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Cry Wolf (Original One-Shot)

NebulaDreams

A Dense Irritating Miniature Beast of Burden
This is something I wrote a year and a half ago as part of my coursework, so I've been sitting on it for a while. The idea was to come up with an original world and create a 2,000 word (10% under or over) story about it. I decided to play about with the idea of a world where all animals could be successfully cloned and were genetically engineered to be more domesticated, so there are a few elements taken from Pokémon with a more realistic and speculative take on the idea of owning wild animals. Unfortunately, due to the word count, it ends on a cliffhanger, but I hope you enjoy what I've presented here thus far.

---


It was only an hour and twenty three minutes since our wolf search started that we finally got a lead. I slammed the phone onto the desktop and packed anything I’d need to interview that guy, from a digital recorder to good old lined paper. I stroked Mort on the back and he unfolded himself from his ball of sleep.

“What?” He said, licking his coat.

“We’re going to the East now, okay?”

“If ya say so.”

I placed him inside his satchel and charged down to Sgt. Macy’s cubicle.

“Hey, Macy.” My announcement gave him a break from staring at his small wall of monitors as he turned to me. “We’ve got one in the bag! I’m heading to the east, so I’ll be gone for a few hours to investigate, alright?”

“Yup.” He turned back to his wall and typed away at his screens. That was the first peep I heard from him today.

We exited the station and started up one of the police scooters in the parking lot, something that had seen better days from the chugging of the exhaust. I put Mort’s satchel in the basket up front, seated myself, and drove into Route 37.

A yawn came from the basket.

“So,” Mort said, “Why are we travelling all this way just for a lead? Is he too lazy to come here?”

“He just asked me to come to his address, he didn’t give me his name.”

Mort scoffed.

“What a pain in the ass.”

“I hate to say it, client confidentiality and all, but it would’ve saved me having to buy my lunch if he came to our office. Oh well.”

I steered to the right lane where the C-35 road was. My head throbbed, trying to find some sense of adventure in the endless stretch of green pastures and grey tarmac.

“I reckon this guy could be a serial killer,” Mort said.

I snickered.

“Ah, good one.”

“I’m being serious.”

“You are? How the hell did you figure that one out?”

“You’re going straight to his place and he hasn’t told you his name. He knows your name, and the fact that you’re a cop. That sounds suspicious to me.”

“That’s the stupidest thing I’ve ever heard you say. Even for a fennec, you should at least have some cunning left in your genes.”

“You’re just gonna’ brush me off like that, huh?”

“No. I’m just holding back this chat until after we meet the guy. Does that sound fair to you?”

“Whatever. *****.”

“What?”

“Nothing.”

---

We reached East Callarta, and scouted for the block the guy lived at, 21 Aves St. as I recalled. Along the way, we saw the demolishing of the closed Pipers store, and a couple of homeless men fighting for the last scrap of mammoth meat I assumed was found on another street somewhere. After forty three times of visiting the East, I considered it to be a mild day there.

I saw the sign of the street, and parked by the closest space I could to the house that had the least chance of being turned over by a loose horse, sandwiched between two cars. I got off the scooter and picked Mort up, when I noticed his fur was wet, and the bottom of the satchel.

“A little present for you,” he said.

“Really? Couldn’t you have waited?”

“I could’ve, but I didn’t.”

I grunted. “Gross.”

I placed Mort on the pavement and wiped off what was left on my pants. I walked through the path of the address as Mort followed, which was next to a garden filled with tomato and berry plants. I rang the doorbell and waited for him to answer. I looked down to where Mort was, and he wasn’t beside me.

“Oh dammit,” I said, “Mort!”

I turned around to see where Mort was, and he was by one of the plants nearby, trying to reach one of the fruits on his hind legs. I grabbed him by the collar and pulled him back to the front door.

“I thought you said you didn’t trust the guy!” I said.

“I don’t, but I sure trust food when I see it.”

“It could be poisonous! It,” the front door opened, and I directed my attention towards the man of the house.

“Aw hell,” he said, brushing the cuttings off his apron, “Sorry bout’ that, didn’t hear the buzzer.”

“It’s fine,” I said as I pulled out my badge. “I’m Sgt. Harper, as you heard earlier. It’s nice to meet you.” I offered my hand to him, which he took, and shook it.

“Sa’ pleasure to meet you, too.” He looked down at Mort, and crouched to his level.

“Well hello there, lil’ fella’.” I felt Mort nuzzle himself between my ankles.

“Shy, is he?” He said.

“Not usually. Can we come in?”

“Sure, on one condition. Can you put your fox in the backyard for me?”

“I can do, if there’s nothing poisonous there.”

“Nothing can hurt the guy in there. I ain’t got any raisins or anything.”

“Alright.”

“Trust me, you’ll be glad when you find out why. Come on in, then.” He smiled, and he walked through the hallway and into the kitchen, where we followed. There was a red, blinking bracelet around his right ankle.

“Told you he was a serial killer,” Mort said.

“Shut up,” I said.

We entered the ivy-covered kitchen, and the guy turned to me, pointing to the open back door.

“If you could please, ma’am.”

“Come on, Mort.” I picked him up and placed him outside, shutting the door. He raced through the partially grown lawn.

“Cute one, isn’t he?” He said.

“A troublemaker, more like,” I said. The guy laughed.

“Would you like to come into the lounge?”

“Certainly.”

I followed him into the front room, which didn’t have a TV and was covered from top to bottom with cacti and fly-traps. Me and him sat down on opposite ends of the table, and I placed the recorder in the middle of it.

“You’re fine with being recorded, right?”

He nodded.

“Alright then.” I pressed the record button and got out my notepad. I cleared my throat. It had been a while since I last did an interview.

“First of all, your name and occupation, please.”

“Sure. It’s Garry Callahan, and I’m a clerk at a greengrocers.”

“Alright, thank you Garry. Now, please tell me your involvement in our search.”

“It’s, um. How should I put this,” Garry said, stroking his beard, “It might help if I told ya’ who I used to be.”

“By all means, go ahead.”

“You probably won’t recognise my name, but you might know this case from a while back. I, I’d rather call it by its name.”

I didn’t want to say it either.

“The ‘Bird Carving’ case?”

“That’s right. I was brought into custody because ovvat’ case and put under protection by the powers that be. I, or he, went missing soon afterwards.”

I looked straight into his droopy eyes. He must have seen the look on my face, and he blinked.

“Ar-Arm.”

“I’d rather you didn’t say it either. You know my name now, anyway.”

His name was Armond Grey. I had heard many details about the case at that time, the types of exotic birds kept in captivity, from parotias to albatrosses, the intricate patterns carved on all the skulls that were discovered, stripped clean of any meat or blood, and the hours the forensics team spent inspecting every groove. I never expected the figure of that case, from Ten Claws, to talk to me in person, and under house arrest as well. All he could do then was muster a small grin. He didn’t look away from me.

“I see. Thank you, Ar, Garry. Next question.”

I sighed. All the questions that came to me at that time built up in tangled thoughts. At random, I picked out the most pressing question that popped into my head.

“Why were you involved in the ‘Bird Carving’ case?”

He chuckled. “You mean my motive?”

“Yes.”

“Because I was told to. If I refused, they would kill me. Have you ever seen a 500 Magnum round shot into somebody’s head?”

More often than I would have liked.

“Yes.”

“Then you know how powerful them sonsabitches are. My head wouldn’t be on my shoulders if I didn’t keep carving!”

“I see.” I scribbled away on the notepad, trying to record both what he said and what was going on in my head at the time. “Next question.”

“I’m sorry ta’ interrupt, but I know what you’re gonna’ ask next, I see you’re upset, and want to know as much as you can about it, but I’ll mostly end up telling you what I told the East when I turned myself in. I’d rather talk about what Ten Claws are doing right now than what they did back then.”

I gripped the fabric of my trousers. I wanted to ask as many questions as I could to Armond. I also wanted to punch him in the face, and many other things. But I also wanted to take Mort back and get the hell out of the place, and the only way I could do that was to get the interview done as quickly as possible, which was to ask him about the missing wolves.

“Yes. I apologize. Next question. Do you know anything about what Ten Claws are planning to do with the wolves?”

“Ain’t it obvious? They’re gonna skin em!”

“I know, but how, and why?”

He sighed.

“I’ve only heard rumours about what they were doing alongside the ‘Bird Carving’ project, and only in pieces. From what I gathered, they wanted to smuggle the wolves to a Sormanian poaching ring, where the coats would be sold somewhere else. That’s about it.”

“Would you know the whereabouts of their current base, or the Sormanian ring?”

“I wouldn’t know. They’re like gypsies, you know. When the time comes, they move from one place to another. I travelled to twelve different regions while I was still with em’.”

“What about where you used to work?”

“Oh, that? Give me those notes a minute. I’ll show you.”

---

Mort was fast asleep in the covered basket. I held out the scrap paper in front of me and towards the alleyway. If the pen smudges in the middle indicated where the base was, and if I were to enter from there, all I would have to do was turn right. I walked to the site. There was no sign that the place was inhabited recently. The pavement beside the doorstop was covered in flakes and chips from the bricked walls.

I turned the handle, and the door creaked open. As expected, the building was empty save for a door at the end. There were signs that it was used, with all the scratches on the floor, but aside from that, the only things that filled up the room were specs of dust.

Once I stepped into the building, there was a stacked pile of black piled up into the left wall that stood out against the grey and beige scheme the room happened to follow. From the clumpy nature of it, I recognised it as shed canine fur. The fact that it shined for what should have been old fur was out of place. I had to take a closer look at it. I slipped on some nitrale gloves and poked around at the pile. There was dry blood hidden at the bottom most clump of fur. This had to have been a message, but it would be a useful message if I took it down to the guys at the lab. I took out the forensics kit and pulled out the forceps and ziploc bag from it. I took a sample of the blood covered fur.

A bear growled from the opening of the door, a grizzly one I recognized from its rough cry, and I dropped the forceps I was holding. On instinct, I reached for the Luder .38 in my boot holster, and stopped. I turned around and looked at the bear, which stayed in its place, but it kept its gaze on me, as it snorted with its jaw open. There was no way I could stagger it with my rounds. Unless I was feeling lucky at that moment, which I wasn’t, it was stupid to even dream of combatting the bear. I breathed in, and breathed out, like my coach always said.

I rose, and I stood as still as I possibly could. All I had to do was walk back and not panic. It would get tired eventually. I stepped back, back to the door at the end of the room. It took a step forward and stopped. I took another step backwards. A set of hands grabbed my shoulders, and dragged me into the dark corridor.

“We’re going to have a little talk,” a woman whispered in my ear.
 

The Teller

King of Half-Truths
It’s time for a life-changing review, courtesy of me, The Teller! Firstly, I’m glad that you told us upfront about the background to your world, about the animals being cloned and genetically engineered to be more domesticated, because I wouldn’t have gotten any of that from the story you posted. There’s a bunch of different expectations and rules set for grounded sci-fi stories like this and something a bit more lowkey fantasy, so knowing which one this story is from the get go is really helpful.

My head throbbed, trying to find some sense of adventure in the endless stretch of green pastures and grey tarmac.

I think he just has a headache. Or is he using psychic powers? Anyway, I don’t get “head throbbing” from “looking really hard to find an abstract concept in a physical plane.”

I got off the scooter and picked Mort up, when I noticed his fur was wet, and the bottom of the satchel.

“A little present for you,” he said.

“Really? Couldn’t you have waited?”

“I could’ve, but I didn’t.”

I grunted. “Gross.”

For as little of Mort as I’ve seen, this doesn’t seem like it’s in-character for him. I would think any self-respecting intelligent fox wouldn’t debase itself by wetting itself and then literally wallowing in it for who knows how long, all for the sake of a prank. You never even mention Mort being wiped off, so I’m led to believe that for the rest of the chapter, he’s just matted in his own pee. So…who really wins here?

“Trust me, you’ll be glad when you find out why.

As we discover, there’s a wolf skinning operation going on here. So I’m guessing that a fennec fox would associate itself with wolves in general? ‘Cause otherwise, this line makes no sense.

I’m interested in this “Bird Carving” case, as well as the fact that this Armond Grey guy was essentially forced into it. I’m wondering why the Ten Claws even needed someone to carve intricate details into the skulls of exotic birds in the first place.

It’s an interesting beginning you have here. Some of the stuff doesn’t make sense, but the idea is certainly appealing, and I can see why someone would think “oh, this is like Pokémon.” Having locations named Route 37 and having the protagonist’s partner being a fennec fox certainly helps (Ursaring and Jessie at the end?). Good luck on the rest of the series!
 

NebulaDreams

A Dense Irritating Miniature Beast of Burden
Holy smokes, @The Teller, thanks for giving this a review! This was quite early in my writing, and it shows in some places, particularly with the lack of exposition. I still struggle with that in my stories now, but back then, it was even more noticeable given the limited word-count I was given. If this idea was developed more, some of the things could've made more sense. In any case, thanks for giving this a read-through. I hope you check out my other works as well, which are longer and are more nuanced than this.

Another thing I should point out is that the detective is imagining Mort speaking, as the protagonist herself is quite lonely and projects some of her personality onto him as a counterweight, so he isn't exactly intelligent. That isn't explained anywhere, of course, but that would explain why he chose to wallow in his own pee. Still, he could've been fleshed out more.
 

Ambyssin

Winter can't come soon enough
I AM HERE! ... because of this ongoing game we've got. You mentioned this is an older work and it does show. There are some mechanistic mistakes, like some of your dialogue attributes. As an example, I noted twice you followed a question with "He said," which should've been the lower case "he said." And there were some comma splices for sentences here and there. Harper's your prototypical gruff crime detective and the narration even seems to have that "seen it all" vibe going on. I didn't particularly get the sense he was panicking when confronted with the bear, but maybe that's what you were going for? Mort I'm a bit less certain on... they're partners, but I didn't get a sense of what their dynamic was... especially with Mort apparently pissing on Harper's bag. *shrug*

I know this was written with a word count limit, but in posting it here, I do think you could've done with incorporating the part about sentient animals into Gray's questioning. Animal smuggling crimes are a very real thing in the world, so this would've been a chance to define your alternate reality. Just something to keep in mind if you ever write another short piece. To end off...

“We’re going to have a little talk,” a woman whispered in my ear.
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