The rain outside ticked against the windowpane. Still no shuttle.
Morty sighed and glanced at Kassur, who was half-bent over the open engine. A spotlight illuminated the guts of the machine. They’d migrated here after finishing the bread and coffee. Somehow, the conversation hadn’t died, even while Kassur worked.
Morty usually hated small talk. It always felt like a trick people played to kill time.
Sometimes he wielded it as a probing tool. Digging up tiny bits of information, little by little. He wasn’t doing it here. It didn’t feel rehearsed. The jackal was too eager, too open, rambling about running the shop and the apartment upstairs, how he’d taken it over from the guy who’d trained him. He bragged about appliances rescued from discard piles, repaired, and repurposed for personal use.
“Isn’t your shuttle late?” the jackal finally said, while glancing at the clock.
“Yep. They said thirty to forty minutes,” Morty muttered. “My tail. It’s been over an hour.”
Kassur finally looked up from the engine, a faint smirk tugging at his mouth. “Are you sure? Feels like you just got here.”
Morty huffed in amusement.
“I’m sure. I can read a clock. But I can’t complain too much. The company is good. I just hope to get there before it closes today.”
“You’re thinking too much like a regular,” Kassur grunted as he forced a stuck screw free with a wrench, glaring at it with murderous intent.
“What do you mean?”
“Well, the biggest one is under the old Public Market. Technically, it is open to everyone. So, if you want, you can go there, buy a feral pig, and butcher it for Sunday barbecue.”
“Ok. Nothing new there. I actually buy a lot of fish from one near my place. DAIR gives us some damn good vouchers.”
“Oh, lucky. I could use some of those. Maybe I’ll see if they need a mechanic for their cruisers.”
“I could check on that if you’re serious.”
“Really?” Kassur paused, then shrugged. “Maybe. I like it here. But I wouldn’t mind a few new neighbors.”
Morty chuckled. “Fair.”
Kassur leaned back slightly, stretching. “Yes! Anyway, the thing that I meant was: Even when you are just a law-abiding predator, people treat you funny. So it is easier to just go there when most people don’t. The meat market under the Public market usually stays open close to midnight. It is underground, it feels better. Go in, and out. Not many people.”
“That does help a little.”
Morty kept watching Kassur wrangle another stubborn bolt. “Can I ask you something without you throwing that wrench at me?”
“I make no promises,” Kassur said, an amused lilt to his voice.
“Why do you top off the predator body? It can be expensive. The frontline enforcers do need the extra edge to fight. But you… you don’t strike me as someone who enjoys the violence. So is it vanity?”
=================================
Kassur recoiled, his eyes going wide as he paused his work and then squinted at the cat, which gave him an air of steely judgment. Morty kept his posture relaxed. He didn’t look like the other DAIR agents demanding answers. The jackal couldn’t sense any ulterior motives.
It sounded like idle curiosity.
After a few seconds, the tension on Kassur’s posture dissipated.
“So… my dad took off when my mom was pregnant. She raised me and my brother alone. But she got very sick when I was around seven. We all did. And… Yeah. I told you I wasn’t from Endon, right? Don’t matter much. Medical care isn’t free here either.”
He took a long breath, eyes now fixed on the floor.
“Long story short: Mom died. My brother died. I survived. Somehow. But I was always sick and thin.”
It felt weird.
He wasn’t sure he’d ever said that out loud before. Yet, part of him felt lighter, as if it was being set free. Like when he would shower and get rid of sweat and grime after a really long day.
Morty’s tail flicked once, sharp, the only sign he’d taken the hit of the story. His ears tilted forward a notch. And his stare felt more profound, but he remained quiet, waiting for Kassur to continue.
“I ate a rat once. Not an anthro. Just a regular feral rat. I was starving. And… I felt how it charged me. Even if I hadn’t been tested, I knew then that I had the gene. So I started hunting for rats and getting money to buy livestock. Some people can say it is a silly reason. But it is what it is.”
Morty nodded. His expression didn’t change. He didn’t look disgusted.
“Sounds like a good enough reason. You are taking in just enough to get the base line panacea effect and not get sick. I wish I could do the same. Some preds try to switch for bugs. It’s way cheaper.”
“I know,” Kassur said, rubbing under his chin with the wrench. “I forced myself to try it. But I just don’t like it. Plus, most of the time it gave me indigestion.”
“Really? I had some of it a few times. Not the live ones that are required for a predator diet. But they sell beetle protein in powder. It is good to thicken the stew and has a strong umami kick to it.”
That earned a smirk. Kassur leaned back on the stool, long fingers turning the wrench over like a coin. The workshop light caught his fur, the warm brown tinted gold by the bulbs.
=================================
Time just... dissolved.
Outside, the drizzle faded to a thin, almost friendly mist, Morty realized they’d been talking for nearly another hour. They spoke of nothing and everything. About old music that only survived in bootlegs, about Kassur’s searing hatred for plastic appliances, about Morty’s inability to organize his own home.
It was strange — how easily they just... clicked. Like muscle memory from a life neither of them lived.
It wasn’t just about comfort, not exactly. It was recognition. That weird flicker when two people who don’t fit anywhere else happen to fit here. The conversation was not formal. Far from it. Just two tired men accidentally relaxing around each other.
“Are you always this patient?” Morty asked.
“Well. It took a long time to be like this. Sure, there are times I just want to set some of the most stubborn machines on fire. But getting mad at them doesn’t fix anything.”
“Sounds very wise,” Morty replied. “Doesn’t make things less frustrating than they are."
He was looking at Kassur, but in his mind he also saw Ruld standing there, arms crossed. He pictured the bulky rhino glaring at him with disapproval.
What am I doing here?
Kassur chuckled, grounding him. “You don’t like waiting, huh?”
What’s stopping you from looking elsewhere? Bianca’s voice popped in his head.
“It’s not that,” Morty said. “When I started this job I was too eager to prove myself. Thought that I could change the world and single-handedly end crime. All of it.”
“So you don’t care about the world anymore.”
“Of course I do. But I almost got killed. And a friend of mine was the sole reason I survived. He beat it into me how to be more patient.”
“People like that are important. The guy who taught me? His kids had moved away, and he had a bad back. One day, he spotted me trying to sell some metal at the scrapyard for recycling and gave me a chance. I started by helping to move stuff and he slowly trained me, so I became an extra set of hands. Later I took over when he retired.”
“He sounds like a good guy. Do you still keep in touch?”
“Once a year, on Remembrance Day. He invites me over for dinner. His kids don’t like me very much,” the jackal chuckled, his gaze somewhere far away. Then he shrugged and smiled at Morty. “You still talk to the friend that shoved some sense into your head?”
“Not as much as I’d like to. He leads a squad here in the borough. Last I heard, he and his partner spent the night fighting off the alpha.”
The wrench hit the floor with a sharp metallic clink. Kassur didn’t even seem to notice he’d dropped it.
“What did you just say?”
Morty winced. “Oh boy. Shit. Ok. So, it is not the thing that I’m investigating. But yes, there is an alpha in the city. Please sit down.”
The jackal shot to his feet, glancing over Morty’s shoulder as if he expected something massive to lunge through the window. The sheer animal panic in him chilled the air. It was the visceral reaction of knowing one of the monsters was nearby.
“How can you be so calm?” Kassur’s voice cracked upward — almost a yell.
“Hey!” Morty stood, gripping his forearm. “Listen. First off, get your shit together. Panic will not help you. It never does. Breathe in, breathe out. Good. Good.”
Kassur put his hand on top of his and gave it a squeeze, then sighed.
“Sorry.”
“Have you… seen one?” Morty asked while giving him an appraising look.
“Nope. But when I was a kid, there was this guy… the biggest, meanest bastard I’d ever seen. He wasn’t even an alpha, just a monster of a man. I’m an adult now. Still, every time an actual alpha popped up on the news, it felt… familiar. Like that old memory all over again. So yeah. knowing there’s one in the borough?” He shook his head. “It brings everything back.”
“Think of it this way. It's by the river. There is more than ten kilometers between us and them.”
“Still sounds way too close.”
“Can’t argue with you.”
Kassur exhaled hard, rubbing his palms down his face, then glanced at the window.
The glass was fogged, the rain easing off. He stood, stretching the stiffness from his back, and looked at Morty, as if taking his measure. Something subtle shifted behind his eyes.
“The weather's clearing,” he said quietly. “Do you really need to go to the Meat Market? Can’t you do it tomorrow?”
Morty blinked and shook his head. “I can ignore it and go tomorrow. Yes. But that is the thing. The murderer, the guy that killed that husky last night. He has a big advantage on us. This might not lead anywhere. But, who knows? It might pay off. Too many rogue predators get lost in the system. I need to try.”
Kassur hesitated a beat, like he was weighing something. Then he jerked his head toward the back of the shop. “I can take you,” he said, gentler now. “Bike’s got a sidecar. Not glamorous, but it’ll get us there before they close. If it matters to you, it matters.”
Morty tilted his head. “Seriously?”
“Unless you’re too proud to ride with a predator.” He said, forcing a smile.
“Not really. But only if you let me buy you dinner to compensate for the time and fuel.”
“It is a date then,” Kassur chuckled.
“Okay,” Morty said.
=================================
The motorcycle coughed to life like an old soldier waking up from a nap.
Morty smiled as Kassur explained how he’d bought it as scrap and slowly made it functional. You could hear the pride in the jackal’s voice, even if Morty couldn’t follow half the technical jargon. That pride, though — that warmth — chipped away at the tension left by their talk of alphas.
Morty strapped himself into the sidecar. The helmet Kassur handed him was just slightly too big, but usable. When the jackal finally swung his leg over the bike, the seat dipped under his weight — all controlled muscle and quiet strength.
Morty didn’t know why he noticed that. Or the smell of oil and spice clinging to him. Or the way Kassur’s ears flicked when he laughed over the engine’s rumble, giving the bike a gentle pat on its side like it was a well-behaved pet.
The city blurred past, still damp and shimmering. Kassur handled the patched-together machine like it had been build for him alone. Traffic was light, and he kept the speed in check because of the water pooling on the streets.
By the time the market appeared, framed in the last breaths of mist, the world had gone oddly calm. The atmosphere was still heavy with the dark clouds hanging low.
The Public Market was impossible to ignore: a colossal empire relic painted yellow and white, patched and repurposed a dozen times across the generations but still proud. Its ornate yellow fa?ades wrapped around the building in symmetrical arrogance, rose like an old cathedral built by people before they even had electric power, and still majestic.
The building occupied the space of the whole block. Back then, Endon wasn’t even called that, and the place doubled as a supply deposit and army barracks during the empire era. When the monarchies lost their power and the city-states started to become the norm, it slowly shifted into a warehouse and eventually became the market.
Kassur found a spot to park close by, and they walked in.
Morty could very well just show his badge and force the guys to allow them access through the cargo entrance. But Kassur lived in this borough. He bought his food here. The last thing Morty wanted was to complicate things to the guy that was helping him.
Instead of solid walls, the outside of the market was lined with small businesses, to restaurants and snack bars populated the outside of the market. Most empty or already closing because of the time of the day. The market had four stone arch entrances, letting people flow in and out freely.
Inside, there were stairs leading to the second floor and others leading down. Vendors shouting over one another filled their ears. It was a good place to buy from local farmers from the villages around Endon. It was an all-out assault on the senses. Air warmed by a hundred bodies greeted them first, tinged with spice, and the smell of old buildings. The echo of hundred voices bounced off tiled walls and wrought iron beams. Narrow aisles were flanked by stalls, each more chaotic than the last. Glass counters heaved with goods: sun-dried sausages, wheels of cheese waxed in red, jars of pickled vegetables stacked like glass soldiers. Butcher counters, bakery shelves, tea emporiums, spice racks.
As they walked a few more steps, it opened up into a massive open space with a metal hood three stories above them. In the center stood a metal tower with a huge clock, doubling as a support for the ceiling. When it was created that space was open sky, and a space for soldiers to train. Now it provides shelter from the rain.
“So you’ve been here?” Morty asked.
“Yes. We should be going down there if you really want to visit the meat market. This is the regular entrance for people” Kassur pointed to the large metal stairs.
“So you said. But do you know the admin of this place?”
“Oh. Come with me.”
Kassur guided Morty across the open space, pointing to a row of windows on the second floor on the opposite wall. He didn’t get far before a stout woman wearing a guard uniform stepped into their path.
“Hey, jerk,” she said, grinning. “Your flea-bitten ass finally shows up. The boss call you to check the generators?” She looked tired in the way only long shifts can carve into a face.
Kassur grinned back. “Amanda! How are you? No. You know him. He won’t spend a credit until something catches fire.”
She huffed. “Typical.”
“Do you know where we can find him? My friend here needs a word.”
She looked past Kassur, expecting another predator.
Then she saw Morty. She barked a small laugh and bumped his shoulder. “Sorry, dear. Yeah, he’s in the office. But he is having trouble with the delivery guys. Maybe some other day?”
“Well...” Morty hooked a thumb over his shirt and lifted it just enough to flash his badge. Her eyes widened. “I don’t come here to get him in trouble. We just need his assistance with something.”
Amanda’s gaze shifted to Kassur. He gave a confirming nod. The woman nodded before raising an eyebrow and tilting her head, eyes quickly bouncing from the cat to the jackal.
“Alright. You two just follow me. He actually might be happy to get a distraction.”
Amanda walked with the confidence of someone who could navigate blindfolded and an almost preternatural ability to maneuver among the crowds of people without slowing down. She led them up the stairs on the other side and then through a wide hallway where the market noise softened, swallowed by old thick walls. Yellow paint peeled around the edges of doorframes; the floor tiles had that faint worn depression that comes only from generations of foot traffic.
They stopped in front of a frosted-glass door stamped with black lettering: Administration — A. de la Cruz.
Amanda knocked twice, didn’t wait for a response, and pushed it open.
Stolen from its rightful place, this narrative is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.
Inside, the air shifted immediately. Quieter. Cooler. But the distant hum of the market seeped back in through the windows.
Morty took the room out of habit.
It was a large rectangular office. Two-thirds neat, one-third absolute disaster. Two walls of windows — one side overlooking the market’s interior, the other facing the dark city skies — framed the office. Shelves sagged under the weight of ledgers, receipts, and files fat enough to block a bullet.
A ceiling fan clunked rhythmically overhead.
And in the middle of it all, behind a heavy wooden desk, sat a pig.
Chubby but not soft — more like a wrestler who’d moved from breaking bones to filling paperwork instead of letting himself rot. His uniform shirt strained at the buttons across his broad chest. His small, sharp eyes flicked from Amanda, to Kassur, to Morty.
But three other men were already there, crowding near the desk — delivery contractors, judging by their vests and metal clipboards. One was a boar, another regular human, the last a nervous-looking ferret.
The boar was mid-tirade, face flushed.
“… and I’m telling you, Alejandro, if your tenants don’t clear the lower lane, we can’t get full loads down the freight ramp. We’re already behind schedule and…”
He spluttered off when he saw Morty and Kassur. His eyes narrowed at Kassur first — predator, easy target — then flicked to Morty’s plain clothes.
Alejandro let out a long, theatrical sigh. “If this is about the generators again, Amanda …”
“It’s not,” she said quickly. “I mean, I really shouldn’t have to remind you how important those are. However, this one’s DAIR.”
The word froze the room.
Morty lifted his shirt just enough to show the badge clipped inside. Calm. Automatic. He didn’t need to posture; the badge did that by existing. And more importantly, he was not pushing his weight around. A good ‘calm down’ message.
All three contractors went stiff. The boar’s ears tilted back. The human’s throat bobbed with a hard swallow.
Alejandro's gaze went from the badge to Morty’s face. “Ah. Good.” He slapped his thighs and stood up. “These gentlemen were just leaving.”
“We still haven’t finished …” the boar started.
Alejandro snapped his fingers once. “You finished the part where you talk. Now go do the part where you work. The lower lane will get cleared. I’ll handle it.”
“But …”
Alejandro didn’t raise his voice. He didn’t have to. There was authority in him like a weight: old, quiet, immovable.
“I said,” he repeated, “I’ll handle it.”
The contractors exchanged silent and irritated glances but left, squeezing past Morty and Kassur, muttering under their breath. The boar brushed Kassur’s shoulder a little too forcefully. Amanda followed them out and shut the door behind her.
Silence settled.
Alejandro gestured to the chairs in front of his desk. Morty and Kassur sat while the pig lumbered to a small cabinet near the window that faced the market. He opened the doors, picked up a glass filled with dark amber liquid, and held it to the other two. They both shook their heads. Alejandro nodded, poured himself a glass and sank back into his own seat with a tired grunt.
“Haven’t seen DAIR in my office for… what? Four years?” He took a sip and smacked his lips. “Last time it was a smuggling thing and that was a nightmare.”
He leaned forward, clasping his hands on the desk. “So. What fresh joy brings you here?”
Alejandro poured more of the drink into the now empty cup. Paused. Then topped it off.
Morty took a breath. Professional mode sliding over him like a jacket.
“I’ll be right to the point. We’re working on a homicide case from last night. The victim was a young husky. From the evidence, we know that two people involved are predators.”
Alejandro grunted. “So you are looking for two killers. How can I help?”
“It’s still unclear the exact role each person had. We know of four people present, plus our victim. Two are confirmed as predators. And you know, my friend here says this is a good place for them to restock.”
Alejandro grimaced but nodded. “This is a place that does legal business. I hope you are not hinting that we support the devouring of people. We don’t serve this kind of appetites here.”
The cat shrugged.
“That is besides the point. Even a rogue predator will buy from official shops. Kassur here said you guys are good, and I’m not accusing you of any crime.”
Morty reached into his inner pocket, pulled out the small folder he had prepared. He opened it and laid out three glossy images on the desk — one by one. A horse. A lynx. A bison. Each had the names under. BOLO stamps. DAIR numbers.
Alejandro’s eyes sharpened as he leaned closer. “You said four people, of which two are predators. Why am I only seeing 3 pictures?”
“Let’s say the fourth person turned up earlier today,” Morty said. “These three were definitely there when it happened. The bison and the horse especially are the ones we’re focused on. They’re our preds. Even on the run, maybe they could show here before leaving town. And if you guys help, it could mean fewer problems on the streets.”
Alejandro took a long breath. “Alright. That sounds surprisingly more agreeable than what I expected when I saw that badge. Scared the crap out of me. I can spread the names with the sellers downstairs. You are probably looking for people who buy the livestock, right?”
“Yes.” Morty nodded. “Do you have a central registration of those sales?”
“Nope. Sorry man, I keep the lights and water running and make sure that the tenants are paying or not. But inventory and that kind of thing is made by each of the sellers. So you’ll have to go and try to check with them about their logs.”
“I see. Better than nothing. And I’d still need to talk to them in any case. I can do both things at the same time.”
“Good. Just…” Alejandro pointed a thick finger downward. “Don’t flash that brass too much down there. Most of the meat-buyers aren’t exactly sociable. If they pay, they’re invisible. But blazing the name DAIR can make people finicky.”
Morty nodded. “I know the drill. I promise I don’t want to disturb anyone more than I have to. Maybe a chat and perhaps share some of these photos so people will know what to look for.”
Alejandro set the photos down and set his appraising gaze once more on Morty.
“You’re Central, aren’t you? Even if the DAIR folk don’t come to my office often, they poke around now and again. Usually, I just get the thug guys.”
“Yeah. They brought me here for this case.”
“You’re working this alone?” he asked, amused.
Morty hesitated. “Not exactly. Multiangle approach.”
Alejandro turned his head to face Kassur. “He with you, Ferros?”
“No,” Kassur said at once. “Just giving him a ride.”
“And being my tour guide,” Morty added.
Alejandro leaned in, lowering his voice. “Agent. Between us? Things have been strange down there.”
Morty scooted closer. “Strange how?”
Before Alejandro could answer, a loud metallic bang echoed from somewhere below the office. Shouting followed. Then the crack of something heavy hitting the floor.
Alejandro winced. “That’ll be the damn delivery lane again.”
Morty stood, tucking the photos away. “We’ll take a quick look downstairs.”
Alejandro got up too, already pulling keys from his pocket. “I’ll go with you guys. Need to see what the fuck they made. Got multiple owners breathing down my ass. Just be careful. The deeper floors? They’re not like up here.”
Morty gave a thin, humorless smile. “Nothing ever is. Before we go, do you have a photocopier? I’m not sure how many of these I’ll need to share, and I didn’t bring too many with me.”
Alejandro pulled open the door, motioning them out with a weary hand.
“Sure. Just follow me. And remember: this place is always busy. We have a board full of tasks to be done that’s full and getting fuller. Our first priorities are safety and continuity of services. I’m indulging you guys because I don’t want any more trouble landing on our lap. Deal?”
“This predator…” Kassur started.
“Isn’t his problem,” Morty said, tapping Kassur’s back. “Thank you. But yeah, his job is to admin the market.”
Then he turned to the pig. “I promise to be as fast as I can.”
=================================
Alejandro was taking the lead.
Lots of people waved at him, and some made pointed questions about different stuff happening at the market. The big pig would grunt and give short replies, redirecting, promising to check on things. Morty noted how the big pig moved, not a bureaucrat hiding behind a desk, but someone who actually knew every corner of the place. He mentally raised the pig’s worth several points in his head.
Halfway down, Morty slowed. A sound met them. Low and constant. Like distant surf pounding a rocky shore. Except they weren’t anywhere near the coast.
Morty’s ears angled sharply. “Is that… water?”
“Yeah,” Kassur replied, unfazed. “Gets louder the deeper we go.”
“That much flow? Inside a city block?”
“Well. Not inside,” Kassur said. “Under. This whole place sits on top of an old drainage artery. And I mean old. From the Empire era. Back when Endon barely had neighborhoods. All the runoff from the hills used to pour through here. It still does.”
Morty blinked. “Really? Does this place have a reservoir then?”
Kassur nodded. “Big as a warehouse. Pumps still run, sort of. The whole thing was overbuilt — it limps along, but still works. All the rain we got today? It’s rushing through these walls. When they excavated to make the sublevels for the meatmarket they cut into the old structure. So you’ll see some huge pipes running near the ceiling on the first sublevel and then on the walls of the second sublevel.”
“And you know that because…?”
Kassur shrugged. “They ran parts of the electrical power line next to it as we go down, to power the big freezers. To be honest, it is a patchwork job. And when the patches fail, they call the guy who doesn’t mind getting paid in produce.”
“You asked for that. So don't complain.” Alejandro pretended to grumble.
“Isn’t the sound too loud? The rain stopped before we got here.”
“It is several blocks and the huge-ass roof worth of water draining here,” the pig said. “Even if it doesn’t rain anymore, that water's gonna run for the next two days.
The stairs dropped into cooler air. The sound changed — less shouting, more humming. The faint sounds of industrial ventilation. The rumble of several refrigeration units working in tandem. Faint animal noises, muffled by concrete and steel.
The meat market proper was its own world.
It smelled like iron from the load-bearing beams holding the ceiling, layered over the subtle tones of disinfectant, and straw. There was also the feeling of heavy wetness of a place that never really dried.
The stairwell opened into a broad corridor lit by buzzing industrial lights that bathed everything in the sickly yellow hue of a bad dream. Rows of polished counters gleamed — pork, poultry, fish — sealed and labeled for public sale. Stainless steel counters, hanging scales, refrigerated display cases humming quietly.
Families wandered between stalls with grocery bags, unfazed by the underground setting. A broad-shouldered human passed by carrying a crate of squealing guinea pigs.
This was the first sublevel — the one you would see most of the regular folk. Butcheries. Fishmongers. Packaged goods. Perfectly legal
Alejandro moved with practiced ease, nodding to several workers by name. They returned the gesture with the sort of cautious familiarity that said they trusted him enough to complain to when things needed to be done, but not enough to ask for favors.
Morty pulled out his BOLO prints.
The pig nodded and both marched to the first stop.
“Hey, how you doing?” Alejandro called to a tall ewe behind a fish counter. “Got a quick one. DAIR business.”
Her eyes sharpened, but she didn’t flinch, more curious than afraid. Morty stepped forward and handed her one of the pages.
“Afternoon. We’re tracking these three. Active case. If they show up, even for routine stuff, we’d appreciate a heads-up. Please, call the number at the bottom. I’ll be passing these around. Just don’t hang them up. We don’t want to spook them.”
She nodded absently, bringing the page close to her snout.
“Does this have anything to do with the confusion at the docks?” She asked meekly.
“Oh-ho! I heard something was happening there. Predator or drug cartel fight, which one is it, officer?” Alejandro asked.
Morty shrugged. Kassur's tail was squirming but he pretended not to notice it.
“As I told you, Mr Alejandro, I’m from central and I came specifically for this case here,” Morty said, drumming his finger against the edge of the photos. “And no, ma’an. They are not related. You let me know if they ever show up. That’s enough.”
Alejandro rested a hand on the counter. “You know we don’t want trouble down here, Rosa.”
Rosa’s posture eased. “Sure. I’ll keep an eye out.” She turned, already bouncing toward an older sheep by the freezers. “Carl, look at this!”
The pattern repeated.
Morty handed out BOLOs, gave brief instructions. The reception wasn’t hostile, just uneasy. People squinted at the papers, murmured to one another, and avoided eye contact.
Every butcher, every vendor with a refrigeration unit humming behind their counters now had a paper copy in their hand, or shoved under the counter with a muttered “got it.” The usual mix of wary stares, annoyed grunts, and polite nods had followed them at every step. When it was a predator behind the counters, in particular, they straightened their backs, sizing Morty up with instinctive weariness.
Alejandro followed, smoothing the edges of the conversation. Kassur remained quiet, alert.
Morty rolled his shoulder with a sigh. The first sublevel, though bright and chilled, made his skin itch. The constant thrum of compressors and the wet gleam of tile that never quite dried. Clean, sure, but sterile in that too-scrubbed way.
“Everyone’s on edge,” he muttered.
“They’re meat sellers,” Kassur said simply. “When you walk in with a badge, they assume you’re here for licenses, inspections... or worse.”
“I was polite.”
“You’re still a cop. But, yeah, a polite one.”
“Indeed,” Alejandro said, patting Morty’s back. “Good instinct, kid. Handled it right. You walk big down here, and half of them clam up. Maybe next time when DAIR sends someone, you could tag along.”
Morty didn’t argue. Instead, he followed the jackal as they emerged from the maze of stalls and cold displays into a quieter corridor. The air shifted subtly — still cold, but less artificial. Less scrubbed. Ahead, the ramp yawned wide and sloped down into the lower levels, curving gently out of view like the belly of a sleeping serpent.
Concrete underfoot for vehicles and a tiled walkway beside it for pedestrians. The noise of the market faded behind them.
“This ramp loops all the way to the third sublevel,” Kassur said. His voice echoed slightly, absorbed by the walls. “It cuts straight through the stockyard next. And, if you go the other way, we pop back up near where I parked the motorcycle.”
He stepped aside, pointing at the wall beside the ramp: a tangle of insulated pipes running just above head height, boxed in by rust-spotted metal grates. Some hissed faintly. Others dripped with condensation in a slow, rhythmic tap onto the concrete floor. Each line was labeled, but the paint had faded long ago.
“Water mains,” Kassur explained. “These were inside the wall in the original structure. They pump down to the reservoir. Problem is, the welding is trash. The main junction’s overdue for replacement.”
Morty eyed the pipework warily. “Sounds like a laxed admin…”
“Those things are older than me, kiddo. So don’t start.”
Morty followed the jackal’s gaze down the ramp. The lights further down buzzed and flickered, older incandescent ones that should’ve been retired years ago. Shadows crawled across the wall in sharp contrast.
“It gets tighter past the next bend,” Kassur said. “The pens are down there. And the stink hits hard.”
“Worse than the first level?”
“You’ll see.”
They descended the ramp. And the smell did hit as they reached the larger space below.
Warm hay. Damp fur. Ammonia. The thick musk of too many bodies in too-tight quarters.
Morty had smelled worse — but this carried the weight of something else. Predators. Hunger. The constant effort to regulate both. Yes, most of that was just in his head, but still, he couldn’t avoid thinking about it as he saw some predators walking and talking to shopkeepers.
Alejandro was grumbling about “idiots with forklifts” and “people who shouldn’t be allowed near machinery.”
At the landing for the second sublevel, some workers spotted him and rushed over to complain loudly about the blockage, demanding a solution. The pig waved them off and promised to take a look in a few minutes.
Alejandro glanced back. “Let’s get this over with. Before that damn truck collapses the ramp entirely.”
Morty and Kassur followed.
This floor was different from the crowded space above. Narrow walkways. Fans trying and failing to control the animal smell. The livestock level opened in a broad horseshoe shape around a central freight ramp. Thick plastic curtains separated areas, fluttering with cross-drafts. Sounds bled through: soft clucks, low grunts, restless shuffling.
“It gets more lively later on,” Kassur said as he noticed Morty’s expression.
Down here, everything was a little louder, a little closer to the bone.
A place where predators made their quiet, practical transactions. The stalls weren’t fancy, just concrete booths with metal counters and aged signage, handwritten prices, and tarps instead of doors. Huge tanks made of fiberglass burbled in corners, scales flickering beneath the surface. Wire cages rattled as their contents shifted, restless. Pens filled with pigs, goats, rabbits, and chickens. Workers in aprons and boots moved between them.
Kassur’s pace slowed, familiarity creeping into his body language. He knew this place. He didn’t look proud of it — just resigned, like someone bumping into an old vice.
Vendors gave Morty side-eyes, then stopped when they saw the badge clipped to his belt. Others nodded warily at Kassur, some with open interest.
“Hey, Ferros,” called a lean weasel in a stained apron, arms slick to the elbow. “Got a fresh line of swamp eels in. Feisty bastards. You want a bundle?”
“Not today, Kev,” Kassur said, voice low. “Maybe later in the week.”
Morty stepped forward.
“Do you take DAIR’s vouchers?”
“Ah, huh, what?” Kev, the weasel, stammered. “Yes! Yes, man.”
“Good. Then his order is on me.”
“You don’t need to.” Kassur protested.
“You didn’t need to help me,” Morty said. He pulled his wallet and started producing a few of the vouchers, paying the weasel. “Just keep it ready for us, and we'll pick on the way out.”
The vendor barked a laugh. “Sure thing, boss man.”
Morty had a quick chat, giving one of the BOLO papers to the guy.
“So, you like to eat eels?” the cat asked.
Kassur gave a small shrug. “They’re clean, high protein. You learn what works for your body. Plus, they live well in a bucket for a few days.”
“I’ll pretend that doesn’t sound deeply unsettling,” Morty muttered. “But now I know that you’ve got a good throat game.”
Kassur blushed, unable to come up with a response. He looked away.
They passed a few more stalls — old men squinting behind counters, younger workers dragging crates, wiping cages, checking tags.
Morty’s presence was better accepted after they saw how he actually made a purchase with one of the sellers. The cat took advantage of that, moving from stall to stall with the photos, showing the faces, asking if any of the sellers had seen them in. Most shook their heads. One or two recognized the horse, saying he showed up occasionally but came back for a while.
Kassur didn’t talk much. A few sellers still greeted him, and he answered with stiff little nods.
Morty was about to say something when Alejandro, who’d stayed mostly ahead of them, gave a short grunt.
“Ok. You did your thing, officer. Now I need to check on what those idiots did.”
They made their way back to the long freight ramp that sloped sharply from street level, past the livestock zone, and arced down further, toward the third sublevel.
Alejandro pointed down.
“That’s where we’re headed. Cargo storage. Mostly sealed crates. Some generators.”
The deeper they went, the more the atmosphere changed. The air grew colder — industrial-cold, humming with old machinery. The lighting dimmed, shifting to harsher bulbs that flickered at the edges. Concrete replaced tile. Pipes webbed the ceiling like exposed veins.
Kassur found his voice back, complaining about the shoddy work to Morty’s amusement.
Alejandro’s steps grew faster.
“This level doesn’t see customers,” he said. “Just deliveries, authorized pickups, and my staff.”
They rounded the last bend, and there it was:
A cargo truck, angled wrong and jammed across the ramp, nose down and tail up, blocking the flow entirely. Hydraulic fluid smeared the ground like black blood. A forklift sat at a hopeless angle beside it. Three workers were clustered around the jammed axle, arguing loudly and with wild gestures.
“What did I tell you?” Alejandro barked. “What in the nine stinking hells is this?!”
The workers recoiled, then immediately scrambled to look busy.
“It’s the axle!” one shouted.
“It seized!” another yelled.
“Tomás overloaded the rear crates!”
“I did not!”
“You did too, you donkey-faced…”
Alejandro clapped his hands once, loud enough to echo off the pipes.
“All of you, shut up!”
Silence fell. Even the livestock above seemed to pause.
Alejandro walked up to the truck, set one hand on the tilted bumper, and exhaled like a man standing at the edge of a cliff he had no choice but to jump from.
“This'll take the whole night to fix,” he muttered. “Unbelievable…”
Morty and Kassur reached his side.
“All this trouble for a jam?” Morty asked.
Alejandro groaned.
“It is what you get when you employ three idiots with the combined brains of a turnip. The biggest problem…” he stopped, pinching the bridge of his snout, and shook his head. “Never mind. Look, you boys can head back up. Let me deal with this circus.”
“Want help?” Kassur offered.
Alejandro scratched his chin. “Sure. I’m gonna jump over it and get some of the forklifts from the storage below. Maybe we can unstuck this piece of crap. We don’t have a lot of tools at hand. Did you bring your kit, Ferros?”
“Nope. But I can swing home real fast.”
“It’s a deal then. The rest of you idiots. Get Amanda, and ask her to get some of the staff from the Public Market down here.”
As the three workers took off, Morty tried to look over the truck, into the tunnel underneath. Walls sweating condensation, generator hum vibrating through the floor, shadows deepening around stacked crates and coils of pipe. Something crawled at the edge of his instincts — an unease that hadn’t come from any of the upper levels.
“We’ll get out of your way then,” Morty said. “Thanks for the help.”
“Sure thing, kiddo. See you soon, Ferros.”
Alejandro shook Kassur’s hand and then Morty’s. He was climbing over the hood of the truck to head down the tunnel when his head exploded in a spray of reddish mist.
A crack like a snapped tree limb echoed through the space. Blood misted backward in a fine arc.
The pig’s body hit the floor in a heap, legs twitching.
The stone wall behind him had a crater the size of a dinner plate. An industrial mallet head embedded in the old mortar. Its wooden handle stuck out of the wall, still vibrating.
For half a second, the world went very quiet.
Kassur stumbled back, eyes wide, then froze. Gunfire erupted, peppering the walls. Morty’s tail lashed once — pure reflex — and his body moved on instinct before his brain caught up.
“Kassur!” he barked, seizing the jackal by the collar and dragging him backward, using the bulk of the stalled delivery truck as a shield. Some shots flew by where the jackal had been standing and hit the drain pipes, creating a spray of water from multiple holes.
Someone barked orders from below in angry tones. Scared voices screamed from the upper level. Panic bled through the air, then the rumble of boots scrambling above, distant shouting from the far end of the corridor.
Morty was already pulling his weapon free, pressing his back to the cold steel of the truck. Kassur dropped low beside him, hands trembling.
“We need to move,” Morty said, already calculating routes in his head.
“His head. His head is gone!” he mumbled. Eyes wide as dinner plates.
“Kassur. I will get their attention. When they reload, we run out of here.”
“His head…”
Morty squeezed his hand hard. Claws pricked into his palm. Just enough to make the jackal yelp. He then nodded.