Cloudless, the sky spoke of none of the sorrow the day was portended to carry. A funeral, of all things, on a bright spring day—it hardly seemed fitting. Not that funerals seemed fitting much at all. They were an alien and strange thing, that people would mourn for others who died. How many children were left unmourned in the markets? Would anyone have mourned him? Was it because they had parents? Friends? Family? Did those things somehow make their lives worth more, or less?

The sky held none of the answers, blue and pure as it was—instead it left him alone with his thoughts, filtered by the tint of Oguma's car. Much the same, the older buck had said almost nothing. There was nothing to say, Louis supposed. Funerals happened all the time, they were as much a part of life as anything else. All the same, some part of him resented it, they would have the opportunity to grieve—they had the opportunity to hurt.

He would never share that—could never share that. Oguma did not grieve when he attended these functions—so how could Louis? If he was the old buck's son, who was he to cry? In a way it was perfect. No one would ask why he did not cry, or look upset, and the play his father and he performed would remain intact. Louis was his son, stoic and determined—even in the face of death. A few polite pleasantries would be all it would take, and then they would be one their way.

The vehicle slowed, and Louis once more propped himself from the windowsill. It was time to play the part. Creeping about the corners, Oguma parked the car, sparing only a single glance backwards to greet Louis' gaze. Returning it, Louis said nothing—there was nothing worth saying. Yet still, there was something there, something in his father's eyes; something unsaid that the older buck decided against. A word of caution, for propriety, perhaps? He needn't worry about that. Louis was confident in his ability to fake sincerity. It was hardly difficult at this point.

They stepped from the vehicle, one after another, and Louis strode in his father's shadow—if nothing else there was a comfort in it; maybe if he made a scene his father would buy him another new bike? Did he need another one?

There weren't as many people as he had expected. Funerals were, in Louis handful of experiences, crowded—filled with people and bursting at the seams. If front of them a pair of his father's bodyguards strode, and behind them, a pair more followed. They had arrived first, which was precisely why they existed. It felt excessive in a way—there was no body to put in the ground, the woman had been cremated. There would be no hungry predator to pluck the corpse away, or something similar. Maybe they were worried, rather, that some twisted hunter would attempt to nab his father in a moment of vulnerability.

Louis scoffed at the thought, nearly striding into the back of the elder buck. Oguma carried a taser precisely for that reason. Even if someone managed to slip past the firearm carrying bucks that flanked them forward and back, the elder buck would never be caught so unawares. Some part of Louis longed to see that—a foolish predator screaming and thrashing on the ground until its senses failed and it slipped into the sweet dreamless void. They deserved it, all of them. They had, after all, taken how many lives?

Hardly a half dozen people lingered, all of them odd—or at least none of them who Louis had expected per se. Had they missed the ceremony or had it yet to begin? This could not, really, be the whole of who was expected to gather, was it? A strange reptile, a handful of what—based on their appearances—appeared to be classmates, or perhaps coworkers? The former if only because the Horns Conglomerate did not hire predators; the later if only because their condolences seemed half empty as if they had come more due to their obligation than any sincere empathy or loss. It was pathetic. Perhaps more pathetic than not having a funeral at all.

Louis turned, stepping from his father's shadow—at the very least, there was no reason for him to sit in the presence of predators; what had brought them? Had they wondered what she tasted like? His lips quirked, she had passed one over upon them then, having been cremated instead. That had been the right decision, one that he would have them do some day as well—to ensure none of them ever had the answer to that question. Perhaps Oguma would do the same? Maybe it would be something they could discuss at their monthly dinner? Something of the sort.

A single minder followed him, and Louis hardly paid the guard any attention. They had long since blended into the scenery for him—becoming almost more like furniture, or fixtures, than people. It was easier to ignore them than try to escape them; and the eyes of other bucks did him no harm, so long as they stayed too far out of his way, of course.

The grass was warm, bright, and long—a soft sort of downy comfort that mocked the memory gray concrete and red-stained stone. Manicured perfectly, it was itself a work of art—trimmed and edged in a way that gave it a wave, not unlike the ocean. A brilliant and living contrast to the cold darkness the place served. A fine window dressing about the outside of the small building that served the funeral.

At the edges of the property, trees sprung, and beyond them, hedges—somewhere between them a tall fence of wrought iron demarked the grounds. At guess, Louis might have suspected a deer owned the property, immaculately kept as it was. It was too large for smaller herbivores, and no carnivore would keep such a place—perhaps something more foreign, a gazelle maybe. He could not imagine a sheep laboring under the sun to maintain it, wrapped in their wool as they were—and the same applied to many other herbivores that might sell cloth along to the highest bidder. Cattle, perhaps might—a large bull would be able to fend away any grave robbers that attended the funeral. Though whatever the truth Louis could not see such a person.

In a way that made sense. Being out of sight oft meant being out of mind—if the caretaker was somewhere tucked quietly away they would not have to deal with the weeping and emotions that so often decorated ceremonies like this. In fact, it was such a noise that stole the buck's attention. A soft, quiet thing, curled up against the building. The source's head, tucked between its knees, sobbed and cried—a pain far too familiar for Louis' taste. Was this part of her family then?

Did he care? In truth, Louis supposed he did—even if he did not want to care. Who was he to offer condolences to someone else? Shouldn't the other boy be happy he even had a mother? Still, the impulse led him, and the buck strode closer, "Was she your mother?" the words left his mouth with a snap Louis had not intended.

The boy seemed to take no offense, or perhaps ever offense, as he slunk tighter, balling up about himself, "Ya," the tears stopped—that was something.

What was he supposed to say again? There was a different tone to it—an apologetic one, "I'm sorry for your loss," not quite stilted, not quite natural—he had flubbed it, and the buck smothered his frustration with himself.

"I'm sorry," the boy apologized, and Louis twitched. Why was he apologizing?

"What?" again, the words had beat his tact on the race to his mouth.

The strange balled up boy repeated it again, "I'm sorry," the words, laconic, pitched fire in Louis' chest—why this boy apologizing to him, of all things!

What was he? He was about Louis' size, but dark in coat and thick in fur—balled up as he was, and dressed in his Sunday best, Louis could hardly be certain, "Your mother died," the buck tried again, forcing some semblance of tact, "I'm the one expressing sympathies."

"I know. But if I say sorry then maybe no one else will feel bad," the words, muffled and muttered, burned Louis.

"What sort of mentality is that!" again, Louis snapped, "Are you going to apologize to every carnivore who tries to eat you?"

There was a moment, a pause—long and pregnant as the curled up child considered the words, "I guess not."

A knowing smile bloomed across the buck's face, "Exactly. So don't apologize to me—I'm sorry for your loss," this time Louis repeated it, and to his own surprise, it sounded sincere. Perhaps it even was.

"It's just grandpa and I now," the words muttered from the boy's mouth hardly reached Louis, even as the buck sat beside him.

Had they lost so many, by hook or by crook? It was hard to imagine that—so much tragedy. Families were usually large. Oguma was an exception, not the rule. Disaster always happened, but, for a family to be nothing more than a grandfather and a little boy—Louis trembled. "I only have my father," was that a stretch? Was that the right thing to say?

A little louder, the curled up boy's words were clearer now, "I never knew mine." That made a different kind of sense—and perhaps it was the reason there were so few people here? Perhaps his mother had made decisions the rest of her family had not approved of? That was not especially uncommon. People did dangerous and stupid things for love—that was what his tutors had said.

"I never knew mine either—I," was this the sort of thing that was even appropriate? What if someone else found out? No, it would be better to hide it—a little white lie. No one would need to know any better, "My mother, that is," Louis smoothed effortlessly. "We're not so different. I'm Louis."

From his knees, the boy withdrew his head, for a long moment Louis stared. No, not a buck, not a bull—not a ram, or anything of the sort. Sharp tipped triangles adorned the tips of his ears, and a brush of bristles sprouted above his bottom. A long muzzle and glittering fangs, pristine white. He smiled, his tail bouncing up and down.

"I'm Legoshi." A name—it had a name—it was smiling. Its teeth were there. And as quickly as they were, the boy noticed his horror, and hid his face between his legs once more, "I'm sorry. I didn't mean to—frighten you," the words fitful and meek filled the buck with confusion and more than confusion hot white anger. Who was this—this wolf! He had almost told him—Louis crushed the thought, throwing it into the furnace of his fury.

"You didn't frighten me!" the words snapped once more, angrily, and the boy wilted, clutching himself tighter, "You lied to me!"

"I didn't lie!" the boy whined, shaking now, "You—you never asked."

To his feet, Louis sprung, his face contorted tightly. Whether he had lied or simply deceived him, the result was the same! He had done it knowingly! To gain his trust! He was a predator! A carnivore! Even if the rest of the world forgot that Louis never would. Never could. Not after what he had seen—what they had done.

Then why did the pup tremble and shake? Why did he look like the other children in the cages? Why did he look as small as scared as they had? Why was he now the source of what terrified and hurt this other boy? On heel, Louis turned and ran. Where? It didn't matter. Soon enough Oguma's guards would be there, and then the wolf would be dead—with his mother. All that needed was him to chase Louis.

Five feet, and then ten, twenty and thirty—there was nothing chasing him. The wolf had not pulled himself off the ground. No, only his tears reached Louis now. A sense of guilt mingled among the confusion. This wasn't what he was supposed to do. This wasn't the way things like this were supposed to be. What was different? Why hadn't the wolf chased him?

Could it be, perhaps, that some things were so universal to beasts that they transcended something as wide and awful as carnivores and predators? Or was that just delusion, a thought, or some distant hope—something ridiculous that had no place in the world? Thirty feet away, Louis stood and stared, wondering if perhaps he was the boy's monster now.

Patiently, quietly, Louis strode back, even as Oguma's guard sprinted towards him. The guard-buck stopped, some dozen feet away as Louis gestured the man away. Mercilessly, Louis fired upon the pup—as much accusation as question: "What's wrong with you?"

"I don't know," the pup whimpered, drawing his face up once more—any trace of joy driven into some somber and terrible pit to die alone in the dark. Louis' chest ached—he had done that to this boy.

"Legoshi?" around the far corner of the building, well-away from Louis or his minder, a scaled creature poked his head, "Do you need a hug?"

A hug? Louis' mind chased the scene until, at last, it clicked, "You're his grandfather."

In reply, a toothless smile widened, "You're very smart," there was not a hint of condescension in the reptile's voice. How had that of all things happened? A lizard and a wolf? That seemed insane and impossible—but here they were. Unless he too had adopted Legoshi's mother? Yes, there was more sense in that, surely. "Legoshi, would you like a hug?"

The boy squirmed—his eyes full of tears—the little wolf nodded. About the corner, the lizard stalked, reaching down to swaddle the boy in his arms. A pang of something strange lingered in Louis chest—a hint of something he could not yet name. Jealousy, yes—it was close to that, but different all the same; something he wanted to have, but did not.

Quietly, Louis turned, pacing his way back once more about the opposite side of the building. This was all too much. It was too strange, too alien—there were too many questions. The Horn's Conglomerate did not hire carnivores. So why then had they come to this place—had she not worked for his father? Was—was Legoshi a half-breed of some sort? He would wait for Oguma in the car, it was safer that way.

They had departed only forty minutes after they had arrived. Pleasantries, condolences, it seemed a short send off to a life that surely had mattered to someone. Yet, it was when his father returned to the car that Louis found the most pointed and frustrated of questions, "The Horns Conglomerate does not hire carnivores." His father had said it a dozen times, a recalcitrant denial of any threat to his employees—a space dedicated to the safety and security of his workers.

The recitation earned only an adjustment of the rear-view mirror, Oguma's eyes reflected there towards Louis' own, "We, in fact, do not." The statement, so matter of fact could only be a lie.

That settled it then, didn't it? "Then she wasn't a wolf?"

"There times when our subsidiaries hire outsider contractors to expand our reach into exclusive markets that would be, otherwise, difficult for our holdings to extend," that was business speak for 'we lie'. Louis snorted, folding his arms as the car lazily pulled away from its place.

Sneering, the younger buck added the unspoken, "It's just business."

"Sometimes. Other times it is about connections," from reverse to drive, the car shifted, and once more Oguma adjusted his mirrors, letting their escorts drift in front and behind them once more.

"Connections?" Louis' lips tightened. That, of all things, was what this was about. Were they some sort of well-known family then? Had they come because of that? That was pathetic, wasn't it?

"You didn't like Gosha's grandson?" Gosha—that was the old reptile's name? Then maybe it was about him more than his daughter; an old reptile could have countless business contacts—they could live for such a long time.

"He's a wolf," did more need to be said? Even if he was a boy—even if he hurt—even if he was lonely, being a carnivore mattered more.

Didn't it?

Yes. Absolutely. Of course, it did. How could it not? Just because he lost someone he loved? Just because no one had come to mourn her? Because he was alone.

Why did being alone keep repeating? What did that matter? They were all alone. Weren't they? Except Legoshi had not been when the old lizard had held him. He seemed happy, and warm—content and safe; all things that Louis found himself confused by more and more. Could all those things come from something so childishly simple?

Oguma said nothing, and for once Louis found it painful. Why did his father say nothing? Had his father seen the reptile lift his grandson—real or imagined—and cradle him close. Did Oguma realize how much he wanted such a thing, if only once? And did he realize how much Louis hated himself for that desire? To be held. Who needed to be held?

Or what if everyone did?

Perhaps Oguma was not affectionate because he was not affectionate to the old buck? Being touched—it only meant one thing in the markets. Prey. The only others who could touch one another were those children doomed to the same fate—nameless and unloved. Was that why the idea of being embraced by the wolf seemed appealing? It must have been, didn't it? Legoshi was broken—and he hurt. Louis hurt too. Maybe he could pretend the other boy was like those children in the market, the ones he could not save.

Was that stupid? Or suicidal? But then, he had been suicidal before. Oguma had dragged him out of that room, the very room he had thrust him into. "How did she die?" Louis hadn't expected to ask the question, but it had come all the same.

Oguma answered, impassive, and still as they navigated the road, "She took her own life."

"She was lonely," it was reflex, as much as anything else—but the elder buck turned his head from the road to spare a backwards glance to Louis all the same, "People take their lives because they're scared, and lonely."

Back to the road, Oguma's eyes turned, and Louis swallowed—warring with the thought. If his father thought they were worth knowing—perhaps they were? Could he bring himself to do it? Could he even try? Or would the fright of it kill him?

Gripping the door with all his might, Louis pinned his eyes shut—it was a stupid thing, "I'd like to see him again, Oguma," not a shout, hardly even a bold declaration, the words still felt like lead on his lips.

A moment of quiet passed between them, a hundred calculations and decisions that Louis oft imagined defined his father's mind more than thoughts alone—"Next Sunday."

Against the plush fabric of the vehicle, Louis sank, his heart in his chest—what had he done? What if the boy attacked him? What if he tried to eat Louis? What if—what if none that happened? What if he was just like Louis was? What did that mean?

Clenching his eyes shut, the buck refused the tears—they had no purpose here. They didn't matter. This, whatever this was—maybe it was just business. Yet he never hoped to dream it could be more.