Juvenalas Penitatas
Chapter 27 – The Crossroads of Fate

Mister Titus locked his fingers locked a vice-like grip onto his arm rests and pressed his skull ever more firmly against his head rest as the shuttle banked upward. Artificial gravity and inertial dampeners meant that the manoeuvre sent only the faintest of trembles through the craft, but looking out of the front viewport there were clouds soaring by at a fifty-five degree angle. The pale Roferian set his jaw in a resentful scowl, and tried to ignore the amusement of his colleague; Hal Hachi might not have been in his line of sight, but the mind was almost blinding in its lack of restraint. “I would appreciate it if you kept this to yourself,” the Roferian hissed through grit teeth.
“I am sorry.” Mr Hachi said, though his soft chuckle and ongoing amusement suggested the opposite. “It's just I've never met anyone so terrified of flight before. It's charming, in a way.”
Mister Titus tore his gaze away from the front window and focused on the ageing Karrian. “It would likely not be so bad if I could fly myself. I have never enjoyed being helpless, and soaring through the sky by the grace of ill-understood technology, in defiance of physics, makes me feel entirely impotent.”
“The technology of flight is far from ill-understood!”
“Well I certainly don't understand it!” Mister Titus barked. His colleague's ongoing amusement was like barbed wire dragged across his brain.
Though his inner feelings did not change, Hal raised his claws in surrender. “Is there anything I can do to make you more comfortable?”
“Just make sure our room has no external windows.”
Once aboard ship and Earth-bound, Mister Titus found the passage far more to his liking. Their vessel moved at a leisurely pace, taking just over a week to arrive in the Sol system. This gave the pair, along with the other members of the Halkat delegation, ample time to prepare for the conference on judicial and correctional measures. While Halkat was no member of the Federation, it retained close enough ties and certain similarities in methods that their presence was accepted by most.

Earth, as a birth world of a sapient species, was replete with history. The world that spread out beneath the shuttle, nothing of which Mister Titus dared look at, was a chronicle of history in and of itself. The sheer weight of tradition demanded transit lines and flight paths follow the routes established in ancient days; the shuttles banked into airspace corridors once occupied by crude kerosene-powered aircraft, then hove lower to follow traffic lanes that were dug into the ground by metal-rimmed wheels and the iron-shod hooves of horses. The seemingly untouched nature these shuttles coursed over was itself entirely artificial; the rolling green hills had their shapes and boundaries dictated by agrarian societies long since defunct, the pleasant woodlands traced their roots to game-hunting grounds or conservation efforts to resist the sprawl of industrial lands now terraformed away. Where idyllic herds of cattle now grazed in quiet, bovine contemplation, blackpowder cannons roared to decide the fates of empires.
“You should have been a history teacher,” Mister Titus grumbled in response to the child-like excitement of his older companion, who drank it all in with glee.
The city ahead was Paris, as wonderfully anachronistic as an Earth city could ever be. Entire libraries were dedicated to its histories; older than the national province it now governed, it was a prime example of the raw defiance with which humanity had refused to surrender its past in the face of progress. While there were modern structures aplenty, they shared the Parisian skyline with architecture built long before humans achieved powered flight, let alone space travel. Its walkways had become a byword for romance, is restaurants were said by many to produce humanity's finest cuisine. What a city, Hal thought, to house a conference dedicated to bringing tears to the face of the galaxy's naughtiest children.
Getting into Paris itself was a simple matter: the shuttle landed at a port on the edge of the city proper, and a quick trip through customs later they were aboard a rented car, the autopilot steering them along the traditional roadways at a safe distance above head height. Their destination was in one of the more modern plazas. In an act of brazen cultural defiance, Paris eschewed the widespread use of Panglish as much as possible, suffering it only as a secondary translation, placed always in a subordinate position to French – the one true language of culture and civilised discourse. “If you are not going to speak French, why bother speak at all?” was a quote oft-attributed to these people, and it amused both Hal and Mister Titus greatly; they saw many similarities of Halkat's culture in that superior attitude.
Since his feet returned to solid ground, Mister Titus' mood had improved immensely. Conference staff guided attendees through reception to provide badges and orientation materials, with different members of the Halkat delegation breaking off to either mingle in the main hall or prep for one of their own hosted events. While the discussions and debates were still a while away, entrepreneurial souls were already hard at work pushing everything from the latest in disciplinary hardware to memorabilia, and of course the ever-present food, drink, and snack vendors. Even post-scarcity societies couldn't escape the hustle. Hal and Mister Titus ordered drinks from a pop-up stall, receiving a small cup of excellent coffee and a free lecture on how they'd never find a real cup of coffee outside of Paris, so they should enjoy it while they can.
“Should we help set up the demonstration booth?” Hal asked as he people-watched the various groups filtering into the hall.
“The locals will be providing everything we need bar the implements, and it doesn't take that many people to carry a suitcase.” Mister Titus permitted himself a smirk as he imagined how wonderfully terrified the poor Earth penny would be at the sight of the Mother's Claw!
After the introductory announcements and a series of overly dry discussion panels, the two teachers availed themselves of local foods and meandered towards Display Area Three, where Mister Titus would be instructing those unfamiliar with his ways of punishment. A member of security greeted them at the edge of the stage, inspected their badges, and waved them past a red rope to the rear waiting area. Mister Titus smiled as his empathic sense picked up a spiked aura of young anxiety ahead, though the 'flavour' of the emotion had him intrigued; the mind felt Roferian to the touch! Sure enough, as he rounded a corner he saw a familiar, grey-furred, draconic youth of roughly five or six years of age. “Richer Saccard,” Titus purred in his finest of predatory tones.
Young Richter glanced up in surprise. The boy made a swift show of fixing his stance and posture – no doubt something he'd been drilled and scolded over before arrival – and met the approaching figures with a smart nod and a subtle glance at their name badges. “Mister Titus. Mr Hachi. Welcome to Earth.”
Ever the warm, grandfatherly soul, Hal stepped forward with a grin upon his greying features. “So, you are the unlucky soul who'll be helping us with our display?”
“I volunteered for it, sir.” Titus knew the boy regretted that, though there was an admirable sense of conviction present in his emotional landscape. “I am also assisting with a panel later, where the merits of community outreach programs will be discussed.”
“There are few better placed to speak on community outreach than you, Master Richter.” Titus felt the confusion in Richter's mind. All Roferians were empathic, able to sense the minds of other living things to some degree or another. As with any talent, there were those more gifted than others, and Mister Titus was exceptionally gifted in the mental arts; especially when it came to shielding his feelings from others. When on guard, other empaths had described his mind was a wall of solid rage. He suspected that was the source of young Richter's doubts, unable to tell sincerity from sarcasm without a sense of the emotions behind the words. Mister Titus let the boy dangle, just for the fun of it.
“It will be alright, Richter,” the woman next to him said in a practised, motherly tone. “There's going to be an audience, but they are all parents, teachers, and other officials involved in the justice system. You're not being watched and judged by your peers or by outsiders; everyone here is a professional who need to see a tool in use to determine its worth. Don't fuss more than you need to, but don't try to be stoic either; let your reactions come naturally.”
“Tch!” the little verbal tick was almost an onomatopoeia for the mental spark that fired in the boy's brain. He raised a loosely opened claw and waved away the instructions. “I have more than enough experience of being spanked to know how to behave, Eliz- mum!”
Mr Hachi didn't need a Roferian's gift at emotional reading to sense the boy's alarm at his slip. “I don't think there's any harm on being on a first name basis. We are 'colleagues' of a sort today, are we not?”
Mister Titus chose to display more teeth than usual, though to call it a smile was stretching the definition of the word to breaking point. “I prefer to keep a certain 'formal distance' between myself and penitatas, no matter whose jurisdiction they fall under. Though if you wish to do otherwise, Hal, that is entirely your choice.”
Richter merely nodded in acceptance of the terms. “As you wish, Mister Titus. Hal.”
The bone-white teacher's snarl settled back into a more neutral position. “If you have no objections, I'd like to take Richter to prepare. Things will go more smoothly if he's given proper awareness of what will come.”
“Of course. We'll be right here waiting for you,” Harvey promised his son, waving him off as the two Roferians walked together up the short steps and into a little nook at the side of the stage. A padded bench had been placed in the middle with an open case next to it. Richter leaned sideways to try and peer out at the forming crowd. What snapped him back into place was not a word, but a sudden change in the mind of the man next to him – the dull, broiling anger of Mister Titus vanished, replaced by an aura of quiet amusement.
At a low tone, barely audible over the background roar of the convention, Mister Titus said, “I'm rather touched you remembered my name.”
“You are a memorable individual, Mister Titus.” It was like talking to an entirely different person: the flicker of pleasure at the complement was akin to a mental purring. Yet as quickly, Richter found himself feeling a different, more nuanced from of pleasure; excited anticipation at the spanking to come.
“You will experience a sharp, piercing pain during this demonstration. It will cause no lasting damage, of that you can be certain, though you will likely believe otherwise during the punishment itself. It drives an especially deep and painful bite upon the meatier areas. Given your anatomical differences to the native population, I shall be demonstrating alternate areas to punish.” Mister Titus let out a single, cruel snort as he felt the shiver run through Richter's body. “I was referring to your tail, boy! Do you truly think I'd toy with your genital slit in front of all those people?”
“I think you would, if I have the measure of your feelings,” Richter replied with a forthrightness most other penitatas would never dare employ.
Titus took the answer in his stride, not even looking toward the boy, instead indulging in a moment's idle fantasy before speaking again. “If we were on Halkat I think I would have made you regret that clever little lip of yours. Alas, it seems you have chosen your battlefield wisely... Velius.”
“I will not fall for such obvious attempts to upset me,” Richter shot back, cold and calm as he could manage. It only served to amuse Mister Titus further.
“Your words say one thing, your mind says another. Ah, but you are surrounded by humans; they are impaired compared to us, and that shall ever be to your advantage in dealing with them. Alas, it comes at the cost of denying yourself true conversation.”
Richter let his snout fall. “I rarely enjoyed the company of other Roferians. Their feelings used to force their way into my own.” The two stood in silence after that, although to Richter's growing realisation a great deal was still being said: Curiosity. Puzzlement, laced with introspection. Frustration, but not at him, an inward sort. Then realisation, and understanding, with tones of sympathy. It was a wonderfully layered experience, elegantly flowing from the subtle, muted hues of incidental emotions to the bold, resonating feelings that were surely being not only deliberately sought, but forcefully projected. For all his life, Richter had thought emotions were lodestones bound around his neck by others. With his condition properly medicated and a healthy emotional control reasserted, he now realised that what had felt to him like a mental assault could in fact be something revelatory, informative, even beautiful.
Yet it all faded as quickly as the interaction had begun. Richter hadn't been listening to the announcements, but Mister Titus obviously had. His mental wall of invoked rage came back up, and Mister Titus coldly ordered Richter to follow him out onto the stage.
“Ladies and gentlemen, thank you for your attention!” Mister Titus called out to indicate the applause should cease. “For the sake of my assistant I will keep all preamble to a minimum. Any questions you might wish to ask can surely wait until he has finished his duties. Master Richter, kindly assume the position.”
Richter had found himself staring at the crowd. Many were human, naturally, though a great many Federation worlds were represented in the gathering; Drakonians stood out easily, towering over most other species as they did, and possessing such an oversized bulk that they could not easily make use of standard chairs. The sapient saurians ended up formed along the flanks of the guest area, as if acting as an honour guard. Mixed in the centre were a variety of non-humans, some who could pass for human at a glance, others possessed of fur or scale, like the feline Jalaxians and the reptilian Karrians. He had been idly curious to see if there were any other Roferians present, but on hearing Mister Titus' instruction he hastily snapped from his public daydreaming and turned to the padded bench. For all he wished to appear calm and stoic, a nervous tremble found his fingers as he unbuttoned his shorts. Mister Titus stepped up beside him, ostensibly reaching for whatever tool he planned to show off on Richter's backside. Though it took slightly longer than the teacher would have liked, Richter's shorts and underwear fell to his ankles and he eased himself up onto the main cushion. A firm tug saw his lower garments gone altogether, and his knees were steered onto secondary resting points. They gave scarce support, the angle being too steep to take his weight, but they would at least cushion him should his legs jolt forward. The far more hateful element, which itself was almost enough to draw tears from the boy, was how his wide stance and ninety-degree posture left his groin utterly exposed to all. He tried not to imagine how those unfamiliar with Roferian physiology might react to seeing his genital slit; he despised being called a girl because of it.
Mister Titus added one final humiliation. It had not been a punishment device the teacher wanted, but a tail restraint: binding a leather collar around Richter's neck, he looped a similar ring around the upper third of Richter's tail and pulled the connecting cord tight enough that Richter's tail had to stand fully upright, offering neither modesty nor shielding from whatever followed.
“Today, I will be demonstrating the qualities of the micro-whip, known as the Mother's Claw by many in my jurisdiction of Northrock Correctional Elementary. Those curious why may ask at the end. This is a tool that must be used with precision, for the careless may inflict imprecise punishment, or perhaps even injury. Master Richter, you may be assured I am a master in its use. I may request you to describe the sensations shortly. Do you believe you will be able to do so in a clear, informative fashion?”
This he had not been prepared for. “I... I will try my best, Mister Titus.” the boy winced at the sound of his voice being carried over the speaker system and out to the crowd. Bad enough they got a full view of everything! Worse that he'd have to bawl and cry under this micro-whip for the whole damn building to hear!
“This tool is typically reserved for use in special punishment days, heightened events, or pre-designated low-tolerance gatherings. It is not recommended for routine punishment or day-to-day spankings. I will demonstrate a typical mid-grade special day application.” Those words sent shivers down Richter's spine, for he instantly recalled the long, brutal horror that had been Christmas. He grit his teeth and tried to focus on his breathing to lower his suddenly accelerated heartbeat. Lost in his own brief fluster, he never saw the first swat coming.
There was, in quick succession, a whistling, a brief snapping sound, and a jolt of thin, razor-like pain unlike anything his prior spankings had delivered. It struck squarely on the soft seat of his right buttock, stinging fierce and deep. A truly undignified rasp of air rushed through his teeth, followed by an involuntary little gurgle as Richter tried to right himself. The sheer alien sensation unmanned him, so much so that he was briefly too confused by the shock to register just how much it hurt! The second snap quickly dispelled that mental fog, and as the white-hot lance of anguish drove into his rear, Richter yet out his first yowl. It was a shame-laden sound, one he hated having made; there would have been any number of cries or sobs he could have let out instead. Even a pitiful “Ow!”, or a pointless plea for mercy would have been less embarrassing! Alas, the little whip was finding its flow now, and it was not giving Richter time to curate his pain response. Shwip-Thwick went the Mother's Claw, and a lance of pain tore through his flesh, drilling right down into the muscle. Shwip-Thwick it went again, and this time the pain burrowed down to the bone. Another strike glanced along the inside of his buttock, nipping at a slight angle in such a way that it felt to Richter like a chunk of flesh had been gouged out. He had been crying up until this point, gasping and grunting as tears trickled out, but that jagged, wounding strike made his back arch and a full-throated howl of pure suffering roared out for all to hear. It was, at least, a perfectly normal bawling; the long 'aaah' of initial torment, followed by the stuttering breath-sobs of a child trying to inhale and scream at the same time; the sort of crying that almost seemed like laughter played in slow motion. If anyone was laughing, it certainly wasn't Richter.
“As you can see, even a normally stoic penitatas with a high tolerance for pain can be quickly reduced to a well-punished state with this tool. The marks are admittedly difficult to see upon a Roferian's rear but – Master Richter, I will be touching your rear now – if we carefully part the boy's fur like so you will see this small dimple. Deep, focused marks, as opposite to a cane or paddle as can be. Master Richter, do you feel up to describing the sensation?”
“L-like b-b-being st-stabbed wi' lightning!” he spluttered out, and the boy felt sure there were a few chuckles from the front row.
“Thank you. Ready yourself, please. We have more to do.”
The next swat came well before Richter was prepared, and it came high. The whip bit right on the centreline of his tail, close to the base, and broke the young cub instantly. He let out a sharp, primal scream at the sensation, his whole body convulsing. Mister Titus had apparently been ready for this, for Mr Hachi had joined him on the stage during the initial swattings, and now a firm Karrian claw pressed down against his back to pin him in place for the second swipe, aimed a fraction higher.
“N-Noaowww!” the mangled plea fell from Richter's lips in mad desperation. Any fear of reprimand for not keeping still and accepting his fate vanished in the face of this unholy torture. He squirmed for a few seconds against the vice-like grip of Mr Hachi. For all that old man appeared kindly, he was every bit the punitive actor when needed. He pinned Richter in place with a cold reservation, wilfully hardening himself against the youth's frantic howls as five merciless stings poked along his dragon-like tail.
“As you can see, aiming the Mother's Claw at a tender region increases its potency by a significant margin. Forgive me, Master Richter, I suspect the use of tail-based punishments must have caught you off-guard. They are far more common on Halkat, where possessing a tail is commonplace. I will require you to suffer a little more, though this will perhaps be more tolerable. All observe.”
The thighs came next. The sensation was akin to being shot, for the whip's tip seemed to bore through flesh and muscle like a tool of torture. Richter's leg slammed against the padding of the bench, his claw sent into spasms by the false signals firing up and down his nerves. He was by this point far too lost in misery to objectively compare how much better or worse being thigh-swat or tail-swat was – he'd settle that question by accident, for Mister Titus judged his uninhibited bawling and post-strike convulsions to be far less pronounced than the pair on the tail. Richter suffered four on each leg, at varying heights, with Mister Titus calmly explaining where safety and sanity required the line be drawn.
Then, at long last, the tail restraint came away. Richter was eased onto feet that tingled with unwelcome after-shocks of the many, biting wounds he'd suffered, wobbling gently as Mr Hachi eased his clothing back into place. The feeling of fabric rubbing over the many little insect bites the whip had left behind brought fresh blubs forth. “I might be giving you rope to hang yourself with, Master Richter, but perhaps you'd like to tell the audience your overall thoughts on the experience?”
The little boy turned towards the crowd of faces who had all watched his rear be whipped into a dimpled ruin. The willpower required to not curse that damnable whip out was in many ways more than what it had taken to try not to bawl like a newborn. “I... I absolutely despise... that tool used on my tail!” The boy shook with the effort to keep from breaking down in open sobbing. As he frantically blinked tears from his eyes the boy saw the familiar faces of his penitatas-parents, Harvey and Elizabeth, watching quietly close to the front. They each wore a look of professional detachment, yet let their feelings of concern radiate out for Richter to sense. His next words were to them directly, even if he made a deliberate choice to turn away. “P-please don't use that on m-me again,” his weak, broken plea fumbled from a maw tired from crying.
Mister Titus gave the boy a gentle pat upon the shoulder. “For what it's worth, Master Richter, I subjected you to a whipping normally reserved for an older boy. Proper guidance in usage of the whip would suggest use upon the tail be restricted to a child of eight, for reasons my assistant here so excellently demonstrated. The tail whipping of a boy this young would be rightly reserved for a truly harsh special punishment day, or the most severe of corrections in light of a gross infraction. Before I continue, it would be remiss of me not to ensure young Richter receives proper aftercare. If you will excuse me a moment.”

Mr Hachi lingered on the stage, waiting for his two companions to vacate before beginning his own address. Once shielded by the side curtains, the little Roferian finally let himself break once again. As he stumbled down the shallow steps, he all but fell into the arms of his mother, allowing himself to react to his ordeal as any five year old would have, rejuve or not.
“It's over now, there there.” Elizabeth cooed. “We can count that as your spanking for the day, so you don't have to worry about anything more waiting for you back home.”
As much as Richter knew both parents wanted only to console him, he understood that duty required his father offer the seemingly cold reminder: “We are still going to be here a while. You have that panel to sit at, remember? Your conduct had best remain impeccable, or we will be forced to correct it.”
“Y-yes, Harvey, I understand.” He pulled away from his mother to find a handkerchief hovering nearby, which he gladly used to wipe his face. With a few deep breaths and a subtle roll of the shoulders to fix his posture, the miserable little cub became 'Richter' once again. “Those were the terms I agreed to upon volunteering for this task. As you well know, I do not make promises idly. I will comport myself as you request.” The statement, ever so properly given, drew quiet auras of respect from those around him, including Mister Titus who had once more let his guard down. A crackle of curiosity from the older Roferian forewarned Richter that they were no-longer alone, and sure enough a young, anxious mind drifted close, flanked by a pair of Jalaxians. The boy, a penitatas, turned out to be a Kyyreni; around Richter's age, or maybe a year older, his fur was the typical blond of most males of his species, though he had a unique mark around his eye – a curve of white saw-tooth marks that couldn't possibly have been natural.
“Was that you up on the stage just now?” the boy asked.
Richter flinched as a sudden, fierce pang of shame coursed through him. “Regrettably,” he mumbled in response. Far from mockery, the boy's response was an ever-deepening anxiety.
“Any tips? I'm pretty sure I'm next on the block.”
Richter shrugged. “Let it come, and be honest if they ask for your opinion.”
Despite the wolfish boy's fear, he forced a laugh. “Well, better than nothing.” A paw was offered forward. “Reyk son of Kadar.”
Richter knew a little of Kyyreni custom, which is why he gripped the boy's forearm instead of his paw. “Richter. Son of... Elizabeth and Harvey.” He knew immediately he had botched the introduction by Reyk's puzzled reaction, but that quickly passed. The firm grip and subtle warming of the Kyyreni youth suggested he appreciated the effort, even if the details were wrong.
“You've taken your 'penny-parents' as your own?”
Richter glanced at the two humans. “Parenthood is more than blood relation.” That earned him a pair of grateful smiles.
“Fair.” the boys finally broke their grip on each other. “I hope my own 'penny-dad' won't take offence at me saying I'm not quite ready to make that step. Although, 'Reyk son of Otto' has a nice ring, doesn't it?”
“I certainly think it does!” the feline in question chimed in.
Mister Titus moved to break up their little meeting. “Reyk? It's time. Mr Hachi is waiting.”

The rest of the conference was long and tiring for Richter. His sore backside made his place at a sit-down talk all the more difficult, so much so that he chose the embarrassment of explaining why he squirmed rather than risk further punishment. While his contributions seemed well received, his fatigue was showing; while there were several hours left in the day, Elizabeth and Harvey agreed it was best to leave early.
Out in front of the building was a cleared space for collection and drop-off. A downright confusing arrangement of signs and markers were present to tell people where to go and how to request transit in and out of the area. Past the drop-off and across a tree-lined road there was a dedicated parking area for those who had brought their own vehicles, but most attendees had used public transport or a taxi service. The afternoon was cold and overcast, with a sheen of wetness left by a light rain that had come and gone at some point during the conference. Waiting at the designated pick-up there seemed an abundant lack of vehicles, prompting Elizabeth to break off and ask at a security booth nearby.
“Everything alright?” Richter and Harvey both turned to find the Halkat teachers, Hal and Titus approaching.
“Yes, just waiting for a taxi.”
“I overheard something about there being a communication glitch in the local network,” Mister Titus mused. “We rented a hovercar for our stay, the blue one over there in bay eighteen. We could give you a lift?”
Harvey smiled at the offer. “That's very kind, but we're heading back to England.”
“That's hardly a large detour, is it? Unless we need some sort of permit to cross provincial lines?”
“No, nothing like that! I just don't want to impose!”
“You wouldn't be imposing,” Hal assured him. “Think of it as our way of saying thank you for letting us borrow your son.”
The matter settled, Harvey turned to Richter. “I need to go find your mother. Stay with our guests.”
“Of course, Harvey.”
Mister Titus raised his claw. “The car is that way,” and he began to cross the road.
The next few seconds of Richter's life played out in slow motion. He sensed something was wrong before his higher functions could process precisely what. Perhaps it was the sudden shock, confusion and panic from so many minds, or perhaps his ears had pricked at the sound of raised voices. Before any of that could register, however, he felt Mister Titus grab him by his collar and waist. Richter recalled with absolute clarity the subtle sound of the teacher's claws fraying strands of fabric as the youth was violently hurled up and off his feet. Then there was a sound, a rushing of air, and a terrible roll of thuds. An instant later he was lurching upward again, tumbling upside down, limbs flailing. It was all happening too fast for him to even consider trying to brace himself. He couldn't even keep track of which way was down.
Then he hit the road, and hard. He briefly recalled the awful crackle-snap of shattering bone before his head impacted the pavement and stunned him for a few, blissful seconds. That passed all too swiftly, and a tidal wave of pain came rushing him.
Richter screamed.
His left leg was on fire. Hot, searing pulses flashed up his limb, but that was nothing compared to the wordless suffering that radiated from his right shoulder. Every single nerve in his right arm felt as though it had been coated in acid. It was as though someone in steel-toed boots was kicking him in the side of the head. There was a stickiness to his fur that could only be his blood. He screamed, howling in mad agony, but no-one was coming. Why was nobody coming?
“Don't touch him!” someone cried. Richter realised the male voice had been speaking before, but in French instead of Panglish. “Little boy, do not move! Keep still!”
Richter hadn't the strength to respond with anything but more screaming. His empathic sense flailed around in desperation for his parents, but all he could sense was shock and fear. It was too much. Far, far too much.
“Richter!”
Parental voices, arguing with someone in terrified desperation. They wanted to rush to him, but they were being kept back.
“Ma!” he croaked. It was all the strength he had to do.
“Let me through!” Elizabeth cried back. “Please let me through!”
Richter finally saw his parents rush into view. There were sirens now, overlapping, and a shadow passed overhead as an ambulance flew in. Horns blared in fury at the crowd below, demanding they make a landing space. “It'll be alright, Richter!” Elizabeth insisted.
Fresh tears leaked from Richter's eyes. It wasn't the pain this time. It was his mother's pain: she was drowning in an ocean of guilt. For the second time in one year, Richter was dying on the ground in front of her, and yet again it had happened when her back was turned. “Not...” it was more a gasp than a word. Speaking was too hard. Through tears he saw the paramedics approaching. Though they blocked Elizabeth from sight, nothing could hide her heartbreak.

Mister Titus knew, in the vaguest of senses, where he was. He recalled, through a heady mix of drugs and concussion, how the light inside the ambulance had stung his eyes. He remembered being in an operating theatre, though that might have been a fever dream. Now he was in a recovery room, where he had been for hours. Or was it days? Sedatives fogged his mind still, though he felt certain there was someone in the room with him. He opened his mouth to speak, but the dry lips and parched tongue produced only a rasping hiss. A chair scraped, footsteps crossed the sterile floor, and his eyes flickered to find a humanoid blur offering him a straw. “Here, take a sip.” Elizabeth. That was the blur's name.
“Thank you.” Mister Titus blinked hard to try and make the world focus. “Who is here with you?”
“Richter. He's been hovering by your bed ever since they discharged him.” The words were softly spoken, but Mister Titus was becoming increasingly aware of how sharp and jagged the woman's emotions were. His stupefied state blunted the emotional input, but it was gnawing at him all the same.
“Is he alright?”
“He is. Do you feel up to speaking with him?”
Mister Titus nodded. Richter appeared in his vision, looking tired and pale but otherwise intact. The boy lasted all of three seconds before breaking down in grief. “I'm sorry!” he wailed, hiding his face in his claws. “This is all my fault!”
The man's lip curled as he turned back to Elizabeth. Richter's grief was simple and straightforward – anyone who knew who 'Velius' was and what he'd done could understand the narrative of events Richter had pieced together in his mind, regardless of how true or not they might have been. Elizabeth's feelings were deeper, more complex, a soup of many-flavoured negatives that served only to frustrate. “Do they know who did this?”
“The police haven't told us much. We have to wait for the official investigation to end before we have any facts, but the local press are already calling it an attempted revenge-killing on Richter.”
More troubled thoughts, more jagged feelings. “I do not wish to be rude, but I am extremely tired and your... understandably troubled feelings are a burden on me.”
“Oh. Of course. We'll let you rest.”
“Before you go, how is Hal?” That was a trigger-word. Elizabeth spoke in reply, but Mister Titus didn't hear her words. The shock of pain that name had conjured in the human woman made all sound and colour bleed away.
“Is he dead?”
“No! No, I just said he's here!” Elizabeth blurted out. “He... he was so badly hurt the ambulance crew struggled to keep him alive. He had to be rejuvenated, but there was... it changed him.”
“I am aware of what emergency rejuvenation does.”
“He didn't undergo emergency rejuvenation, they had a full system set up and waiting when he reached the hospital! That-”
Never known as a patient man, Mister Titus had reached his breaking point. “Enough! You stand there with a maelstrom in your head, pounding my skull with your fear and grief, and all you give me is muddled vagaries! Speak plain and to the damn point! What has happened to Hal?”
The outburst staggered the woman. In Mister Titus' snarling features and blunt tone, with the deep bags under his eyes and a terrible thinness from the ordeal of recovery, she couldn't help but see a hint of Richter in him – the old Richter, from the early days where all he gave to his parents was scorn and contempt. She cleared her throat, pushing aside her gut reactions, and accepting the bluntness as being born of the man's own pain and fear. “Hal is currently a twelve year old boy, but he is remarkably different to the man he was. His appearance has changed, Mister Titus. It's like he's a wholly different person.”
“I want to see him.”
Elizabeth considered arguing, but the hateful glare of Mister Titus convinced her not to. “I'll ask the nurse if he's well enough to see you.”
“Thank you.” Mister Titus turned his focus to the miserable little cub by his bed. “Richter is welcome to stay if he wishes to do so.”
There was no need to ask. The boy watched his mother leave before moving closer to Mister Titus, peering with guilt-ridden eyes at the various medical devices hooked up to him. “At least I can trust you to speak plainly. What precisely happened to Hal?”
“He... his scales, hair, and eyes changed colour. He also seems to have changed accent.”
“Changed how? I want details, Richter.”
The boy nodded. “Light grey scales, silver-blue hair, faint blue eyes.”
Mister Titus made no effort to hide the emotions that surged through him. Disbelief, so powerful it made his head spin, so intense that it made Richter take a half-step back. “What is it you know, Mister Titus?”
“That this is not the time nor place to discuss the matter further. No doubt Hal has found the entire ordeal profoundly traumatic, and it would be in the poorest of taste for us to demand answers of him, or openly speculate on his condition. I understand your curiosity, Richter, and if Hal cannot, or will not provide the answers himself then I promise you will get them from me. Not now, perhaps not soon, but in the fullness of time.”
“That is acceptable,” Richter replied in his fashion.
Harvey entered, followed by Elizabeth, and between them the promised Hal Hachi, who was as Richter described. In a voice alien to the man he'd been just a short time ago he spoke, timidly, “Tobias. I'm... I'm glad you're doing better. This-”
“Hal.” The quiet word, and the subtle raising of a tired claw brought an end to the explanations before they began. “Once I am well enough I will speak to the rest of the Halkat delegation. I think it best we stay on Earth for a short time, in order to let all this... unpleasantness to settle down. Perhaps the local authorities will have questions. Perhaps we might require further examinations. I don't want you to fret over any of that. Leave it all to me.”
Harvey interjected, “We have already spoken to your colleagues. With all due respect, Mister Titus, you need time and space to recover just as much. The least we can do is make sure you have the space to do so. Now that you're awake, we can see about arranging a hotel for you to stay at.”
“A hotel?” Elizabeth reacted with surprise at the suggestion. “No! They can stay with us!”
“As he said, the local authorities-”
“Oh don't be silly! We're going across the Channel, not whisking him off-world! They'll be able to come and ask whatever questions they need to!”
Hal chimed in with his own doubts. “We really don't want to intrude.”
Elizabeth opened her mouth to speak, but it was Mister Titus who responded. “I saved her son's life, Hal. In the process, we both nearly paid the ultimate price. Who wants that kind of debt hanging over their heads? We would both be eternally grateful for your hospitality, Mrs Tanner.”
Pleased she had 'won' the argument, Elizabeth busied herself with finding a nurse to speak to on the Roferian's behalf. Mister Titus, meanwhile, couldn't help but give a tired smile to the little boy at his bedside, who couldn't have been happier with the arrangement.

Mister Titus required only one day more in the hospital before discharge, and much of that was spent giving statements to local police. The matter, it seemed, was already resolved bar minor side details by the time the Tanner family and their new guests had chartered passage back to Northwest England. Modern hovercars being as fast and efficient as they were, they spent less than an hour travelling before being met with the familiar rural surrounds of the farm. The relief of seeing it was soured by feelings of fear born of their recent experiences, though both parents were trying not to let their inner thoughts show outwardly.
There had been a brief argument over sleeping arrangements. All agreed, quickly and amiably, that Hal would have Richter's bedroom, with Hal immediately to let Richter bunk with him if the boy wished. Mister Titus had to fight for his place of choice, which was the couch. Harvey and Elizabeth seemed appalled at the idea of him not having a proper bed to rest in, while Mister Titus, in a display of obstinacy both parents increasingly came to assume was a core Roferian trait, was so emphatically against the idea of kicking the hosts out of their own room that he eventually threatened to take the Mother's Claw to them if they continued to 'squabble like children' with him on the issue. Needless to say, Mister Titus got his wish.
The dark cloud looming over Hal was eased by the gleeful appearance of Othello. Separated from his master for only a few days, in the fashion of loving canines everywhere he dove for Richter as though the two had been apart for a century. After the obligatory bonding session, Othello's training honed him into Hal as another child in need of care. With Richter's blessing, Hal had taken the rejuvenated puppy out around the farm to play. For all the talents of modern therapists, sometimes all a boy needed was to play a long game of fetch with a furry friend to help get his feelings in order. He came back in at dinner time, having stopped playing to cry somewhere in private, but both Roferians could tell his mental state had much improved. “Time and space are the best way to deal with these things,” Mister Titus had said. “We should all take things one day at a time until it feels right to move on.”
Richter tried to sleep in his own bed that night, though it was difficult. It wasn't that Hal was taking up too much room, but that Richter's own mind refused to settle. Now with time and distance, surrounded by the familiarity of home, his memories had turned on him. In his dreams he replayed that terrible day, over and over, each time with difference in detail highlighted. When his eyes snapped open at around three in the morning the after-image of a lime-green Deutschtech Mond 300 lingered, projected by his troubled mind on his wall. He froze for a good half minute until he felt absolutely certain the car was gone before slipping from the covers and creeping into the living room. There, under a thin blanket, Mister Titus lay on his side staring at the deactivated holo the Tanners had moved from their bedroom. His mind was too alert for him to be asleep.
“I hope I didn't disturb you, Mister Titus.” Richter whispered as he drew closer.
“You didn't. In fact, you might be a welcome distraction.” Richter accepted the unspoken invitation to sit, then allowed himself to be pulled into a cuddling position. “You wanted answers. I suppose now is as good a time as any to give them to you.”
“Then you do know what happened to Mr Hachi.”
“I do. Pass me the remote.” Richter reached for the coffee table and handed the holo's control to Mister Titus, who after a few moments of fumbling in the dark managed to get it working. “Search: Captain Greyscale. Play Episode 3, timestamp: 24:30. Volume two.”
The show flickered on. The scene was a Karrian merchant vessel, its corridors awash with smoke and flame. An injured crew member looked up at the camera, then the shot cut to an airlock door opening. Through the door strode half a dozen Karrian pirates, led by a fierce looking male with grey scales and silver-blue hair. “Pause.” Mister Titus said, and the image froze on the actor.
Richter gazed at the figure. “I've heard of this show. It reports to be based on true events. Hal is, or was, this 'Captain Greyscale?'”
“Yes. The boy in your bed right now is named Timothy Miller. This scene is a re-enactment of one of his cruellest actions where he executed an entire crew of thirty-eight souls for defying him and firing upon his ship. Threw them into the airlock one by one and blew them out into space. The entire event was recorded and broadcast across the system as a warning to any other ship that might defy him.”
Fear crept into Richter's soul as he whispered, “Is he a fugitive?”
“No. He served his time in Northrock, made parole seventy-odd years ago.”
“Then Timothy became Hal after completing his sentence? But why? Is that something your system requires?”
Mister Titus chuckled at the question. “You're looking at the 'why', boy! Right there! The name of Timothy Miller had become infamous by the time of his parole. He'd never be able to get out of its shadow, now matter how much he deserved to.”
“What exactly does that mean?”
The older Roferian sighed. “Timothy served most of his time in Camp Northrock. That was a product of an older system, one born from the transition from the Halkat Federation to the Halkat Republic. Long, messy period, but the consequence of the upheaval was a sudden surge in penitatas, a shortage of qualified caregivers, and a rather dramatic shift in how society viewed penitatas a whole. People didn't want them around, didn't want to have them 'polluting' their communities, and so a series of correctional facilities were hastily put together to handle the influx. These camps were failures from the moment they opened their gates, quickly attracting people less interested in reforming the inmates and more interested in exploiting and abusing them. That 'camp' model is no small part of why Halkat has such a bad reputation in the eyes of the Federation. Timothy served most of his time in such a camp, but where most who passed through were fundamentally damaged by the ordeal, Timothy was the remarkable exception. He was reformed, and likely by his own heartfelt desire to be reformed – there was certainly no-one in Camp Northrock willing to help make him better!
“Once we transitioned out of the Camp model and Northrock's modern correctional community was established, Timothy truly blossomed. He was the perfect penitatas in those last two cycles; not only was he considerate, polite and hard-working, but he actively sought out ways to demonstrate his quality. He offered to tutor younger classmates, he befriended the unloved and unlovable, he tried to organise community service programs and events that give penitatas a chance to show they were better people. He also fell head over heels in love with a girl you've met – Isabelle Holdenthorpe.”
Richter accepted this all with a quiet nod. “It certainly sounds to me as though Timothy was everything a penitatas ought to be.”
The comment made Titus smile. “I see so much of him in you, Richter. It's one of the reasons I am so very fond of you. It's as though you're the perfect blend of us – my superior species, coupled with Timothy's peerless character.”
“Then you were 'fond' of him as well?”
Titus' expression froze, perhaps only just realising his guard was down and he had, quite by accident, allowing his inner thoughts to be seen. Many of them were unabashedly lewd in their form towards both Timothy and Richter alike, Upon making this revelation, Mister Titus chose to simply abandon any sort of shame, and continue to enjoy his idle dreaming. “I was, yes. It went beyond physical lust, though it was truly never a romantic coupling I wanted from him. It was his friendship that I cherished. As I said, Timothy gave it to the unlovable, and I was most certainly that!”
There was no room for doubt left in Richter's mind. “You were also a penitatas?”
“I was. Back then I was called Andronicus Marquis. I bear the dubious honour of being one of Halkat's most infamous serial killers: a rampant, unabashed, and utterly remorseless abuser and torturer, with a particular fondness for women and children.”
Cold fear slid down Richter's spine at the confession. Lit by the softly flickering light of the holo, the smile on Mister Titus' face was positively demonic. “Hush, little boy. I am a sadist, not a masochist; I have absolutely no intention of ever being under the paddle again! Let me have my little fantasies, for that's all they'll ever be.”
“I don't... I don't know what to say.”
“Then let me pose something to you. Back when I held that demonstration you said calling you 'Velius' was an act of provocation. Tell me plainly, are you or are you not Velius?”
Richter, to his credit, did not simply snap at an answer. He considered it properly. “I think... 'Velius' is a facet of my identity. He is something I will always carry inside of me. But he does not define me. I refuse to let him define me!”
“Then you understand us well enough,” Mister Titus replied. “Sadly, it is not as simple as you might wish it to be to separate our past, present, and future. Timothy felt he could not have the new life he desired without a new identity. I knew for certain that was the case for me.”
Richter, lost in his own thoughts at the strange revelation that he was now in the presence of not one, but two ex-penitatas turned teacher, had almost missed the subtle change in the aura of the room. He glanced up, anxiety radiating from him, but Mister Titus addressed it without looking around. “If Timothy wants to stand in the doorway and listen, he's more than welcome to. He will speak to me when he's ready.”
Timothy Miller crossed the darkened room, his steps slow, his breathing heavy. He entered the weak halo of light and glowered down at Mister Titus, a trembling snarl upon his features. “Richter,” he rasped, “I know asking you to spend the rest of the night with this wretched piece of shit is asking a lot, but I... I need some space tonight. Also, I think your dog wants you.” As if waiting for permission, Othello jumped up to snuggle against Richter, leaving Timothy to storm back to the child's bedroom alone.
Once true silence had returned to the room, Mister Titus sighed. “I'm the one who should be furious at him, if anything. Still, that is an argument best had tomorrow.” He shut off the holo, tossed the control carelessly in the direction of the table, and shuffled back into the couch to give his new bunkmates more room. “Do try to sleep, Richter. This will all make sense in the morning.”

The air around the breakfast table was positively icy, not helped at all by the ill weather outside; heavy rain and a biting wind had come in, and since he hadn't had proper opportunity to get anything beyond an emergency set of clothes, Timothy was now trapped inside. He stared daggers at Mister Titus as Elizabeth and Harvey made sure everyone was provided with a traditional full English breakfast, all the while deliberately not addressing the obvious hostility.
Mister Titus applied a healthy dollop of marmalade to his toast, apparently oblivious to any issue. The loud crunch his teeth made as they pierced the bread appeared to be something Timothy took as a personal affront. The Roferian chewed, slowly, swallowed, and then asked while considering his cup of tea, “is that where you want to begin?”
“Where what?” Timothy snapped.
“Isabelle. Do you want to discuss her?”
Timothy all but jumped out of his seat. “You fucked her!” The fierce expletive alarmed all present – the Tanners, being dedicated penitatas parents, had to fight their instincts to scold the boy there and then.
“I already apologised for that!” Titus shot back. “I know I overstepped-”
“Oh no, no no no! That 'apology' was when you were just a stranger taking roleplay too far! I mean, I thought it was strange at the time, but... good God, Andy! You are beyond sick!”
“Hmm. Precisely how long have you been pretending you put aside your feelings for her long ago?”
“No! We're not changing the subject!”
Titus hissed at the defiant youth. “If we're going to discuss 'sickness', let's address the fact that you became a teacher to stalk your ex!”
“I did not!” roared Timothy, slamming his fists into the table as he jumped from his chair.
“That is quite enough!” Harvey barked. The man placed a restraining hand upon the Karrian's shoulder. “Timothy, Hal, whichever it is, this has gone too far. Clearly, a nerve has been touched, but it is equally clear that lines are being crossed! This is a penitatas household, gentlemen, and by the sound of it you know what that means from both sides of the paddle. If you two cannot sit down and discuss your issues like civilised people, then we will treat you like the little brats you insist on being!”
After a long, troubled silence, Timothy settled back into his chair. The silence only became more awkward as he watched Elizabeth wipe up the orange juice he'd spilled. “I... I am sorry, Mr and Mrs Tanner. Things got on top of me there.”
“No harm, no foul,” Harvey assured him. “Maybe we should talk about this with a little more direction. Timothy, what did he mean when he accused you of stalking an ex?”
Timothy let out a guilty little growl. “When my sentence was over I intended to get a clean start. I actually considered moving to Earth. Well, fleeing to Earth; I didn't much like the looks people gave me. My name, as Mister Titus so kindly demonstrated to Richter last night, still carried a great deal of infamy. I found myself alone, and in that loneliness I found myself wanting the person I cared for more than any other. Isabelle. It-” another shameful sigh escaped his snout. “-it's true that I became a teacher for her. At first I had this grand idea that I'd be able to protect her from the worst of Penny life, but I did quickly grow out of such foolishness! By the time I qualified I'd settled for just... being there. Maybe, one day, I'd reveal who I truly was. Of course, as the years went on the idea of revealing myself felt more and more unpalatable. How would I even do it? 'Hey, Isabelle! It's me, Timmy! I've been secretly watching you all this time!' I couldn't do it. Besides, being her teacher I got to see her move on.”
The grey boy blushed as his mind dug up a distant memory. “I, uh, I walked into the girl's toilets one day as part of a routine inspection. I had the distinct impression that someone was trying hard to keep silent in the one occupied cubicle, so I went ahead and opened the door. Well, there was Isabelle, and there was a boy, and they were very much... engaged with each other.”
A playful grin formed on Mister Titus' snout. “What did you do, Timmy?”
“I said to them, 'I'll be back in five minutes. Don't be here when I return!' Two minutes later they both scurried out, with me stood right at the door to make it a proper walk of shame! I can't remember the boy's name. Chal? Charl? Something like that. I think he was one of Dinmer's boys, before your time.”
“Dinmer's not before my time. I took over the Red Kestrels from him.”
“That's right, you did.” Timothy cocked his head inquisitively towards the Roferian. “Well? I've told my side, time for yours.”
“I came back for two reasons. You won't like the first,” Titus added in warning.
“Get it over with, then. I'm sure it's sick and depraved, like everything else you ever wanted.”
Mister Titus took the time to sip his tea before replying. “I didn't share your redemption arc, Timothy. I didn't so much reform as become so utterly sick of the penitatas life that I resolved to never go through it again. Unfortunately, I was ultimately still Andronicus Marquis. I was still a deeply flawed individual, with desires that I knew would likely see me right back where I'd started. One thing Camp Northrock had taught me was that the justice department did have a use for people like me, even if the shift to a correctional community seemed to increasingly sideline the deplorables. After a while I came to what, with hindsight, was a truly sad and pathetic revelation – I did not know how to function outside of a penitatas life any longer. The rehabilitation efforts were of little help. I knew I wanted, I needed to be on the other side of the paddle. There was no chance they'd ever let Andronicus take the role, and so much like you I elected for a new identity. While I was ordering a bespoke genetic sequence I volunteered for a slight mental restructuring as well, to help realign my psychology into something closer to 'normal'. In a sense, I am not the man I used to be. I remember him, I remember what he did and how he felt, but it no longer feels like something I did. It's more akin to something I remember watching on the holo, or reading in a book.”
“In other words, you became a teacher because you wanted to make children suffer?”
“I'm hardly the only one.”
Timothy turned in his chair so he no longer had to look at Mister Titus. “Unbelievable! Alright, you said there were two reasons, what was the second?”
“I came back for you.”
The blunt words stilled Timothy's boiling anger. “I'm sorry?”
“You were my friend, Timothy. Perhaps my only friend. Everyone I spent time with either did so under duress by parental demand, or they were one of your friends who learned to tolerate me. I'm not trying to mope about that – as Andronicus I had no feelings for most of them, and what few feelings did stir in my breast were, well, entirely base and carnal. You were the exception. You were the only person besides myself who I actually cared about.”
“That... I had no idea. I'm sorry, Andy. You... nobody deserves to be alone like that.”
Tobias Titus nodded. “Thank you, but no apology is necessary.  Like you, I had a scheme to recapture my past. In this case, I was seeking to become a paddle-swinger either way, but when I learned of a vacancy in Northrock I jumped at it so I could be close to Isabelle. I was certain you'd come back for her eventually, despite your promise you were leaving forever. I arrived, settled in, and waited. I waited for years, and years, and yet you never came.”
“Because I was already there, wearing another man's face.”
Titus let out a hearty laugh. “Imagine that! I honestly didn't know what to make of some of the feelings that went bubbling through your head in the early days, but I just assumed you were distrustful of Roferians! But then, in time, I resigned myself to the unthinkable – that I had you pegged wrong. I clearly didn't know my only friend as well as I thought. It was... genuinely heartbreaking.”
“Turns out great minds think alike.” Timothy said as he raised a fresh glass of orange juice in toast.
“Yes. You know, I've kept a bottle of rimward jolth in my drinks cabinet all these years, waiting for the day I found you again. When we get home, we should open it.”
A look of disgust formed on the boy's snout. “I hated that stuff!”
Tobias looked as though he'd been slapped. “But... you said you drank it all the time.”
“Yeah, as part of my persona! It was expensive because it was foreign, and a pirate captain ought to drink expensive foreign spirits!” Timothy threw himself back into his chair and laughed a deep, quaking belly laugh. “Oh God I forced myself to drink so much of that disgusting swill! I was like a sad little teenager trying to prove something to the cool kids!”
“Well you're going to be miserable when we get home, because I'm pouring half that bottle down your throat whether you like it or not!” the threat only made Timothy laugh even harder. He laughed himself breathless, forcing the young lizard to raise a claw for calm so he could start breathing properly again.
“Just... just one other thing. Last night, what you said about Richter. Say it again for me.”
Tobias turned his focus on the little Roferian boy, who had sat in silence and watched the argument play out across his breakfast table. “In Richter I see myself. A young Roferian, isolated from society, driven by intense passions and capable of the most unimaginable cruelty to achieve those goals.” The words made Richter flinch. “Yet I also see in him your finest qualities; a truly, uniquely remarkable ability to accept his place in the world and strive, with genuine conviction, to better himself and the world. You are both possessed of – what did I say last night? Peerless character. My job would be much less entertaining if more penitatas were like you.” The gentle praise left Richter blushing, but it put proud grins upon the Tanners' faces.
“It's hardly a display of 'peerless character' to throw a tantrum at a guest's breakfast table, is it?” Timothy smirked at his own folly.
“You're out of practice. It'll come back to you, I'm sure.”
The group finished their morning meal and began to set about their daily tasks. Richter's focus shifted to his mother and father, who were both clearly conflicted about something. It wasn't difficult to imagine the cause – he was a penitatas, after all, and there were only a scant few instances where required punishment could be delayed or abstained. Mister Titus headed back toward the couch with a stiff gait and heavy, unhappy breathing. “Timothy, little Richter is going to burst if he doesn't get the chance to interrogate you. Go have a little heart to heart with the boy so he can get on with his day in peace.”
“We agreed a long time ago you'd keep out of my head!” Timothy scolded, but there was a playfulness in his tone.
Titus made a rude, snorting noise. “I made that deal with Hal, not you!”
“Too soon, Tobias. Too soon.” Mister Titus waved off the protest. The two rejuves retired to Richter's room, settling down on his bed. Othello vaulted up to settle against his master, nestling in for cuddles and scratches. “You wanted to ask something?” Timothy inquired once they had a door between them and the adults.
“I hope I'm not prying into something overly personal, but I did wonder... well... I'm not certain how to ask.”
“Give me a clue, then. What's the subject?”
“Murder”.
Timothy sucked air between his teeth. “Oh. Alright, we're going headlong into the hard stuff.”
“I know it's something of a vulgar topic, but of the two of you I feel your answer would be more valuable to me. I have killed hundreds of people. I... I have tried so hard to prove how much I regret that. I don't know how to explain this without sounding selfish...”
A kindly paw took hold of his own. “How you sound doesn't matter, Richter. It's the motive of the question that counts. Speak plainly if that helps you.”
Richter kept his eyes locked firmly on Othello. It was easier that way. “When does the guilt go away?”
Timothy slid from the bed and circled around to kneel in front of Richter, joining him in fusing over the black and white pup. “Guilt, regret, shame, trauma... heartache. These feelings are a little like an open wound left to heal naturally. They scab over, and it itches so bad you can't help but scratch, and that just opens the wound again. But the itching gets easier, and it heals a little, day by day. Sometimes you can't resist and pull the scab off, so now the wound is opened right up again and you have to wait for it to heal over, and it feels as bad as when you first cut yourself. But there's nothing you can do but wait, and wait, and wait. One day you look down and that open wound is now a tiny blemish, a gnarl of tough skin. Sometimes it leaves a scar, other times it goes away as though it were never there at all.”
“Then your answer is that there is no answer, that I will either always feel guilty, or I will eventually  'forget' to feel this way?”
“Yes. We can heal from almost anything, Richter, given time.”
Richter made no effort to hide his displeasure at the answer, but he accepted it with a nod nonetheless. “One other thing. I won't presume to know what you plan to do next, but for what it's worth I think I would find the idea of having a former penitatas as a teacher to be comforting. It would be a constant reminder that you truly understand what we are going through. That sense our disciplinarians have no true comprehension of our hardship is something I believe creates an unhelpful distance between us and them.”
“Only a penitatas can understand another penitatas, is that it?” Timothy chuckled.
“It would certainly explain why the pair of you seem to be so inclined to kindness.”
The comment earned Richter a raised eyebrow. “Really? I don't think I've ever heard anyone describe Mister Titus as kind before!”
“Othello, I need to move.”
The little pup shifted off of Richter's lap, allowing the boy to leave the bed and fetch a small wooden box from his bookshelf. From inside he plucked a rectangle of transparent plastic, encased in which was a still image captured in front of what could only be the Penny-Go-Round. Timothy's mouth dropped open at the sight of it. “That's-” he looked up at Richter. “-Mister Titus took this for you?”
“Yes. I don't know if anyone else received a copy, but he wanted me to have a souvenir of Northrock, one that I could keep and cherish. That is not the act of a cruel man.”
Timothy continued to stare at the picture for some time, a warm glow lighting up is face as he studied the children. He looked as proud as any parent. “Thank you for that,” he said as he handed the picture back with reverent care. “I've known Tobias for as long as he's been in Northrock. We became friends, despite his seeming prickly nature. The... revelations as to his past, our shared past, it put me off balance. Thanks for reminding me who he is.” Timothy turned his focus to the boy's bedside table. “Is that a datapad?”
“Yes. It allows me to share messages with friend, Zachary. You might remember him from our visit.”
“Is he your only pen friend? Do you think your parents would permit another?”
“I would certainly not object to having more messages to wake up to. I am curious what Zachy might say if he could converse with a fellow ex-pirate, especially one who, like him, is truly remorseful of his past deeds.”
The comment earned him a soft chuckle. “Oi! Stop talking to me like I'm a Penny! Read the letters!” he raised his grey claws to show off the 'M's. He let his voice settle into a more serious tone. “I am more than happy to offer you two any support and guidance I can, as I will with any penitatas. However, all I ask is you remember that I earned my pardon. You two still carry your guilt, and rightly so. I have moved on. I have earned the right to move on. I know that you meant to disrespect, which is why I neither want, nor need an apology. Think of this as 'Mr Hachi' giving one last bit of advice, alright?”
“Then you plan to remain Timothy Miller?”
“I invoke medicalos privilege!” the boy laughed. It was a truly pleasant sound. Richter could easily see how Timothy Miller might well have become the poster child for the 'perfect penny' back in Northrock if he could be so easy and open with everyone. “Look, why don't I head back out and have a chat with your parents? It might buy you a little more downtime before they have you scrubbing floors or milking cows, whatever it is you have to do around here to earn your keep.”
“Very well. Thank you, Timothy.”

Mister Titus took one more day to rest before they bade a grateful farewell to their hosts. The Roferian was not fully healed, but the leisurely pace of civilian ships would give him the extra days required to be in good shape upon return to Halkat. The final day was used to buy more clothes for Timothy, as well as the odd souvenir.
Much of the trip was spent planning. For hours at a time, Mister Titus sat at a terminal arranging for medical records to be shared and updated, property leases to be suspended or transferred, personal items placed into storage, notifying insurance companies, and every other mundane task that the sudden transit from adult to child necessitated. He refused to let Timothy do any of it. “This stopped being your concern the moment you left the rejuvenator.”
“Will you at least tell me what the Department is saying about all this?” Timothy pressed.
“In what sense?”
“Is my being 'Timothy' again a problem?”
Mister Titus shook his head. “It won't be. There may be some questions, but I am confident we will settle them all promptly. Relax, young man. If you want something to fret over, fret over finding your new parents! I'm sure you have someone in mind?”
The Karrian boy flashed a shy grin at the question. “I was considering you.”
“I don't have a parenting license.” Titus shot back.
“You don't need one. You only need someone to vouch for you, and there's no shortage of people in who'll do that for us!”
The pale Roferian shook his head as a disbelieving snicker escaped his lips. “It would certainly make for an interesting decade. But if we do this, we do it right.”
“Yes, daddy!” Timothy responded with exaggerated glee.
“Daddy?” Titus' disgust was palpable. “Call me that again and you'll feel the Mother's Claw!”

Once safely back on Halkat, having taken sufficient time to recover from the shuttle ride – although  Timothy noted, Titus took no issue with vehicles that stayed close to ground level – they began the final leg of their journey, back to Northrock. They arrived on a cold and gloomy afternoon, not to Titus' home but to Northrock Correctional Elementary. “Why are we stopping here?” the boy asked.
“Something you ought to see, that's all. I was told about it while making your arrangements. Come on in, we're expected.”
The school security let them in without comment. Lights flickered into life as they walked the halls and died in their wake, a moving island of light in the darkened building. The halls may have seemed larger than he remembered, but Timothy had walked this school for most of a century. He knew they were heading towards his old office. He could have found the way blindfolded.
There were a pair of chains across his door. They were made of paper, stuck up with suction cups, and used to hang a plethora of children's pictures and hand-made cards. Flowers, both real and crafted, sat in amateur-made, hand painted vases, likely made in the school's art room. More letters were scattered around them.
“The rumour mill beat us home by a country mile,” Mister Titus said. “The social networks caught wind of the attack, and span the story you were dead. The school tried to clamp down and insisted no official statements had been made, but by then the memorial had started. When they learned that 'Hal' was gone, they had no idea what to say or do. It was decided, either way, to let the students grieve. After all, many would be robbed of their favourite teacher for entire cycles of their sentence no matter what you chose to do.”
Timothy had begun to read the cards while Titus spoke, his young lip trembling as he absorbed the simple outpourings of emotion. Even if it was often framed in shallow, selfish terms, declaring him as 'The only teacher who was never mean to me' or 'You let us have fun when nobody else did', it all meant more to him than he could ever have imagined.
Then he found the card he'd been searching for. It was made of simple grey card, edged in blue, with subtle discolourations that might have been where salty tears had dripped upon the paper. As a final touch, the card was of irregular shape so that it could be easily sealed with a length of tape. MR HACHI'S EYES ONLY scrawled along the tape as a tamper-proof seal, still unbroken. He ran a claw along that seal, clutched the letter in his trembling grip, and read the private words aloud.
“My dearest Timmy, for I am certain that is who you were,

I struggle to believe that I went so long without seeing the obvious truth. It was only when you spoke to me after my outburst at Mister Titus that I saw what had been right there in front of me all those decades. I don't know for certain why you hid yourself from me, but I understand why you did. In a way, I am glad you did because it allowed you to be so much more than the boy I loved: you became a mentor, a guardian, a kindly old grandfather who let a silly little fox have more fun than she ought to in a place too often devoid of it.

It let me love you in ways I never thought I could.

I will treasure the memory of you always.

All my love, Isabelle.”

The letter fell from his claws, his fingers no longer able to hold the page. Timothy staggered back until he hit the opposite wall and wept, overcome with more emotion than his new, adolescent form could cope with. Mister Titus knelt beside him, offering a shoulder for him to use as he needed. When the crying had stopped, Timothy wiped his snout with a sleeve and recovered Isabelle's farewell letter. “I need to see her. Right now.”
“We will go home first and I will call her parents. That'll give you some time to wash your face and plan what you're going to say to her.” Mister Titus smirked as he took Timothy's free claw. “I take it we won't be seeing much of 'Hal' again any time soon?”
“I don't know yet. Ask me again if I live through the reunion...”

EPILOGUE:

Cpt_Greyscale: Greetings, Earthlings!

No idea when you'll get this message. Never tried running this kind of peer-to-peer app across interplanetary distances before. I bet the lag time is going to be massive! Considered poking the local white hats to see what they could do but then thought better of it – too easily taken the wrong way!

Soooooo... coming back to Northrock was fun. Everyone's been super supportive, especially Isabelle! No fairytale ending for us, but it's not like we're on bad terms. We're just.. fwends. Very good fwends. >:3

Sorry, I know, that was NWATS! Do young people even say that anymore? Oh no, I need to learn a whole new youth culture! Again! Sooooooob!

I've moved in with Tobias (I can call him that, YOU have to call him 'Mister Titus' or he'll come all the way back to Earth to tan your butts!) and he'll be looking after me. Not sure I want to be 'looked after', but he's put his foot down that I have to act my age. That means I'm allowed one grown-up thing that's mine, and everything else has to be childish. I picked being the assistant to the new head of House Sea Fox. Who's that? Not decided yet. I told them who I want, but it's not my call. Office politics, yadda yadda yadda.

But hey, the group chat's here! Drop a wave to let me know you both got this! Don't worry about keeping me in the loop with all your goings on – just wave whenever you have the urge. Oh! I did bargain you guys one message each! Post it here and I'll pass it on to your Northrock pals. They won't be able to message back, but I know them all so well I bet I can guess what they'd say! Definitely will be me guessing, and not acting as a go-between, nooooot at all! ;)

On a more serious note, I just wanted to pass something on to both of you. I think it might be preying on Richter's mind especially, but this is just as much for you, Zachary: I was wrong. I didn't have to become Hal to start over. Everyone here has been more supportive than I ever imagined – and by here I mean Halkat, not just Northrock! Nobody cares I used to be a pirate – all anyone talks about is how we almost died saving a child's life. I honestly don't remember anything about the incident, so I don't know if I actually did anything to help you...

Point is, one day people will say the names 'Richter Saccard' and 'Zachary Weiler' with pride, and think only of the kind deeds you have done for others. Those days must seem an eternity away, but take it from someone with first hand experience – it's far, far closer than you think.

Take care.

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