It was still dark when, half-dead and half-drowned, Jett dragged her battered body from the canal. Heaving herself up onto the hard-mud embankment of a service access warren, she mustered the strength to tear herself from the flow and collapse in a limp, sodden heap. For what felt like forever all she could do was lie there shivering and sobbing, her adrenaline ravaged frame with nothing more to give, hacking up mouthfuls of water as she tried to clear her lungs.

Eventually she clawed her way up the bank and slumped into a sitting position against the tunnel wall, letting out a strangled howl of agony. Her clothes were soaked and ripped, her body a mess of bruises and blood. Gingerly she checked her right footpaw, wincing at the jolt of pain her touch brought. Between the beating she'd taken at the claws of the wolfkin and the pounding current of the canal every inch of her body ached.

But she wasn't dead.

Not yet at any rate. For the first time since her panicked flight from the warehouse Jett attempted to slow her mind and process the whirl of events that had washed her up here. Her first thought was of pursuit, but she scented nothing untoward in the twilight air. Hopefully the fast-flowing water of the canal would have masked her from the trackers, sweeping her away from the local district before they could catch a trace.

That gave her time to think. But that dragged her mind back to that hallway, reliving the instant the light had left Tyr's eyes. The blood; the shock. By the Savage Fire, why did he have to come out there with her? Maybe if she'd just looked at what she'd been paid to hack they never would have gone to that damned warrenary. They could've abandoned the whole thing, just gone back to their lives, getting by, alive and together.

But no. She'd wanted more. Was that so bad, to want something better?

Maybe. If she'd just accepted her lot in life and not been seduced by the barkstamps on offer Try would still be alive.

No!

A different part of her came surging to the front of her mind, and it boiled with rage. She hadn't killed anyone. She did a job – nothing more. This was not her fault. She was not a murderer. She was the victim. The anger dug its claws in deep the more she repeated that thought to herself, driving it into her mind like a devotion to the Great Peace itself.

Not my fault.

But what to do now? She had no idea what the block-drive had contained and it was gone now, either stolen or destroyed by the wolfkin who'd invaded her workshop. All she could say with certainty was that whatever it was climbed all the way to the top echelons of Wildhearth's government. The wolfkin enforcers did not sully themselves with normal crime – that was the job of their vulkin comrades in the watchguard packs. Those killers only got involved with matters of high security.

Now she needed to figure out what to do about the unholy mess she'd stuck her paws in. Wolfkin security meant politics and politics meant the Conclave of Accord – the city's council chamber right at the centre of Wildhearth's ever-sprawling mass. Wolfkin representatives held the largest number of seats, and the current High Alpha was a wolfkin too. Their influence seeped into every crevice of Wildhearth's government. If their lapdogs were running around killing kin in the districts, she could make a safe bet that whatever the block-drive had contained would look very, very bad for the city's ruling party.

There was always the chance that the wolfkin would move on and forget about her, but somehow Jett doubted her luck would run that way. If she wanted to keep herself safe, she needed to find out just how deep this thing went, and what exactly the wolfkin enforcers thought she knew.

Slowly massaging her swollen joint, she looked around. Where in fangs had she ended up? The canals ran through virtually the entire city so she could have washed up anywhere. She needed to get up to the surface and get her bearings before she could plan her next steps. Taking a tight grip of the joint she tensed, bracing herself for the pain that was coming.

In a sharp motion she twisted her footpaw back into place with a sickening crack, closely followed by a half-stifled yowl. She sat there for a moment, eyes clamped shut and rocking back and forth until the pain subsided enough for her to formulate a thought. Then gingerly she used the wall for support and eased her way up onto her paws again. She tested her weight a few times and exhaled a long breath. It still hurt, but she could hobble well enough.

She limped along to an access door it the tunnel wall. Only really used by structural engineers running routine checks they were seldom kept locked, and sure enough when she pulled the handle it swung open, revealing a gloomy dark-wood staircase beyond.

"Brilliant," she sighed. Grimacing with every other step, she made her way up several flights within the canal wall, the smell of damp mud, moss and the chemical varnish to stop woodrot filling her nostrils. As she ascended towards street level she could hear the hissing grumble of the tram-carrier engines and the grind of their wheels on the metal rails. The rushing of water in the canal was gradually replaced by the clang and clamour of heavy machinery. Her nose twitched as she smelled fumes of burning coal.

Jett frowned. There was nothing like that in her district. She must've been tossed pretty far by the canal flow. On the one hand it decreased the odds that the wolfkin had any idea where she was, but on the other it meant she had a long, long way to get home.

And she needed to get home. She needed to see her family – to tell them what had happened to her and to Tyr – to warn them, before she went into hiding. She couldn't say how far the wolfkin would be willing to go to find her, but only an idiot would assume they lacked the resources to figure out who she was once they'd found her place of work. From there it would be a simple matter for a group with access to virtually limitless resources to track down her next of kin.

Struggling her way up last few staircases she stopped at the door, waiting and listening to the crescendo of noise from the other side. She glanced down at her torn, bedraggled appearance and shook her head grimly. She was in one hell of a state, almost guaranteed to draw attention, but there weren't exactly a lot of options right now.

Bracing herself and patting down her sodden, ripped clothes as best she could, Jett heaved the street access door open and stepped into twilight of rising dawn. The city still dozed, sunlight only just creeping its first tendrils over the horizon. She emerged out of the access tunnel into what looked like a bank-side factory complex, with angular dark stone structures climbing up on all sides. Chimney stacks seeped smoke into the air and she could smell molten metal.

That gave her a reference point, and a measure of calm. The canal had swept her three districts away from her home, into one of Wildhearth's heavy forge quarters, largely populated by packs of industrious beaverkin and quillkin. Raw materials flooded to these places where they were melted down and refined into whatever the city required. Those parts flooded back out across Wildhearth in a constant churn of industry.

Head down and paws in digging into the damp fabric of her kilt, Jett began her slow, lopsided trudge through the factories, knowing she needed to take things one step at a time. First: money. The twenty-five thousand up front payment for her ill-fated job was still in the workshop – inaccessible for now, and not wanting to risk accessing her own stamphold, she needed to find some other less legal means of scraping some funds together. That meant finding a barkholder and working some Jett magic. Second: a change of clothes. Once she had some funds she there were bound to be some foxkin vendors she could find to replace her ragged attire.

Then after that she could get something to eat.

Her heart juddered as she passed a few of the factory workers on their way to the morning shift, but none of them paid her any heed, too embroiled in their own chattering conversations to notice a furtive foxkin in the shadows. Heavy-set beaverkin in blast-proof overalls trundled alongside spring-footed quillkin, their thick bushy tales sweeping up their backs – great climbers who could skitter through the factory gantries and walkways with ease.

She retraced their steps, making her way to the growing rise of voices that could only mean she was drawing closer to market and residential parts of the district. The low buzz of morning prickled her ears as the city slowly woke up, generators winding into life, shopfronts opening and tram-carriers beginning their trundling journeys criss-crossing from district to district.

Clearing the forest of steam-belching factories, she moved quickly and unobtrusively through the district's streets, following the flow of life. Unlike the raised foxkin denhouses of home, this district was clogged with elaborate architectural kaleidoscopes, level after level of hardwood homes rammed together like a cub's toy set. Quillkin flitted through the higher levels. With reckless abandon they shimmied up and down on clawholds built into the sheer building faces, and leaped from rope to rope dozens of feet overhead. Watching them made her feel a little queasy.

Tearing her eyes from the display Jett continued on, following a string of citykin moving in the opposite direction to the factories. More than one curious glance snagged on her bedraggled exterior, but in the growing hustle of the morning no one stopped her. Keeping out of the way of watchful eyes, she stuck to the dawn shadows until the flow of citizens reached this district's trademarket.

An air of familiarity washed over her at the sight. Although there were some shops and vendors she didn't recognise, all the trademarkets in the city followed a similar, sprawling layout, with a central hub for the heaviest paw-traffic and most sought after businesses, radiating outward as outlets grew more and more specialised. The bulk of this district's population seemed to be beaver and quillkin, but she saw the usual smattering of others, including the unmistakeable blotches of fiery orange-red foxkin fur moving through the crowds.

She also spotted a handful of vulkin guards and knew she needed to move fast. The normal folk might not have paid her haggard appearance much attention, but a sharp eyed watchguard would certainly take more of in interest.

It didn't take her long to find a barkholder in the trademarket. Immense barrel-like structures of solid metal, they jutted up out of the ground like pillars, a series of screens tucked into alcoves built into the outer wall. Filled with barkstamps, at a glance they might have seemed an easy mark for the less savoury residents of Wildhearth, but Jett knew how deeply anchored those reserves were, and just how strong the barkholders actually were. Anything powerful enough to blow a hole in one of the armoured barrels would probably blast a crater twenty feet across in the process.

Not exactly the calling card of the master thief.

But Jett didn't need explosives. Tucking herself into one of the alcoves, she set to work, claws rattling over the heavy keys below the screen. She had long since discovered an oversight in the security systems and kept that little nugget of information to herself for just such an emergency. She clacked in the ID code of a less-than-vigilant commerce technician which backdoored her into the security diagnostic system. Green letters shone on the black screen as she typed.

RUN:/SYSTEM.OVERVIEW
DISLAY:/FALSE.IDENT.LOG-BB12019
IDENTIFY:/ERROR.CODE.00001
RUN:/RETRIEVE.CACHE
DISPLAY:/ACC.BAL.1-50.
IDENTIFY:/ACC.HATCHPAW100193
RUN:/SEC.PROG.6781
EXECUTE:/ACCESS.EAC99999

And in that swift sequence she secured herself account access with the security override. Jealousy rubbed at her as she saw the hefty sum sitting in the account she'd chosen, but she needed to be smart. Just a few hundred barkstamps would be enough, and would unlikely be missed from the several hundred thousand currently held.

A couple of minutes later she was making her way across the trademarket, the pocket of her kilt clinking with newly acquired barkstamps. After a bit of hunting around she found a clothing bazaar that carried some foxkin stock. Paying the slightly bemused felkin shopkeeper, she left the place with her bloodied rags discarded. They were replaced by a dark blue body-wrap that fitted snugly from waist to throat, a short grey barkhide jacket with a hood and an asymmetric kilt of red-black tartan that slanted from left to right. With her white headfur combed down into its usual straight locks, she looked altogether more normal, even if she still desperately needed a bath.

Jett swept through a food stall on her way back to the thoroughfare, shovelling two spits of roasted ratmeat and a hunk of cheese, washed down with a mug of fresh muskbrew. The food steadied her heart and her nerves, injecting some much needed energy into her frame. She didn't feel tired, oddly enough, but maybe the sheer adrenaline shock of the preceding night hadn't worn off yet.

Clothed, fed and watered, she knew now it was time to go home. She made her way to the nearest thoroughfare tram-carrier station and with the last of the stolen barkstamps purchased a ticket home. Taking her place among the morning commuters, Jett closed her eyes. Her real journey had only just started.

*

The tram-carrier rolled into the drop station of her home district a few hours later – the sun rising high and nearing its midday zenith. The station itself was little more than two platforms on either side of the hulking cuboid, where the passengers would be disgorged in both directions, and she spilled out with them, her mind twisting with a cocktail of conflicting emotions. The stab of fear still lurked in her thoughts as she looked furtively around for any sign of the wolfkin watching the platforms for her possible return. A cursory scan of her surroundings found no hunters – if she was lucky they might think she'd drowned in the canal.

She joined the flow at a brisk pace, slipping and sliding her way between bodies with practised ease, now just aching to go home and see a friendly face again. Sweeping the hood back from from her head, she shook her thick white headfur free and tried to normalise her gait, not wanting to attract any unwanted attention. Step by step she steadied her breaths. Not long now. She just needed to get home. There she could rest, recuperate and plan her way out of this mess.

But when she entered her home district it became quickly apparent that something was very wrong.

Jett's stomach twisted with apprehension, as though she'd passed through some kind of invisible barrier. The normal hum of pleasant activity no longer filled the air, replaced by an undeniable sense of unease. Foxkin she passed spoke in hushed tones, gesturing with furtive paw flicks in the direction of her home.

She started running.

Faster and faster her footpaws slammed the hard-packed sidewalk as the last dregs of adrenaline surged through her veins, a terrible premonition driving her onward. Onlookers gasped as she hurtled past them, some shouting her name but she ignored them, desperate to reach home and praying that she would find everything as it should be.

That hope evaporated with crushing finality as she rounded the corner her spiral of homes and saw a cordon around her den, a dozen vulkin watchguards surrounding it and waving other citykin away. She spotted Bronco among them, his big frame hard to miss as he directed proceedings. Jett felt sick. It could only be the wolfkin.

Hellfangs, what have I done?

She didn't break stride, racing towards the guard cordon, already feeling a lump rising in her throat. Bronco spotted her just a few seconds too late, surging forward to try and catch here.

"Jett, no, wait!" he blurted, reaching out.

But she jinked around his clumsy grab and leaped onto the rope ladder, wrenching herself up paw over paw until she scrambled onto the landing. She heard Bronco still shouting; glanced down and saw him struggling in vain up the ladder behind her. Turning away she dove through the open door and went skidding down the entrance burrow.

She emerged into a nightmare.

The home she knew was a ruin, walls licked by flames, the kitchen and beds ruined and smashed, the central fire pit nothing more than a smouldering void in middle of the room. She took in a sharp breath, almost stunned by the visceral scent of blood and burnt flesh that washed over her. She stopped on the gantry, grabbing the rail with both paws as the full horror of the scene slammed home like a knife to the soul.

Strewn amongst the shattered debris of her home, were the bodies of her family. A choking whimper slipped out of her throat and for a moment she screwed her eyes shut against the reality of it. When she opened them again the bodies were still there. Her parents lay lifeless, pierced by strange ad hoc armbow bolts and lashed with claw and blade marks. Alia and Markus's broken frames were draped over their sleeping area, crimson staining the nest of pillows and sheets, their bodies a patchwork of wounds.

She almost threw up there and then. Her eyes watered, wide and unblinking as she stared, her stomach lurching, her hackles rising and tail curling sharply.

"Jett?"

Bronco's voice sounded distant and unreal. She blinked. Tears cascaded down her cheeks and her arms began to tremble. This was too much. Too, too much. Jett opened her mouth but couldn't get out a word, her throat choked with the pent up anguish of what she was looking at.

In the end she just clamped her paws over her eyes, silent sobs wracking her body as she tried to hold it together. The room seemed to sway for an instant, a sense of unreality seizing her. This just couldn't be real. One job, one botched deal and her whole world had imploded.

"Jett, you need to come with me," Bronco told her softly. "I'll get a guard to escort you down to the lawhouse – you'll be safe there. We'll get to the bottom of this, I promise you, but we'll need your help."

A gentle paw touched her shoulder. In that instant of contact Jett's mind churned through all the people that had made up her life, and the gut-hollowing knowledge that they would never touch her like that again.

There would be no more jokes, no more laughter, no more nights huddled round the hearth, no more mornings spent lazing in Tyr's arms or cooking breakfast with her mother. No more pleasure, no more friendship and no more love.

And it was then that she finally broke.

Jett collapsed to her knees and screamed. She screamed until her throat was raw; until she could no longer draw breath into her lungs. She screamed until her face was soaked with tears and her limbs ached; screamed until every piece of her grief had been poured out into the ruin of her home.

In one, single, impossible day the very sky had fallen in on her.