Halvorson studied Heretic for a few moments after he replied.  The fox certainly seemed to be telling the truth.  Maybe he wasn't so bad to have around, either, since he was pretty good in a fight.  What bothered him was that Heretic had a giant anthro-wolf after him.<br/><br/>Then again, Halvorson had the vast majority of the world against him at the moment.  One more fur, giant or no, wasn't going to make much of a difference.  He nodded at Heretic.  "So long as you can control that craving for human blood you got, you've got a place with us, I guess."  He thought a moment, then added, "And naturally, any knowledge you have of how to best fight the Bitch, you're welcome to share."  He smiled, and marveled for a moment at how easy it was do that now.<br/><br/>O'Toole gave Bane a bit of a smirk.  "He didn't gut me, thanks to you," she said.  As he led her downstairs she let the smirk fill out some more into a smile, out of his view.<br/><br/>She watched him grab the cake and begin munching, and realized at that moment that for the first time in her life should could have real food - food made for citizens and not for slaves.  Sure, she'd had Mercy Cakes - sweet-tasting buns made by cook-slaves from spare dough and other leftovers - but she'd never had a genuine<span style="font-style: italic">cake</span>.  She grabbed the other half of what Bane had taken and took it into the living area, tentatively taking a bite before ravenously devouring the whole thing in huge forkfuls.<br/><br/>Out of the corner of her eye she caught Chiro carrying the cult leader away, and briefly thought about what he'd said to her before the battle, about smell.  With that nose of his, did he smell something she didn't?  Something emotional?<br/><br/>Sergeant Halvorson eyed Baz for a few moments.  "I'd heard those legends, too.  Never believed 'em myself - thought they were myths like the Five Gods.  But I do believe we can.  We got Resistance cells in almost every realm across the whole planet.  Now, we ain't organized much, but our commander here in Kazmer has said that that's what we're fighting for: to make everyone equal, have equal say.  And I sure as hell want that to happen, whether I see it or not."<br/><br/>Janus and Collins had carried the two furs Collins had downed away into the kitchen of the safe house.  In no time at all, Janus was watching the door while Collins engorged himself with one of them, expanding his jaw over the fur's head and torso and gulping ravenously.  When he had finished, he settled back against a cabinet and rested a moment, patting his gut and trying not to belch.  Janus gave him one of the medic's yellow pills and he swallowed it, feeling his stomach churn away at the mass within in overtime.  He rose when he felt light enough to walk and let Janus go reload while he walked into the living area to rest.  The other unconscious cultist was left on the kitchen floor.<br/><br/>Halvorson followed Baz indoors and listened to Bane's answer, and only nodded when he heard it.  The kid was making it out like he had no choice, which wasn't really true, but Halvorson wasn't about to debate him on it.  He looked at O'Toole and Collins and got the idea to have something to eat himself.  He made his way toward the kitchen, but stopped off by Fenson and the medic for a moment.<br/><br/>"How you doing, fella?" he asked Fenson.<br/><br/>The man took a raspy breath before answering.  "Feeling better, Sarge," he said.  "Doc's got my back."<br/><br/>"He lost a good amount of blood but he's getting it back," the medic said, indicating the IV.  "He'll make it, but he'll have to sit out the rest of the war.  There's no way he could go on fighting with a hole in his neck.  It's got to be fixed, and we don't have the knowledge or materials to do that."<br/><br/>"They might at HQ," said Halvorson.<br/><br/>"Nah, brigade's got nothing that--"<br/><br/>"No, I mean<span style="font-style: italic">the</span>HQ," said Halvorson.  "The big one.  Resistance HQ for the whole city."<br/><br/>The medic looked surprised.  "I thought only officers knew where that was."<br/><br/>"That's right, I sure as hell don't know where it is," said Halvorson.  "But the lieutenant does."<br/><br/>"Yeah, and you think he's gonna tell you?" the medic asked.  "No way.  Plus, I didn't think anyone was allowed in until things were going good enough."<br/><br/>"Yeah, you got a point there," Halvorson muttered.  "Well, done's done, then."  He turned to Fenson.  "Good news, private: you're done with the war.  How 'bout that?  Only on the job for a night, and now you can retire."<br/><br/>"Sounds great, Sarge," said Fenson, smiling.  "First retired slave in history."<br/><br/>Halvorson smirked.  Kid had a point.  He looked over for the lieutenant to see if he was conscious yet - and nobody was there.  The space where the lieutenant had been laying was empty.  Halvorson stood up abruptly.  "Where's the lieutenant?"  He looked at the medic.  "Where the hell is he?"<br/><br/>"I- I don't know!" said the medic, stunned himself.  "He must have left when I went to bandage up Collins."<br/><br/>"Nobody saw him leave?" Halvorson asked the room.  The humans came back with shakes of their heads.<br/><br/>-----<br/><br/>All of the focusin Karogen could do was largely useless.  From what he could tell, the walls and floor were stone, and the chains that bound him were made of cold metal.  The air barely moved and smelled of must, rot, and bodily waste.  The echoes around him told him he was in a relatively small room, but other than that there was nothing.  No light was visible to aid him.<br/><br/>That is, until the door opened.  Blinding radiance streamed abuptly into the room from a doorway that seemed to materialize from the darkness a few feet from Karogen's left side.  Silhouetted in the doorway was a larger anthro-fox in the ceremonial attire of the Palace Guard, the defenders of Lady Alhanda's fortress.  This could only mean that Karogen was there - in the fortress, the Palace of the Wolf.<br/><br/>The light also showed him his cell, what there was to see of it.  The walls were made of well-worn granite bricks stained black by time.  The ceiling and floor were made of solid rock.  The door was a heavy metal slab held in place by thick hinges, with a viewing port riveted into it near the top.  The door barely rose off the floor enough for light to get through, much less air.  What little ventilation there was came from a small tube in the ceiling, nestled in a corner.<br/><br/>And in that corner sat his cell-mate.  The man was older, perhaps in his early fifties, and worn thin with weeks of starvation and pain.  The hair that remained on his head was gray and short, as if it had once been buzzed but had since grown out.  His face was wrinkled beyond his years, and his eyes were brown but clouded, like etched glass, as if the life had been ground out of them.  The clothes he wore were the tattered remains of a textile-factory slave: the blue coveralls were ripped wide open from the chest to the pelvis and the arms had been torn off.  They were stained with blood and waste.  The skin visible to Karogen was scarred and misshapen, evidence of torment beyond pain.  Some larger wounds still bled slightly.  His fingers were bent at odd angles and gnarled, some were missing fingernails.<br/><br/>The guard spoke, his voice deep.  "Mark Karogen, the Lady wishes to treat you to an audience," he said.  Without waiting for a reply, he unchained Karogen and pulled him to his feet, leading him out of the cell toward a group of other guards.<br/><br/>"Get out!" screamed the old man at the guard, who paid him no heed.  "Get out of my heaven!"  Then he addressed Karogen.  "Get out of life when you can, man!  Just die when you've got a chance!"  The heavy door slammed shut behind them, deadening the man's cries.  The guards muscled Karogen down the corridor.