Mortiz let out a gasp for air, eyes darting through the smokey fog smeared throughout the Sunless Slumps. silhouetted figures slouched on the pavement, writhing from the aftermath of the explosions which took heed of the situation.

Vincent stopped hyperventilating once he snapped back to reality. Eyes remained widened, the lupine cautiously tilted his head forward to survey the area. 

In front of him, a gray automobile wagon was burned and disintegrated, followed by a mess of red mush of organs and torn fur scattered all over the vehicle. Mortiz could not distinguish which cadaver belonged to whom. 

Vincent tilted his head to the side, and his eyes met the figure of Simeon Machlich, whose body folded into a fetal position. He could see the goat rapidly talking, but the dastardly ringing surrounded his hearing. The explosion was enough that only a pitching tinnitus was at its prime awakening. 

He looked back to the other side, eyes laid on Wojtek who was a few meters away from his distance from the ground. The cat was fully conscious, making Mortiz go limp with his eyes opened and unblinked to imitate a corpse. He did not know whether Zuev was going to kill the wolf himself, with all hope of getting the gold foiled. 

The explosion made Zuev momentarily inert. Alas, everyone was on the dire boat he was in. 

"FUCK!" Wojtek couldn't hear his own voice, the sound being muffled by the incessant ringing in his ears while he stood up. His vision was periled by the fog, but the cat roughly scanned the area to make sure that his mates were still kicking. “MEN?! DO YOU HEAR ME?!" 

Not a single familiar voice rang out, and Wojtek's chest tightened with angst and regret. He should have listened to the Old Man Jayden and abided by the Shilling's Board instead, as this turn of events would probably be the end of the Wolfhounds.

Zuev looked around to see any impending threats with the glimmering hope of seeing his mates,  but stopped when his eyes witnessed what was left of Gareth Fein II. 

“Oh… Shit…" Wojtek whispered, upon seeing the grotesque scene before him. 

Over fifty years of fighting for the expansion of the British Isles, to be put down by a common hoodlum; the dignity of death was wasted for Fein. Amongst the bloody mist that was his four soldiers which he was next to, the Zuev could only ever see what seemed to be the ursine's upper body completely separated from his lower half. The bear's muscular legs and knees were twisted, mangled, and charred beyond recognition. 

The commissioner's upper half suffered the most from the impact: the bear's inner flesh and remains were scattered along the pavement, mixed in with the four of his other inferiors fatally inflicted by the damage.  Amongst the rotten amass, however, Joseph Ela-Bellegrade had merely survived- Fein's torso had shielded the fox from the explosion. 

There were six remaining Gizmovallian Garrison Soldiers who were also standing up from their temporary setback. The men were close enough that the shattering impact which came from the maelstrom was enough to set the lamps on the Wolfhound's cart to spontaneously combust. 

On the other side of the fog, Frye stood up, scanned the two soldiers who previously had their bayonets pointed at him during the command for compliance. One fidgeted on the floor, blood gouged from his neck from the large shards of the Wolfhound's lampglasses. The other, however, seemed to have suffered a quicker demise; the wolf could see the deep shank that the hamster's kukri made on the man's left temple. Thankfully, Abraham was alive to tell another tale. 

Derby Mallow, the corgi, was nowhere to be seen, despite being right next to both Frye and Abraham before the unexpected encounter. 

Mortiz watched idly as Wojtek's trembling paw reached for his pistol lying by the dirt. Mortiz could tell that the cat needed to act fast. 

The lynx's eye was now focused on two veteran rangers from a relatively-near distance: one picking up his rifle whilst hoisting himself up from the floor. 

Wojtek did not hesitate. 

BANG!

"Hr… Augh…" The garrison soldier's jaw splintered, his entire muzzle turning into a red-pinkish paste and shattered bone and teeth. He stood there, frozen, while he saw his own jaw hanging down from its hinges. His coughs were mixed with saliva and blood, dripping onto the pavement, words  spewing in unintelligible gurgles before he stumbled forth. His arms remained spasming while he drew his last breath. 

The lynx's gaze lingered on the fresh corpse, but began to limp towards an interior of an abandoned tavern upon seeing the guard next to the body bring upon retribution, picking up the fallen brother's steam rifle.  

Zuev grunted frustratingly, feeling an agonizing pain from his right leg. A huge splint was lodged against the hamstring of his calf, and a trail of red followed behind him. He knew best to not pull it out, lest he wanted to bleed out and die in the crossfire. However, he needed to get back out there and find some answers in the newfounded battlefield. 

“God. DAMMIT! My good leg!" Wojtek growled, looking down at the shard. He didn't hesitate to grab the free end of the stick and yank out with a hoarse groan. Before the blood could disperse any further, he tore out a piece of his sleeve with his teeth- a large amount of fabric enough to block anything- and lodged it against his calf. The design was not flawless, but it did the job until he could get the medic. For extra measure, the lynx sliced his other sleeve to make a longer strain, and used a piece of wooden plank from the distance as a turniquitte.

He stopped breathing once he heard footsteps coming from his direction, and quickly leaped from the walls once pellets began to pierce through them. He eventually slipped under the bartender's table, throwing an empty glass once the Gizmovalian soldier had entered through the door. 

Upon seeing the soldier stagger backwards, Wojtek pulled out his boat hook, and with one swing, lodged the edged tips right into the soldier's forehead. 

Mortiz finally shook his head to gather his concentration upon seeing the cat disappear. Letting out a gasp for fresh air, he lifted his head up again to view the scenario once more. He found that the nearest pairs of soldiers were gone, so he could finally move. 

Vincent had no time to ponder why fate unfolded this way once more. He could only deduce that there were two paths which crossed in order for this to happen; a mere coincidence that he could only ever think of as a miracle.

However, there was no time for prayers of gratitude. 

Vincent began to writhe on the ground, aggressively scaffolding his legs, shoulders, and constricted arms to push himself towards one of Gareth's subordinates. A young, burly Prestorian militia arctic wolf laid on the floor, eyes half-lidded and discolored which gazed into nothingness. 

Mortiz spotted the soldier's bayonet blade of the man, and with a sharp jerk, used the edge to slice through the ropes binding his hands altogether. 

He grabbed onto the metal rifle, and silently thanked God that it was designed for black powder. Afterall, the Prestorian Garrison Soldiers were too poor to be provided steam rifles anyways. As much as they were efficient, the water tank would have combusted and made the weapon obsolete from the explosion. 

Gunshots began to set ablaze from behind, and Mortiz quickly slipped behind two crates to cover himself. He clutched the wooden stock on his palms, one end holding the trigger as he heard a flight of footsteps approaching his direction. 

He heard two Gizmovallian soldiers approach in front between the barrels, both scanning the area for potential prey to hunt. 

“The Commissioner of Prestoria is dead- the bloody Wolfhounds have gotten to 'em!" 

“Kill on sight! Don't let these heathens leave unscathed! More're coming soon enough to finish the job, but leave the whitecoat alive and kill his mates, he will bask in his failure before his timely death!" 

One of the men re-holstered their weapon between their right shoulder, and pulled out a goat's horn to blow in. Followed with the response of another cornet, reinforcements were initiated.

As the two soldiers left, Mortiz was left tentative of the potential decisions he could make. The more guards, the less chance he could get out. 

From between the dead buildings, Lucifer was crouched under a litter bin inside of an alleyway. The wool of his left arm and hand was burnt, crisped upon the flames he had to endure from the explosion. His fingers suffered the most; it was enough that the flames left a chrysalis bundle of pink and brown. 

“Merde…" Lucifer whispered, before peaking out to see the open field of the city. 

Three guards were picking up their weapons from the floor, and across cobblestone residues was Frye Blake, who was slowly moving the emotionally-incapacitated Simeon Machlich into cover

The weapons in which the guardsmen held between their fingers were known to be lethal assets used in the Seven Decades War. As the first steam rifles in the 1712 was plagued with inefficiencies compared to the black-powdered, the first revolution of the Mongoose 1719 was known for its revolutionary lever mechanism, which could store up to seven musket balls at a time, and dispense one per second. It was also known for its deadshot accuracy, granted by the control of steam pressure and water tanks attached to the rifle's stock. The temperature of the water is bracketed through a metal thermos concentrator in order to sustain pressurization between each shot. 

“O…-Otche nash, s…S-h…-cho… yesi na nebesakh, nekhay svyatitsya im'ya tvoye…" Simeon whispered, his voice trembling through a prayer. 

“Hey, four-eyes! Simeon!" Frye begged, lifting up the older man's head with his horns. “Are you willing to die in open arms, you shit-for-brains?! Come on!" The wolf tried to yank Machlich out of his fetal position by tugging on his goat horns, but the veteran's prayers began to grow frantic. 

“Khlib nash nasushchnyi day nam s'ohodni! Yi prosty nam provyny nashi, yak yi my proshchayemo vynuvattsyam nashym- YAK YI MI PROSHCHAYEMO VYNUVATTSYAM NASHYM!"  

As the remains of the fog seemed to disseminate, and the guardsmen had a perfect eye towards both Frye and Simeon. Crawley knew needed to act fast. 

The caracal watched as the guard's rifles began to hiss, brass barrels beginning to glow in red of heat. Crawley watched in horror. 

“Machlich, snap the fuck OUT of it!" Frye hoarsley screamed out, realizing that the rifles of the other soldiers were ready to fire. Out of desperation, the lupine began to frantically kick Simeon against the shoulder. 

Three steam rifles were enough to eviscerate the two into mere atoms. 

More hissing ensued. 

Impulsively, Crawley pulled out his musket that was hooked onto his bandolier and dove out of the cover. In a quick prayer, he could only hope that he would succeed in this saving throw. 

Within the air, and in the split second before the men could fully open fire, he eyed on the middle man's pressurized tank. 

Followed by the shot's kiss upon the ranger's stock, came scalding water once the rifle had exploaded in the Gizmovalian soldier's grasp. As the guards next to him both rolled on the ground, the middle man laid lifeless, the basset hound's facial features were melted beyond recognition. 

“Lucifer!" Frye exclaimed, upon seeing the cat run to him and Simeon. 

“Grab him by the pits, not by the horns, twat!" Crawley exclaimed, putting his weapon back into his black bandolier. “Where is your sense of mind?! Do you think those bastards wouldn't have noticed your idiocy?" 

“I…-I…-" Frye stammered, voice cracking in exasperation. “Everything happened so fast, I thought…- I thought-!" 

“Spare me your fucking semantics!" Lucifer Crawley grabbed onto one armpit of the goat, who seemed to stop manically wailing and reduced himself into low whispers once more. “Whose fuckin' idiot brain was to bring a herbivore into a battle sight like this, anyways?!" 

Lucifer watched as the two men both recovered from their scalding injuries, picking up their weapons again to finish their deeds. He began to pace, with Frye mirroring his speed. 

It was soon that balls began to propel in an expeditious speed past the two, whizzing through the fogs, and the Wolfhounds were scared for their lives. Simeon was limp by his bottom half, and each miss of the bullets felt less safe than the next one. 

Dealing with the constables and the other syndicates in the Old Westmeister held no objections, as they were only equipped with singled-action weapons which gave them an interval. Both Lucifer and Frye had never expected to deal with the military regiments, and their advancements in weaponry being the equivalent of the Black Behemoth's. 

Pellet after pellet whizzed through the air, and each split second, both Wolfhounders could feel the whipping of wind around their faces. They could only hope that they would not suffer a second before their deaths

Finally, all three lunged into cover of a large flight of stairs of the Bexley's Central Library, a temporary bulwark for the two of them. However, the gunfire remained relentless. Seven pellets followed seven more, and the three men could tell that the soldiers were not going to stop. 

Lucifer tossed his Generation I Flintlock onto Frye's lap, as well as his own set of balls. “I can't move my other hand, you reload, I shoot with my other!" 

“Why can't I shoot instead?!" Frye objected.

“I wouldn't trust you to put down my grandmother with your recklessness, let alone trust your aim! Just do as I say or I will kill you MYSELF!" The caracal growled, pressing his non-burnt finger towards Frye's chest. 

Frye could only comply, as much as he wanted to object Crawley from entertaining the idea of peeking out of the cover. However, he knew that Lucifer would do anything rash in order to save his brothers. If it meant that the caracal could suffer a fate, then so be it. 

The wolf frantically poured a pocket gunpowder casing he had for his own weapon down onto Lucifer's gun, following a ball. He used his own ramming stick to hold it all together, a tedious process in which he had a sleight of hands to. 

Lucifer, upon crooking his gun towards the cover, suddenly flinched his arm back, followed by a weapon spinning away from his palms and splitting in half. 

Frye's eyes widened in disbelief. As his own pistol was destroyed, he was only left with his throwing knives. 

Death was now inevitable. 

“MERDE!" Lucifer exclaimed, before he could nab one of Frye's blades upon his sheaths. He knew it was the last stance which would not work, but options were only thinned to one alternation. 

He felt the soldier's presence become nearer. 

And nearer. 

Crawley closed his eyes, as the footsteps started to quicken. He only prayed that death would send him to heaven, just so he could see his beloved, Maria once more.  

____

At the other side, Mortiz swiftly went towards the same bar where Wojtek remained to subside. He figured that using the back exit would leave him to escape Sunless Slump's main square, and back into a different alleyway. 

However, it was soon enough that the two carnivores would cross paths again. Vincent saw Zuev sit by on one of the bar's stools, leaning back towards the counter while he faced the door. 

They had their weapons drawn immediately.

Wojtek had his pistol towards Mortiz's face, while Mortiz had the rifle pointed at Wojtek's chest. 

It seemed that Wojtek had moved the body of the dead garrison soldier aside. The lynx had whiddled the guard's rifle, which he palmed on his free hand.

The lupine could see the exhaustion in the cat's only eye; the possible torment of undetermined intuition about whether his brethrens were still alive or not. Mortiz looked down at Wojtek's wound, the cloth was already patched with red. The bleeding had stopped, thankfully, as the lynx had cauterized it with something to prevent further fallout.

“You're really… A bad omen to have, eh?" Wojtek chortled, before letting out a cough. “You're somehow… Just some way… Killin' my brothers each… Single… Breath" 

“Fuck. You." The lupine harshly whispered, the grip of his rifle squeezed against his claws. He was clearly stammering with the grip, fingers almost squeezing against the trigger. “I'm walking out of here. Alive. And if you want me for my gold's worth, then I won't hesitate." 

“You think that's the case? The riches?" Wojtek let out another wheeze, his grin widening upon watching the wolf crumble. “I don't care about the… Whatcha call it…? 'Chains of gold dangling in front of me?' I am past that… Because the people of fortune are dead. They're nothing to me now." 

“Then what is it, then?" The lupine growled, eyes focused on the length of the barrel. “Why not let me go?" 

“I am always a gambler… I've made myself a Game of Chance in life, the same way I'd do for my cards… And I have never had a fight where I folded." Wojtek let out another harsh, bitter laugh, before letting out a dry cough from the dusty debris. “Those who play the card right… They never die. And maybe you're right in that regard. You're me. And I'm you. We only fight when power is involved. And… power… - Power comes from the coins. But we just forget one thing… We're just two different species in the same grassless soil, and we could leave without a print that would make this earth go any less rounder." 

Wojtek stopped upon hearing a volley of bullets from the other side of the wall, making both him and Mortiz flinch instinctively. “-...Maybe you can gamble that chance too." 

“What… What do you mean?" Mortiz's eyes narrowed. “What do I have to gamble if I've lost everything?" 

“Well. Either you take a shot at me, and die trying to find out if I lived or not… Or you use that rifle to spare yourself… In a way that would benefit me, you, and everyone else. Either way, both of these options… You get to gamble whether you live, or die." The lynx proposed, his fingers dangerously close to squeezing his trigger. 

Mortiz was left confused and internally hectic from the choices given out by Zuev, who watched the wolf's chest heave in and out egregiously. 

His eyes narrowed on the iron sight, which was focused on Wojtek's bare chest. 

However, the lupine had looked out the shattered window beside him. 

There were a few soldiers who were narrowing towards the flight of stairs by the large library, where Frye, Lucifer, and Simeon seemed to be crouching by. 

Vincent's velvet eyes darted between the iron sight, and to the barrage of steam and bullets escaping through the two Garrison Soldier's rifles while they inched closer and closer towards the side of the stairs. 

The wolf's breath quickened, enough that his focus was becoming one of delusional daze. His vision spun, the rational feeling of his mind was thinning out by the minute. 

Soon enough, Mortiz squeezed the trigger, and a loud bang resonated throughout the city, again.