Dilip’s sleep was interrupted by the blaring sound of his alarm clock singing its morning tune. With a groan, the Indian dog slammed a paw on the loud plastic box before hauling himself out of bed.

‘4^th of June, 06:30’ read the digital screen of his clock. The usual hour when he was in port and nothing had kept him up overnight.

On the bright side, the transformation caused by the Event had seemed to shave off a few years on his biological clock. The 54-years old had never felt this good this early in years, and that’s with the investigation work that kept him up ‘til one in the morning taken into account.

Dilip’s cabin, directly linked to his office by a single door, was much larger than even the VIP or officers’ cabins on board, though the base decoration of a carpeted floor and wooden wall panels was pretty much the same. At twice the size of such rooms, the space was dominated by a king size bed on one side. Just above his bed hung a vintage chart of India and an Indian flag he had acquired from a sale in Aberdeen. On either sides of the bed were small wooden nightstands in which he put books he liked to read for his own pleasure, at least when he had time to spare.

Close to the bed were some shelves and a large wardrobe, his biggest storage compartment besides the numerous cabinets recessed into the walls of the cabin. One thing of importance in the room was Dilip’s Hindu altar, which stood out against the rest of the room with its bright colors. The door of the wardrobe was left ajar, revealing a hint of Dilip’s white dress uniform, which he still had to refit to his new body shape.

The rest of the room was occupied by a small kitchenette that allowed the Captain to eat apart from the crew when he felt like it, complete with a well stocked mini fridge, a bar and a table with four seats. From time to time, he liked to order the cooks to prep him a particularly good meal to share with Alejandro and Schmitt in his cabin.

The dog cracked his neck before setting some water to heat on the stove while he took a shower. Hygiene had been a bit… odd to figure out in the first days for the whole crew. Fur didn’t always get along with water, unlike skin despite sweat having the bad tendency of building up rather quickly under his coat whenever he exerted himself. That forced him to be rather generous with soap to avoid spreading his ‘musk’ all over the ship’s hallways.

The feeling of warm water trickling down his back did such good job of soothing the kinks in Dilip’s neck that he had to restrain himself from wagging his tail. Quirks in body language came naturally with the ears and tail and were rather annoying to repress for the Indian, but he had an image to maintain in front of his crew. He was their pack leader after…

What an odd thought. He meant Captain, not pack leader. Better keep a watch on that kind of stray thought.

Considering the stories that went around the ship, Dilip seemed rather fortunate to have wound up with short fur. Another Indian on the crew, Ajit, had turned into a breed resembling Himalayan sheepdogs, and he kept complaining about the amount of time it took him to get washed and dried. The Captain had no such problem, having been saddled with the short furred appearance of an Indian pariah dog if his observations were correct.

And the matter of fur length was but the tip of the iceberg when he compared it to the reaction of most crewmen the day before, when Artyom had offhandedly suggested they use shampoo from a pet shop during dinner. That had caused one hell of a ruckus.

After getting dried (which in the last few days had reintroduced him to the use of hairdryers), Dilip easily slipped inside a new set of tan cargo shorts and his usual pilot shirt, after making sure the epaulettes were correctly fitted. He skipped putting on a tie, the article of clothing being extremely uncomfortable with his new large neck.

Without the need to go out for a while, he left his shoes behind and went to make himself a fresh kettle of tea, with some loose leaves of high-quality Darjeeling he had gone to great lengths to acquire. Some on board might prefer coffee, but he had been a sucker for good tea ever since he had left India to seek out contracts in Europe.

The soft smell of brewing tea wafted up the kettle and hit the dog’s nostrils just the right way, making him release a contented sigh. He carried the kettle and an empty mug to his office, sitting down in his chair and booting up his computer.

Giving the electronics their time to boot up, the Captain briefly perused through a stack of papers he had left on his desk the day before. Nothing out of the ordinary: risk assessments for the new installations, salvage requests for the last few pieces of equipment they needed, training schedules and the lot.

On top of the stack was a paper left behind by Alejandro after they had left crewmembers the chance to come up with ideas for their new vehicle. A car dealership downtown was highlighted on a chart, with an adjoined picture of a boxy Land Rover. So, the idea of acquiring Defenders had won out against the Lada Nivas. Odd, he always assumed the Eastern Europeans would vote for the latter.

Grabbing a pen in his large paw, Dilip filled in the blanks on the requisition document. They would take two Def 90, and six Def 130, preferably with a raid kit. He added mentions for taking along the usual amount of parts before signing the document and putting it in his ‘out’ filer.

By then the computer had finished loading and Dilip quickly opened the connection with the satellite network to see if the HPI guys had gotten round drafting that contract of theirs. And lo’ and behold, after the usual two minutes of dialing the satellites, his computer pinged several times upon receiving the expected mails, one of them holding a very large attached file.

“Time to switch to legalese I guess…” The Captain muttered in distaste as he took a sip of his tea.

The file opened to reveal a document several dozen pages long detailing every aspect of any possible cooperation between his ship and the HPI in excruciating detail, including ridiculous amounts of small print. Dilip quickly went through the different parts of the document before stopping at a particular heading, his mug of tea raised halfway to his muzzle.

“Now that’s new.” He commented, reaching for his phone.

He had a few questions to ask Eko.

The month of June in this part of Europe wasn’t particularly warm, but that didn’t make it cold either: temperatures regularly stuck around the fifteen degrees mark in the morning. There were still some fog banks from the river here and there in the area that were in the process of being quickly dissipated by the heat of the rising sun.

Building the makeshift shooting range had been little trouble for the crew. A handful of empty shipping containers had been moved in place in a matter of minutes, and then Artyom had spent the rest of the time marking the limits with ropes and flags before setting up some plywood targets next to the dyke he had chosen.

He had made damn sure the shooting range would be pointed away from any dangerous terminal in the harbor. You never know when a stray shot ricochets off the berm and flies off to hit something dangerous.

A couple tables and a tent had been set up next to the shipping containers, as well as a whiteboard on an easel so Artyom could give his instructions clearly.

And now the dragon found himself standing with a pair of ear defenders on his head watching Nikola shoot a few rounds at the targets.

The Bulgarian raised his tan colored rifle and carefully took aim at the targets. Artyom eyed his technique critically, watching the gargoyle adjust his stance a few times before finally flipping off the safety and shooting twice at the silhouette painted on the plywood board.

A thin trail of smoke rose up from the muzzle of the weapon, accompanied by the telltale smell of burnt gunpowder in the air. Artyom didn’t miss the wince that marred Nikola’s features the moment he pulled the trigger; and neither did Sri beside him.

Nikola kept his gun pointed at the target for a few seconds before lowering it back in patrol-ready position, flicking the safety back on almost as an afterthought.

“Yeah sorry about that Artyom but that’s no shooting for me.” Niko said with a shake of his head.

“Not a problem, I kind of expected it.” He shrugged. “Think you can run overall safety while we do the instructor job?”

Niko nodded and went to set down his rifle on the table after taking care of removing its mag and the chambered round.

“How is the technique anyway? Don’t hold back, I’m not thin-skinned.” He asked.

“In all honesty?” Sri said, the hippogriff walking up to his colleague with a cigarette held in his beak. He had a raspy voice from all his smoking. “I can see where you get your ideas from but you’d be less rusty after spending fifteen years in seawater.”

“Contrarily to you both I wasn’t in a combat unit so at least I got that excuse as a defense. What did you see?”

The female hippogriff sat down on his haunches and scratched the side of his beak distractedly with a talon.

“Breath control is the biggest thing I can see. You stay too long in…” The Indonesian hesitated. “Damn, what’s the word again? Apnea I think? You stop breathing too long; that makes you start shaking instead of being more stable. Stance wise, I see you’re hesitating but I got no advice for you. Hooves feel different?”

“That they do.” Nikola said, removing his flak jacket. The jacket was only there to carry his mags since he had removed the Kevlar plates before coming. Not that they expected any attack inside the port terminal: the sailors manning the guard post made sure of that. “I can’t help but feel less stable. Where’s the coffee?”

“Inside the tent. Didn’t take milk though, Rahul wouldn’t let me.” Artyom said.

Niko walked in the tent and served himself a cup of black coffee before sitting down on a foldable chair.

“I was thinking maybe using my tail would make me more stable but…” He threw a glance at the appendage that snaked its way out of the back of his coveralls. “I really have a hard time controlling it. Not as bad as my wings, but it still feels… foreign I’d say.”

“Same goes for me. At least I manage not to get it stuck in doors but that’s about it.” Artyom said, sitting down in front of Nikola.

Sri quirked an eyebrow when both turned to stare at him expectantly.

“If you’re expecting a confession on that from me you’re gonna be disappointed.” He showed off his rump slightly. “That’s not exactly a tail, mind you. Only a crest of feathers attached to my ass. I guess I can move them and it’s probably meant for flying.” He said, moving the wings under his coveralls for emphasis. “But in either case I’m a quadruped, we don’t use the same firing position.”

“Figured one out, have you?” Artyom said.

“I think I do. Still no equivalent for firing on the move or standing, but I got a prone and a sitting position.”

“Close enough. Wanna try it now?”

“Would have done it whether you agreed or not.” Sri said, sliding a mag in his gun. “How long do we have?”

“A whole hour before the first training group arrives.” Nikola said after a quick check on his watch.

Sri went back to the firing line and sat down on his haunches. He pointed a talon at his ears to tell the other two to put on their ear defenders before pulling the cocking lever on his own rifle, a scoped SCAR like Artyom’s and Nikola’s.

Shouldering the rifle, the hippogriff leaned slightly forward, trying to balance out his positioning so he would be able to take the recoil. Behind him, his tail feathers swished in the sand, lifting up small amounts of it every time he shifted his position.

And then he flipped off the safety switch and released three shots in quick succession, all of which impacted the throat of one of the target silhouettes installed earlier by Artyom. His shoulders barely moved when he fired, the brunt of the recoil appearing to be taken by his back.

Sri frowned at the impact marks on the target, switching the cigarette in his beak from side to side. A click resounded as he put the safety back on before turning to the two sailors behind him.

“I think the zeroing on my scope needs some adjustments. Those shots were aimed at the head.” He said slowly.

“Nah it’s normal. You’re too close to the target for the range it’s set at. If you’re closer than the distance it’s zeroed at, you need to aim low, not high.” Artyom explained. “How does the technique feel?”

“Good enough to shoot above short cover.” Sri said nonchalantly. “Frankly if I need to hold the position then I’m better off going prone for the height I gain doing that. More stable too.” He then looked for a moment at his rifle. “If I’m entirely honest the sitting position doesn’t feel good for sustained fire, much less full-auto. At least that’s the way it feels for me, maybe one of the griffons could manage the increased recoil with their tail but a hippogriff would have to take it all with their back. Rifle only then, maybe a submachine gun in full auto but the MAG’s are a big no-no.”

“Good to know, you’ll be the one teaching them anyway. Want to get a few more shots off?”

“Thanks but no thanks. I’d rather rehearse the lesson plan you’ve got. We begin with a dry run, right?”

Artyom nodded, pulling out a small notebook out of his pocket. He had written down the entire process he had planned in it, complete with the previous results the sailors had obtained when they tested them on weapon manipulations. He tossed it to Sri who snatched it out of the air with ease.

“Groups are intended to be half quadruped, half biped so we can each focus on our own type. I divided them all in small groups we can manage with just two instructors, but I kept the more technical stuff for another day. Today’s just regular shooting with rifles, machineguns and the less-lethal weapons.”

Sri looked at the text written in the notebook, flipping idly through the thin pages.

“No contest on what you’ve written. However… I’ve never used the less-lethal launcher. FN 303, fancy modern tech that, no idea how it works.”

“Think paintball gun on steroids.” Nikola piped in. “Only word of advice: don’t try it on monsters.”

Sri and Artyom stared incredulously at the gargoyle.

“You actually went and shot one of the quarry eels with those?!”

“It was an accident.” Nikola admitted sheepishly. “I forgot I had a 303 instead of a regular pistol. It was a spur of the moment kind of thing, pull out what’s in the pistol holster and shoot.”

“And?”

“Well for one the eel sent me fucking flying.”

Right then Sri burst out laughing hysterically, his laugh coming out slightly wheezing from the smoking. His cigarette fell out of his beak and in the sand of the shooting range.

“Sorry Niko but I’m just picturing the eel giving you an annoyed glare then slapping you away with its tail.”

Nikola rolled his eyes.

“Bit less funny when you take into account said slap was strong enough to bruise my ribs. Anyway, FN 303, wanna try it?” He said, pulling out his from his holster.

Artyom diplomatically steered them away from talking about Nikola’s little failure by getting one of the carbine versions of the 303 and drawing their attention to the weapon. The gun launched small balls that disintegrated upon impacting their target to cause blunt trauma. A couple boxes of ammunition they had found for them also held some paint or tear gas in the balls for added effect, but the weapon was clearly made to disperse crowds and neutralize unarmored targets… which the quarry eels certainly hadn’t been.

The 303’s were very short ranged compared to a normal weapon, and the balls didn’t travel fast at all meaning they were pretty easy to dodge if you were paying attention. Nevertheless, as the target they had chosen showed, the weapons were rather accurate and easy to aim. They also noted that even the carbine version suffered from having a very small magazine, which posed a problem since the rounds were so easy to dodge.

Tempting as it was for Nikola, he managed not to shoot a ball of tear gas at Sri who was still snickering at the gargoyle’s story with the eels.

Soon after they trained with the 303’s, the first batch of trainees turned up and they had to bring their firing to a halt and address the sailors.

Vadim looked hesitantly at the list on his desk. It was now early in the evening and he had spent most of the day giving his first-aid lessons to various groups to the point he could almost hear himself droning about the correct procedure from how repetitive it had been. The only thing that had made the day bearable was the time he had spent on the shooting range. Not that he was particularly good at it (far from it actually, but if they ever had to broadside a barn he would be able to hit it… most of the time), but that had brightened up his day enough that he could push through the bore that basic first-aid was.

The list in front of him held a couple names, those belonging to the crewmembers that had volunteered to become his medical assistant. And now he had to pick one. And boy was he surprised when he got a look at the name on top of the list.

Boris had come as a surprise to the Officer. Vadim had always pictured the Russian in a somewhat unsavory fashion because really, there was no other way to say it: he was a complete and utter Gopnik. The Russian turned griffon had always been one of the least respectable members of the crew and Vadim often saw him as one of the reason Eastern Europeans had a bad reputation in some ports.

But the griffon must have had a change of heart at some point because he certainly didn’t behave the way he used to before the Event. And his results showed: the Russian had been extremely attentive during his lessons, and from what he had gathered the case was pretty much the same when it came to weapons training and helping around the ship. What pushed him to behave like that, he had no idea, but he wasn’t going to complain.

Vadim stared at the new photo of the Russian that was attached to his file, showing him a wide eyed goshawk front with piercing yellow eyes and a striped brown and grey pattern on his chest feathers, clashing with the dark brown feathers that covered his back and the outer side of his wings. Dilip had ordered shortly after the change that every photo in their files be updated, and since body differences were so high, he had added a complete body picture in addition to the facial one. As far as Boris was concerned, that only meant Vadim could see his feline half was that of a lion and that he was slightly shorter than him in opposition to how it had been before the change, back when the Russian used to be 1m93.

The next best sailor for the place was one of the Filipinos, a parrot apparently, but his results were nowhere near as good as those of Boris which meant Vadim didn’t really have any choice… But still, that was a hell of a surprise. Should he really give the place to a guy he had seen chug a bottle of vodka under a minute? The thought of him not really being any better didn’t cross the Ukrainian’s mind.

Vadim clicked his beak in thought. He needed someone’s opinion… someone he could trust with assessing Boris’ attitude. A light bulb practically lit up above his head.

Micha. The Pole’s name had crossed his thoughts by sheer coincidence but he had been in the afternoon shooting range group with Boris. Surely he would have a better idea about it than him. His mind made; the griffon tucked Boris’ file under a wing and left his cabin for the Officers’ lounge where Micha usually spent his free evenings; at least when Alejandro wasn’t hogging the room to watch his series.

There were only two people in the lounge when Vadim walked in. Geert and Micha were sitting at the table, playing checkers. Each of the players was sipping from his own cup of coffee, with the Pole's being decorated with the picture of a winged hussar. Both completely ignored the griffon, their mind set on beating their opponent at the game laid in front of them.

Geert was still injured from being bowled over by the wood hound earlier that week. His shoulder was free from the sling but that wasn’t the case for his hip, which was encased in a brace that kept it from moving until the articulation had recovered correctly. And that would take time if Vadim’s books had been correct: the red feathered Dutchman could look forward to hobbling around on crutches for about two months with the bracing on.

Silently, the Ukrainian slid behind the bar to grab himself a clean mug with the two other Officers still failing to notice him. A large thermos of coffee had been left by the bar, and Vadim was all too glad to tap into its reserve of precious mind fuel.

At the table, Geert was hunched over the board looking at the pieces with his injured leg splayed out to the side. The parrot brushed his large ears distractedly with a talon while he thought about his next move. And then the pieces clicked together and he stared at Micha with a gleam in his eyes.

“You’re done with that one.” He said as he grabbed one of his pieces and eliminated three of Micha’s in a row.

“I beg to differ.” Micha fired back, clicking his tongue in amusement before starting a move that cleaned the board of all but one of Geert’s pieces. Adding insult to injury, the move was only made possible by Geert’s previous capture of Micha’s pieces.

“Bull-fucking-shit!” The parrot cried out, slamming his fist on the table. “No way you could have prepared that!”

“Eh, you’re not wrong.” Micha shrugged. “I’m not that good at board games. That was pure luck.” He admitted. “Wanna finish the game?”

“No point really. I’m not coming back from that one.” Geert pushed the board away in distaste. “Damn lucker…”

“At least you got some success with checkers. Shame that doesn’t carry over to cards ‘cause God knows you’re hopeless at poker.” Vadim piped in.

Both Micha and Geert jumped in surprise, not having noticed the griffon who was sipping his coffee from behind the bar.

“Son of a bitch Vadim, we need to put a bell on ya or something.” Micha said. “How long have you been there?”

“Dunno, ‘bout two minutes or three.” Vadim said, joining them at the table. “How was your day both?”

Geert started off as he was putting the board back in its box.

“Fine I guess? I spent most of the day giving Bart a crash course on English. Good thing Dutch and English are so similar in grammar; give me a week or two and I should be able to get him to get his point across. Besides that, I tried to join in on the shooting but Artyom wouldn’t even let me shoot prone.” The parrot complained. “Didn’t miss seeing Micha nail the targets like a pro tho’, you should have seen that.”

Vadim turned a questioning glance towards the Pole.

“I guess you could say that.” Micha admitted. “Back home I used to go hunting with my gramps before he passed away. I tried some sport shooting after that for a bit but I just didn’t have time with all the sailing around.” He shrugged. “I hadn’t shot in years; guess marksmanship is like biking, you can’t forget it.” He shook his head. “Anyway, you look like you wanted to ask me something?”

The grey-falcon griffon nodded.

“Correct.” He reached under his wing with a claw and pulled out Boris’ file which he had been keeping underneath his long primary feathers. “I need your opinion on Boris.” He said, dropping the file in front of the other, bald eagle headed griffon.

“The resident Gopnik? What’s with him? Overdosed on sunflower seeds?” Geert said.

“Wouldn’t be surprised if he did, but that’s not the matter at hand… err, claw that is.” He said, eyeing his taloned appendage quizzically. “After he went through my first-aid training session, he came to present me his candidature as my medical assistant.”

“You’re fucking with me.” Micha stated, looking at Vadim with wide eyes. The Ukrainian noted in passing how the green highlighted feathers around the Pole’s eyes seemed to make his irises stand out… He shook his head. How odd.

“I wish I was, but it’s all there in the file.” He said, tapping the papers with his talons.

Micha opened the file, Geert scooting over to take a look at the papers. Inside the plastic folder were every document they had to track the Russian griffon’s data, from medical reports to performance overviews as well as his CV and a couple photos. At the top of the pile were a copy of his candidature letter (written in Russian, meaning only Vadim was able to read it of all three around the table), as well as his results from the training sessions they had done since the Event.

“He got a 100% on all tests? God damn, I thought he was just a fucking idiot.” Geert commented.

“Looks like he just didn’t put his back into it before. The Apocalypse does wonders to motivation if his results are anything to go by. What were you wondering about anyway?” Micha asked.

“I just had my doubts about giving him the position is all. The guy is alright it’s just that… There is a difference between regular deck work and advanced medical care. And that’s the same guy I went on a bar crawl with in Hamburg.” Vadim explained. “I do have more than one candidate but the performance difference between Boris and the next best guy is like night and day.”

“If I may sneak in my own grain of salt, as long as his results put him ahead of the competition like that you don’t have an actual reason to refuse his candidature. For all I know he’d be justified to take it to the Captain if you say no, and I’m 100% certain Artyom would back him up.” Geert said.

“Because he’s Russian?” Micha asked.

“Because he’s Union, and Artyom’s both the boatswain and the Union rep.” Geert pointed out.

Micha shrugged.

“Fair enough. But I may have an idea that could ‘soothe your calms’ about the guy, Vadim.” The Pole said.

“Shoot, it’s not like I have any idea how to go about it.”

Micha fished out a folded piece of paper from one of his pockets and laid it out on the table. On it was a large scale map of downtown Antwerp with some highlighted destinations.

“We’re hitting a couple targets tomorrow for salvage.” He began. “Artyom’s going North around the canals to get the fleet of Defenders we decided to add to our vehicle list.” He said, tapping a talon on one part of the map that was covered in canals and bridges. “Me, I’m going south of the Central Station. There are a couple shops I need to visit, most important of all being a gunsmith. Nothing too big on my end, so I just planned for a single Unimog with a three man team. So… just come along with Boris and grill him while I do my shopping spree.” Micha offered. “You don’t have too much work tomorrow, do you?”

Vadim thought about it for a bit. He had to remove Farkas’ stitches in the infirmary, and Bart was just about ready to be discharged (or at least transferred to a proper cabin), then he had one more group to give a first-aid lesson to; but that should only really keep him busy until noon.

“What about leaving at one o’clock?” He proposed.

“Will do. You tell Boris?” Micha said, finishing his mug of coffee.

“No problem with that.” Vadim said.

The Ukrainian got up from the table and stretched out his wings. He was finding himself opening the zippers on his coveralls increasingly more often to let the appendages move freely, and they were not quite as annoying as they were in the beginning now that he was starting to get a measure of how to control them. He had gotten the open/close part down and had just figured out how to use them to hold onto something if he tucked it under the primaries, which he did with Boris’ files.

Those wings were still sensitive as all hell but he could manage.

“Might have to preen your wings a bit Vadim, you’re starting to look shaggy.” Geert commented offhandedly.

“One day when I figure it out maybe.” The griffon said. “I’m not quite as worried about the state of my feathers as you parrots seem to be.” He added before walking out. “Good night.”

Geert turned to Micha, the parrot brushing his talons through his multicolored crest of feathers.

“I’m not fussy about my feathers, am I?”

“You kind of are. As a matter of fact he’s right about you and the rest of the parrots being… err, let’s say you’re all very mindful of your appearance.” Micha said diplomatically.

Geert frowned.

“You did spend most of our game session brushing your tail feathers with a claw. Don’t lie, I saw you.” Micha pointed out.

“Bu-“

“And Alejandro has been styling his crest as well. He’s never done that with his hair before. Admit it; you guys have developed a narcissistic streak.”

The Dutchman crossed his arms with a scowl. His sleeves had been folded up to the elbow to show off the multicolored feathers typical of a scarlet macaw.

“So what if we are?”

“Nothing really.” Micha clicked his beak. “Just making you aware your transformation may have brought on some mental changes.”

The Fourth Officer stared at Micha for a moment before letting out an annoyed trill and grabbing his crutches. He hobbled towards the door and addressed the female griffon one last time before leaving.

“Makes me wonder. If us parrots were affected mentally by the change, what’s there to say ‘bout you griffons, uh? G’night.”

To that question, Micha didn’t really have an answer.

“Ok, run that by me again, from the start this time.” Roberto said from his chair.

Still late in the evening, three men were gathered around the desk inside the secretary’s office. The place wasn’t as richly decorated as the Captain’s, and was nowhere near as roomy. Though it was by no means small, the sheer amount of filing cabinets and shelves made the room seem a lot smaller than it actually was.

The filing cabinets and impressive amount of paperwork shared their space with shelving units filled with communication equipment: battery chargers for the radios, small laptops, folding antennas and other satellite phones Roberto had pulled out of a container and prepared for any group sent away on salvaging duties. Next to them were some general electronics and coiled connecting cables, all neatly sorted by Roberto.

The desk that took central place in the room was rather simple in design, provided you didn’t pay attention to the numerous screens and electronics it had been fitted with. One electrician’s toolbox was laid against it; Roberto used it when work needed to be done on the ship’s server banks.

The Italian had been surprisingly moderate when it came to decorating his workplace: only two things really marked the place as his territory, those being a framed photo of a younger human Roberto next to a racing pilot, and one football scarf from the Juventus.

At the moment, Roberto was sitting in his chair with his crutches in his lap facing the Captain and the Chief Officer, both sat by the desk in front of the cat. He still had bandages around his head for his wounded ear, as well as a splint on both his ankle and his tail, but he was getting better.

“So we got the contract from the HPI this morning.” Dilip said.

“Which you loaded up on the server for storage, and which is the exact same that’s now lying on my desk.” Roberto said, tapping an unsheathed claw on a stack of papers for emphasis.

“And then I contacted agent Eko for clarifications regarding a certain paragraph in the contract.”

“Yeah, that’s what I’m getting stuck on.” The cat said, ear twitching. “What were you getting at by ‘secondary objectives’? It’s like you’re implying we had primary objectives to begin with.”

“The primary objectives are just missions they send us a direct request for. Like the delivery for the prototypes.” Alejandro explained. “The secondary objectives are a list of specific things they want us to retrieve for which they’re willing to pay us a bonus. Which is where you come into play.” The parrot added, grabbing the papers and pulling out a specific page.

On it was a list of seemingly very different objects. Works of art, data banks, archives, scan results, even raw materials. Roberto quickly perused the list, noting that each of the listed items was paired with a number. Dilip leaned over and pointed a paw at the list.

“Those are items the HPI said they were interested in retrieving. The figures you see next to the items in the list are the value they place on them, which is paired with a… catalog of sorts, in the annexes of the contract. Long story short, we get credits with them for any item on the list we bring; which we can exchange for parts and manufactured goods. Some, like works of art and data banks have great value; others like raw materials less so-with the exception of radioactive materials but I have no intention to ever bringing them that, too risky-.” Dilip said.

“You don’t trust them with nukes?” Roberto quirked an eyebrow.

“That’s not it at all.” The Captain shook his head. “It’s just radioactive materials that are risky to carry around. It was hard to manage before the Event, so I’m not gonna have us try it with the added risks now.”

“Sounds good to me. But how does that contract concern me?”

“We need you to do some bit of research in our database. See if you can locate places we can hit for those objectives, and put up a note for what you find on the duty list.” Alejandro said and then looked at the toolbox by the desk. “And maybe if you could make a program to manage those HPI credits, maybe even one that would give an estimation of how much we can make from the various places we hit…” He twirled a talon distractedly. “Just something to manage it digitally.”

“Scusa capo, but I’m only good with hardware. If you want someone to take care of it, then ask either Micha or Aleksei; that should get you better results.” The cat apologized. “I can go look for points of interest-which might take some time-, but the program is a no-can-do.” He said, paws raised in an apologetic manner.

Dilip shook his head and stood up, soon followed by Alejandro.

“It’s no big deal. They’re both already busy with some tasks they were given but surely that program can wait. Think you can manage via paper and spreadsheets in the meantime?” He said.

“Such is my trade Captain; you can rely on it being done. I will have the contract archived and the annexes distributed to the rest of the crew by tomorrow. I don’t know how long it will take to find those points of interest but I should have at least some for Antwerp on a short notice.” The cat rubbed his shin in thought. “May I make a request?”

“By all means…” Dilip said.

“I’m not sure we have that much data available on museums and all that jazz. Most of our database is about port facilities, understandably. So if one of the teams could find some…” He hesitated. “What’s the word for a book with travel destinations in it? The ones you take so you know where to go on a city trip?”

“A travel guide?” Alejandro offered.

“That’s the one!” The black furred cat said, with a snap of his fingers. “That should give us some insight on where to find museums at least.”

“I will put up a note for some then.” The blue parrot said with a shrug.

“Have a good night Roberto.” Dilip said with a short nod before walking out with Alejandro in tow.

Roberto took one more look at the lists in the contract. Apparently, even the Apocalypse wasn’t enough to bring down capitalism and free trade.

Good to know.

Hundreds of kilometers away from Antwerp and Amandine, there was a large building situated on the outskirts of a town. Most of the suburban buildings in the area were short, rarely reaching higher than two stories, and colorful. A lot of vegetation had been planted to decorate the area, with numerous trees breaking up the landscape as well as flower beds by the side of the roads. There was a park close by, with a decently sized pond. That town was modern, and rather well off from what the decorations could tell.

The building, a large stone structure built in the early eighties, had several antennas poking out of its roof. It was surrounded by about half a dozen small wind turbines, placed there to provide it with backup power in case of emergency. It was built with an entirely practical approach, unlike the better looking houses in its vicinity, and that made it a rather foreboding object to look at. This wasn’t helped by the fact the grounds of the building were hidden from sight by a thick hedge and some tall wire fences ensuring it couldn’t be spied on from the road.

Few cars were present on the parking in front of the building. There hadn’t been many people present at the moment of the Event, save for those working on the night shift.

In the dim lighting of the late evening, a white worn-out Toyota suddenly appeared out of thin air in the middle of the parking. Its sole occupant was a small equine with a dark purple coat of fur and a pair of bat-like wings. The little creature was tangled in some oversized clothes and looked utterly confused, staring for a solid three minutes at its hooves through a pair of yellow slitted eyes before finally uttering some words in a high pitched voice.

“Hvad fanden?”

Author's Notes:

Bit of an hint at the end for you to guess where the story is headed for the next arc.

The story is in a trough, so to speak. Things won't pick up for a while which means the next chapters will be low intensity with more character interactions.

Here's a sat picture of the area they're in.