Wilson tucked his head down, curled in a little ball in the far back corner of the truck. He kept his ears erect and listening for every little sound. The low hum of the engine buzzed for hours, the city they lived in was rather far from the shore. 

    The tires screeched to a halt. Wilson looked in the direction he thought the door was, hoping this was just another night terror. He heard male voices bicker about something as the crate lifted. He yelped as it dropped about ten feet. For a moment, he jumped to the conclusion that the isle was just a myth and they had just dropped him into the ocean and left to drown or starve to death. But, he heard a loud clunk and another engine starting up, then water splashing. It made sense, the isle was- well, an island, so they must’ve been on a boat. 

    After over an hour later, the cold seaspray had lowered the temperature of the trailer, causing the serval to shiver. The water in this area was frigid all times of year, and the surrounding air was no better. In the summer, it felt nice, the heat from the land vaporizing the cold water right off you, but in a dark tailor with no heating, the sound of teeth chattering was deafening. 

   The boat slammed into something, Wilson stumbling forward, having fallen asleep for a little while. He once again heard shouting and footsteps all around him, the trailer being lifted again as well. It hit the ground with a thud, blinding light being let in as the door was swung open. Before his eyes could adjust, he was grabbed by two large mammals and dragged out by his cuffed arms. The mid-afternoon sun shone right in his face as he was once again patted down, had his handcuffs checked, then hooked the chain to a rack and clipped his claws down to a dull nub. It all happened so fast, he barely had time to process what just happened, and the sudden light hurting his eyes was not helping. As soon as they did finally adjust, he caught a glimpse of Springer being dragged out as well and going through the same process before he was dropped off of a twenty-thirty-ish foot wall. He flailed, slamming into the ground with a hard thud. Wilson groaned, unable to move his legs, scaring him awake. He righted himself and sat up, clutching his head in his hands. He could hear Springer still trying to reason and plead, right before he was dropped as well. 

    “…ooow.” he groaned, landing right where Wilson would’ve been had he not moved. 

    “Are you okay?” the serval asked, standing on his knees.

    “Yeah. Agh, you?” Springer grunted, righting himself as well. They glanced around, Springer gazing upward at the wall they had just been pushed off of. The area reminded him of old-fashioned Arabian layouts, old wooden posts and supports, threadbear cloth hanging and blowing in the wind, the sand-colored walls and ground, and everything smelled like dust. 

    “We have to get these cuffs off.” Wilson stated, just as a crowbar was tossed right in front of them. The sound startled Springer, whose back was turned, and he nearly tripped over his own leg to get away. They stared into the darkness for a moment, Springer’s ear rotating towards Wilson for any comment. 

    “Well, well, I gots me a couple o’ newcomers, eh? Heh.” a gruff southern voice called from the shadows of one of the huts. A dark face emerged, a cross fox wearing a ratty T-shirt and shorts, but a neatly-kept cowboy hat sat upon his head. Bright orange eyes bore through the black fur on his face and right into Springer’s soul. He knelt down to pick up the crowbar, keeping them both in his line of sight as he did so, then used it to prop himself up. 

    “You boys need a hand getting’ them there things off?” he asked, nodding to the handcuffs, “Don’t worry, boys. I ain’t gon’ hurt cha, haha, I ain’t got no reason to.” he smirked. He sounded much older, 50’s maybe? Springer turned to look at Wilson, as if asking him what he thought. Wilson shrugged and shook his head like, “why are you looking at me?” 

    “The name’s Mac, but y’all call me Crosshatch. C’mon back and introduce yourselves, I’ll get cha’ taken care of.” the fox turned and stepped back into the dark, Springer stepping forward to follow him.

    “What the hell are you doing?” Wilson stopped him by stepping in front of him. 

    “Look, if we get these cuffs off, it’ll be easier to run.” Springer stepped to the side, Wilson stopping him.

    “How do you know he's actually gonna take them off?” Wilson argued.

    “Y’all want them things off ‘er not?” Crosshatch called from the hut, Springer stepping off and waltzing right in. Wilson scoffed, standing there like he was lost. One one hand, if he didn’t go in, that moron would be an easier target. On the other, he didn’t know if there were others in there, and they’d both be screwed. He growled to himself and charged right in, finding it to be surprisingly lit in there. He bared his fangs, expecting a fight, but all he saw was the golden hare rubbing his freed wrists and Crosshatch leaning over bulb cutters that were welded to the side of an anvil. The fox turned to him, smirking. 

    “Welp, your turn.” the fox said, a piece of a type of weed, ironically called a foxtail, hanging out of his mouth like in the western movies. Wilson stood there, eyes switching between him, the bulb cutters, and Springer. This was somehow worse than what he was expecting. Crosshatch tuned to Springer. 

    “Skittish, this one, eh?” he chuffed, Springer shrugging. They finally coaxed the serval into getting his cuffs removed, and conversation ensued. 

    “So, what’re you boys in f’r?” the fox asked, leaning on his wall.

    “A false arson charge.” Springer said bluntly.

    “Springer!” Wilson hissed.

    “What? What’s he gonna do with that information?” 

    “I have a question for you;” Wilson stared directly at Crosshatch, who cocked an eyebrow, “why did you help us? What do you gain from this?” he questioned. 

    “Do you know how I keep myself alive? I gotta trade for food ‘n weapons, you know how I got stuff to trade?” he stood up, “It probably answers your next question, too. See that pot?” he pointed to an old steel soup pan, “I stole it. That table? Stole it. This bike helmet here? Stole it, and I don’t even own a bike. I just thought it was perdy.” he chirped. 

    “So you’re a thief? Why not just steal food?” Wilson pestered.

    “If there’s anything ‘ere that’s guarded, it’s food. Too risky to try it, it’s better to just trade what I steal. Speakin’ o’ which,” he said, pulling back one of the tarps and gazing out at the old cityscape, “a lotta what I take is from one particular place, all scattered out in a junkyard. The guy who owns it is one of the most feared leaders in the isle;” he paused, gazing out the wooden window frame, “Sylvester Sterling, leader of White Fang.” he looked back over his shoulder at them, bearing his teeth in a knowing grin. 

    “Oh, yeah, that’s great.” Wilson remarked, “and here I was worried it’d be something intimidating, like, uh… Dave. Or.. or Mike.” he hissed. 

    “The junkyard is on the outskirts o’ his turf, I’ve been taking from him for almost as long as I been here. I need you two to help me carry out more loot, things been gettin’ more pricey nowadays. Half a loaf o’ stale bread used to cost a dozen ‘er so screws, now it’s almost a truck’s worth ‘f em.” Crosshatch scratched his chin. 

    “If this guy’s so feared, then why are we robbing him?” Wilson questioned. 

    “Aha! Because he’s so feared, no one else goes near his border, let alone on his territory. There ‘r some very valuable things in ‘nare. I found this gold earring in there a couple years ago.” he tilted his head, showing a gold stick earring that had been covered by his hat. 

    “Anyway, if we’re gonna go, we gotta go now!” he prepared to jump out the window that had been covered by the cloth, but Wilson protested.

    “No!” he said sharply, stopping the fox, “We’re not helping you! This could get us all killed! We’re leaving. Springer, come on.” The serval nudged the hare to the door. 

    “Where you gon’ go?” Crosshatch chuffed smugly, “You donno anyone else ‘ere, y’all ‘ll be picked off faster than a mouse in a cage with three starvin’ dogs. I can gitchu’ weapons, shelter, we’re safer in a pack. I could’ve killed y’all the second I seen ya. You ain’t got nowhere else ta’ go.” He smirked, Wilson growled to himself. The bastard was right. 

    “All I ask is a few helpin’ hands. Tell ya what, you can keep any three- five things outta your haul. The rest goes to trade.” the fox offered. 

    “Wilson,” Springer touched his shoulder.

    “What?” he snapped. 

    “He's right, you know he’s right. He’ll give us a bed, and food. C’mon, don’t do this.” Springer pleaded, the serval grit his teeth.

    “…fine.” he muttered, Springer playfully punching his shoulder, way too excited for what was happening. The ignorant fool had no idea what was really going on, did he?  

    “Alright, let’s go!” he cheered, following Crosshatch out the window. 

    “Idiot.” Wilson murmured, then followed as well. 

---

    “So, what are we looking for?” Springer asked.

    “Anything valuable.” Crosshatch said, dropping a few marbles into a bag. Wilson muttered to himself, the sunsetty sky reflecting off of the metal junk. Why did he let them talk him into this? He just grabbed random things and dropped them into the bag. His muttering ceased when he thought he heard a different voice from the two southern accents he’d been shadowing. 

    “Springer,” he whispered, the hare having left his side while he was looking for trinkets.

    “Springer?” he looked around in a mild panic, backing out of the cavern of junk he’d been cornered into. 

    “Hello- AH!” he yelped as he was grabbed and pulled underneath a broken part of the fence. 

    “Shh! We got company.” Crosshatch whispered, covering his mouth. Wilson’s back was pressed against Springer’s as he clutched his loot bag. 

    “Who’s out here?!” a harsh voice demanded, the shadow of a very muscular figure snaked its way over the pile Wilson had been standing next to before. A huge mountain lion clutching a catcher rod in his massive hands emerged from the junk. Other shadows followed him, other members of the feline family also holding the rods. 

   “They must be on patrol.” Wilson thought, “We must be down wind.” Crosshatch picked up a little piece of something and threw it across the junk pile, the patrol group immediately chasing the sound it made away from the boys.

   “Run.” Crosshatch whispered, exploding out of that hole and sprinting out to the streat. Following them, shouting was heard from behind, Wilson turned a sharp corner, catching a glimpse of that mountain lion down on all fours with the rod strapped to his back. Crosshatch whistled sharply, getting their attention to the rooftop of a building, leading them up a make-shift staircase formed out of wooden crates. Springer and Wilson hobbled up the stairs, Crosshatch shouting something as they climbed up to the top of the building, then pushing another crate off the roof and letting it crash down into the others, toppling the staircase and knocking off the mountain lion. 

   “Keep going, keep going, run!” Crosshatch ushered them back down the side of the wall, and they made a run for it back to Crosshatch’s little camp, the creates falling over stalling long enough for them to completely cover their tracks. That mountain lion and his posse darted around the corner to where they would have been, but there was nothing but an empty street.  

   “DAMMIT!” he shouted, slamming his fist into the wall of a building, cracking the stucco and cement it was made out of, breathing heavily.

---

   “C’mon, hurry.” Crosshatch ushered them into his hut, “y’all okay?” 

   “Yeah, totally fine.” Wilson breathed, leaning over his knees and panting heavily. 

   “You kept your haul?” Crosshatch observed, staring at the bag Springer held. 

   “Oh, yeah. I guess I did.” he smiled, setting it down and letting the contents of it spill out. 

   “Nice, but it’s not enough. We gotta go back tomorrow.” Crosshatch knelt to examine the objects, a few glass things, mostly metal scrap pieces. 

   “I’m sorry, what?” Wilson interjected.

   “We gotta go back. This is better than nothin’ but it ain’t enough. I gotta lot o’ debt on my back, and if y’all wanna keep them little cots to sleep on, you’ll help.” the fox narrowed his eyes, making it clear he was not asking, “You’re already in this, they know both o’ you now. If they see you again, they’ll kill you. Y’all need me now. We go back tomorrow.” he lowered his tone to a growl. Wilson’s ears pinned and his expression was almost offended, but then sighed and slightly nodded. 

   “Good. Here, eat.” he handed them both a little piece of bread.

   “Where does this food come from?” Springer asked, taking a bite out of the chunk of sourdough. 

   “No idea. I do know there ‘r growers ‘ere, but I ain’t never seen one. There oughta be farms ‘r somethin’. It’s not like they feed us.” Crosshatch said, “Y’all oughta rest, we’re leavin’ early.” he said, pulling out two cots, then laying an old blanket on the dirt and lying on the ground. 

   “You don’t want a cot?” Springer sat on one of them, Crosshatch shaking his head.

   “Nah, I sleep on the ground anyway.” the fox remarked, keeping his eyes closed. Springer shrugged, then lied down on the cot, tucking his ears down along his neck. Wilson sighed through his nose, then rested his head down as well, just gazing into the darkening sky exposed from the door. How fun, another night of restless anguish. 

---

   “Sir?” a gruff, yet timid voice squeaked. A very muscular mountain lion poked his head in the door to his boss’s office. It was dark, the sun had set enough to the point where there was no natural light in the room since the boss prefered the dark, so the room was dimly lit by oil lanterns. The musty smell of soot and iron-rich blood from the boss’s supper combined with the humid air filled his nostrils. It was dark, even for a mountain lion, he could only see the rough shadow of his boss, the window that sat behind his boss and allowed light in was covered with opaque blinds, forbidding the little moon light from entering. 

   “What is it, Axle?” a rich british accent with a slight impatient snarl tracing through it responded. His bright, silver irises reflected the little light in the room and cut through the darkness like a knife. 

   “I have… u-unfortunate news. That fox, Mac, he was taking from the yard again, sir.” Axle hung his head and twiddled his fingers. There was silence for a moment, then a long, deep inhale hissed through the quiet. A deafening bang snapped through the room as the boss slammed his fist onto his desk. 

   “Find. him.” he growled, the silver orbs narrowing to slits, the orange light that showed through the darkness illuminating his large fangs that were still stained crimson from his meal as he curled up his lip in a snarl. 

   “S-Sir, there were two others with him this time.” Axle squeaked, his ears flattened against his head as he avoided eye contact. He felt his throat knot as he saw the shadow of his boss stand up, his gaze never breaking off of the big cat. 

   “Post more guards out, tell them if they leave, I’ll see to it personally that they shall end up on a silver platter covered in gravy. Bring those miscreants to me, alive. I have a message that I’d like to share with Mac.” he hissed, venom dripping from his words as he sat back down, “Is that all?” He lowered his tone to a more calm and gentle one, licking the bloody juices off his lips. 

   “Y-Yes, sir.” the lion choked, keeping his head down. 

   “Good. Now, get out.” he ordered, Axle nodding and hastily turning to leave the room. 

   “Axle,” he called, the lion turning back. 

   “Yes, sir?”

   “Bring Envar with you.”