Neirin back into the waking world, his gaze darting around as the man sat up and pulled his cap off; he immediately noticed – apart from the glaring daylight – that the rain had passed, leaving the Florida landscape looking as lush as one would expect. This reverie was cut short by more rapping.

Neirin tensed and turned to briefly face a highway patrol officer whose hardened features were obscured by a pair of thick shades and a campaign hat. Straightening his back, Neirin reached over to crank the window down; the sounds of passing vehicles and the scent of burning fuel greeting the man's senses before he slid back to put more distance between himself and the officer.

“Is there a problem?" She asked

Neirin raised an eyebrow, to be fair he was parked just on the side of the motorway near Fort Pierce, passed out until presently.

“No problem officer. W-what time is it?"

The officer – a corporal from what Neirin could see of the double chevrons on the left sleeve of her beige coloured uniform – stepped back to gaze down at her watch.

“Eight in the morning." Boredom was evident in her voice, which betrayed the air of professionalism she otherwise had. Neirin climbed back into the driver's seat and started the ignition. Immediately, the officer had a hand clasped to her belt.

“Cut your engine off!" All it took was a nudge on the accelerator, and he would be off before she could do much about it. However, he did as he was told with a healthy amount of caution and opened the front window.

“Mind telling me what you're doing parked on the side of the turnpike? Waiting for someone? Dealing drugs?" The boredom had retreated and in its place was a creeping note of suspicion. Now you've done it. He thought to himself. _ _

Neirin kept his gaze straight ahead, avoiding eye contact, his heart palpitations had quickened with unease and there was a knot in his throat just before he could speak.

“The accident last night halted traffic for hours, I assume you know of it officer…?"

“Crane."

“I've not broken any laws. I was driving on the motorway for hours; so I decided to pull over and rest a tad."

The officer gave a nod in understanding before crossing her arms.

“May I see your license and registration?" The tone of her voice carried suspicion still, now no longer creeping, but piercing.

Reluctantly, Neirin reached over to open the glove box and fished out the registration form. Then into his jacket, withdrawing the old leather wallet from within, its skin-covered surface cracked, torn and stained; he scanned the various pouches, eventually plucking the laminated card from the middle and handed both to the officer, who retreated to presumably run them through. However that did little to put Neirin at ease. Ten minutes later, she returned to the window.

“Everything seems to check out."

Neirin shifted until his side was nearly pressed against the center console. Something about her frightened him and yet he tried his best to remain calm as relief gradually began to take him.

“Alright…I would like to reach Homestead by nightfall." A deafening silence followed, for what may have been nearly a minute went by without a word.

“Why the hurry, Mr. Booker?" she handed his license back, along with the form. Neirin shook his head as he stowed them both away.

He quickly bit his tongue. Even with the specs covering her eyes, Neirin could feel the officer's glare focused on him. “Listen Ms. Crane, I know my rights and as I've said before, I've not done anything wrong. “ Was the fear evident in his eyes? The man wasn't sure and nor did he care.

“If you think I have drugs, you can search this car inside and out and you won't find a single thing. S-So unless you've got a good reason for holding me up…I would like to be on my way." His voice was almost as calm as a diplomat, albeit one that was on-edge.

“Now, am I free to go?"

The officer hesitated for a moment.

“You're clean…just be careful about where you choose to sleep next time; there have been cases of aggravated assault, manslaughter and murder in these parts…and it's hot as hell today."

Still a bit nervous, Neirin sparked the ignition, the Oldsmobile once again coming alive with that brief rattle which settled into a hum.

“You don't know what hell is…" His accent-laden voice was soft. Cranking the window back up and strapping himself in, the young writer eased onto the accelerator. He was close now, by a few mere miles. Pulling back onto the motorway once a space in the traffic presented itself, Neirin continued in the direction of Homestead.

Perhaps then, the questions that had lured him this far south would be answered.