The ad was bizarre but straightforward enough.
Late fifties male seeks woman in twenties to manage large-scale dollhouse

• Candidate needs to maintain a household of eleven Real Dolls by tending to the daily wardrobe, grooming, and other needs of the dolls.
• Nothing inappropriate.
• $250 paid in cash at the end of every shift.

A lot of women would be put off by that ad, but not me. Let’s just say, I’ve seen some shit in my life. I was finally starting to dig myself out of a trash pile of childhood trauma by getting into a good college, when the reality of tuition fees set in. I needed a part-time job to stay afloat, and creepy sex doll man would have to be it.
I tried calling the number on the ad, but nobody picked up. A few minutes later I got a text asking my name, age, and times of availability. Another text later, I was asked to start at nine the following day. I was surprised at the ease of the interview, if you could even call it that, but I didn’t feel like questioning it. Whatever the guy’s deal was, that was his business, not mine. As long as he didn’t breach any boundaries and paid me on time, we’d get along just fine.
I wasn’t stupid, though. I called my cousin Ronnie and told him what was going on and where I’d be the next day. Ronnie sighed but didn’t question my decision. We grew up with the same shitty guardians, and he knew I could handle myself.
“Just be careful, Lu,” he said at the end of the call, “pack the bag, okay?”
“Of course, Ronnie,” I smiled into the phone, “I’ll be in touch if anything happens.”
‘The bag’ was a backpack of essentials for any kid that was unfortunate enough to grow up in a neighborhood like mine. My bag contained pepper spray, a swiss army knife, drinking water, a couple of protein bars, and a cheap disposable phone with Ronnie’s number saved in contacts. I hoped for the best but prepared for the worst. Always.
I was at the given address at exactly 9 o’clock the next morning.
The house was breathtaking. A tall, asymmetrical two-story with whitewash walls and a multifaceted roof. The windows were different sizes and shapes, the panes a charming baby blue with glass that sparkled like morning dew on grass. I walked up the cobblestone path, admiring the clean-cut lawn and tulip flower beds that lined the perimeter.
Maybe this won’t be so bad, I thought, climbing the porch steps.
I couldn’t find a doorbell, only a large bronze knocker designed to look like some sort of horned creature, possibly a bull. It was as though the sculptor had chosen to make the beast in man’s image, the result being a grotesque blend of the two. I banged the knocker three times and waited. Nothing happened. I tried again. No one came to the door. I pulled my phone from my back pocket just as it received a message from the Craigslist number.
Go inside. The girls are on the second floor.
Whatever you’re into, buddy, I thought as I pulled the door open and stepped inside.
The entrance hall was everything the exterior suggested. Polished hardwood floors shimmered like glaciers on a sunny day. A needlessly large chandelier descended from somewhere far above my head. Quaint antique hall cupboards and paintings of flower pots tied the look together. It was all meant to be quite lovely but something felt off. The interior seemed almost too precise, as though crafted after the idea of an old Victorian home. The passing of time generally implied a dash of ruggedness, and this place had none.
A large-scale dollhouse, I thought, remembering the ad with a slight shudder.
I clutched at the straps of my backpack, straining to hear any hint of life within the house. There was only the slight echo of my sneakers scraping across the floor as I crossed the hall on my way to the grand staircase.
I lingered before taking the first step. It wasn’t too late to turn around and find something less creepy to do. Sure, the pay was excellent, but my gut was telling me there was something very wrong with the house. Determination and a hint of curiosity argued with my better instincts and won.
I walked up the carpeted steps.
“Hello?” I called upon reaching the second floor. No answer.
To my left, a door stood open, revealing an old-school parlor room. I stalled before entering, realizing that the distant concept of eleven life-sized dolls had been far more agreeable than the actual sight of them.
What can I say? The dolls were exquisite in a vacant, detached sort of way. Someone had dressed them in a variety of colorful nightgowns and bathrobes. Some faced windows, others were seated around a coffee table. All were positioned in poses that were meant to look natural. Their size was that of your basic, petite woman, with some evident variation in the hip and breast departments. There were blondes with blue eyes, sultry brunettes, a redhead, African Americans, Asians, you name it. One even had rainbow-colored hair and blue lips.
“Louisa,” a soft voice interrupted my doll-induced trance.
My right hand instantly went for the pepper spray as I whirled around in one swift, jumpy motion.
“Jesus,” I muttered, slipping the spray back in place, “You scared me, lady.”
The owner of the voice was a tall, thin woman well into her fifties. She wore a long, red cardigan that she buttoned over a lilac turtleneck and a full-length, plaid skirt. The entire outfit was so hideous that I barely even registered the fact that the woman herself was attractive for her age. She had a very dignified sort of face, with a dainty nose and knowledgeable eyes. A good amount of thick, greying hair was tied back in a low ponytail.
“My apologies, Lousia,” the woman smiled politely, “I didn’t mean to scare you.”
“It’s Lu actually,” I mumbled, trying to compose myself.
“Nice to meet you, Lu,” the woman’s smile held, though her gaze sharpened, “My name is Mrs. Claymore and I am the mistress of Vanderley House.”
“First time I’ve been in a house with a name,” I replied, watching her face. Much like my surroundings, the woman carried herself in a manner of welcome, but it all felt a bit scripted.
“I believe my husband has given you the general gist of your duties here at Vanderley?”
“Well,” I surveyed the kinky mannequins lounging around the room, “The text messages mentioned I would have to watch the dolls.”
“Yes,” she spoke slowly as though addressing a small child, “You will be acting as the part-time manager of the household. In essence, you will be filling my shoes while I’m away.”
“I see,” I nodded, feeling uneasy.
For the next hour or so Mrs. Claymore took me around the house, showing me the different rooms and explaining my increasingly bizarre work tasks. Every morning, I was to change ‘the girls’ into their daytime outfits and carry them around the house, setting them up at their respective activities. I would learn the dolls’ names and activities from a chart. My shift would end around the time the so-called hygienist showed up to perform cleaning procedures on the dolls.
“If all that is clear,” Mrs. Claymore concluded, “I will leave you to your job.”
“Alright,” I nodded, struggling with my apprehensive feelings.
I let out a long breath as soon as Mrs. Claymore retreated downstairs. If ever there was a master at not asking questions, it was me. And yet, I had so many. Everything about Mrs. Claymore indicated that she was an intelligent, proper sort of woman, and I just couldn’t reconcile that image with the things she was saying. Was she unhinged? I half wished the husband had met me instead. A creepy old man with a sex doll fetish, while super gross, was something that I could understand and even turn a blind eye to. For the right amount of money, of course. But this? What the hell was this?
Walking back to the parlor room, I felt my resolve strengthen. Late morning sunshine spilled in through the sheer curtains, illuminating the dolls in a cool, gray light. Not a single speck of dust could be seen in the rays. The dead eyes of the dolls reflected my mood.
I studied the clipboard Mrs. Claymore had given me. It contained the aforementioned doll chart printed on a crisp, expensive-looking sheet of paper. Cynthia was the first doll on the list. With a flicker of dread, I stared at the tiny picture printed on the page. The photograph, while small and a little blurry, was clearly of a real person, not a doll. It showed a pretty redhead somewhere outside, with locks of hair lifted by a gust of wind.
I scanned the room, quickly locating Cynthia in a nearby armchair. The resemblance to the person in the picture was uncanny. I walked up to the doll and stared at her face, reaching out a hand to graze a cheek with my fingers. She was definitely a doll, not a person. Even so, the fact that her image was molded after a human being felt all sorts of wrong. I turned my attention back to the chart:

• Cynthia - 21 y.o. - 5′7″/122lbs. - Biochemistry student - Plays violin - 11:00 AM violin lesson in drawing room - 12:30 quiet reading time in study;

What an oddly specific type of girl. Hardly your average boner inducer. Scanning the other five entries on the page disturbed me more than I could say.

• Valeria - 20 y.o. - 5′7″ / 107 lbs - Athlete - Ballroom dancer - 11:00 AM dance lesson in drawing room - 12:30 yoga in downstairs hallway;
• Gina - 22 y.o. - 5′6″ / 121 lbs - Barista - Cat lover - 11:00 disciplinary session in entrance hall - 12:30 quiet reading time in study;
• Katryn - 25 y.o. - 5′5″ / 115 lbs - Nurse - Enjoys video games - 11:00 AM - dance lesson in drawing room - 12:30 yoga in downstairs hallway;
• Angelique - 21 y.o. - 5′7″ / 135 lbs - Unemployed - Recreational drug user - 11:00 AM - double disciplinary session;
• Madison - 28 y.o. - 5′6″ / 118lbs - Daycare teacher - Enjoys reading - 11:00 AM - dance lesson in drawing room - 12:30 quiet reading time in study;

​
My hands trembled as I finished reading the last entry on the page. There have been so many times in my life where I have felt helpless and afraid. While horrible, each instance had an identifiable source of danger. A drunken uncle, an abusive social worker, a school bully. It was easy to work through fear when you knew what to expect.
The place had me stumped. There was something very wrong about it, about Mrs. Claymore and her yet-to-be-seen husband. About the dolls that were meant to look like real people. I knew then that I should leave, but there was a part of me that didn’t want to. Call me the collector of evils, but I just had to know what sort of fucked up darkness lurked the serene halls of Vanderley House.
I left the parlor and located the closet, a room on the second floor which was dedicated to all eleven doll wardrobes. I’d caught a glimpse of it during the walkthrough, but didn’t get a chance to take it all in.
It was the size of a bedroom, with shelves of shoes, folded clothes, and hanging garments lining the walls to my left and right. The other end of the room consisted of a mirror wall. I stared at my small frame reflected in four distinct angles. A couple of jet-black curls fell loose from my ponytail and I tucked them behind an ear. I looked very pale, not unlike a doll myself. That thought sent a visible shiver through my reflection.
The shelves of the closet were an obsessive-compulsive dream come to life. Everything was sorted by clothing type and color. The chart hadn’t specified what the dolls should wear, so I trusted my better judgment in picking the outfits. There were few modern garments available, but there was a large variety of basics that would look decent on most people. I pulled some items from the shelves and went to pick out the shoes. Not many options there either, mostly pumps. I was about to head back to the parlor when another glance at the mirrors revealed a detail I had very nearly missed.
Though three of the full-length mirrors were visibly nailed to the wall, the one on the far right had no bolts in the corners of the frame. I tried wedging my fingers in the small crack between mirrors and pulling it, but that yielded nothing. After a second’s thought, I tried pushing instead and the hidden door popped open.
Inside was the first hint of the real Vanderley.
The mirror concealed a small, dusty room. A bare lightbulb dangled from a wire, revealing unfinished concrete walls and stacks of moving boxes. I approached the nearest box and looked inside. It was filled with clothes, but they were nothing like the garments in the outer closet. These were trendy crop tops, boy shorts, cocktail dresses.
A lump formed in my throat.
I opened more, finding high heels, hoodies, sunglasses, watches, trinkets. I had to stop myself then. There were a lot of boxes and I didn’t have time to ransack the place. Mrs. Claymore could find me at any moment, and I needed more proof of my growing suspicions.
I walked out to the front closet, closing the mirror door behind me. I did my best to wipe away the fingerprints that revealed my intrusion. I reached for the phone in my back pocket so I could call Ronnie, and found that it was missing.
Of course, I thought, reaching for the hidden zipper on the inner side of my backpack. I powered on the flip phone and auto dialed Ronnie. He picked up on the first ring.
“Code red,” I whispered into the passé gadget.
“I fucking knew it, Lu,” Ronnie reprimanded, “I’ll be there in forty, an hour tops. Keep safe.”
“Will do,” I promised, replacing the cell before picking up the pile of clothes I’d selected for the dolls.
Mrs. Claymore must have fished my phone out of my back jean pocket at some point during the walkthrough, but why? Was it to snoop on me, mess with me, potentially cause me harm? None of the answers quite fit the bill, but I had a feeling I would learn the truth soon enough.
I made sure to keep calm as I walked back to the parlor room. There was no use for panic, I needed to keep my thoughts clear. I set down the pile of clothes on the coffee table and approached Cynthia. I lifted her arms and pulled her nightgown off. Putting her arms back at her side, I took a step back and surveyed the dolls’ body.
There was no doubt in my mind that Cynthia was molded after a living, breathing young woman. While her body held true to the beauty standards of today, it was not perfect. Her large breasts hung low without the support of a push-up bra and there was a birthmark to the right of her bellybutton. Again, I felt the need to reach out and feel her, to make sure that she wasn’t alive. I placed my hand on her lean stomach. She felt plastic as ever. Room temperature, high-grade silicone, and yet.
There was an energy.
I’d had that feeling before in museums, on school trips where I snuck away from the crowd and stared at some old army general’s chair, or an early telephone set. I thought it was common, getting vibes from items, but Ronnie told me it wasn’t. I didn’t dwell on it much. To me, objects carried stories, just like people did.
So what was Cynthia’s?
I placed my other hand in her palm and an overwhelming sense of sorrow erupted inside me. The force of it made me fall to the floor, laying my head on Cynthia’s knees. I didn’t let go of her, I couldn’t. The doll was telling me her truth. One so awful that my limited imagination could only produce it in dull aches that ran through my body. The grief was insurmountable, and I let it flow through the both of us.
“What did they do to you?” I asked, choking back tears.
There was no reply as the immense darkness receded into heavy but manageable despair. It was then that I noticed the small tattoo on Cynthia’s inner left wrist. It was a black stencil of the bull-man I had seen on the entrance door of the Vanderley House.
I couldn’t waste time. I had to gather as much information as possible before Ronnie showed up.
I got up and started checking all the other dolls. Every one of them had the same tattoo. I picked up the doll chart, now fully convinced it was a list of victims. I needed to learn as much about them in the short amount of time I had left.
Cynthia. Valeria. Gina. Katryn. Angelique. Madison. They were all here. Each headshot contained a girl outside, not a doll. They were REAL, but were they alive?
I felt my breath falter as nausea threatened the scant contents of my breakfast. There were only six girls on this page. The truth hit me like a punch to the face as eleven sets of dead eyes stared at me. The link I always suspected, but couldn’t prove.
Until now.
With shaky hands, I unclipped the piece of paper and flipped it over. There were six more entries on the back, but my eyes instantly went to the last one on the page. Right there, beside a tiny, pixelated photograph of me standing outside Vanderley House that very morning, I read the following:
​

• Louisa - 20 y.o. - 5′4″/115 lbs - ex tenebris lux - ex malo bonum - 11:00 AM - The Hygienist

​
A door slammed downstairs, and though I wished with all my being that it was Ronnie arriving early to get me out of this mess, the large Roman numeral clock on the wall of the parlor told me that it was far too soon to get my hopes up.
Heavy footfall ascended the stairs in a slow, confident stride. Echoes of the intruder carried through the house and into the parlor. I picked up the pepper spray and rummaged around my backpack for the swiss army knife. I slipped the spray in my back pocket and held the knife on the inside of my palm so it was out of view.
It was time for my appointment with the hygienist.
READ PART 2 HERE
^{This is part 1 | part 2 | part 3 | part 4}

It's another round number, boys and girls. hopefully, nothing terrible happens. Minus the Bastards that burned down Hylsdal of course may all the terribleness happen to them.
The editing duo reports the following chapter fit for reading with only a mild chance of mental distress. Hopefully, this report is accurate. So let's get on with it.
ko-fi For having a pretty picture commissioned.
Sapphire
Wiki
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Chapter 80: Drawing Up Plans
Well, they hadn’t blown anything up yet, admittedly because they hadn’t managed to make anything even close to ready for testing. So they had packed up the three things that were sort of ready to show off. Dakota wasn’t entirely pleased that Tink hadn’t waited until they had proper prototypes ready. Not to mention they weren’t here to play at being inventors. It wasn’t hard to argue it was good for their schedule though. They hadn’t expected to have this meeting for days or possibly weeks.
It hadn’t been much more than 24 hours, yet they now found themselves standing outside a very impressive looking building. It was very tall, and had all kinds of strange things cluttering its exterior. There were windmills of different kinds, weather vanes, cranes, hoists, and a fair few things Sapphire had no clue what were.
Sapphire had left her bow at Tink’s workshop as it might provoke some questions around here.
It also begged the question: if this was where the engineering guild was located, why did Tink seem to live in his own workshop, a fair distance away?
“Oh this is going to be marvelous. Come along now,” the clearly excited Tink went as he approached the door guards. “Hello my fine fellow, I’m here for an appointment with Craftmaster Jakolev.”
“My my, got another brilliant idea have you?” One of the guards responded slightly sarcastically. It didn’t seem to faze Tink though, that was for sure.
“No, three,” He replied triumphantly. “And he is gonna love them.”
“Well, go on in. I’ll escort you since you're bringing friends today.” The guard turned to look at the trio, clearly slightly surprised as he gave them each a once over. Eyes lingering in certain places. “Where did you find those beauties?” He asked as he turned to open the door.
“They found me in fact,” Tink replied, completely unfazed by the guard's attitude as he slipped in the door. The inside was decently decorated and definitely well kept. It was a rather stark contrast to Tink’s cluttered up workshop, with its nice corridors and clean floors. Sapphire peeked in the few open doors they passed, which seemed to lead to offices or something of the like. There were certainly both parchment and tables in there.
“So how’s it going lately, Junior?” The guard questioned. the two of them bringing up the rear.
“Oh, you know, the usual… until those three showed up.”
“Am I allowed to know what it is our new huntress friends have come up with?”
“Oh, they aren't the designers they are messengers, and unfortunately no… not yet at least”
“Darn it, I’m guessing it’s quite something to get old Tink to stop chasing his own crazy ideas.”
‘Oh I’m sure you would like to know, also “sorry Tom” we definitely found a crazy one,’ Sapphire thought to herself, sending the mental apology to Tom.
They had arrived at a set of nice double doors. Two guards stood here as well. 'Well, whoever this guy is, he’s important, that’s for sure,’ Sapphire thought as the guards swung open the doors following them inside.
Inside was a very nice room with large glass windows on the far wall, looking around there was shelving all around, most of it filled with models of different kinds. There were model buildings, wagons, siege engines, and many other odd things that Sapphire had no clue what were. In front of them at a very large desk, a male dragonette of around Nunuk’s age was sitting. ‘He has spectacles!’ Sapphire thought to herself. She knew those cost a small fortune, and she hadn’t ever seen someone use them before. Usually, you would get a healer to fix any kind of eye problems.
“So Tink, what did you come up with this time?”
“Ohh, greetings crafts master. First off, on the insistence of my companions, I must have you sign this before we continue. Your guards too if they are to stay.” The old dragonette, who Sapphire assumed must be Craftmaster Jakolev, tilted his head downwards a little to peer over the top of his spectacles, sighing slightly.
“Bring it here. And yes, they are staying. You may go Werner.” Tink handed over a copy of the non-disclosure agreement, the guard who had escorted them leaving the way they came. The two other guards moved up to the desk.
“I see, quite unlike you to not want the world to know what you have been working on,” Jakolev replied, signing the document, the two guards doing the same. “So what you got?”
Tink gestured for them to bring forth the things, first presenting the drawings Tink had copied down and then the prototypes. It took a bit to explain what it all did, Jakolev didn’t say anything other than ask questions here and there.
“So it will not make your hand dirty when using it?”
“Oh gods no. This is just the core. I wrapped it up in a bit of leather for the time being, but it should just be wood. It would revolutionize design work, not to mention save a lot of parchment in the drawing departments. It’s cheap too, and can be carried wherever you go. Excellent for note-taking or possibly map work. Imagine not having to carry ink with you or relying on charcoal and chalk.”
“I’ll grant you it’s rather brilliant. But can you make it?”
“Certainly, it shouldn't be hard to do. It's just clay, that ghastly grey stuff, and cheap wood.”
“Very well, what of this self-lighting lamp. Why not just carry a flint and steel?”
“Oh we want to make it smaller, so it can fit in your pocket. And you can carry it at all times, it would become your flint and steel. Isn't it brilliant?!” Tink was clearly barely restraining himself. Jakolev though was a lot more calm and thoughtful.
“Agreed, but what of prices. This looks to be a rather complicated piece of kit.”
“We talked about perhaps making the first ones more like jewelry. You know, a status symbol for the rich.”
“That could work, I certainly want one if you can make it nice and clean, it would make lighting a pipe so much easier. The lamp might be easier to make for general use.”
“Excellent, so would you agree to produce these under license?” Dakota went, cutting to the bone of why they were here.
“If Tink here can come up with some proper designs for a finalized product I don't see why not. Except for the fact, the most complicated little things we make are locks. We will need some more jewelers too. I’ll see what I can do about that. What sort of licensing are we talking about?"
“Quarter of sales price,” Dakota answered calmly. Sapphire had been working that out. If a golden lighter ended up costing say 20 gold they would be getting five. That meant that if most of the people in the council bought one they would make hundreds of gold… from a drawing.
‘I can see why Tom was so damn well paid back home and that’s just the lighter,’ Sapphire thought.
“One-fifth.” Jakolev retorted leaning back in his chair.
“Uhh-uh, not happening, quarter on everything. Those are our terms as per the contract we brought. Remember, we’re just the messengers.”
“Then I want exclusive rights for no less than five years. With a clause for renegotiating the contract once it expires at my discretion,” That sounded like rights forever to Sapphire.
“With a twenty-five year maximum, only extendable upon agreement of both parties,” Dakota replied, seemingly very pleased. “Oh and before you consider breaking our agreement. Should this venture prove profitable for both sides, which I'm sure it will be, these will not be the last inventions you can expect from us.” Jakolev looked at Dakota quizzically at that, seemingly trying to figure out what exactly he was dealing with here.
“Done. Tink, get yourself in gear. I want those things ready yesterday. We need to know if they could do any harm before we send them for approval.”
“Sir, yes, sir” Tink replied beaming with pride.
“Approval?” Sapphire questioned, that was a new one to her.
“Yes, of course, any such radical invention must be approved. We can’t have some craftsman who knows nothing of how to handle arcane inscriptions trying to sell them to the wider public. That would be disastrous. I can only imagine the harm done to our reputation if we started selling items that turn your hand black or grey.”
“How long would that take?” Dakota questioned.
“Normally that would take weeks, perhaps even months. Luckily I might be able to help speed that process up a bit. Not to mention, there is hardly anything dangerous here. There isn’t even a hint of magic in fact. It should be no problem.”
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“Now, now, don’t worry. You're safe here, I promise,” Lothal went as he rocked his little sister back and forth gently. The baby still hadn't stopped crying yet. Unkai had checked her over finding nothing wrong, incredibly. Tom guessed what had just happened wasn’t a pleasant experience in the least.
They had moved the 4-year-old girl over to try with her. Kalestine requested a minute before they continued, this was clearly not easy on her. Lothal moved away with the baby, going over to the other kids to stay clear of what was about to happen. Tom repeated the cut, drawing fresh blood in the same manner as before.
As with little baby Jinaro, when the blood hit Vibexa’s mouth it seemed to burn through, Kalestine’s breathing growing laboured as she strained greatly. The bright white light pouring forth from the young girl as she too let out an ear-piercing scream. Tom stood back this time as she thrashed around on the ground. It looked horrible. Just like with Jinaro, the light began to fade and eventually cut out. Then there was silence.
Jackalope leaned down to jostle the kid, to no effect. Jinaro had been screaming and crying right off the bat.
“Tom, she’s not breathing,” Jackalope went, looking at him with a horrified expression. Tom turned to look at Kalestine who was face down in the grass.
He quickly moved her head so he could hold a hand in front of a nostril.
“Well, she’s still breathing. Unkai get over here!” He replied, slightly relieved. He could guess at what the punishment was for killing a unicorn after all. “I think she fainted?” He went as Unkai arrived, sprinting over.
“Does that mean...” Jackalope trailed off, looking down at the girl, the spark of hope in her eyes fading.
Tom didn’t want to say it, but he knew. She was dead, very dead by now in fact. He didn’t know how long it had been, at least an hour though that was for sure. Short of some miracle magic, there was nothing to be done now.
He had believed this was all going to be fine… Why wasn’t it fine! He didn’t even know what god to curse for this. The old man from back home could hardly be held responsible. But why? Why give them hope. Twice even! Just to snatch it away like that. Most of All Tom just wanted to chuck his helmet for distance right now or go punch a tree. This wasn't fair, It was the excatch goddamn opposite of fair!
“Unkai do you think she could… you know later?” Jacky tried looking to Unkai.
“I know jack shit about unicorns other than ‘do as they say,’ and ‘be polite.’ ” His tone was hard, though there was clearly hurt in there. He would have expected it to work too, Tom guessed. Why wouldn't he have?
“Right,” Tom replied somberly, not quite sure what else to say right now. “I’ll... grab a blanket,” he continued, getting up.
Jackalope held out an arm to stop him for a second. “Tom, you're sure you can’t... You know?” she tried, clearly putting on a forced hopeful smile.
“We couldn’t save her now even if she was in a hospital bed in my home’s capital… I’m sorry,” Tom replied, looking down. “And I’m not even a doctor, healer, whatever… I can’t help her.” Jackalope’s smile faded as she looked back to the girl. Tom for one couldn’t stand to look at the girl anymore right now, so he walked away.
Jarix had laid down and curled up into a half-moon shape, with Zarko and the rest of the kids within the half-moon. Tom made his way over towards Zarko who was sitting with the twins. He almost felt sorry for Zarko as she was trying her best to comfort them. They weren't stupid; they knew they had just lost a sister, for the second time today.
The twins were damn near shaking with fear as they looked around despite Zarko’s efforts. Lothal was sitting with the crying Jinaro, Revo was lying on his back, head turned to stare at his dead sister.
Tom couldn’t even imagine what it must have felt like down there. Not knowing how long it had been. He hadn’t seen any food either, they might have eaten it of course, but there was a good chance they were starving too. Tom sat down between Revo and Zarko. Gesturing for Lothal to come over.
He took his backpack off to get some rations out. Sugar probably wasn’t the right thing right now, but he did have a rather large bag of trail mix of the local variety, and they could use all the distractions they could get right now. “You hungry?” he tried, holding out a handful for the twins.
It took a bit before one of them reached out a hand to gingerly take some of it not saying a word. “No need to be shy, it’s yours. Would you mind Zarko?”
“Of course,” she replied, holding out her hand. Tom giving her the handful of trail mix to let her feed the two of them.
“How’s he doing?” Tom said, looking to Revo who was lying on his back.
“Unkai said his lungs are dirty, but he’ll be fine.”
“Somebody was brave protecting your little sister, hey?” Tom tried, in his most encouraging voice. The boy turned to look at him, giving a meek smile, which quickly vanished as he looked back to where Jackalope was sitting. Tom could hear her sobbing from here. “Lothal, do me a favor and hand this out, would you? Take as much as you want.” Tom went, giving the young man the bag and getting back up again.
“She’s not coming back is she?” Revo questioned, clearly on the verge of another breakdown.
“I’m sorry, but no I don’t think so.” Tom could feel the air vibrate with the growl that came from Jarix. The kids ducking for cover on instinct. “Welcome to war, Jarix. I hope you like it,” Tom went as he walked over to him to retrieve a blanket from his pack. The growl almost turned out a whimper at that. Maybe that was too rough, Jarix had done extremely well thus far. He needed to learn though, and he would hopefully never get a better lesson than this.
“But she’s dead, Tom. Why didn't she make it!?” Jarix protested. Clearly very distraught. Yeah okay, that was too rough, this wasn't his fault after all.
“Shs shs shhh, big guy. You did all you could. And we would never have found them without you. Hell, we wouldn’t even have made it here without you. And we didn’t lose a kid, okay?” Tom went, waiting until Jarix finally looked at him. “We saved five. You. Helped save, five kids. And you should be damn proud.”
“But I wanted to save six.”
“We all did, but that's another fact of war, Jarix. You don’t always win.” Tom grabbed a blanket from one of the bags low slung on Jarix’s harness, giving him a pat on the side. “And there is a big difference between losing a fight and losing a war.”
It would seem Jarix got what Tom was talking about, his head swiveling around to look at Tom. “We were told that if we find the enemy we are to return to the keep.”
“We haven't found them yet,” Tom replied in as hard a tone as he could muster right now. He mostly just wanted to scream for vengeance. That wouldn’t do though, not right now at least.
Tom moved over to the sobbing Jackalope, wrapping the kid up in the blanket before sitting down with her and giving her as much of a hug as he could manage. “They die for this!” she finally sneered out.
“What do you say we see about making that happen. Come over here, we have something to discuss,” he went, releasing her. She didn’t need to be told twice, shooting to her feet and turning to flank Tom as they walked over.
“Zarko, it was four hours to Deriva, right?”
“Yes, but it will be night by then… and what about the kids?”
“We leave them here with Unkai and Kalestine, we will give her some time to wake up. I don't want to get there before nightfall anyway. Are we sure we are dealing with Darklings here?”
“We shouldn't be talking about this here... We will be right back. Jarix, watch them. He is big and friendly so don’t be scared. No one hurts you while we are here. ” Tom had to agree with that assessment. Probably better to leave them be alone for a bit, rather than rub their noses in this. The three of them walked by the water's edge for a bit, until they were confident in being out of earshot. Well except for jarix.
“They took the bodies Tom, there must be darklings among them,” Zarko started. “That door was no darkling though.”
“Do they need to sleep?`”
“Yes, just like we do. They are essentially us… you know.” She sounded ashamed of that, it was just what Tom wanted to hear though.
“Excellent, can they see in the dark better than you can?” That took her a second to respond to.
“Don’t think so. I think I would have heard of that if they could.”
“Very good. I say we go to Deriva, you drop me off then you get some rest. I have some fun with them in the night.”
“You want to go in there alone?!” Jackalope questioned, clearly not happy with that idea.
“You people can’t hide at night, you're white and there will be moonlight. I can.”
“Tom, that is a stupid idea,” Zarko agreed. “And we would lose the element of surprise. If you insist on us trying to help them, then I say we dive in, take some shots at them and climb out. With luck, some of them will follow us and we can draw them off.”
Tom had to think on that for a second. “Can you hit them in the dark though?”
“Whatever broke down that door and did in Kalestine cannot be a small target. If we can handle that, the keep might have a chance. Or at least hold out for long enough to get help.”
“Think Jarix can outrun whatever it is they have?”
“He might be brash, but he’s fast. It’s not without reason he flies without a combat crew.”
“What if we do both?” Tom then asked, looking at the two women. “At night they won’t see you until you're right on top of them. Then when I start blowing shit up, you dive on the bastards. Then I slip away in the confusion.”
“Tom, Deriva lies on the edge of a canyon. There is not much to hide behind and you can only come from one side,” Jackalope protested. That would be a problem, with his cloak though he should be fine so long as he could maintain a decent range.
“Do they have sniffer dogs? Or anything like that?” The two of them just looked at him confusedly, clearly not having a clue what he was talking about. “Something that can find me using smell.”
“A vargulf can do that I’m fairly sure,” Jackalope replied, clearly thoughtful on the subject. Tom guessed it made sense if you hunted from the air that you wouldn't use smell much. From his understanding, though the Vargulfs were more like hyenas, they wouldn’t pass up a carcass. So it made sense they could find it.
“Zarko, will they be organized enough to search for me, or do I just have to not be seen?”
“Depends on who’s giving them orders. With beasts like whatever broke down the door present, I say there is a very good chance they have someone telling them what to do.”
“So it’s just one dude telling them what to do?”
“Maybe. There is no saying if there is more than one. Not to mention, they took the bodies from Hylsdal; they must have something with them which can corrupt. A regular darkling can't do that.”
“Another dark knight then?”
“Quite possibly.”
“Then I say this just turned into an assassination mission.”
__________________________________________________________________________________
So then you win some you lose some, unacceptable as it sometimes is. What did you think, too rough to kill another kid? I know some of you were even rooting for a dead baby. If you think I'm an arsehole for my transgressions, then do let me know down below. I'm sure you can come up with some very colorful language.
Until next time have an awesome day. Hopefully more awesome than Tom and company at least.
ko-fi For having a pretty picture commissioned.
Sapphire
Wiki
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Things have been busy so, I apologize for the delay. I know lots of you love these stories.
Last Friday night...Yeah, I think we broke the law...Always say we're gonna stop, whoa
Friday, or in the alternative: What part of call me was not clear?
I get to my desk at the usual time and deal with the usual bullshit. I got a SCAR 16s here on consignment because a customer of mine bought them from dealers that were less than reputable and lied about the condition of/country of origin of their merchandise. And they swapped sku's and other bullshit gun dealer things.
Trying to be a nice guy, I can charge the guy to box and ship everything back or roll them at top dollar and give him a big stack of blue stripe benjamins. I tell him I'll try and sell them for him and take my cut off the top so we're both making money. He thinks this is a great idea and manages to line up a buyer on his own. I just need to do the 4473 and cut him a check. No big deal, I don't have a problem doing a little extra work for him versus the standard dealer to customer transfer. The guy he sold it to is a semi regular customer of mine and he comes in, bangs out the 4473 and it's about a 90 minute wait on transaction time.
No big deal. Instead of packing up for the gun show, I'm selling other peoples guns. I'll pack up for the gun show tonight and get everything ready when I get home. I need to be up super early and on the road.
I get everything squared off, customer comes in to get his money and drops off ANOTHER SCAR 16s to sell because the dealer pulled a con job. Okay, I can haul it to the show in the AM. I have a SCAR 16s in FDE from him. I have a 5.7 in FDE on the arm from a buddy of mine and a 509 FDE. I'll make a package deal, FDE FN Friday all FN time. Things are looking up!
I clear off all the 4473's for the week and do an audit and I'm down about 75% inventory wise from last year. Things are tight but stuff is trickling in in drips and drabs. Hit the chickfila on my way home for a sandwich and milkshake that brings all the boys to the yard. I'm done eating and getting ready to leave when I get the call.
ring ring
FC: go for FC
1: Mr Hayden sir, can I ask a favor of you?
FC: What up?
1: Got a guy who wants my scar 16 lined up but he has to pay on a credit card. Can you run it for me? You can take a card and cut me a check?
(It's 7PM on a friday night. I still need to pack for the show. By the time I get back it will be 9PM and I still need to shower and get a decent nights sleep. I'm a glutton for punishment)
FC: If you want to get it done tonight, have the guy call me. I'm eating dinner now and I'll head back if he calls me.
1: roger that, I'll pass along your info right now and let him know.
I do a few more emails from the laptop and say hi to the chickfila owner who was friends with my dad and buys guns from me. We chat for a bit and my phone does not ring. Now, gentle readers - I offered to head back at 730PM on a friday to get something done for someone as a favor to them. That should be worthy of "holy shit you are the man for coming back on your own time!" but this was not the case. No phone call means I didn't head back.
I head home, no phone call. Phone about to die. Plug it in and go into my garage and get all my gun show stuff sorted and loaded and organized. My normal display is 3 tables of merchandise stacked and racked on 2 tables. This show it's 1.5 tables of merchandise stretched out on 2 tables. Not good. My back is killing me. I get some ibuprofen and take a hot shower. Grab my phone off the charger. Bunch of missed calls, one email one VM. I return the VM.
1: Hey you must be having a good dinner at chickfila, we've been waiting here in the parking lot for the last hour!
FC: You have? Well, I didn't get a phone call. I'm home and in pajamas.
1: What? He didn't call you?
FC: Nope
1: HEY! YOU DIDN'T CALL HIM? Oh he says he just figured......
FC: No phone call means no turning around to go back to work. We'll deal with it next week.
1: Okay I'll tell him.
I'm a pretty easy to get along with guy. If you ask me a favor, I'll likely do it if it does not interfere with my life too badly. But if you ask me for a favor and you can't follow simple instructions, well then you're wasting your own time. That's no skin off my hide. Failure to follow simple directions on your part does not warrant my bad back bending over backwards to make it right. I climb into bed, I have to be up at 5AM to tank up at the truck stop, grab breakfast on the run and get to this show on the road.
Saturday, in the park. I think it was the fourth of july. People dancing, people laughing. A man selling ice cream. Singing Italian songs....
Showtime Saturday.
My back is stiffer than I'd like. I get down to the show and get loaded in and everything is set up looking spiffy. Not in my normal spot right by the loading dock, much to my chagrin. There's a line that's 1/4 mile long to get into the building. This shit is looking crazy.
Here's the deal, folks. The 4473 isn't hard. It does require attention to detail. Being in therapy with Dr Kaplan, I've learned a few things.
Old FC: Here's the clipboard, call me when you're done.
New FC: Here's the form, I'm guessing you haven't filled this out before. Start on line 9, read this carefully, 18A and 18B are two separate questions that both require answers, 21 L 2 is tricky, you need to read it ALL THE WAY TO THE END before you answer. Sign on 22, today's date on 23. STOP THERE.
With the new spiel, of the 7 forms I was handed on Saturday before noon - guess how many were filled out correctly? I'll make a break here to talk about the bullshit I had to do.
Show Hustler #1: I had a consignment mossberg built in new haven pre 1968. A guy wants to buy it and he's friends with Ray Dalio. Yes, the Ray Dalio. He tries getting me to knock $100 off but I tell him he's nuts. If he's FRIENDS WITH A BILLIONAIRE and lives in GREENWICH fucking Connecticut, you can pay my very fair asking price of about $350 on it. He relents and I give him a small discount and I give him the clipboard.
Show Hustler #2: I got a guy wanting to trade me a 44 Mag Black Desert Eagle for a Colt 1911 I have on the table. Prices are about the same. I tell him I'm not doing the work of selling two guns for the profit of one gun. He tells me I'm not selling two guns, I'm trading one and selling one. That's selling one gun! I explain two entries in my A/D book means I sell two guns, and it's easier for me to sell a NIB Colt than it is for me to sell a used Desert Eagle. Well the DE isn't used! It's unfired! It's brand new! If I didn't get it from a wholesaler, it's used. He says for me to think about it and he'll be at the show. I tell him I thought about it. He says yeah, ready to do an even trade? I say no, now I want your gun plus $1000. He calls me a clown and walks away.
Show Hustler #3: Over the road truck driver wants the FN 5.7 in FDE I have on consignment. Asks for a truck driver discount. He wants it for $1200. I've got it tagged at $1350. I tell him if he can fill out the form straight, no errors I write it at 1200. If there's an error, I write it for $1350. He says he just bought a brand new freightliner cascadia and money is tight. I tell him well we got a bet or what? He nods, I book the action.
Show Hustler #4: Guy wants my 509C. He wants to trade me for a NIB glock even up. I tell him there's no money to be made and selling a used glock gets me less money. BUT ITS NOT USED! ITS BRAND NEW! We go back and forth 9 times about how new does not mean what he thinks it means. I offer him $350 on his trade as credit knowing that $650 on a used glock in 45ACP is all the money right now. He calls me a cocksucker and walks away.
Okay, so 7 form 4473's with an explanation as to all the problem areas before noon on Saturday.....how many were filled out correctly?
If you answered zero, you are right! That means I won the 4473 bet. The 5.7 goes out at top dollar. Winner winner chicken dinner!
I head home and count my money. I need 9 more shows like this and I might finally be able to retire. On the way home I check web orders. Three guys in arkansas have ordered $900 22LR off my website at $150 a brick. I joke about my stash of 22LR being a brand new F350 platinum but at $150/brick that's rapidly becoming a reality.
Sunday, Bloody Sunday
Sunday is day 2 of the show. I stop at a local diner and grab corned beef hash and a short stack of pancakes for breakfast. Want to know how good a diner is? If there's real butter with the pancakes and not that bullshit country crock/margarine spread, you know things will be good.
There's butter. It's good.
A very nice Sig 229 in stainless in 9mm comes by from a guy who did business with me years ago. He traded me a Wilson CQB pistol for a Sig 226 and a Springfield Range Officer even up. I had maybe $1600 into that Wilson, I sold it for $2500 a few months later and tucked the money away. When my brother got married, our fucking gigantic family got together the night before the wedding and had dinner. I told him I'd cover it and he's like "are you sure?" and I said, how bad could it be? Not realizing his wife's family is a bunch of hungry alcoholics from cape cod who have never seen an open bar before and are total gluttons when someone else is buying. As it turns out, $2500 covered about half of the F&B, but he seemed appreciative.
Anyhow.
I sell nothing at the show all day and talk with the other dealers and swap stupid customer stories. I pack and head home and I've sold a good bit of stuff of mine and consignments. As I'm making my way out of the building, the wheel comes off the wagon.
This is not a euphemism. https://imgur.com/a/KY5vLCl
I pay off all my friends for their sales, and in the zelle memo field, I break down the transactions as such:
$69.69 - Anal Hook
$350 - Loch Ness Monster Poster
(whatever the balance was after bullshit, I can't remember) - this is from your real dad
I have lots of fun at this job sometimes.
It's just another manic Monday. I wish it was Sunday. 'Cause that's my fun day.
Monday morning I get an email from the fellow who spent his friday night in the parking lot waiting for me. His email address leads me to believe he spent some time at Parris Island or San Diego, because who else uses semper fi in an email address name? He says he can be in after work at 1645 hours sharp and is just down the road. I tell him I'll get everything squared away for him, and I prep the 4473's on a clipboard and get everything set up.
Cleaning up files from the show, closing out 4473's. Down to 249 items in stock. 150 of them are lowers. This is not good. Must strike while irons are hot though. Gotta shear all the sheep while the wool is ready to harvest and prices are high. I have a bunch of personal ammo that will hit the market one POTUS says something stupid. That's not an if, that's a when.
Bunch of phone calls from people seeking 380 and cheap 9mm. I do my best charles bronson impression. "No dice." The emails accusing me of price gouging are fantastic. There's some other idiocy too. I won't post the whole ones but here's a few snippets from the butthurt and the unprepared as well as the idiotic.

I’m just looking for fmj for target practice. Nothing fancy. If you could do them for $400 a case of 1000 I can talk.

FC: I can get you $400/case on 1000 but it'll be foreign made non brass 9mm ammo.

Pretty much what your saying is no matter how much money I try to spend, you’re continuing your get rich quick prices. People like you are direct part of the problem. It’s one thing to make money and it’s another to try to high way rob people. Hope you’re proud of yourself.

FC: I can assure you that this isn't a get rich quick situation. I spent plenty of money investing in half a million rounds of ammo about FOUR years ago during the Trump slump and I'm just getting around to realizing profits now. I am not getting rich, nor am I doing it quickly. I hardly think that any investment that takes 4 years to realize a gain is quick.
(No response back)
Subject: Used Ruger 10/22
Message: I’ll give you 175 for it.
FC: Deal. Can you come by today?
(new message, no subject)
Message: I can come by Tomorrow or Thursday.
(I try calling him. VM box is full)
FC: Great! Lets get it done. Your VM box is full. Tomorrow is better.
(new message, no subject)
Message: I can come tomorrow but I only have 150 I can spend at the moment so I’ll probably wait a few days.
FC: What happened to " I’ll give you 175 for it." a few hours ago?
(new message, no subject)
Message: My bad dude. I have a kid I don’t know what to tell you. And I’m pretty sure I said Wednesday or Thursday. If you really want it gone that bad I don’t see what the big deal is.
FC: I was just expecting you to have $175 ready if you said you wanted to deal......So, will Wednesday or Thursday work this week? Bring me cash and your concealed.
(new message, no subject)
Message: No cwl. But you don’t need one for a private sale. I can have your cash.
FC: No CWL no sale.
(new message, no subject)
Message: Yeah I’ll pass. Good luck. You totally should have mentioned that at the start of negotiations.
FC: What part of my ad that said cash and concealed required was unclear?
Yeah. Fucking mondays.
1630 rolls around and our scar loving jarhead walks in. With his wife. And his children. Not one, not two, not three, but FOUR little munchkins. All without an ipad and disney + streaming to keep them occupied. They're not bad kids, just curious at all the little things I have lying around like lower parts kits, magazines, AAC 51T mounts, stuff like that.
He hands over his ID. I look at the address. It's a city two and a half hours away.
FC: Uh, you're a long way from home.
USMC: Yeah I just moved. I'm putting my new address on this form if that's okay.
FC: You have anything with your new address on it? I can't do anything with ID that's not current.
USMC: It's not expired, it's current.
FC: Where do you live?
USMC: (names address locally)
FC: Then this is no longer current. I need something with your new local address on it.
USMC: Oh then I'll just use the old address on this form then.
FC: That's not acceptable. I need a current government document with your new address.
USMC: Here, I have activation orders and training orders from the army.
FC: That won't work. Government document with your new address.
USMC: Here's my W2 from the DOD.
FC: That's not a government document.
USMC: But the DOD gave it to me! It's FROM the department of defense, which is the government!
(Editors note: Did I mention that I hate mondays?)
sigh
FC: I can call ATF and ask......
USMC: Please do!
(I phone the ATF area supervisor on his cellular device)
ATF: Mr Hayden, how can I help you today?
FC: Barry, I got a funny one. Guy wants to use his DOD W2/activation orders to get his gun since that has his current address.
ATF: Why? Is there a reason he's unable to get an updated drivers license?
FC: That's a good question Barry, let me find out.
(FC puts ATF on speakerphone)
FC: Hey private first class, ATF wants to know why you didn't update your license
USMC: Uh because I've been busy
ATF: Sir, that's not an answer. I was in the military too and I had to change ID's just like you. If I can had to do it you have to do it.
(Barry was a very long time ago a RIO on the F4 Phantom)
USMC: But I have activation orders! and training orders! and a W2!
ATF: Get your license changed over or produce another document for the licensee to process your transaction.
FC: Thanks barry!
I hang up and tell him that's the area supervisor and I'm playing this one the way he tells me. He needs to produce a document compliant with ATF regulations for me to release this firearm.
USMC: Oh by the way there's a guy with my same name that robbed a bank in Detroit last year, I always get delayed anyways.
(sigh)
I type his stuff into the computer and I get a thumbs up from the computer instantly much to his amazement. I fire off a quick email to the guy who owns the scar
Subject: No current ID
Message: your jarhead friend who wants the scar does not have current ID

No deal? Or what's the plan?

My reply is interrupted. Their oldest child admires the batman dollar on my safe. The youngest child is incessantly clicking a spare pilot G2 pen I had on my desk.
Mother: If you click that pen ONE MORE TIME, you are WALKING HOME.
(kid puts the pen down)
Me, whispering to the kid: It's not that far.
(kid picks the pen back up)
Mother scowls at both of us.
I giggle.
I get back to email.
FC: Lets put it this way. You're gonna owe me for this one. Big time.
His wife starts pulling out auto registrations, USAA insurance cards, cable bills, etc with their new address - NONE of which are useful because none of them are government issued. She updates his and her drivers licenses online at the state website and gives me a voter registration printout confirming the update, but that's not a workable document since it's an informational update and not an actual registration.
Customer that owns the scar walks in and witnesses the flurry of kids playing with gun stuff and two grown ass adults trying to make it all work.
It's been 45 minutes of this.
The guy finally gives up and goes on the state website and gets a fishing license and emails it to me. Stacks a big stack of SCAR magazines that NOBODY has in stock to the order and I charge it onto his USAA mastercard. Had I returned to work on a Friday after hours to get an ID that wasn't current, I would have been apoplectic. Now, I'm just mildly annoyed. I can assure you that anyone who has walked through the hallowed halls of MCRD Parris Island should know to have their shit together. This just seemed like some hybrid of cluelessness more than it was an issue of stolen valor. Gun and mags go out the door.
My customer sits down and starts laughing. I look at him totally nonplussed.
1: That was easy, right?
(FC looks nonplussed)
1: An hour worth of work, for $50! That's good! you should do a few of those a day!
(FC looks nonplussed)
1: Really?
FC: You owe me.
I cut him his check and I'm done for the night. I head home.
Tuesday's grey and Wednesday too....
Tuesday
Another day, another box of 9mm at $75 each heading out the door.....I'm down to my last 15,000 rds of 9mm. I sold my entire personal stash of Remington UMC at $67 a box. Now that we're into the Federal American Eagle, it's up to $75. People are thanking me for having it available because they've called everywhere.
This morning's "no I don't have it" calls: 380ACP, 30-40 Krag, 6.5 CM, Grendel and Swede, 2.5" .410 slugs, 3 or 3.5" shells and turkey loads.
Now, for the uninitiated: Turkey season is around the corner. ALL the ammo for turkey loads have been purchased by new shooters looking for home defense ammo since last year. Why turkey loads for self defense? That's all the cabelas had....
Come season, there will be lots of very disappointed hunters who were unprepared. Those with ammo will hunt, those without ammo will hunt for ammo, and they will not be successful given the state of the ammunition markets. There is far more money to be made cranking out buckshot and slugs than there are turkey shells.
Package comes in for transfer. Guy has a NJ license. He's just moved here. Has NOTHING with his new address. This is basically a repeat of Monday's SCAR sale. The guy here is ADAMANT that he's bought a home here and he can purchase a firearm without being a state resident.
He's technically right. HOWEVER this is why dealers hate doing things: The gun and sale have to follow both the laws of the state he's in AND the state of New jersey. Now I have to run down all the bullshit that is NJ published ordnances to ensure that this gun is Phil Murphy(TM) approved. For the price of a transfer. BUT WAIT THERES MORE!
The gun is for a BUDDY of his he's giving it to him as a gift when he's down here for a fishing trip in a few days.
https://imgur.com/0cqL7vX
Read that last line.
Yeah. I tell him that it's unlawful for him to dispose of a firearm to a non resident. He's wondering what the fuck to do. He insists on taking delivery. I tell him I need to run it down with the address and everything since his NJ license isn't technically valid since HE NO LONGER LIVES THERE.
The guy bought a double wide trailer here, the trailer park handles all the water, the power, the etc - he does not have any REAL property here. He's insistent that he has a deed for his house. He's holding a bill of sale for a mobile home.
sigh
I tell him we should just get things sent to his friend via an FFL in his state. The guy lines up an FFL and I fedex the gun to the dealer up there. We need ONE UNIFORM SET OF COHESIVE COMMON SENSE GUN LAWS, not one federal set and 50+ subsections on a state level plus NY State HOME RULE BULLSHIT.
I head home early, telemedicine with Dr Kaplan. He's impressed with my progress. I'm not.
There are no songs that have Wednesday that I can think of here
Wednesday, Hump Day
I decide to work from home today. I can take all the phone calls and tell people no I don't have anything from home. I decide to do some early spring cleaning. It's a BEA-U-TIFUL day. The sun is out, nice weather means I can work in the garage for once. I start a load of laundry. Everything starts off fine. I'm sorting through old shot show HK posters when I can smell burning. There's no smoke but I do smell burning. Am I having a stroke? I can't figure it out and I get a load of laundry processed through my carbon neutral solar powered clothes drying system. I start another batch of laundry and hear a massive grinding noise when I should hear the washing machine washing. That burning smell? That was the timer burning up. And I have a full tub of underwear that needs to get done since I'm nearly out. Fuck.
My dad's old toolbox is in disarray. Mine isn't. I quickly grab a few tools. A snap on general service kit is totally overkill, but it's super nice to have EVERYTHING in one spot ready to go. My 1/4 drive ratchet takes apart my washing machine panel with ease. I unplug the timer and hit the electronic bay for a replacement. I find one 2 hours away and they say they can ship immediately on my fedex account. I can get it here tomorrow if they fedex ground it on todays truck. Deal, here's my amex. Email me tracking when it's sent.
One problem arisen, one problem in progress of being fixed. Not bad for before noon.
I get a bunch of stuff stacked up and straightened up and I throw a ton of stuff on facebook marketplace. Old Glock signs and point of sale merchandise like hanging ceiling mobiles, glock pencils, FN pads, FN hats, Daniel Defense stickers and patches, HK pistol racks, some old Colt and Beretta Blue boxes, all that stuff.
People message me about the Colt box. WHATS IN THE BOX they ask.
Well it's an empty fucking box. I made that VERY clear in the description. So what's my witty rejoinder? A youtube link to the scene from Seven with Brad Pitt yelling at Morgan Freeman "WHATS IN THE BOX? WHATS IN THE BOX?!?!!?!"
They are not amused. I think it's brilliant. They ask me what gun is for sale. I tell them it's just an empty box but if they want a gun, here's my info and call me at work during business hours. I'm then told that people selling empty boxes on facebook aren't selling empty boxes, they're selling guns.
This, I did not know.
Armed with this newfound information, I proceed to post more random stuff from my garage for sale in front of a pile of 20,000 rds of 9mm. An old kegerator and some bar equipment my dad had, a Miller Genuine Draft neon sign backdropped with 5 cases of Winchester Q4170 45ACP and 5 cases of CCI Lawman 147gr 9mm. The messages flood in looking to buy my stuff cheap. But I know what I got.
My favorite interaction:
1: hey man, you got anything else for sale?
FC: Tons of stuff for sale!
1: I'm looking for pews.
FC: I got pews, you want to stop by and check out my pews? I got some real nice ones, super nice. Only used on sunday!
1: Yeah man I'm leaving for lunch in 10 min, give me your address
FC: Sure thing! Here's me, be here in 30 minutes!
I continue to clean up my garage and I pull out some of my dad's old auction finds. Under about 200 old polynesian tiki mugs, I dust off some white oak church pews and pull them into the driveway. The guy tells me he wants to see the pews I got, and I point them out to him in the driveway. White oak, great shape - just needs some lemon pledge and they'll be good as new. He calls me a clown, gets in his car and drives off.
What's wrong with these people?
I return to find 254 facebook marketplace messages for people asking me to sell/ship them guns and ammo to all sorts of places and that facebook has suspended my account for violations of their marketplace terms. The offending item? An old Sig Sauer binder that has a P226 exploded diagram on the front. Because firearm parts are not allowed.
I manage to sell on facebook marketplace an old surefire incandescent rifle light, a blue colt mustang box, a few tin winchester ammo signs, some beer neons that belonged to my dad and some soft pistol rugs that I ordered from RSR on clearance. A productive wednesday. My haul nets me after facebook marketplace fees and shipping about $54 on the shipped items and a few hundred bucks in miscellany. I give my business cards to all the folks looking for gun stuff and they seem surprised that I still have ammo and that they've never heard of me. They do all their ammo and gun shopping online and don't do B&M. That's the way things will be in the future.
I head to the tex mex joint for dinner. I chat it up with a very cute blonde that is the manager. She's just moved into a new place after her man chated on her and she ditched that zero. I offer her my stack of bed bath and beyond coupons.
FC: Starting over is expensive. Maybe this will make it a little bit cheaper.
1: Oh my gosh this will save me a bunch of money! Here, your dinner is on me.
FC: It's been a long time since a woman has bought me dinner. Perhaps I should return that favor. Do you like firefighters?
(she cracks a big smile under the mask)
1: I do, but I'm talking to someone right now.
FC: I can see you ditched the zero, but if it does not work out and you want to get yourself a hero - I'm here pretty often. Just ask and I'll take you to dinner at your favorite place.
I manage to get rejected by a woman at the same time she bought me dinner.
That takes talent. I head home, pop some ibuprofen and head to bed. I check my email in bed. There's a tracking number.
PICKUP OCCOURED AFTER FEDEX CUTOFF FOR TODAY, PACKAGE WILL BE TENDERED THE NEXT BUSINESS DAY
You fucking clowns. You had one job. I call fedex and ask them to hold it at the facility 2 hours away. I'll grab it in the AM. They can't even find it. Fuck it. Leave it. I'll deal with it later.
Thursday, I don't care about you
Thursday, or FC makes a new friend!
I head into work a bit early today, as I'm driving down my street, I round the corner and see an older fellow wheeling his trash to the curb. This guy had a '99 Ford F250 extended cab 4x4 with the venerable 7.3 navistar in MINT condition for sale. 129,000 miles, parked in a garage 10 months out of the year. He wanted $16k for this truck and I figured he got tired of tire kickers and lowballs and kept it. I messaged him 3 days after the post went up and I never followed up, I knew the house since I've literally been driving past it MY ENTIRE LIFE on the way to elementary, middle, high school, college and now work.
My passenger window rolls down as I stop right next to the mailbox.
FC: You still got your F250?
1: No! That thing sold in one hour! To a dealer!
FC: Son of a bitch! I wanted that truck, I didn't even know you were selling!
1: Dealer came over in one hour, took a look at it, put cash on the hood, slapped a dealer tag on it and drove it out of here!
FC: Damn! I wish you put a sign on it and I would have stopped.
1: I told my wife I didn't want to sell it to a dealer but my garage isn't big enough!
FC: No kidding. Say, you still got your T bird?
1: My thunderbird? How'd you know I have a thunderbird?
FC: I grew up here! When I was in grade school I'd ride by and you were wrenching on it, when I was in high school, I'd see you wrenching on it from the bus and when I was in college I'd see you wrenching on it on my way home from class!
1: I spent 20 years building that car 2 weeks at a time! You wanna see it?
FC: Well, when you put it that way....
I pull off into the grass. He's got a detached 3500 square foot garage with Snap On's Mr Big not 1 but 2 ben pearson four post lifts. He shows me his thunderbird he's been working on for two decades. We get to talking. He's a commercial alaskan fisherman and he spends 10 months of the year in alaska and seattle running boats. Super nice guy. He asks me what I do for work, and I tell him. He tells me all his friends are scrambling for ammo and he didn't think it was that bad. I tell him it's been that way for about a year. He needs 00 buckshot, 8 or 9 pellet. I just got a small delivery. I tell him I can get him some. I give him my card and tell him call me this afternoon and I'll throw a few boxes in my briefcase and I'll deliver them on my way home. I'm asked about my watch, he's apparently a GMT man as well. We both like fords and stainless GMT's. Nice. He tells me the story about how he accidentally welded the band to his boat in the bering sea while doing repairs with a stick welder.
FC: What do you catch?
1: Pollock, cod
FC: long line?
1: No, trawler..... You know your commercial fishing.
FC: I know my customers.
Impressed at my substantial seafood knowledge, he tells me he'll call me after he checks his safe. I head into work and get some more stuff done.
I get a call from a referral. This guy was busted for selling pot and spent 8 months in miltary prison at Leavenworth. He's wondering if he can still own or have a gun with a bad conduct discharge. I'm not sure. I call my retinue and we agree that it's worthy of research and we should do a bar journal article about it. I love it when a plan comes together.
Doctor lady and her husband come in and their attorney has told them that without a trust, their silencer order will need to be approved by the CLEO of the region. This is why people hate lawyers. I get all their stuff drawn up as they requested with two trusts and interlocking responsible parties. Double the prints and plenty of passport photos all around.
Dead Air is behind on pistons and mounts, as usual but I'm assured by the big man in charge that they will be at wholesalers shortly. I'm so scrambled that I forget to charge her for two cans. No big deal, I'll email her and deal with it when I get her the mounts.
I have a facebook marketplace post up for an old Glock brand Pistol case and some glock brand ear pro. Here's the message:

Hi Will it's John from facebook marketplace I was looking at the glock bb gun and head phones will you show me a pic of the actually glock and does it have a clip and a slide,,??¿?? My old one did but I left it at my apartment I was sharing with friends but I miss having it lmk asap please and thanks sincerely Jeff K.

FC: Lets start here. 1. I don't sell Glock BB guns. 2. I don't have head phones. Were you only interested in BB guns?

Ya I was on Facebook marketplace looking for BB c02 pistols

sigh
I go truck shopping online. A guy has a 2011 F250 diesel for $24k. Except it's not a 2011. It's a 2001. I don't know what's more absurd, a 2011 at $24k, when average retail is a shade under $20k or a 20 year old truck selling for half of MSRP.
I'm ready to give up on this. Truck prices are stupid. I check my email. Timer in transit, Fedex has it en route.
I head home and pop a flexiril and head to sleep. The flexeril isn't fixing any of my muscles but manages to knock me the fuck out quite nicely. I need to be up early.
Just got paid, Friday night....
Friday, or FC vs The Washing Machine
As a kid, I always played with my dads toolbox. I took apart tons of stuff and had no idea how to put it back together. Some kids when they're in the tender years made birdhouses and small woodworking projects and it was super fun for them to pretend. Me? I took apart a 1 horse GE electric blower motor my dad short circuited on accident and made a pretend General Electric first generation boiling water nuclear reactor. Which was not really easy to do given the fact that the internet didn't exist in the early 90's. You had to have some modicum of imagination, and in that case your design was neither right nor wrong because nobody could easily prove your design accurate or otherwise. I had effectively built Schrodinger's BWR. I used different colored and sized tapcons and red heads for fuel/control rods if anyone was wondering. I think I can handle the washing machine. Just for good measure I put on my Cal Tech shirt.
As I warm up breakfast, I get an email from a guy named Eddie. He wants to see some 40S&W pistols. I tell him I have a busy morning. I can find some time for him around 10AM if he wants to stop by and I'll have what he's looking for ready.
My fedex guy stops at the Boeing facility first thing in the morning to drop off parts at the loading dock, I know his schedule so I pull up to the dock and hang out there waiting for him. Jeff is right on time and I snag my washer timer. No email back from Eddie so time to head back home to put everything back together. I'm in the middle of buttoning it up when I get a call.
Eddie is standing in my parking lot wanting to check out some 40S&W pistols I have in stock. I tell him all my available inventory on the website and that if he wanted me to have everything ready for him at 10AM, he should have given me an affirmative reply or a phone call. Right now, clean underwear is a priority and Eddie seems to understand this and he says he will chat with me later.
I head back to work. The entire parking lot smells like weed. There's a VW microbus parked on the far side of the lot and I'm downwind of it.
This is not a coincidence.
Wholesale rep tries to sell me $700 complete andersons again with a min order of 50. Pass.
I get a bunch of messages from other dealers looking to buy ammo off me and resell it to their customers at "reasonable" prices and I tell them they are fools for selling stuff cheap. They just don't get it and they'll be out of business soon.
I get a call from a guy wanting ammo. He wants all my 22LR. I tell him the price and he says "I can't make a profit selling it at those prices!"
This is the reason regular people can't buy ammo just FYI.
It's Friday again. I've got another gun show to prep for. New product just rolls in on the UPS truck. A few glocks, a few shields, and for some reason the rep sent me 5 sets of rear MBUS sights instead of 5 front and 5 rear. Ugh. I manage to get a small allocation of 9mm in on this truck as well as 11 boxes of 10mm! This year is looking better by the week!
I get several calls for AAC mounts that nobody has in stock and the owners are totally confused. One guy had a can and was selling a rifle and sold the ONLY mount he owned for that can to the guy buying his rifle for $200.
He was under the impression that you could just call AAC and order another mount for $112. I tell him if I can find what he's looking for, I'll need to buy it for $250 from someone and that it will sell for $350-500 by the time I mark it up. He's super confused as to why everyone is running out and buying AAC mounts and why they can't be ordered. I explain AAC/Remington's two bankruptices in 5 years. He is even more confused. I finally blurt it out.
You had ONE mount for your can. You sold it. There are no other mounts. You have paid a tax stamp for and own a can that YOU CAN NO LONGER MOUNT because you sold them. He now realizes the error of his ways. Nothing I can do about that.
Second guy tells me he sees I have AAC mounts. He needs one for his can. I ask him what model he has. He has to crack open the safe.
1: It's an Advanced Armament Corp Norcross Georgia
FC: That's the manufacturer......
1: It's a.........ZERO ENNN DASH ZERO EFFF EFFF
FC: It's a what?
1: It says on the side ZERO ENNN DASH ZERO EFFFF EFFFF
(Editors note: https://www.advanced-armament.com/assets/products/762-SDN-6.png )
FC: That's not the model.
1: It's not? Then what did I read to you?
FC: That's not a zero. That's the letter O.

1. The number O?

FC: O. As in Oh. ENNNN. Dash. Oh. EFFF EFF.
1: I'm confused.
FC: You just read the directions to take the can ON or OFF.
1: Huh that would explain the arrows wouldn't it......
FC: Yeah. What model do you have?
1: It's an MK13-SD!
FC: You need a 90T ratchet mount.
1: Great! You stock em, right?
FC: Nope.
1: But your website has some, those will work right?
FC: Unless you need 51T mounts, I can't help you.
1: Can you suggest someone that can? I need mounts.
FC: AAC is gone, these mounts may never be made again.
1: Shit.
Not to be out done, I get one more phone call.
1: hey this is brent, I need an AAC mount
FC: What model you got?
1: 7.62
FC: Right, thats the caliber.
1: RS7!
FC: SR7?
1: That's the one! I need an SR 7 mount in 5.56, the one I have is in 7.62
FC: Got four here. $400.
1: I just need one.
FC: That is for one.
1: WHAT? FOR ONE? Why's it so expensive?
FC: Remington went under. These may never be made again. I've been buying up everything I've been able to find so I can run the table.
1: That's a good business move.
FC: Not my first rodeo.
1: Well for $400 I'll just take a mount off a rifle I'm not using and I'll set that up. Thanks anyways.
(90 minutes later, my door swings open)
FC: What can I do for you?
1: I'm brent, we talked about that RS7 mount.
FC: SR7.
1: Whatever. I got this here and it does not even fit! It's for the wrong rifle! I need the right mount, this one is in 5.56 I need the one for the 7.62
FC: Lemme see what you got.
(Looks at package. AAC 90T TAPER MOUNT FH SR-5 5.56 1/2x28)
FC: What are you mounting this to?
1: AR15 in 223
FC: This is the correct mount.
1: No it's not! It does not fit!
FC: Does not fit barrel or can?
1: The can! I mounted it to the barrel and the can won't work! Need the one for the RS7!
FC: SR7
1: Whatever! I have a 7.62 can, this mount is for 5.56 and it's the wrong one.
FC: Who sold you this mount?
1: The gun store across the street from my house.
FC: You live an hour away, why didn't you go there?
1: I did, they don't have this mount in 7.62, I went there first.
FC: And they didn't explain this to you?
1: What is there to explain? This mount is marked 5.56. My can isn't 5.56. It's 7.62.
FC: Oh, so you want the one marked 7.62 in 1/2x28.
1: Exactly!
FC: 7.62 mounts aren't made in 1/2x28, all the 90T mounts are 90T exterior and the threading internally is different.
1: You're wrong.
FC: Please, argue with the guy wearing a caltech shirt.....
1: Prove it.
(I open his package and I grab an SR7 out of the safe. I press the latch down and thread it on)
1: You son of a bitch.
FC: You want to argue with me some more?
1: So what mount do I need?
(I pull out one of my mounts and show him side by side they're exactly the same)
1: Hmmmm. Okay. I must have done something wrong.
FC: There's not a lot of ways to do this wrong, but you found one. Go try it again.
(90 minutes later he calls back and tells me I was right)
What the fuck is with all the AAC people this week that are totally clueless?
But hey, at least I have clean underwear.

A batch of information regarding Drift Nations in the Time of the Red, to be used as hook or locations in your games if you feel so inclined. The second part is already being worked on.

10 Drift Nations Peppered Across The Globe In 2045

The Centino Flotilla (Nomad Family) Area of operations: Northern and Southern Pacific Numbers and leadership: 40,000+ members, ~8,000 vessels (of various size), led by Allegria Chung
The Centino Flotilla is one of the few good things finding their roots in the Fourth Corporate War, some would say. After only months of bitter fighting between Arasaka and Militech, everyone had but forgotten the two corporations, OTEC and CINO, responsible for kicking-off the conflict. Equally, no one was surprised to hear that the two companies ended up bleeding each other to death during the Sea War, mostly in the Pacific.
As with many others, the destruction of Arasaka's headquarters in Night City by a nuclear detonation came as a wake up call. But the situation was already past the return point for both corporations and, as the commercial entities teetered over the edge, their maritime forces came to an uneasy stand-off in the Pacific. It took all the diplomatic skills of one of CINO's captain, Grant Chung, to reach over the divide and bring the two parties together. Bound by years of mutual bloodletting and tragedies, they decided to merge forces and survive together against all odds.
After pooling their last resources together, the two parties spent the next year building their flotilla and roaming the Pacific Ocean. Determined to never be a tool of corporate greed ever again, they brought their skills to help rebuilding many of the Pacific Island nations, as well as other Drift Nations such as AquaDelphi or the Great Pacific Garbage Patch.
Now led by Grant's daughter, Allegria, the flotilla is a force to be reckoned with, its vessels flying the teal wave emblem being seen all over the Pacific. Specialized in reconstruction of seashore communities and shepherding Ghost Fleets toward places where they could be recycled, they are one of the new binding links of the Pacific ocean nations.
AquaDelphi (Fallen Coporate Dream) Location: South-West of Hawaii Estimated population and leadership: 30,000+, organized in guilds with a Central Council of 5
AquaDelphi's project came out during the corporate golden years, sprouting off OTEC's board of director's collective hubris. Not unlike Night City, AquaDelphi was designed to serve as the new standard by which future cities would be built. And no one ever blamed the OTEC heads for lack of ambition.
Mobilizing all the resources from their conglomerate, the maritime corporation set their view on a territory close to Hawaii. Buying the ownership from the fallen US federal government was a piece of cake at the time and construction began quickly. Centered around the company headquarters, the city was to hold the largest library humankind ever put together, a massive seaport complete with dry docks, and utopian housing for the corporate families among other pharaoh-like projects. The whole place was powered by harnessing geothermal energy and run by the in-house AI, Pythia.
Unfortunately, as Fate is wont to, AquaDelphi was still under construction when the Fourth Corporate War came knocking. The green spaces of the housing district and the ancient white stones of the library were the first to go when the bombings started, then it was the turn of OTEC headquarters. As long as the monstrous steel towers stood upright, most of the population tried to keep the dream alive despite Pythia's more and more frequent erratic outbursts; but it was only delaying the inevitable exodus toward Hawaii.
Nowadays, AquaDelphi is slowly being rebuilt, thanks mostly to her massive sea port becoming one of the major places for ship breaking. Refugees gradually return to a place the Kress administration would not touch with a ten foot pole and dream of renaissance, but many are wary of the corporate nightmares lying in wait, among which Pythia...
New R'lyeh (Reckoners Cthuluny) Location: South Pacific Estimated Population and Leadership: 6,000+ under the leadership of the Dunwich Congregation
A decade ago, nobody had heard of the Dunwich Congregation. Only specialist were aware of this reckoner cult, led by austere people in outmoded black suits. Anyone would have told you that their idea of a cosmic entity with far too many tentacles and consonants in its name was never going to appeal to the masses. But the community endured, centered around their faith in Lovecraft's writings.
The news then dropped one day, six years ago: the congregation had purchased a rotten weather outpost in the empty corner of Southern Pacific. Reports of a growing shanty town came back, brought by passing ships and still no one expected them to survive once again. But they did, sending more missionaries across the world, armed with the Cthulu Mythologies; and their numbers grow steadily if slowly. Their declared goal in establishing New R'lyeh is to find old R'lyeh, a sunken city supposedly holding either a sleeping Cthulu or a way to connect with them. No one will speak openly about life in New R'lyeh but rumors of cultural segregation, weird rites and human sacrifices are legion. Whatever the truth, they are there to stay and never relent.
Their deep sea explorations and general presence are not to the taste of the European Space Agency (ESA), whose Deepdown outposts have been established there for decades in order to retrieve low-orbit material brought back to Earth in the area. The assaults led by ESA's underwater elite troops, the Nemos, stay fruitless as the cultists proved to hard to remove from the area. With number swelling steadily every year, New R'lyeh keeps growing weirder and is not going anywhere.
Cape Horn Wreckers (Scavvers Union) Location: Cape Horn area Numbers and Leadership: Up to 500 members. Leadership unknown.
Many places still struggle with the aftermath of the last Corporate War. Take Cape Horn, for example. The southernmost end of South America was for centuries the standard against which sailors measured their abilities and, more recently, a strategical passage to control for commercial and military purposes. Needless to say the place saw bitter fighting during the Sea War.
Which is why everybody started clapping when Argentinians and Chileans publicly decided to put their differences aside and find ways to clear up Cape Horn for maritime shipping once peace returned. Weary of corporate task forces, they decided to hire a multitude of small operators with designated areas to work on, in exchange for advantageous prices buying back salvaged material, as well as a share of any reclaimed equipment. Little did they know this would help turn their myriad of contractors in the now infamous Cape Horn Wreckers.
After only a couple of years, the small contractor crews started to work as a cooperative, granting them better negotiating power when selling back salvaged materials; while limited oversight allowed them to keep for themselves smaller ships and various pieces of armament at they saw fit. When the shipwrecks became too scarce and maritime shipping sputtered anew, the Wreckers naturally started using scramblers to lure passing vessels aground and pillage them.
By the time Chile and Argentina decided to intervene, it was too late. The Wreckers could stand on their own against national armies and navies. The international community obligingly looked aside for years but recent incursions in the Drake Passage forced foreign powers to start face the problem more directly. As a start, a series of bounties were set for anyone able to help identify and capture the Wreckers' leaders ...
North Atlantic Trade Hub (High Seas Trade Post) Location: Midway between the Azores and Ireland Population and leadership: 127,520 under joint Corporate-European Council oversight.
It took decades in the making for this trade platform to come out of the waves two years ago in the middle of Northern Atlantic. Decades of negotiations between Kaerms, the European maritime shipping titan, and European Council representatives during which American and Asian competitors took the lead. The North Atlantic Trade Hub is supposed to the European answer to this situation. Fearing Europe loss of speed in the maritime shipping and shipbuilding areas, N.A.T.H (as most familiarly call it) was conceived with the dual purpose in mind.
NATH is in reality an atoll of starfish-shaped platforms working in close relationship. On one side you will find the state of the art Noatun shipyards, pumping out small or medium trade vessels at an increasing rhythm and with a focus set on affordability and durability, the "sea mules" of the reborn sea trade. Paired with this, you will find a constellation of piers and decentralized trading centers, hosting a wide variety of small corporation and independent traders.
To keep their edge sharp, the European Union agreed to let the platform become a de facto city state with a policy of "high wages - low taxes" for five years granted to any worker, engineer or researcher choosing to migrate there; under the condition that they move to Europe and naturalize at the end of their contract.
As for now, the NATH managed its primary objective of becoming Europe's gateway for Northern Atlantic trade. The sea mules sell decently enough but are yet to threaten the Asian shipyards, the real mastodons of the industry. In the meantime, slack standards benefited many of the grey economy operators: if you need European gear, for cheap, then head on over before time's up and the forces of regulations start to crack down!
The Nansen Nation (Stateless Society) Area of Operations: Mediterranean Sea Estimated numbers and Leadership: ~200,000 citizens; 60,000+ vessels; led by the council of 500
Saying the Mediterranean sea has a millennia-long history of serving as the interface for human commerce and migrations comes to no surprise for anyone. If commerce was said to tighten the bonds across the sea, migrations became an increasingly divisive subject for trans-Mediterranean summits during the 20^th century. Many ventured off the Mediterranean shore and tried to immigrate to Europe, often risking their lives in the process; while "Fortress Europe" focused inwardly on its own success and only offered token help to the migrants if they returned home.
The situation became a nightmare during the Middle-East meltdown of the late 90's. Hundreds of thousands of humans ended up stranded at sea, roaming the Mediterranean as ghosts, stuck between war-torn countries on one side and a paradise out of reach on the other. And Europe kept letting only a few in, openly picking and competing over whichever individuals they thought could benefit their countries the most.
By the time African states managed to open their door more widely and benefit from the influx of population, many refugees then refused to return to land. Living for many years at seas, they had learned to make a living off of the waters and to navigate the inland sea like no other nation; turning them into peerless transporters and smugglers with a central role in the Mediterranean.
After electing a council of 500 hundred captains, the multi-cultural community chose their name from the Nansen passport delivered to stateless individuals a century before that. Their counters can be found in any major port of the inland sea, under the purple Phoenician letter N, offering their services to anyone looking to move someone or something discreetly over the sea. Europeans pay double, it goes without saying.
Safaniya-Zakum (Oil Extraction Complex) Location: Persian Gulf Estimated Population and Leadership: 80,000+ inhabitants and workers led by local royals
"A technological prowess" is what the Safaniya-Zakum complex is often described as. Both proponents and opponents of the project do tip their hat to its execution. Using a blend of time-proven and cutting edge technologies, a network of oil rigs, fishing piers, gas ducts and housing blocks is now stretching out above the waves of the Persian Gulf, all the way from Kuwait to the Hormuz Strait.
Proponents of the Saf-Za complex call it "the phoenix chant of a reborn Middle-East". Many put forward the accent set on sustainability and multi-cultural society, overcoming the ancient divisions. Not only the complex's only operator, a state-run company, manages to extract oil and gas from the sea bed again, but the ancient traditions of fishing and pearl culture are brought back. Considering the desolated lands of Iran and United Arab Emirates on both coasts, it is hard not to perceive the Saf-Za network as a cry of defiance against defeatism and a sense of doom.
Opponents call it "the swan song of a dying industry", preferring to point at the predominance of CHOOH² and deploring the refusal to let go of antiquated technologies. Others underline the complex's authoritarian regime and omnipresent police. Any visitors hoping to set a foot in will have to provide a full genetic profile and suffice to say that anyone even remotely affiliated to PetroChem or SovOil will never have a chance to peek inside.
With the extremely high level of difficulty regarding the obtaining of any information from inside the complex, experts are left wondering if the Safaniya-Zakum structure will hold long enough between intern fracture lines and outside pressure; long enough to recreate the major center of trade between India and the Eastern coast of Africa the region once was.
Deep Level Recovery HQ (Artificial Corporate Island) Location: Bay of Bengal Estimated Population and Leadership: ~7,000 employees led by D.L.R CEO and Face Kanchan Bonse
When the first Deepdown bubbles experimentation appeared decades ago, nobody expected any one else than military actors or some of the largest mega-corporations of the time to take the industry's lead toward expansion into civilian markets. But during the late 2020's, such actors had their compass set on rebuilding their power and returning to pre-war balance. Which suited someone who had been swimming under the radar for a bit.
Kanchan Bonse grew up following her corporate executive mother along a wide variety of postings. She emerged from her childhood with two passions: wreck diving and corporate power play. In the following years, she worked along the Indian coastlines on maritime salvage projects or post-disaster rescue operations. During those formative years, she lost nothing of her passions but gained a thick address book filled with talented if disgruntled, under-payed workers and engineers. Deep Level Recovery had all the ingredients to come to existence.
After building the core of her future corporation using her personal fortune; Bonse focused on developing proprietary designs for underwater habitats and workshops, allowing her technicians too work longer underwater. Spending many years experimenting and enhancing their techniques during humanitarian crises in South-East Asia, DLR took no side during the Fourth Corporate War but only gained power in the aftermath by landing many lucrative contracts all over the world.
Decades later, their glass bubble headquarters sit on waters granted by the Indian government as a thankful gesture. Visitors can admire there both the company's humanitarian projects and Deepdown habitat designs destined to the richest fringe of the planet. It is said that Kanchan Bonse only dives for pleasure these days but seems to be keeping tabs on elite divers across the world.
Far Yue City (Modular Floating City State) Location: South China Sea Estimated population and Leadership: 750,000 to 1,000,000 with a Central Representative Council
The fate of Hong Kong is one of the many tragedies of our times. After years of inner fighting and outside influence, the vibrant city was trying to recover when the Fourth Corporate War hit the world. A tragedy that climaxed with a biochemical attack for Hong Kong, closing that chapter on an abrupt end and leaving the rest of the wold with nothing but the Ghost World for memories. But that was without taking in account those who had to run prior to the events...
Since 2027 it has been noted that many members of the diaspora converged towards the Spratly islands to reunite with refugees from the Fragrant Harbour. Many former cargo vessels were bought as well as the maximum amount of TEU's they could get their hands on. In a matter of years a medium size fleet assembled with its inhabitants carrying their whole lives and families aboard, amidst a tangle of TEU's whose assembly became reminiscent of Kowloon's Walled City.
Early on, the ensemble stuck together giving life to a vivid culture of community and ingenuity. Workshops found new ways of extracting the most out of their minimal space and reduced resources. Personal networks connected and shared outside connections. The place became known as Far Yue City. By that time it was already able to travel as a group, approaching the coast of neighbouring countries, engaging in trade and knowledge sharing in exchange for protection.
Nowadays Far Yue city is able to criss-cross the whole South China sea as a whole, but more often fragmented; bringing city-sized dense assemblages of shops, schools, apartments, workshops and other gambling halls to various neighboring countries despite some local grumblings. For there is no better place in the region to obtain rare information, enjoy Dim Sum, place a bet, get a light-tattoo or learn hacking techniques than one of those floating districts sporting the white orchid emblem.
Ivory Sails (Free Navy) Area of operation: Worldwide Estimated numbers and Leadership: ~20,000 troops, ~2,000 boats, led by Ian Sharpgrove
The history of the Ivory sails is a tale of danger, daring actions and glory. Or it is a litany of war crimes, greed and ruthlessness. It usually depends on which side of the conflict you were. The Ivory Sails came to the world during the harsh days of the Sea War. As Militech and Arasaka were trading blows on land, sea, in the air, and in the cyberspace; their allies and subsidiaries destroyed each other; creating opportunities for professional outfits. Some of them at sea.
In came Ian Sharpgrove, raising out of obscurity at the tail end of the conflict and bringing with him a highly-specialized crew tailored for special operations. There was no raid the Sharpgrove Unit would fear to undertake, no desperate rearguard action they would not fight, no mission dangerous enough for them. Eventually managing the dubious feat of selling their services to most of the actors on both sides of the conflict, Sharpgrove and his troops made a name for themselves and soon enough everyone was ready to pay them so they would not fight for the other side.
This "sense of realpolitik winds", as he puts it himself, was what permitted now admiral Sharpgrove and his faithful troops to emerge rich and powerful out of the conflict. But their reputation was forever stained with infamy. In a transparent laundering effort, the group was re-named Ivory Sails and oriented themselves toward "peacekeeping" and "police actions", with a sprinkling of highly-publicized humanitarian stunts to seduce the medias.
Nowadays the Ivory Sails can be found anywhere across the globe training coastguard navies, securing areas for corporate clients, escorting refugee convoys and other such actions. Each time extracting a true ransom in exchange for their presence. But Sharpgrove knows the new golden age of privateers is reaching its end and takes every opportunity to line his pockets, mercilessly resorting to piracy if needed, before someone finally "retires" him once and for all.

The bar was a bit of a dump. Old, slightly dusty with dark wallpaper that clung halfheartedly to the walls where it had probably been plastered for the last 70 years or so. A few patches of paper had torn away, the result of beer or vodka or some other drink being spilt there; exposing the old durasteel wall behind it. The booth he sat in was old, the dull maroon colored vinyl fabric was laced with cracks and grooves of countless years. The table was worn, it's fake finish mostly worn away save for a few places not usually touched by customers while they ate one of four items on a menu that hadn't changed in 50 years. The Shining Light Bar, so named for a single chorded unshaded light that hung from the ceiling, the only real source of light in the bar besides an old jukebox in the corner and the dimly flickering neon of old signs. it was advertised as a place of respite from the hustle and bustle of the city. A place where everyone knew your name and your favorite spot was always open. If he was being honest that description made him want to laugh. The bars as a shitty hole in the wall, the kind of place you went to because you were too poor or too drunk to go anywhere else, just the kind of place he needed for his job.
He'd been here for over an hour, sitting in the corner nursing a now half filled glass of beer and appearing to read a book. To anyfur else he was just another one of the patrons, a tired fennec fox who was trying to get his drink on after a long day of work. Of course to someone who wasn't 'anyfur' he'd stick out like a sore thumb. For one he wasn't dressed quite like the others. The few other patrons in the bar (mostly foxes, weasels and an old otter) were clearly used to a harder walk of life than others in the city, their clothes and jackets were old patched and worn. His wasn't pristine by any stretch of the imagination, but compared to the others it was much nicer. Then there was his drink, unlike the other patrons who drained their glasses and quickly ordered another he'd had the same glass since he sat down. He made sure to sip from it on occasion, keeping up the appearance that he was just another patron when in reality it was just another layer to his cover. Besides, one drink for pretty piss poor beer wouldn't ruin his concentration, he'd surfed much tougher networks while drinking much stronger drinks. Lastly anyfur who gave him a hard enough look would be bound to notice his eyes. The book helped to mask his true intentions, just another layer to his disguise. But if anyone actually took the time to watch him they'd notice his eyes darting back and forth, much more often and much quicker than was needed to read a simple printed book.
He paused for a moment, his eyes coming To a stop as he brought the glass of, by now, warm beer to his muzzle for a drink. He didn't mind it's musty flavor, or the fact that it wasn't cold anymore. It was all a way to keep him grounded, a way to keep himself from slipping down the rabbit hole he was already toeing. Setting the glass back down on the table he resumed his efforts, numbers and symbols appearing in front of his vision as a kind of overlay to the world around him. Truth be told this place was perfect, quite, out of the way, the kind of place everyone knew about but only a few people went to. Just the kind of place he could set up and wait. That was something most freelancers in the city did wrong. They tended to think most problems could be solved by kicking in some door, shouting or waving a gun around and when necessary an old fashioned shootout. Shootouts made for good news stories on tv but lousy business. It was too easy for some banger to pull out a plasan rifle and shoot you through a wall, or else a smart targeting gun or implant that could simply tell him where to shoot to cause a ricochet that would kill you. And if you had someone unskilled with you then things just became downright impossible or as good as, making a shootout one of the worst things a freelancer could do in an unknown situation. Not to mention the rise in concealed and personal weapon implants meant that pretty much everyone was packing something nowadays.
That didn't mean he avoided guns, the P67 submachine pistol sitting in it's shoulder holster under his jacket was proof enough of that. But his method was slower, more methodical. Instead of kicking down physical doors he preferred to kick down virtual ones first. That's why he was here, in this lousy bar at 11:45pm on a thursday night, he was working. Taking another sip of beer he narrowed his eyes slightly. Getting into the bars' Old broadband network had been laughably easy. It had barely any security on it and still used the default passwords for the decade old router and model, meaning it was simply a matter of dropping a brute force bug into the system and waiting for it to churn through the 500 or so default passwords until it found the right one. When it had the wall of numbers of symbols that had filled his vision shattered and broke away, rearranging itself into patterns that allowed him to see what was connected to the network and if it could be manipulated in any way. He'd ignored most of the devices on the network, smart TVs, smart phones, smart appliances, ect. A few personal computers from the apartment building above the bar had piqued his interest, but he's resisted the urge to break into those. He had more important things to do. He'd combed through the system, looking at each device connected to it finally finding what he'd been looking for after half an hour of searching.
In the basement of the bar someone had set up a signal repeater and connected it to the network, allowing for the signal to be extended further than was usually possible for such a simple setup. That extended network was then through a new router which had been modified to produce a random IP address every 12 hours, making it nearly untraceable. Just the kind of network an up and coming street gang might find useful if they were trying to download and burn illegal bootlegs of the latest movies, pornos and virtual trips. In some ways he was impressed, someone in the gang obviously had a bit of technical know how. Otherwise they would not have been able to set up this shadow network. At the same time, just from the kind of security routines and firewalls they were using he could tell they were amateurs at best, probably less of a street 'gang' and more of a group of friends who fancied themselves 'ruffians' and were just trying to make a little extra money.
Taking another sip of beer he decided he'd been here long enough. He'd spent the last 30 minutes combing the shadow network, finding each device connected to it; three tower computers burning disks, a fourth tower that was doing all the downloading, and a few other random devices. His eyes flickered from side to side as he began his attack. Any freelancer could simply kick the door down, shoot the wannabes and smash the computers. But that would simply leave a trail of destruction right back to the freelancer. Instead he scanned the network, pulling up every connected device before going to work. First the computers that were burning the disks and chips. For those he dropped a spike, disabling the mechanic's component limiters. Each drive was capable of spinning at 10,000 RPMs, a few hacks to the code later and the speed increased ramping up to 100,000 in the span of a few seconds; each motor frying and burning out inside the computer casings. Next came the computer that was doing the downloads, for that he overclocked the CPU while at the same time disabling the temperature monitor, causing the computer to grow hotter and hotter until it's plastic components started to melt and turn to useless slag. Lastly came the router the entire shadow network ran off of, no need to do anything fancy with it. A quick executable later and a surge of power blew out it's circuitry, overloading the model and shutting it down for good.
He followed his pathway back, returning the part of his mind that had been doing the hacking to his body. In the bar no one was any the wiser to what he'd done, just as he liked it. Smiling to himself he picked up the half full glass of beer and drained it. Dropping a few chits on the table he stood up, stuffing the book he'd been using into his bag before slinging it over his shoulder and heading towards the exit. The wolf from behind the counter smiled at him, "come again anytime." He smiled at her, nodding even though he had no intention of ever returning. No need to be rude. Exiting the bar he paused for a moment, zipping up his jacket to protect himself against the cool night air. To others it was probably only mildly chilly, but to a fennec like him it may as well have been an extra 10 degrees colder. As he began to walk his ears twitched involuntarily, piquing and flicking to pick up on the ambient noise around him.
He kept his ears at attention, the acoustic analysis implant in his head scanning through the storm of sounds; searching for any signs of danger. It was unlikely true, but not impossible for someone to figure out it had been him that had wrecked their little operation. Afterall at least one of them had had some kind of technical experience, enough to set up the shadow network and link all the computers together in the first place. Walking down the sidewalk he did his best to blend into the crowd, a feat that wasn't easy since his ears stuck up a few inches above everyone he passed by. He'd learned this over the years. As odd as it sounded, after a job was done it was a good idea to stick around for a little while. Whenever something went wrong bad guys tended to spring into action, looking for anything suspicious or out of the ordinary. A fennec fox no one had seen before trying to flee the area would certainly count as such. So he bid his time, wandering the street and scanning the crowd, occasionally stopping at a window to look at the shop inside. As he paused to examine a handmade bag his implant tweaked, automatically adjusting his hearing so as to better hear a conversation that was happening between a weasel and a rabbit across the street behind him.
"Johnny says the computers are broke." "What happened?" "Don't know. Could be a power surge." "I told you we shoulda set up somewhere more stable."
I smiled to himself. So they'd found his handy work already, good. Indeed a moment or two later he watched in the glass as the weasel and rabbit took off, heading in the opposite direction he'd been headed. Good a time as any.
Straightening up he moved, making his way through the streets towards the parking garage he'd left his car in when he'd arrived. Dropping into the driverseat he started the engine, doing his best to look as if he was just another person on their way out to buy groceries or get some smokes and not like a freelancer driving away from the latest job. The further he got from the neighborhood the better he felt. No one was following him, or trying to stop him and a quick ping hack from his car's wireless receiver told him no drones or hacks had tailed him either. He was in the clear. Smiling to himself he tapped his phone, pulling up the number of the contact who had given him the contract.
Coming to a stop at a red light he waited, his eyes flickering upwards for a moment as a SWAT heavy response craft hovering above his car making it shake under the large craft's repulsors. After several seconds though the craft drifted up and away, giving him a view of the neon laced silver and glass skyscrapers that lined either sides of the street. He'd lived in Star City most of his life, only leaving it's limits a handful of times in recent memory. The last time-
But he was pulled from whatever thoughts he might have had when his phone connected the call and a stern but kind female voice spoke to him. "This is Deputy Aloe. Who is this?"
He chuckled. "Always so business like Aloe. Someday you'll answer with a nice pleasant 'Hi. how are you,'.
She chuckled at that, a dry but genuine sound. "Don't hold your breath Tesla. Jobs done?"
He nodded, more for himself than her before responding. "Computers are slagged, network is down and the Shining Light Bar can still serve crappy booze to its guests once again. No shootouts, no explosions, no dead bodies in the streets; just as requested."
Again Aloe chuckled. "You don't disappoint Tesla, sending the bits to your account. Pleasure doing business."
As the light turned green he spoke up, sensing the call nearing its end. "I don't suppose Star City PD has any other little jobs they want dealt with? Maybe bust up some smugglers like last week? Or plant some bugs like the week before?"
There was a pause for several seconds before Aloe spoke. "Nothing right now. Might have something next week. We're getting ready to raid some places, we'll need help with sweeps afterwards."
He nodded again to himself. He'd helped in a few after raid sweeps before, they were boring, usually pretty tedious too and just involved scanning former gang hideouts and strongholds for hidden networks or routers that standard PD procedures usually missed. "Maybe. I'm not that desperate for work though." He got no response from that. After several seconds he raised an eyebrow. "Something on your mind detective?"
When Aloe spoke next her voice was hesitant and uncertain. "You know… you get shit done. Your work is always clean. You never haggle or hit us up for more bits."
He shrugged. "We both know the PD is stretched thin. Call it a public service."
"You could do more, you know. Put those talents to use inside the law rather than in the legal grey. Y-"
This time it was his turn to laugh, seeing where the conversation was going. "Lemme stop you there detective. You can save the recruitment speech, I'm not interested."
Without missing a beat Aloe spoke over him. "Why not? You could do some real good in this city, instead of skulking around in the shadows and cleaning up dregs you could bust some real criminals."
Again he chuckled, half rolling his eyes. "Do you think I don't bust criminals with what I do?"
Aloe's voice became disapproving. "Killing them is not busting them."
He shrugged at her words. "That's for lawyers to decide afterwards. Look, I appreciate your appreciation but we both know I'm of more use to you like this. Besides, if I joined the PD I'd have to disclose my identity and my past. I may not have an entire rogue gallery like some of the more famous freelancers and crawlers, but I'm sure there are more than a few people who'd like to splice open my brain and watch me suffer. It's just better this way. Sides, I have a feeling the pay is better on this side of the law." As he spoke he glanced at his phone, noting a flashing indicator that his account had received the payment and was now 500 bits richer than it had been this morning. Not by a lot, but enough to make rent this month.
Pulling into his parking space and shutting off the engine he listened to Aloe sigh. "Alright, but if you change your mind I'll personally vouch for you."
He said his goodbye, ending the call before dropping his phone into his pocket and getting out of the car. He really could appreciate the deputy's efforts, she'd been after him for a little while now. Ever since he'd helped bust a drug ring selling Chrome on the streets spiked with a virus. But in the end three main factors kept him from joining. 1, the pay was lousy. 2, if he joined the PD he'd have to play by their rules and no matter how skilled he was, there were simply some things he could do as a freelancer that they as police officers couldn't do. And lastly, number 3, if he joined the PD he'd have to register his real name along with his past. He wasn't a famous freelancer, nowhere near the skill of some of the legends that lived in the city; Spyder, Sintex, P0G, or even Gam3guy. He was known however in smaller circles, in the groups of up and coming freelancers; all of whom were looking for a way to get a leg up. If he registered that info he'd spend the rest of his life looking over his shoulder, waiting for a scav or some ganger to sneak up behind to shank him, or some ganger to try and off him in the streets.
Climbing out of his car he paused, making sure he was alone in the lot before crossing it and moving inside his apartment building. Most freelancers wanted flashy places, places with polished synth-marble and fancy robotic butlers who opened the doors for you, not him. Those kinds of places were luxurious sure, but they also cost a level of privacy. If you lived there you did so partially for who you called neighbor; be they movie stars, billionaire Corporate CEOs or politicians. The Westbrook Deluxe apartments were much more his tastes. Officially the apartments offered all the modern conveniences an anthro could want; species accommodating beds and bathrooms, ample living spaces, high speed connectivity to the net and a happy and wholesome atmosphere. In reality only the last bit was true.
The species accommodating beds and bathrooms were practically a joke, he was pretty sure his unity had been built for equine or draco species; definitely one of the larger species. Although if he was being honest that just meant the bed he slept on was three times as big as he needed and his shower was the size of a walk-in closet. The 'ample living space' was also subjective at best. The apartments were more often than not on the smaller side, usually having only a bedroom, living room/dining room, a small corner that barely qualified as a kitchen, a bathroom and in his case an extra room that was probably meant as an extra large closet but that he used as an office. 'High speed connectivity' was secretly code for, 'we have one high-speed router that all 56 tenants will share'. The atmosphere was rather pleasant though, even as he walked up the front steps and pulled open one of the double doors someone called out to him, welcoming him back and asking how he was doing. He smiled, waving at the 20 something male racoon who waved back. Most of the tenants were teenagers or young adults attending the local university, or living on their own for the first time. A few of them were like him, people who dealt with the less savory side of the city and simply wished to keep a low profile. And some were older, having lived in this part of the city since it had been built in the late 120s.
This kind of a community suited him just fine. Those around him we're young and eager, each of them no doubt hoping to be the next big CEO or inventory of Web Crawler. Living here had even provided him with a few business opportunities, one reason why he always checked the building's bulletin board to see if anyone was having any kind of issues he could help resolve. The old board was a mess of the usual postings, notes asking if others wanted to come over for a party, or else advertising some lost or found item. One posting was for a moving sale, and still another asking if anyone would be willing to help the poster paint their apartment. He'd grown up in buildings like this, although the ones he'd been in had been much less friendly. Making his way to the elevator he smiled as the occupants of the vehicle began to file out, most of whom recognized and greeted him with a smile or a small "hey." He was grateful when he found that he was the only one riding the elevator up. Tapping the 11 button he sighed, leaning back against one of the elevator walls as it began to lift him to his floor. It was almost nine at night, meaning once he got home he had no intention of leaving until the next day. Mentally he picked his way through his fridge, deciding to have the leftover pasta and chicken he'd gotten from a street vendor two days ago. It was probably still good… probably. Maybe add a little hot sauce to it, it would be a decent enough dinner. Then he could relax with some TV, maybe take a hot shower and then actually get a decent nice sleep.
As the elevator came to a stop he stepped out, making his way down the familiar hallway and to the door marked by a glowing set of numbers, 27. He pressed his paw to the biopad, waiting for a moment as it scanned him before approving his entry and opening the door with a soft woosh. Stepping into his apartment, he watched as the lights flickered on automatically. He'd never been much of a decorator, preferring extreme function over astetical taste. As such, his apartment was a hodgepodge collection of furniture. A black vinyl couch that was big enough to double as a second bed, something the old tenant had left behind which he'd kept for its size and comfort. A tv stand made out of cheap synthetic wood that he'd fished out of a dumpster and sprayed liberally with disinfectant. His tv was 120 inches, not exactly something he'd brag about but the fact he'd gotten it for free; definitely. A coffee table from a thrift store and a few other odds and ends made up his living/dining room. Taking off his jacket he dropped it onto it's hook, making his way to the couch which he dropped into with a sigh. It felt good to be home, even better when he'd kicked off his shoes and holster, setting the latter down on the coffee table.
It felt good to have solved the problem without needing to pull his gun. Sinking back into the soft embrace of the couch he sighed again. Turning on the TV he groaned as the news kicked on, the familiar anchor a young and slim Boa Constrictor named James Garder was busy explaining how some kind of technical glitch in the city's Civilian Aug-Net had caused several public incidents when it had falsely reported a dozen or so civilian augments as failing around the city; causing emergency medical teams to be dispatched to the area to try and assist. He rolled his eyes at the report. The civilian Aug-Net was far from reliable, not surprising since the VI's monitoring it were decade out of date and the network itself was easily handling twice the capacity it was designed too.
Originally the system had been built as a kind of life alert for the budding augmented community. Anyone with any kind of augmentation; no matter how small or minor was implanted with a Biomonitoring chip which monitored their vitals as well as the interface between the organic and inorganic parts of their body. If something happened, causing a big enough spoke in the person's vitals then an emergency medical team was dispatched, with the system broadcasting the person's location, health and other important information having already been provided to the team. When it had first been brought on line it had been held up as a tool for good, a way for doctors to monitor their patients and keep them safe. Now though, 30+ years later the system was showing its age, with glitches and crashes being commonplace nearly everyday occurrences. Worse than that though, script slingers and web crawlers had breached the system security a few years back. Now anyone with decent enough skills or access to those with said skills could use the system to find anyone they were looking for; provided they knew the person's 17 character biosignature.
He'd disabled his connection to the network of course, more precisely he'd paid a script slingers the mask his signature. Most freelancers and grifters did so, the act actually being a small right of passage into the freelancer community. It removed a level of protection, but afforded them greater secrecy and anonymity; just another reason why their services were in such high demand. Officially they still existed in the network, their numbers still came up as active until they were reported as dead, but if anyone were to take a closer look they'd find that the biometric data never changed, always reporting as healthy with a moderate amount of physical activity but no other outlying markers; nondescript in practically every way.
He turned his attention away from the news, getting up from the couch and stretching for a second as he did so. He was tired, though it was more mental than physical; a side effect of the hacking he'd done earlier. Speaking of which, he should probably get in contact with his scriptslinger tomorrow and thank him for the viruses he'd used on this job. They'd made things much MUCH easier than they could have been. He'd never been the most skilled hacker in the world. He knew enough to breach security networks and systems. Sometimes he was even skilled enough to snag drones or other automated bots and take control of them for a time; but that was about it, and script writing had always been out of his league. Most security networks, at least higher tier security ones; used AI or VI integration. Meaning that an AI or VI monitored the system for any intrusions or unauthorized activity and once it detected something it would begin to learn and formulate ways of stopping it. Because of that the same hacks rarely worked twice so anyone looking to do some serious hacking had to have an array of hacks, cracks, viruses and deployable glitches up their sleeve, something he just didn't have the skill to make on his own. Pretty much anything more complex than modest systems and he needed a scriptslinger's help. Luckily he'd found one he liked after having been without a regular one for almost a year.
Groaning to himself he moved, stepping into the small space that passed for a kitchen and pulling open his fridge to browse the contents inside. Originally he'd planned to have the rest of the Chinese food he'd gotten last week, but now standing here the half eaten breakfast burrito he'd made yesterday seemed the better choice. Grabbing the breakfast burrito he dropped it onto a plate, tossing it in the microwave for a few seconds and watching as the obligatory 'please stand two steps back, unshielded augments may be damaged by microwaves' message played before the appliance kicked on and began to heat his food. In truth he wasn't really that hungry, but he needed to eat something or else his stomach would grumble and growl at him all night. As his food finished cooking he pulled it out, taking a bite and enjoying the pleasant albeit slightly dulled flavors; egg, chicken and potatoes, his favorite.
Soon enough the burrito was gone, giving him a nice warm feeling in his stomach as he yawned and stretched. Bed sounded like heaven right now, and so he turned off the TV with a quick command before heading to his bedroom. Stripping off his shirt he paused as he caught sight of his reflection in the mirror that hung on his wall. He was thin, maybe a tad bit thinner than other fennec foxes in the city. His fur was the standard shades of sand and creme at least along his hips and chest. His left arm was different though, not fur and flesh but instead silvery metal and black rubber in the shape of an arm. When he'd first gotten the cybernetic arm he'd resented it. All the doctors had told him it was a common emotion to feel, especially in those who had been augmented under less than ideal circumstances. At the time he'd wanted to snap the doctor's neck. 'less than ideal circumstances' that's what they called what had happened to him. In time though the feelings of resentment and anger had lessened, although they werent completely gone even now. It wasn't the cybernetic arm's fault, it had even saved his life a few times. Plus the enhanced strength and dexterity had proven useful in several situations.
Most of his body wasn't augmented. He still had his original legs, and internal organs (though his lungs were outfitted with the standard biofilters that everyone was implanted with at birth.) His eyes were still the original shade of blue they'd been when he'd been growing up. Above his right a few flecks of metallic silver glinted through his short fur, the biocircuitry all augmented individuals needed to interface with the machines and equipment necessary to keep their augments synced and in tune with their organic brains. His ears looked normal, or at least what passed for normal amongst fennec foxes, giving very little indications or clues about the augments inside them. Reaching back he ran his paw over his 'hair'. Anyone looking at him saw three thick black colored ponytails that hung down to midway between his shoulder blades, decorated with some kind of silver tipping. If they were to look closer however they'd notice the 'braid' in the strands was an industrial pattern and that the tips were not capped with decorations but instead silvery plugs which allowed him to connect to a much wider range of machinery and equipment than others.
Kicking off his jeans he pondered for a moment removing his briefs too and enjoying a nice sleep in the nude. In the end he decided against that, instead leaving the black and red garment on as he crawled into his usual place on his three sizes too big bed. Wiggling and squirming into place he waved his paw, a sensor in the headboard of his bed recognizing the gesture and turning off the lights in the bedroom as well as any others he'd left on in the apartment, plunging him into near darkness. Finally finding the right position he sighed, allowing the weight and softness of the blankets and the warmth of the bed to wash over him.

The airfield Holt found them on was almost the definition of small country airport, a single runway with a small hanger off to one side. Several aircraft of surprisingly bland design were tied down on a flat expanse of tarmac on the side of the hanger. Tanks and small structures of indeterminate purpose were scattered on the far side of the parking area, a short fence surrounded the airfield before transitioning to the endless fields of grain. Holt didn’t see a tower, passenger area, or even another plane as large as the one he’d landed in.
What appeared to be a black bus trundled across the pavement towards them, weaving between the other aircraft before coming to a stop a hundred feet or so from where he stood with his two guards, the strange higher and his assistant. Three figures emerged from the vehicle striding across towards them, while vaguely human Holt recognized them as Bralin, one of the sub-species the woman had spoken about on the flight here. The small image didn’t do their size justice as each of the three were easily seven feet tall and built like MMA fighters, their wide arms were covered in a thick grey fur while the rest of their exposed skin was an almost uniform deep tan. Their eyes were comparatively small to their massive frame, protected by thick lashes and resessed slightly into their skull, presumably to keep them out of the way of debris and attacks.
“Which one of you humans is the leader?” the lead one of the massive figures barked. Each of them wore something resembling a suit, if a cheap one. The way the fabric struggled to contain their massive shoulders and muscles would have made Holt laugh if he hadn’t been staring up at one standing only a few feet from him.
“I’m Champion Holt,” he said with as much military snap as he could muster, remembering that the woman had explained the Bralin valued strength and bravery, “I’m here to speak with the leaders of your clans.”
“You are a champion?” the lead figure scoffed, stepping up closer until he towered over Holt who was doing his best to stand his ground, “are you the best your reliquary can manage?”
“I’m also an emissary you agreed to escort,” Holt reminded them, though he could almost hear Saraphine’s grip tightening on her shock pulsar behind him.
“How could ones small as you be taken seriously? Perhaps if I kill you then your nation will send a more respectable group,” as he spoke the lead Bralin lifted one of his massive hands, short claws extending from thick fingers as he prepared to strike. Before Holt, Adim or Saraphine could react Holt suddenly found himself sliding backwards well out of reach of the massive beast while the Higher man had appeared in his place.
“This one asks you to rethink your actions,” the woman said for her master, the easy smiles never leaving either of their faces.
“You’re a Higher?” the Bralin said incredulously, his arm paused in the air, still ready to strike, “a small thing like you? Even that so-called champion is more imposing, and he’s as frightening as a frog!”
With that the massive hand descended faster than Holt though a monster like him could move, and yet he failed to grab anything the old Higher seeming to simply step forward so the swing missed him by what had to be less than an inch. Still giving a friendly smile the Higher reached out to place his palm against the Phenokin’s solar plexus, and gave a gentle push. In sharp contrast to the calm with which the man moved the Bralin slammed into the ground, his heels apparently stuck to the ground preventing him from simply flying backwards. The old man pulled his hand back and, almost like the beast before him was one of those self-righting punching toys, the Phenokin was pulled to his feet, standing right where he was moments earlier, though looking more than slightly dazed.
“This one asks you to rethink your actions,” the woman repeated. Not responding the Bralin gathered enough wits to try and lash out at the Higher with both hands, but another push saw him slammed into the pavement hard enough that Holt could feel the ground shake slightly.
“This one asks you to rethink your actions,” repeated the woman a third time. The Phenokin took longer to recover but when he did he reached for something under the jacket of his suit. A third time he was slammed into the ground, a pistol that looked similar to Holt’s shock pulsar, though bigger to accommodate the monstrous hands of the Bralin, skidded across the ground.
“I-,” the Bralin panted as the Higher once again stood him up, hand still on his solar plexus. Despite the beating he’d just given he was not only conscious but didn’t even appear to be bleeding. Holt wondered if he had any gifts to increase his toughness or if that was just how tough a Bralin was.
“I- I acknowledge your strength,” the massive figure finally panted out, lowering his head and holding out both hands, palms up with claws retracted. The Higher seemed appeased by this and calmly walked away, the other two Bralin repeated the gesture that apparently showed submission.
With little additional chatter the three Bralin allowed the led the makeshift delegation onto the bus, and it was very much a simple bus. There were seats of several different sizes, presumably to accommodate various sub-species of Phenokin, the walkway down the middle was slightly wider than normal, and the driver’s seat was in the middle of the vehicle, further forward than the door. Holt hadn’t been expecting a full motorcade with bulletproof windows and security, but this did fall below his expectations.
“Really pulling out all the stops to make us feel welcome, aren’t they,” Holt whispered harshly as he sat several rows back from the other two Bralin who weren’t driving.
“We’re their ancient enemy, using a faction of super-humans to all but strong-arm a smaller clan of theirs into talking with us,” Adim pointed out.
“Well, when you put it like that.”
“Your first meeting will be tomorrow,” the Higher’s assistant interrupted, “each day after that the commander has arranged at least one meeting with heads or leading figures in different clans.”
“Who are we speaking with tomorrow?” Holt asked.
“An elder of the Krielin clan,” she replied brightly, “unfortunately even our Commander was unable to secure a meeting with the head of the clan.”
“This is more than I expected, from you anyways,” he assured her.
“I’m surprised the Highers are going this far,” Adim admitted, “for their commander to directly pressure anyone for a meeting…”
“Almost like they have some interest in these meetings,” Holt said slowly, carefully observing both the Higher and his assistant, but they simply smiled pleasantly without speaking or giving anything away.
“Regardless,” he continued once it was clear the Higher wasn’t going to explain, “I’ll take the help, I had no way to even contact them, much less the ability to set up meetings.”
“Saraphine?” Adim said, looking at the shorter woman who seemed to be seething internally, glaring up the bus at the Bralin.
“They insulted both the Champion and the Reliquary in one breath,” she growled.
“They’ll do more than that during this trip, please try to control yourself,” Holt warned her.
“Yes Champion,” she replied stiffly.
It took several hours to drive to the city, passing by several smaller towns that looked remarkably normal. Even the city looked closer to anything Holt had in his world than the city he’d been placed in charge of. Irregular towering sky scrapers decked in glass placed in a regular grid of streets. The most out of place thing was the largest tower that seemed to take up four blocks, easily double the width and half again as tall as any other tower it dominated the skyline as they approached the city.
What drew Holt’s attention most was the reactions of his two guards, both Adim and Saraphine stared in some mix of awe and confusion at the buildings. They weren’t much taller, on average, than the buildings in their city but these were covered in glass, not steel reinforced concrete.
“Why would anyone make a city like this?” Adim asked softly, likely to himself, as their bus began navigating the narrow streets and traffic.
“Seems pretty normal to me,” Holt replied, before admitting, “well, except for the people.”
Those walking the streets ranged from towering, massive Bralin like who were escorting them, to smaller more human looking figures. A group with oversized heads chatted between themselves as a pair of what looked like linebackers in shorts and tee-shirts marched by, Holt only realizing that the two muscular figures were female once they passed.
“Glass buildings? Not even reinforced?” Adim explained, “there are multiple points of entry on each structure, no reinforced doors…”
“And there was no checkpoint when we drove in,” Saraphine added, “anyone could just… drive into the city.”
“They don’t have to deal with their city being leveled every so often,” Holt shrugged, “many of the cities in my world were like this too.”
“I don’t think I could get used to being surrounded by this much glass,” Adim said simply.
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“Catgirls,” Holt said simply in an incredulous voice, “they have… catgirls.”
After arriving at their hotel, the Bralin escorts had left since the Commander had arranged for accommodations, their suite had enough beds for everyone as well as a large common area and small kitchen. It felt very much like a five star hotel, the likes of which Holt could never afford to stay at in his last world. Everything in here was even sized correctly for humans and, what had interested Holt the most after hours traveling, room service was included. Which is what brought him to this moment.
A maid had delivered the food on a cart, her uniform was more costume than practical but not to the point of being trashy. But what had caught Holt’s eye was her cat ears. After delivering their food the maid had given them a polite bow and left without a word.
“The Wylin are another sub-species of Phenokin,” the Higher’s assistant explained, “they were created as a servant race, with submissive tendencies, reduced logical reasoning but improved empathy and emotional sense. Their genetics also prefer physical attraction over other traits, their ears and other animalistic features are largely cosmetic despite appearances.”
“I had a friend in my old world,” Holt continued after a letting out a long sigh, “he said if the future didn’t include catgirl maids he wanted nothing to do with it.”
“Assuming these… Why… Lin… are ‘catgirls’ as you put it,” Adim replied, “then sounds like your friend would be happy with this future.”
“So giant Gorilla men with hair that can stop blades is fine, but attractive women with animal ears is too much?” Saraphine asked, looking slightly amused for the first time since they’d landed.
“Just… disappointed in humanity I guess,” Holt replied.
“Considering humanity made the Phenokin I’m disappointed too,” agreed Saraphine.
“According to few surviving records the Wylin were created for personal servant and customer service roles, though whether they were outright slaves or simply indentured servants is unknown,” the assistant said helpfully.
“I don’t remember you mentioning them before, is their clan not very important?” Holt asked.
“They have no clan,” the woman answered, “they are generally looked down upon as being barely better than humans and not smart enough to run their own clan. Most businesses and clans keep Wylin as servants, as you’ve seen, providing food and shelter in exchange for them performing menial tasks.”
“So… they’re slaves?”
“In all but name,” the woman agreed.
“I really don’t like slavery,” Holt grumbled.
“Rethinking this peace thing then?” Saraphine asked.
“No, guess I finally found something about their society I can’t stand… besides their occasional razing of the city.”
“I thought the Reliquary prevented slavery,” Adim asked.
“Technically they are not slaves and are free to leave,” the woman explained, “while it’s true the Reliquary generally acts to prevent forced labor of a captive population, the Wylin walk that line in that they are technically able to leave but have no reason to. No clan would hire them for anything better than menial labor, and they are paid in room and board not money, so they are unlikely to see a lifestyle improvement based on where they work.”
“Sounds like slavery to me,” Holt growled, the woman not responding.
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Discord - Patreon
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((no death's trial today, the story will resume tomorrow))

I would like to add some more magical variety to the dogs in my campaign. I have the beginnings of a d100 from here, here and here... I thought this community could complete it!
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1. Volmusian Ember Hair - A breed derived from fire elemental stock, bred by druids as attack animals. Fiery red hair, maned, with a sturdy frame and short snout. 1d3 Fire damage/round if within 5ft and the dog dislikes you.
2. Mutt of Tindalos - Possessed of the blood of creatures which exist outside of space-time; this canine does not move, it simply stutters & teleports up to 40ft in a round instead. They are off-putting creatures, emaciated and long-limbed with greenish-grey fur.
3. Hemohound - Descended from the hounds owned by vampires. Sable-furred, with crimson eyes and bodies built for pursuit. Hemohounds feed on blood, and biting living creatures heals them. Each successful bite restores 1 HP to the dog.
4. Cerberusid - Smuggled out from Hades itself, these stocky, well-muscled and snub nosed dogs have multiple heads for observing the comings and goings of the dead. Advantage on anything to do with multi-tasking or perception. Roll 1d6 - 1-3: 2 heads, 4-6: 3 heads.
5. Dorician Pale Dog - Developed by fakirs for the purposes of curing diseases, these wane and mangy beasts are capable of taking diseases into themselves by licking the afflicted and transferring them to another through the means of coughing or sneezing fits.
6. Dolchean Mole-hound - A strange breed of canine developed by dwarves to help them guard their subterranean farms. Mole-hounds have short white fur, huge reflective eyes, and massive paws. These dogs can burrow and dig at half the speed at which they can run.
7. Sivardian Chaser - These huge, grey-furred, and wolf like dogs were bred by Hobgoblins to keep pace with and flush out their traditional Centaur rivals. Chasers move 20ft faster a round than a typical canine.
8. Phantom Cur - Cultivated from canines repeatedly revived through necromantic means, these eerie hounds outwardly seem like normal members of their species, but they often go minutes without breathing or days without blinking. Their own proximity to death allows them to sense and affect incorporeal beings.
9. Spell Terrier - Developed by generations of spell-casters to be the ideal Familiar, spell terriers are small enough to be carried on one's person and are possessed of luxurious hair suitable for petting. Spell Terriers can identify and retrieve spell components and magical items.
10. Witcher Spaniel - A dog bred by mage-hunters to help them identify their targets. These spaniels are tall and long-bodied, with short dark coats and pointed features. Witchers can sense the presence of magic, and will growl when a spell is used in their presence.
11. Ceirwannian Hunting Hound - Graceful and sleek of profile, these shaggy-haired hunting dogs are a traditional companion of elvish rangers, and are used to help their owners harry prey. Ceirwannians gain advantage on all rolls relating to stealth or ambush.
12. Splay-toed Goblin Dog - Long of limb and short-furred with large digit pads, these dogs are used by Goblins as both draft and riding animals. Their feet allow them to easily bound and scurry up the broken terrain and caves in which their masters make their homes. Splay-toes ignore the effects of difficult terrain and climb half as their movement speed.
13. Chardonian Water Spaniel - Savior of pirates and sailors the world over, Chardonian are mid-sized short-haired dogs which come in a variety of blues. Fiercely loyal, these dogs are trained to retrieve folk thrown overboard during sea voyages. Chardonian have been interbred with water elementals, and they may breathe underwater and swim as quickly as they run.
14. Drowish Oozehound - Bizarre and terrifying creatures designed by the dark elves as guardians for their slave pens. These beasts tend towards bright and playful personalities, their fur replaced by semi-translucent globules of tar like ichor. A bite (or nuzzle) from an Oozehound necessitates a strength check to escape.
15. Saoghal Cultivated Dog - A servant dog bred by the nobility to be a gentleman's best friend, these beautiful beasts move with the poise and elegance of an aristocrat. Their long fur is kinked into tight spools which must be brushed daily to keep from knotting. Saoghals are incredibly intelligent, watching those that treat with their owners carefully, barking or growling when they suspect that lies are being told.
16. Doppeldachshund - Originally the product of a now obscure and likely mad arch-mage, this breed of dog is now chiefly treasured by cheap side shows and thieves. Doppeldachshund are able to briefly alter their form into that of other animals of their own approximate size. They can maintain an alternate form for only ten minutes before shifting back.
17. Corantinian War Dog - Chosen from the fiercest and largest stock by generations of crusaders to foster a gargantuan canine which rivals a small pony in size. Corantinians have thick coats of white fur which braid themselves into thick protective cords as the dog matures. Corantinians have an extra Hit Die than a typical canine.
18. Troll-blooded Laika - This particular land race was developed by goblinoid tribes to aid them in their hunts and raids. Interbred with regenerating creatures, these dogs are utterly fearless and unflinchingly loyal. They are a mid-sized breed and of average build, but they are terribly ugly, covered in patches of uneven and wart-ridden fur. Troll-blooded Laika regenerate 1/HP a turn. Laika eat double the amount of a typical dog.
19. Poison Dart Dog - Inspired by the similarly named amphibian, a group of shaman deep within the jungles of Auyyuah have bred a line of canines capable of producing and expelling poisons. These dogs can at will exude a class 'M' poison. They are hairless and sleek creatures, with slick patches where the poison naturally pools.
20. Platinum Retreiver - An offshoot of common hunting dogs, these somewhat dopey and friendly beasts can detect the presence of precious metals up to 60' away.
21. Baradag - these strong-bodied little dogs are dwarven bred. They are kept as both pets and working dogs. The working dog lines are known as Noser Baradags and are said to be able to smell gold. They assist mining operations in a number of ways, primarily to warn miners of gas deposits or other dangers. They also help by carrying supplies, messages, etc. The smell drive in Noser Baradags make them poor pets, but their softer House Baradag counterparts fill the role well, warming beds and delighting dwarven youths.
22. Draft Mastiff - similar to a riding mastiff, these slobbering beasts are a favorite of stout halflings for their ability to pull almost anything from market carts to tilling equipment. They’re even more valuable than ponies or oxen as they can be trained in other farm tasks including retrieval and digging for harvest. Draft Mastiffs may way upwards of 200 pounds.
23. Equifeller - believed to be long ago produced by crossing Hvitfeller with Draft Mastiffs, Equifeller are forces to be reckoned with on the battlefield. Their specialty is bringing down cavalry. In most cases these wardogs are outfitted in heavy armor that often bears spikes or blades on the shoulders and sides. They fiendishly attack the legs of horses, using their massive body-weight to bring them down. If a unit of Equifellers can be snuck into a flanking position against a cavalry, the effects can be devastating for the opposing forces.
24. Faehound - these large sighthounds are a favorite of moon elves. Slightly fey themselves, they have unusually long lifespans for canines. These dogs are used for hunting, companionship, and as watchdogs. They’re trained to patrol settlements and will let loose melodious howls at any shadow of danger. Their intelligence makes them apt to many tasks and popular among those that can afford or obtain them. This along with their long lifespans have made them an extremely popular breed to cross into other lines to extend their longevity and increase their intelligence.
25. Gorehound - these canines are bred by Orcs for a single purpose--violence. They are as massive as they are aggressive, with boulderlike heads and wide mouths filled with file-sharpened teeth. They’re often released into enemy camps or villages to cause damage and confusion before their orc masters arrive in force. Stray gorehounds are inherently feral and breed rapidly due to their usually short and brutal existences. Feral packs can cause large problems for travelers, livestock owners, and settlements.
26. Highland Templehound - these black and tan dogs are commonly used as monastery or temple watchdogs. Their ability to hunt as well as guard makes them versatile and valuable in more remote temples. Like many popular and high quality breeds, templehounds were bred with feyhounds to boost lifespan and intelligence.
27. Hvitfeller - these massive wardogs got their name from their pure white coloring. They are powerful, mobile, and easily trained to fight alongside humanoids. Famous imagery of old battles often including striking armored dogs whose pelts glow ruby, which some believed indicated they were symbols of war gods in the artwork. In reality these images are actually of Hvitfeller stained with the blood of their enemies. Hvitfeller have close cropped ears and tails to protect them from injury in battle.
28. Kanan Ridgeback - these are the premier tier of riding dogs in the Wildlands. They are incredibly strong with unmatched stamina. They are one of the very few breeds of riding dog that can sustain a pace similar to that of a horse. Their ability to bear a rider on a hunt as well as withstand intense heat makes them extremely versatile. These traits make them very popular among nomadic lightfoot halflings and wandering gnomes. These dogs range from 34-38 inches tall at the withers and weigh anywhere from 120-180 lbs. They were bred up in size from Liondogs out of Sunfort with some Draft Mastiff (for size) and Faehound (for longevity and intelligence) in their bloodlines.
29. Skuggafeller - these terrifying wardogs are used by drow raiders. They are distinguished by their pitch black pelt and yellow eyes. They lead the hunt on drow raids, where their role is to encircle and then slow down the victims. Instead of a red or brindle which would hide the dogs in dark woods, their dark black coats are noticeable, terrifying shadows meant to strike fear and carelessness into the drows’ prey. They follow on fell mounts, waiting for the skugga’s chaos to make easy victims.
30. Southern Liondog - these big hunting dogs are used by nobles and common folk in alike to hunt anything from boar to lions. Their ability to withstand the plainsland heat makes them one of the most common dogs in hot climates. Their strong frames and stamina make them popular even among merchants, who use them to guard caravans or even pull small carts of their own.
31. Tundrahund - these big grey animals are kept by northern tribes and can put up with extreme cold without any extra gear. The purely domestic breed is used to guard settlements and pull sledges. Dire Tundrahunds have been crossed with wolves and, while more difficult to train, can become incredibly proficient hunters and wardogs. Dire Tundrahunds are common companions of northern druids, rangers, and barbarians.
32. Western Driver - these compact little farm dogs were bred on the banks of big rivers and are the pride of any farmer or handler. Their lines can be traced back to small shepherds crossed with the slight faehounds from an age past. Even though the Western Driver only weighs 20 to 30 pounds (and is easy to feed!) they can handle herds of up to 500 head with a single farmer. Their intelligence and athleticism give them great utility as shepherds, field wardens, warning dogs, and even messengers in cities and wartime.
33. Xolotl - Pronounced Zolot. Where a corgi (or some other dog) is a friend to man, Xolotl are friends to the monsterous races. They bond with these monsters because they are drawn to misfortune, sickness, and deformities. They hide beneath the earth when the sun is up and dig their way out as the sun sets. The underdark is their home and they come above ground to lead sick and dying souls into caves where monsters lurk.
34. Raiju - Appear as white or blue wolves, dogs, or foxes. They thrive in thunderstorms and attract lightning wherever they go. Their claws are as fast as a flash of light and burn the flesh of those they strike. When a storm is around they leap about in frantic energy and are impossible to calm. They are attracted to adventurers who sleep out in the wilderness during storms.
35. Bul-Gae - These dogs have fur of flame and chase the rising sun during the day, and the rising moon at night. They are constantly running, trying to bite the sun and moon an feed on their energy. They are drawn to paladins of the sun and the moon, and in clerical circles are seen as avatars of these great spirits.
36. Sarama - Pair themselves with motherly figures, typically women, and aid them in mythic tasks. The legend goes that if a Sarama appears on your doorstep, then you will go on an epic quest. These quests are large in scale and involve gathering and uniting.
37. Aralez - Big, winged dogs that live on mountain tops and inside of clouds. They fly down after massive battles or horrible assassinations to lick the wounds of the dying and deceased. Spiritual people create tombs in tall towers or on mountains so that the dead are closer to the Aralez. It is said that they can bring the dead back to life.
38. Cadejos - These dogs lurk in the lands prone to natural disasters. Their presence is both an omen or a sign of protection, depending on the color of the dog. Black dogs are protectors, guarding villagers and travelers from harm, while white dogs want nothing but harm brought to the people around them.
39. Red Eyed Viperhound - Found in deserts or tropical rainforests and uses its pack tactics and potent venom to take down bigger prey like camels (desert), and tigers (jungle). Mottled or spotted colored short fur with red eyes depending on the locale.
40. Alogolos - Found in plains and grassland communities, selectively bred for enormous size and toughened pads on the paws, these dogs are used as mounts for normal size humanoids. These few in number and highly prized for their versatility and intellect. Short hair, with mostly earthen color coats, long pointed ears and a thin long tail.
41. Cornicanus - Solely wild with few found in druidic communities. Found in northern forests, both males and females have antlers but males are much larger. These dogs are deemed the shepherds of the wilds due to their resistance to humanoid presence. The coats of these dogs are smooth and orangish red with white spots, like a young deer.
42. Stryker - Long shaggy fur rubs together to collect static electricity, blue and white fur with black stripes. The dog can discharge through the tail or through biting for an extra 1d4 lightning damage.
43. Doomhound - An original group of wild dogs were twisted due to chaotic, demonic, or wild magics to cause extreme and nonstop bone growth. Can force its own spurred bones through its skin to cause 1d4 piercing damage to any creature grappling or trying to restrain it. Can also use this ability as a melee attack for 2d4 piercing damage.
44. Screecher - a dog bred in the Underdark to protect merchant caravans and other travelers from monsters in the shadows. This dog is considered blind but has 30ft of tremorsense and 60 feet of blindsight through the use of echolocation. The sound the dog makes is a high pitched yelp. This dog has translucent shaggy fur and no eyes.
45. Liarhound- an extremely specialized dog with sharp claws. Using its cries to mimic hurt travelers or whining animals it lures unsuspecting prey to a pack ambush. Domesticated Lyrebird dogs are used for hunting, making the most of their mimicry.
46. Chulthuahua - Simmilar to a red cap of the feywild, these tiny dog like creatures can be found in particularly deep jungles in chult where the dense layers of trees slow down prey creatures enough for the chulthuahua to swarm and devour like land piranhas . Some say these creatures are so angry that they constantly shake with rage.
47. Dire Pitbull - A favorite of halfling farmers for protecting children, riding around and pulling plows. These highly excitable dogs are fairly protective often standing in front of anything they deem under their protection.
48. Drakehound - Traditional drakes are made using a ritual requiring a pile of meat, dragon scales and potions, the drake hound was born when an a nosy dog snuck into the pot for a bite. Now the dog sports a coat of scales above its short fur and can use a breath weapon and has fairly acidic slobber. The castle gardens may never recover...
49. Golden Redeemer - Long flowing sandy fur. This dog is considered to be blessed by the gods, bringing luck to the pious and curses upon sinners.
50. Summer bayhound - this thin, wiry, sea-blue dog is often found in shallow bodies of warm water. they are extremely adept swimmers, and are often raced aquatically. it is said they were created when a pack of lost dogs attempted to cross a portal they found into the elemental plane of water, but got caught and were stretched before being spat into their destination.
51. Bomberanian - A small, fluffy dog with a red and white coat, able to create and lob motes of explosive magical energy from their tails when they get too excited. The result of a wizard and an artificer both trying to teach their beloved pet how to use their various spells and equipment.
52. Inimis - these little dogs with ghostly-white fur have a playful personality that, combined with their ability to become nearly invisible and pass through walls creates an adorable yet highly dangerous pup
53. Metal Retriever - The metal retriever has a strong sense of smell and a metallic fur, metal retrievers' eyes are in the color of their favorite metal (gold being the most common). They have gold-like fur but if they eat their favorite metal ( usually in powder form that is mixed with their food, because their teeth are not strong enough to bite through most metals ) the fur slowly start changing to the metal they ate. Although the most common favorite metal is gold, some metal retrievers have a different favorite metal, some rare ones even have a magical favorite metal. Metal retrievers has a insanely strong sense of metal smell and some can be trained to retrieve stolen metal object or even locate metals and treasures. Sometimes are used as metal detectors for places where weapons are not allowed!
54. Saint Bernard - is a breed believed to originate from the great Mount Celestia. It is a very large dog, its coat can be either smooth or rough; the smooth coat being close and flat, while the rough is dense, flat, and more profuse around the neck and legs. The color is typically a golden or silvery shade with white. Black shading is usually found on the face and ears. The tail is long and heavy, hanging high. The eyes are usually a deep metallic color that is a combination of gold, silver and white, but sometimes can be icy blue, and should have naturally tight lids, with haws only slightly visible. This breed is famous for its great sense of justice and usually barks at evil creatures, can see through disguises, and is friendly to good creatures.
55. Spell Spitz - these cute dogs, with the most furriest of white furs, looks harmless and normal accept of a shining pair of violet eyes. But they are the biggest fears of many wizards and spellcrafters, and for a good reason, those little pups will lick your precious scrolls or items and strip them out of their magical powers. Once licking arcane glyphs the magical letters will wash out and a black symbol that resemble the glyphs will appear on the Spell Splitz's fur, once the symbol has appeared the Spell Splitz could activate it (though after activating a symbol the Spell Splitz would need to take an eight to twelve hours nap before activating it again). The Spell Splitz are not particularly smart so a spell or magical effect that has a more complicated purpose than: attack, protect or help would usually be casted randomly when the Spell Splitz is exited or panicked. The amount of symbols a Spell Splitz can have are unknown through it is commonly believed that the purer the breed the more symbols it could have (commonly around 3-5)
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Thank you to those who contributed!
Credit:
1-20 [boxfullofboxes], 21-32 [u/UrsaWizard], 33-38 [u/DeathMcGunz], 39-45 [u/DnDKit], 46-48 [u/FlareDragoon1], 49 [u/StanePantsen], 50-51[u/-peachmilk-], 52-55 [u/Vistis]