Chapter 110 - When All You Have Is A Question

It was a simple den in the poorer district of the city—decrepit by many’s standards, though enough for the small pack that inhabited it. The leader was below the high station of a Grand Hunter or likewise, and far too distanced from power for it to be anything but a symbolic title attributed to the foremost authority in the family. Even that was mostly to sate the need for structure in the modern era.

Regardless, the male who claimed such a trivial title was her blood-father, and the only male in the den of nine. Four den-mothers cared for four kits, one female having no kits of her own yet, but was expecting to give more to their den soon enough. The slightest bump to her stomach promised healthy young and bright smiles as the four sisters excitedly waited to see if they would finally get a brother or not, while the adults joked about what to do if there were even more females produced.

Unbeknownst to them, the male had been having difficulty providing. Work was scarce in the district, and occasionally places would shut down or cut back on staff, leaving him jobless for a time. They had savings, so he would dip into those while he arranged the next position, never remaining unemployed for long before a favour was called in or a new friend was made, and he would have his accounts supplied again.

But each time, they only just barely recovered. Savings became less as prices for goods increased, and the burden of kits started taking its toll.

He never voiced such troubles to the others. His kits were his pride and joy, and his mates his everything; he was even blessed to be bonded to one, the pair being gifted twins a few years after Harrow was born.

The den-mothers knew of the struggles despite his efforts, and had each taken smaller positions around where they could. Extra shifts were assigned on the male’s off-time so that he may spend a sun or two with his daughters while the females assisted with accumulating funds. Eventually, a new city ordinance caused zoning issues, and many of their venues for employment closed down as new taxation squeezed the businesses, taking away the livelihood of the inhabitants. A subsidy was issued, but due to the size of their den and prior financial status, they were given too little.

They suffered for managing as long as they did.

One by one, the den-mothers struggled to find work; transportation was ill-equipped to support the influx, and poor planning decisions left the commute to and from those possible locations strenuous at best. Harrow’s own blood-mother was the last to lose their income when she missed too many shifts due to no fault of her own; public transit simply failed under the strain.

None cared for the plight of the downtrodden—only that their storefronts remained staffed and goods were purchased.

The male of the den worked more and more—often missing for suns at a time, only to return tired and weak, but carrying food and the odd toy for his daughters. The others were too young, but already Harrow could see something was wrong beyond the drained smile he wore for them. They were loved, but the origin of that love was fading while he tried his best to provide it.

Still, the adults searched, dipping into their savings as little as they could to keep the den warm and kits fed. Interviews and temporary positions were accepted then expired as nothing permanent or within reasonable distance was found. Musings of relocation were muted as the properties they could possibly move to skyrocketed in price; others found themselves choosing to leave the district over trying to persevere inside it, taking everything in the process.

The small pack was trapped.

That was when it became apparent that the issue would not be resolved by mere wish and optimism.

Expenses remained, bills continued to require payment, and employment vanished as the district transitioned into a purely residential zone—their eventual neighbours preceded by loud construction throughout most suns. Sleep became but a suggestion to the male of the den, since his nocturnal schedule at the time clashed with the noise. Each moon led to him returning a more weary and haggard person than he left.

He continued for as long as he could, the occasional odd job picked up by his mates easing the blows of commerce, but never truly sating the beast that was a den reliant on him. Slowly, those comments of luxury from his kits—queries of toys or treats—became a noose around his throat. Each small voice and bright smile twisted the joy of making them happy into something synonymous with approaching bankruptcy.

Soon, those dependent on him became nothing more than the wear on his bones as he failed to give what they sought.

It started small—extraneous purchases of entertainment for the kits being bypassed for necessities—but the protests from the young were made known. Den-mothers coddled their spawn and assured that the times called for restrictions, and requests for understanding were given. Rife with uncertainty—and lacking the context to understand why trivial additions to their life were now prohibited—they accepted with hesitant nods.

That started the first question that Harrow asked herself throughout the rest of her life, and what ended up shaping it when she could never truly find an answer.

Why?

Be it due to her malleable nature as a kit—or perhaps innate her desire to be loved and cared for—she simply followed along, her slightly more developed mind understanding that something was wrong, and that the adults would tend to it. It was the task of the small to become less of a burden on the adults, so she relayed the idea in a way her younger sisters would understand.

And they did—to a degree—but the attention span of the wondering youth remained short, and soon the queries and requests resurfaced, strained smiles returning. Harrow did her best to keep them in line, though she also occasionally slipped and asked for one thing or another. Those proud expressions faltered when the brightest of their kits failed in adhering to restraint. Those moments stuck with her.

One in particular was when her blood-father entered the den after a several-moon stretch at work—never returning in the time between, for he laboured through the sun and only caught a brief rest where possible. She had excitedly greeted him at the door and received a smile of love and care, paired with an embrace that told her that he was just as glad to see her again. She explained what she did recently, and what they had learned in their education facility, eventually leading into the new objects of enjoyment that her peers acquired from dens more affluent than her own. She went off on a tangent about how much she wished for something similar, never connecting that it may have been taken as something more than a kit rambling about what she was interested in. Never aware that it could be taken as a roundabout request that pricked and needled into the parent.

He cried that night. She watched through a crack in the door as the den-mothers shared in the stress of the dwindling assets they had at their disposal, and how even something as cheap as a trinket for their kits was beyond their means. What Harrow had thought of as extravagant—like one would view the pinnacle of technology and opulence—was but something most dens purchased as a placation for their young until more appropriate times for larger gifts came around. It was something mundane that eluded them due to circumstance, and the reality of their difficulties became apparent.

She stopped asking for anything after that, chastising her younger sisters when they slipped as well. Requests for much of anything ceased from her muzzle, even affection becoming something that she only accepted when offered.

She didn’t want to be a burden on them anymore. She didn’t want her parents to cry.

Food became scarce as the suns and seasons progressed, none in the den having much luck with securing a means of income. The kits never noticed for the longest time, but Harrow eventually took note of their father growing less and less fit, their den-mothers becoming less full and healthy.

So she started assisting where she could. Brushing the stress-matted fur became routine for her as a way to repay the ones providing, and even her blood-father partook—if only to appease the pure desire of his daughter. It brought smiles back when she would do it. Of course, she was terrible at first, but she was a quick study as always, and eventually made sure that all in the den were perfectly presentable whenever she was done with them. It made things feel a little better.

They thanked her for the trouble, and she was happy to know she was helping.

The cycle began anew for the adults; sometimes they would help out with developing businesses before they closed down, or the city would offer stipends for assisting with environmental campaigns. Food gained variety and mundane trinkets were distributed to be treated as heartfelt gifts by the kits who had gone without.

As the oldest, she felt it her duty to ease the struggle, so she redistributed that which was excess to the younger siblings. The twins received her portion to balance it between them, and the smallest was often quite happy to participate in whatever the other two were doing. Harrow could watch her sisters play with the meagre offerings like they had been bestowed priceless artifacts and still smile. To those bright eyes that viewed the world through lenses of limited scope, they were, and looks of regretful joy on the adult’s faces cemented Harrow's views on it.

The den-mothers thanked her for the efforts, praising the sense of responsibility and how she always sought a solution to any developing problems.

She was helping.

The next downfall occurred after almost half a season where the male of the den did not return, only to appear unannounced during a storm. He clutched his stomach and the crimson droplets scattered across the floor as he tried to repel the kits from exacerbating the injury. Quickly, the young were corralled to their room by the females, and he was seen to with what medical supplies they had on paw.

That was the moon Harrow learned about how others would take what little they had.

He was mugged on his way back—what he had gathered for the den, stolen.

They had nothing to show for his sleepless efforts and long absence.

Harrow rested against the wall outside their bedroom as worried murmurs paired with tears of frustration, her sisters placated and sent to rest while the adults were busy.

They didn’t thank her for the trouble, but she was helping. That’s all that mattered.

As long as she was helping…

The den-mothers took to production hobbies shortly after. Blankets crafted using what currency they had stashed away were then sold for a slight profit. Clothing was repurposed and hemmed to be passed down as Harrow grew, their finances too sparse to support her growth spurt. She didn’t mind, her sisters needed it more. She was fine with a fairly simple selection of garments.

The male was forced into bedrest, his condition not conducive to being a productive worker. It was quite a while until he was able to rejoin the workforce, but the damage had been done. He lost his position, and there was little in the way of favour or amiable interactions to be had. It was only made worse by the environment.

The district was failing.

An oversight and the ill-advised management of funds meant that most of the development ceased before completion, making for towering constructions that were barely more than roofs without walls, casting naught but shadows and doubt over those that remained, rather than promises of hope and prosperity. The last dregs of commerce available for employment dried up. Those who could scrape together what they had departed, leaving the sector to become dilapidated and the remaining residents abandoned to the machinations of politics.

Then opportunity struck. Or at least, it appeared to.

Her blood-father returned from his search one sun with good news; an outreach from a border planet promised high pay for a turnaround position, and although his absences would be long, they would be able to afford relocation sooner rather than later. It helped that the company was providing a partial payment up front that would ease the strain on their finances.

Young, but bright, Harrow understood the premise. She would lose out on much of her father’s company, but their den would thrive, and likely transfer to a better location eventually. Her sisters would be given what they needed, and her den-mothers could stop their quiet suffering. There was worry for the bonded pair, but both knew that if they could bear it, then their loved ones would prosper. It wasn’t much to hold on to, but the hope it gave was enough.

He packed his things and left after some suns of spending every waking moment with his family inside the den, making sure each and every kit knew exactly how much they meant to him, and how much he looked forward to hearing what they had been up to when he got back.

With muted sadness, she watched him leave—the sliver of fur and reluctant expression being the last she saw before the wait for his return.

But he never did. The wait never ended, and the promised currency dissolved into the waters of life, never having graced the den in the first place.

Suns turned to moons as they neared his expected arrival. The den-mothers—and especially the bonded female—excitedly awaited him, forgetting the bitter taste of dashed expectations from the absent influx of monetary support. Surely it was just miscommunication; the money would be given to him while he was there to cover his living expenditures while away, then he could bring back the excess.

They had lived on the borderline of asceticism while the moons ticked over into suns and back again. Sustenance was only an indulgence beyond what was strictly required, and even that proved slightly too far of a stretch for the minimal income they acquired with sporadic employment. Entertainment was crafted by paw or taken from the deteriorating constructions—tools or interesting objects left behind by absent-minded workers. Those were sold to support the den, but Harrow didn’t mind. She understood that it was needed. All it took was a bit of convincing for her sisters to forget about the neat items they had found, and the adults had thanked her for the effort.

She was helping.

But she couldn’t help when the male’s fate became unknown.

The bonded female began having panic attacks, stints of worry and desire to seek him out leading to outbursts and shouting—though never at the kits. The young were instead ignored, their lineage only affording them the benefit of being spared her ire. Though Harrow and the youngest were not of her own womb, they were still of his blood, so strained affections were still given between episodes. That love faded as the female grew dependent on observing the door, missing what meagre position of employment she had when depression set in and thoughts of abandonment became prominent.

She left one moon, then never returned.

Just like their father.

Harrow asked, but didn’t receive an answer to her question. Instead, she was directed to tend to her sisters and quell the unrest within them. She did, for a time—wearing a wooden smile for the three who requested their den-mother and blood-father, but never getting more than hollow promises that tore Harrow apart each time she uttered them.

And still, she didn’t know why.

A restless moon revealed the answer; overheard whispers in the adult’s bedroom told of the death of the bonded den-mother. She had prayed at the church before ending her own turmoil, like many who lose their bond do. Mourning and worries were aired, and Harrow listened closely while biting back the tears. If nothing else, they had lost a den-mother, but the fact was that none knew when—or even if—her father would return.

It was near the end of the long conversation that she clenched her jaw and wiped her eyes, promising herself that she wouldn’t be a burden. The adults would seek out any employment they could, even if it was less than reliable or tasteful. They had kits to provide for, and there was only so far they could stretch their thin finances before the young suffered too much.

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Harrow decided she would strain them as little as she could and assist with keeping her sisters occupied. She would help, even if she was too small to understand the complexities of what they were talking about. To her, it sounded like they would go into work that would be hard on their bodies, or leave them too tired to hug and play with the energetic young.

She wasn’t aware how right she was. Right, but oh so wrong.

The first den-mother came back to the den one sun with food—far more than they had the privilege of eating in a long time. Harrow refrained from taking more than she was used to, but still giggled as the twins fought over the treats and the smallest of them made a mess. She cared for them as that den-mother went to the adult’s room and sequestered herself for a while. She ignored the crying that leaked through the door that the other female’s tried to distract from, pity and sorrow staining their smiles as an unfamiliar scent lingered behind.

She tried not to question the bruises or hunched posture that protected the stomach that was no longer rounding. She tried to block out the wretched screeching that followed as she guided her sisters to the construction sites to play. She didn’t know what happened, but she knew that their new siblings were gone as well.

She just didn’t know why, and was too scared to ask.

One moon, that den-mother joined the first, never returning from her late shift working at something that was never privy to the young of the family. The smallest kit called for her den-mother like the twins did at first, but was only told ‘she would be back soon enough’ through gritted teeth and reddened eyes. Harrow took to caring for the tiny soul as best she could to ease the stress, smiling when no joy was felt and feeding them when her own portions grew too scarce to fully support her. Still, she was helping.

Maybe if she kept helping...

A season passed, and the stress was taking its hold on the two remaining adults, long periods of insufficient income pushing limits beyond what was thought possible. They would come back at odd times—sometimes worn from manual labour, other times heading straight to the bathroom and vomiting while sobbing into the faculties and scrubbing small bite wounds that Harrow could never place the scent of. They never let the kits see it, but Harrow had gotten good at listening for it; the near silent prayers, the choked voices, and the pain they hid from the young. She heard it all, and simply kept the strain from the den-mothers.

They were trying their best.

But it wasn’t enough.

Soon, Harrow noticed the signs she eventually learned were from starvation; the pitiful scraps of sustenance provided to the kits never made its way to the females. they always claimed to have eaten while working or visiting friends—though such friends had moved away a long time ago. They thought the kits were unaware, so those lies were used to hide the fact.

Harrow knew, but she stayed silent, quietly diminishing her own portion so that the twins and the smallest of them could eat well. It would be okay. It had to be. The den-mothers were trying their best, and she was helping.

As long as she kept helping…

When her own blood-mother failed to return, reality started to set in.

She was small. So terribly, terribly small. Too small to see beyond what she was allowed to view, and too young to fully grasp what was happening beyond the confines of the den. Education ceased, promises of more time with the remaining female given to disguise the fact that they simply couldn’t afford for Harrow to keep going, and that the twins would never start. The youngest sister grew quiet after that—even after she had somehow accepted that her den-parents would not return. Instead, the three sisters turned to Harrow as the only constant in their life, and the one to play and placate them when their sense of unease grew. It was a task she accepted, if only to sooth the growing responsibility of the remaining den-parent.

She was helping... Right? Was it not enough? Was she what prevented them from returning? Was she the reason why it kept getting worse?

Some time later, she was pulled aside by the remaining den-mother, and asked to care her sisters like she always had. A substantial amount of money was placed at her discretion, and a sorrowful apology was given by the adult that held her tight through sobbed gratitude. The final den-mother would be leaving, and the finances had been given to the oldest kit so as to persevere while she was gone. It was payment for what was never explained, nor hinted at. It only came from something that would take away their last bastion of safety, and Harrow—for the first time in a very long time—asked for something.

“Please, don’t go.”

It was such a small request, voiced through tears that she swore she would never shed, and a cracking resolve that shook her tiny frame.

“I’ll work too!” she had pleaded, not knowing where the remorseful smile she was given came from. “I’ll look for things the workers left, or I can help tutor other kits! I’ll eat less and we can just fix my old clothes! I’ll learn! Just...please, don’t leave…”

Still, she was held by the female as tears not of her own dripped into her fur, wetting the clothing that had already become tattered through wear and neglect.

“I’m sorry, Harrow. I love you.”

And with that, Harrow was left alone in the den—her three sisters resting in their room, the door to the outside closing to muffle the choked sobs of the female that stayed when all else abandoned them. The apology echoed in Harrow’s ears for a while as she struggled to comprehend it all. She stared at the door, questioning why.

Why wouldn’t they stay? Was she not helpful enough? Did she eat too often, even when her stomach pained late in the moons? Was she too demanding with affection? Why was she alone now? Why was she charged with caring for those only marginally smaller than herself? Why was she holding money that would support them for a time, no matter how short? Why was she expected to manage so much, so suddenly?

Why didn’t her blood-father come back?

The sun rose before she noticed, her sisters asking where their final den-mother went, and Harrow lied without thinking.

“She found new work. Don’t worry, she’ll be back.”

And the kits believed her. They didn’t notice her matted fur and bloodshot eyes, nor that she hadn’t rested the moon, instead spending the entire time wondering why she wasn’t enough. It didn’t matter if she was, because she had to be. For them.

Because she had no one to help her.

She did well for a while; the funds given to her had been something she quickly learned to manage, eased along by listening to her den-parents speak of budgeting. She sought answers to every question, browsing whatever free method she could find to resolve her queries. Despite her best efforts, the issues became apparent; they were running low faster than she could sort out the expenditures.

She was a kit, plain and simple. It meant that when she sought to address the issue, the circumstances became even harder to bear. Some took pity on her situation, offering menial labour for equally pitiful pay. She accepted. Her sisters would starve if she didn’t. She couldn’t let that happen. She had to care for them as she was asked. She had to be helpful. She was trusted to be.

As long as she was helpful...

Long suns became long moons, and Harrow was thankful for her imposed free time due to the absence of education. It meant that she could chain various tasks and shifts at whatever she could find. Sure, she only spent a portion of each sun at the den, but the smiles and joy on her sisters’ faces made it possible to continue. She could work herself to the bone in ways someone her size would never be expected to do, at tasks no one but the most charitable would offer her. All she had to do was question.

How did this function? What made this act this way?

Each new job was learning how every component worked, and then she would strive to make it perform even better. Old technical manuals that should have been many years beyond her were gathered and studied in the brief moments of rest she had, foregoing sleep in exchange for improving her skills. Abandoned equipment and tools were repaired to the best of her ability, then sold when she had duplicates. She even got her paws on a non-functional terminal, fixed it, then took to programming for a run-down business—even if it was off the books. It promised good pay for her countless suns of effort, so she pressed herself thinner and thinner for the opportunity.

She would provide for her sisters, just like her den-parents asked. She would be helpful.

That was when she learned the world cared not for her plight, nor desire to see her sisters happy.

The task she had spent a season losing rest working on failed to pay out. She had studied, found and repaired her own equipment, and even learned their systems so that she could improve them for the promised amount. But the payment never arrived, and she was escorted off the premises when she tried to protest. Suddenly, what little she spent on materials to guarantee a return became a sinkhole that she couldn’t crawl out of. She had nothing left of what the final den-mother had given her, and the tiny amount she had stashed away from her successful ventures wouldn’t get them far.

She broke down on the way back to the den that moon, groceries in paw. She salivated over what she had gotten for her sisters—even the small treat she knew the twins would be overjoyed with. She was expecting to be paid quite well, so she had splurged slightly and got a small favourite for each of them, besides herself. It wasn’t much, truth be told, but she knew it would mean the world to the ones who had nothing left. The ones that relied on her so heavily. The ones who were too small to do what even she was attempting.

The ones who needed her help.

She closed the door to the den and received a chorus of greetings from curious noses; hugs and reminders of how happy they were to see her melting what frigidness had built up. They cheered for their treats as she distributed them, catching the same promises of having already eaten at work slipping off her tongue. She hadn’t, but seeing those tiny faces so full of joy filled her in a way food never could.

The sound of a teardrop hitting the floor turned all eyes onto her, and she finally noticed her crying. Quickly, they offered her their morsels, the smallest apologizing for already eating hers. Harrow assured them that they were happy tears, and held them each tightly before getting them settled for the moon, the hunger pangs ignored in favour of seeing their smiling faces drift off to sleep.

With her decision made, she sought out other means of using the skills she cultivated—illegal mechanic shops, technical repair, and everywhere else that held little scruples regarding the unauthorized employment of a kit. Shifts often overlapped, and she bore the chastisement and wage garnishment for being late with apologies as she sobbed, coming back to the den less and less often with barely any more to show for it. Still, her sisters greeted her when she returned, so she reciprocated their enthusiasm as best she could, aware that her figure was becoming gaunt and that lethargy was taking hold.

She was helping, and that’s all that mattered.

What she barely understood at the time—and would come to resent after learning—was that the final den-mother had taken a loan before she left. That was the origin of the money Harrow no longer had. It wasn’t from a financial institution, but from a source of considerably lesser repute.

And they didn’t accept what they considered a partial payment.

It was the first time she was attacked for her money; the hard-earned amount she gathered by doing double the hours of even the most dedicated adults at the repair shop, leaving her coughing and bruised in the gutter. They knew whose kit she was, and demanded an absurd sum far beyond her ability, stripping her of everything she had worked so hard for.

Yet again—beaten and starved—she asked why, whimpering the question she had asked ever since her blood-father left, hiding in the shade of the same constructions that she sourced many of her tools from. She stayed that way until she was forcefully reminded that there were others waiting for her, and that she didn’t want them wondering the same question when she gave up on the street instead of going back.

She used what emergency money she kept in her clothing to purchase enough for her sisters for a few moons. Nothing for herself, since she could chance stealing while away. It wasn’t something she wanted to do—her blood-father would be ashamed if he ever heard—but it was getting to that point. Honestly, she should have started a long time ago, but she was just too proud to do it.

The happy voices she expected as she closed the door behind her were silent, eyes fixated on the blood and grit in her fur. She placated them as best she could, but even they noticed her weakening figure—her matted coat hugging the insubstantial frame she developed by skipping so many meals. She put the food away, giving them each their portion and assuring them that she had eaten at work, urging them to continue without worrying.

That was the first moon they didn’t finish everything.

After that, they asked for less and saved more of their meals for the next, stretching each portion as far as they could. Eventually, she couldn’t convince them to eat at all, receiving concerned stares as the act of preparing it for them became difficult and her muscles struggled.

At the time, she wondered why it was getting so hard to remain awake, and why even the act of programming left her exhausted and fuzzy. Ignoring her symptoms, she continued to work, but that became almost impossible as she got sicker and sicker—her body rejecting what little she tried to supply it. She couldn’t eat much, because her sisters needed it; they were already thinning from their silent hunger strike, and she had to make sure they had enough when it got too much.

Of course, it eventually did.

The youngest caved first, asking her older sister to make something and apologizing for not bearing the pain. Harrow wept as she gave such a tiny kit their food before going back to rest, unable to focus long enough to remember she needed to work that moon. She broke down again when she noticed that she lost the job, and her pay was never going to come. She cried when what little they had was all they could get, and bit back the tears when the three sisters tried to comfort her, giving a weak smile and thankfulness.

They were trying to help, too.

So were the twins when the power was cut, and their hunger grew too much. Harrow was told by small voices like her own that they would make something for all of them, and then she could look for more work with a full belly. She was too touched to say no.

Why didn’t she say no?

Lacking a way to heat it, the twins turned to fire...

So, so much fire...

It was an innocent gesture, but they didn’t do it safely. How could they? They were so young, and didn’t spend the time Harrow did to prepare for the eventuality when finances became nothing but debt. They started it in the best place they could think of, making sure there was lots of space around it. Fearing the outside where Harrow had been hurt and den-parents disappeared, they decided on a spacious part of the den.

They just didn’t check if anything was flammable.

So much was.

She awoke to smoke—the acrid scent of ash and flame burning her nose. The sound of panicked voices and coughing cries came from across the den. She needed to get up. She needed to get them out.

She needed to help.

But her body wouldn’t listen; she had neglected it for too long, and pushed it far too hard. Limbs failed as she struggled out of bed and fell to the floor, unable to move any further. She listened as they screamed for her, apologizing in their weakening states through hysterical tears, asking for forgiveness for being unable to bear the hunger any longer.

She watched as the youngest sister collapsed in the doorway of the room, reaching out to make sure Harrow knew how sorry they were...

That they just wanted to help...

She remembered giving up as her sister stopped breathing and the voices of the twins silenced. She remembered waking in the field clinic outside of the district as the fire spread to the other dens and constructions. She remembered screeching through wrecked lungs for her sisters to wake up as the bodies were placed aside to be identified later, and she remembered passing back out when even sorrow was too much to sustain.

She just wanted to help.

She worked hard when everyone left. She studied things far beyond her, and spent moons becoming better at her tasks. She did everything she could and there was nothing to return to.

No tools, no work, no parents, no sisters, no hope, and no answers.

Just a life she didn’t want anymore, and a question lingering on her tongue.

When the soldiers who assisted with the fire asked if she wanted to enlist—and skirt the rules around it in the process—she said yes, if only to leave behind what she failed to do. She didn’t care anymore.

She was trained and deployed to various fields involving the skills that she developed—mechanical work, software, engineering—all ending with her being discharged from the station with scathing looks following her out the door. All because she held onto that query like an obsession.

Why?

She would disassemble whatever she touched to figure it out, then try to improve it. To fix problems. To solve the issues that only she perceived. To help as she could, so she wouldn’t be abandoned again. So that she could be enough this time.

She never was.

Eventually, she was reassigned to a colony ship after the Union struck, and was tossed with the first-years to be dumped on the planet as a ‘problem’ for others to deal with.

Through mirthless chuckles, she watched the shuttle depart back to the ship.

For that, at least, she knew why.

= = = = = = = = = = = = = = = = = = = = = = = = = = = = = =

Joseph listened to her story without speaking, holding her paw tighter and tighter. Eventually, she noticed his darkened expression, and accepted when he embraced her as she broke down.

“I’m sorry,” he offered weakly when she finished. She nodded, but couldn’t bring herself to speak. When he had nothing else to offer but his comforting touch, she allowed it, remembering those small faces that once looked at her with such joy. “What were their names?”

Harrow wiped her eyes. “The twins were Kena and Reyli. Beautiful kits. They were always so bright and curious. The youngest...” She struggled to push aside the apologetic expression pictured when she choked over the name, the desperate attempt to reach her forever etched in Harrow’s mind. She cleared her throat. “Brelle... She tried... Tried to...”

“It’s okay,” he assured, rubbing her back as her sobbing resurfaced. She just sank into him, letting the sorrow run its course.

It was a while before she talked again, the sun rising over the horizon reminding her of something. She patted his thigh with her paw, getting his attention as she forced a smile.

“Mama left something for you in the Hall; it was a project she was working on. A gift. She finished it last moon while you were gone and wanted to show you in the early sunlight.” He stared with reluctance and concern. Her eyes fell to her lap, less confident in her suggestion, but needing the momentary distraction—even if it was just more grief. “Do you want to go see it?”

Eventually, he answered, his voice tired and strained. “Yeah... Yeah, I think I do.”

The two left the rooftop and climbed down the ladder, making their way to the building Mama and Atrox had spent so much time decorating. For all the conflict that happened, the structure remained relatively unharmed. He froze when they entered the office, his eyes locked onto the new addition hanging over the window.

A lithograph—something Joseph showed Mama a long time ago—occupied the top third of the space, the varying depths allowing detailed shadow for the picture etched into it as the rising sun pierced the material.

It was a portrait of the main pack, done with such precision that it was hard to believe that it wasn’t made by machine.

Joseph was in the centre, smiling as he pet Violet and held paws with Pan—her loving gaze perfectly recreated. Tel hung off his shoulder, her tail almost visibly twirling in the still image as she wore a sultry grin. Sahari and Nalah were shoulder to shoulder, peacefully enjoying everyone’s company, and Jax held Harrow close while looking every bit like they were picturing their own kits as a part of the affections. The Wraiths all had a part of it as well; Scarlet poked at Volta as the cleaner wished for escape from the teasing—even in the art piece—and Faye scratched the wolves while Raine and Kaslin stood politely behind her. Mama herself sat to the side, chittering as she watched everyone get along.

It was a scene that never happened, but was done with such love that nothing felt out of place, down to the blades of grass and the trees in the background. In the corner was a simple message—too small to be obvious, but large enough to be read clearly.

[Thank you for giving us a family, Joseph. We love you.]

Stifled sobs sounded out as the Grand Hunter fell to his knees, his eyes refusing to leave the image.

He had been closed off since the battle started, but the picture of joy and family seemed to confirm everything was over. Finally, denial became acceptance. Mama was gone.

Harrow held him, weeping once again as Joseph finally cried for the loss of the pack’s mother, and she added the Atmo to the list of those who would never return.