by Van ©2022
		Epilogue

SIX MONTHS AFTER
LORI & HEIDI's KIDNAPPING & RESCUE
Lewis & Clark University

---

Preliminary planning to build a standalone annex next to the F.E. Campbell Library to house the Raffish Archives had already been underway for more than two years before the "unfortunate incident" involving Professor Ryder and her TA.  The new building would free up much needed space in the main library for expansion of the regular stacks.  Therefore, when the now famous Toland of Consett Collection dropped into the University's proverbial lap, together with the other valuable materials "bequeathed" by Peyton Frazier, the building project shifted into high gear.  In fact it was expanded and was moving forward with exceptional speed.  An architect had already been hired, the size of the new building doubled to include the new material, and a state-of-the-art, semi-robotic/semi-automated conservation lab added (courtesy of a generous grant from the Salamandras Corporation), as well as office and research space for resident and visiting scholars.  The groundbreaking ceremony was less than three months away and, thanks to revolutionary new prefab building techniques (another contribution by Salamandras Inc.), the finished building would be ready for occupancy by early next year!

The Regents, University President, and various Deans were well aware of the questionable provenance of some of the new acquisitions, but international investigations were continuing, nothing was being hidden and not even a hint of scandal had touched the University.  Lewis & Clark was helping fix the mess, not seen as exploiting Peyton Frazier's alleged crimes.  And while Frazier's reputation had always been somewhat sketchy, when the extent to which her acquisitions had been looted or pilfered came fully into light, it was now in a complete shambles.

The kidnapping of Professor Ryder and her student, however, was a closely held secret known by only a handful of the Lewis & Clark faculty and staff.  As far as the world at large was concerned, Peyton Frazier had suffered a sudden bout of ethics and morality, donated her entire ill gotten collection to the University, then released a press statement announcing she was entering a convent, and had disappeared.  Law enforcement agencies from several countries were anxious for her to "help with their inquiries."

Professor Lori Ryder continued her study of Toland's "newly discovered" writings.  Scientific forensic analysis, which was being systematically verified by reputable outside sources, had already established the materials' authenticity, and Lori's first paper on the "discoveries" had caused a firestorm in the scholarly community.  And she'd barely scratched the surface.  Professor Ryder was already at work on a book, as well as several more papers.  And between commuting between her cottage, the Lewis & Clark campus, and SIAS (the temporary home of the collection while the Raffish Building was under construction (or assembled) Lori was keeping very busy.  She had her new research responsibilities, as well as her already demanding teaching and departmental duties—but Doc was never too busy for her favorite (and at the moment only) graduate student.

"Hidee-ho, Heidi Haas!" Lori beamed as she strode into her campus office, removed her coat, and hung it from the clothes tree next to the door.  Underneath, she was wearing one of her collection of "Professor Uniforms," as Heidi had dubbed them.  All were stylish, semi-expensive, not unattractive, and typical of the one or two piece ensembles one might expect to be worn by a successful woman confidently striding the sidewalks of Manhattan, London, or Paris.  And, in Heidi and her fellow students' opinion, Lori looked stunning in every one (although she didn't seem to know it).

Heidi made the obligatory response of "What's up, Doc?" and watched as Doc carried her briefcase/laptop-bag to her desk, gazed at her perpetually full in-basket, heaved a sigh, and settled into her throne-like chair.  Heidi was wearing a stylish dress of her own, one of several such outfits gifted to her by "Jane" and the Sisterhood (of which she was now a Probationary Junior Member).  She was also enjoying the security of a generous stipend, her salary as a SIAS Research Associate and Fellow of the new Toland of Consett Institute.  The financial security provided was unusual for a graduate student, but with the many hours per week she spent helping Doc create the Institute in question, Heidi earned every penny. 

The new situation did have its downside.  As Heidi could no longer plead poverty, Doc insisted she "dress like the scholar that she was" at all times  That meant poor Heidi's days of slouching around campus in a pair of stylishly but ratty jeans were over (mostly).  At the moment, dressed in a pretty black and white sheath-dress and sensible sneakers, she was seated at a work table off to the side of the office and grading a still depressingly tall stack of papers written by the students of Doc's current senior/graduate level course: The Angevin Kings of England and the Evolution of the Monarchical State.  The fun never ended.

Meanwhile, Lori read (scanned) the top paper in her in-basket, a memo to the entire faculty from the less than technologically savvy Dean of Humanities.  It reminded everyone what University forms were required to be filed by what date to ensure that... important things happened.  And this was despite the fact that the entire Lewis & Clark bureaucracy had been fully automated for more than a decade and was being managed by an AI that should have (and actually did) handle all bureaucratic tasks and reduced the duties of all the Deans to their actual leadership roles.  Lori rolled her eyes, relegated the memo to the green recycling bin next to the trashcan, then focused on Heidi... who was diligently grading the no doubt fascinating paper before her.

Lori cleared her throat.  "Uh... Heidi?"

Heidi scrawled something in the margin of the page, then smiled.  "Uh... Doc?"

"We're both invited to a barbecue at Professor Webbel's house Saturday afternoon," Lori stated.

Heidi frowned.  "Webbel?"  Her smile returned.  "Oh, 'Webbel-Wobble'.  Computer Science.  Well... have fun."  She flipped the page and resumed reading, then her frown returned.  "Wait.  'We?'  I'm invited too?"

Lori's smile widened and she tugged her right earlobe with her right hand, then casually tapped her right palm on her chest, just above her breasts.

Heidi blinked, but managed to otherwise act nonchalant.  The tug-and-tap was one of the Sisterhood's Secret Recognition Signals!  She scribbled a brief comment and grade on the front cover of the paper, then tossed it on the "graded" stack.  "Uh... who else will be there?"

"Faculty and Staff of the University," Lori answered, "all of whom you need to meet."

Sisters! Heidi surmised (meaning assumed).

"And you should be warned," Lori continued, "they'll all be very curious about all the juicy details of... shall we say... how we came to meet Jane."

Heidi's eyes widened.  "Oh.  Really?"  Juicy?

Lori's smile widened.  At times Heidi could be quite adorable, and this was one such time.  "Really," she confirmed.  I just wanted you to be prepared.  There's no need to bring anything."

Heidi frowned.  "Not even a bag of chips?"

"You can if you like," Lori answered, "but it isn't really necessary.  I think it will be an interesting evening."

"Uh, yeah... sure."  Heidi returned to grading the papers.  She was only halfway done, it was her duty to give each and every one its fair share of her attention (no matter how poorly written and with questionable insight), and they were due to be handed back in two days, and Doc needed time to review them and affirm her assigned grade.  Barbecue, she mused as she read, with Sisters.  I wonder who'll they be?
 
Meanwhile (still smiling) Lori had returned to emptying her in-basket.  What Heidi didn't know was that the barbecue would not only be a delicious meal and a fun party, but her introduction to the University Sisters' Fun-with-Rope Circle, and if she was deemed worthy (and interested), her initiation.  Lori had little doubt Heidi would be accepted, and her student was fully capable of appreciating the difference between consensual albeit unconventional fun and non-consensual, involuntary bondage.  Heidi had already passed the Circle's vetting process, and Lori was sure her fellow Circle Sisters would handle Heidi's inception with aplomb.  After all, Lori herself had been initiated only a month earlier, and had vivid memories of the skill and ease with which her Sisters had eased her into the Circle.

By all appearances, Lori was reading another memo, this one announcing several upcoming symposia, but she kept stealing glances at Heidi as her TA diligently graded papers.  The little scamp has no idea what she's in for, Lori mused, but then, neither do Cynthia and the rest of my new Circle Sisters.  She watched as Heidi finished grading another paper, assigned a preliminary mark, tossed it on the "Graded" pile... sighed... and reached for another.

She's so strong, Lori thought, surreptitiously watching her beloved student.  The poor kid has weathered a truly horrid experience, but her future looks to be quite bright... and interesting.

MEANWHILE
On Damosel Island...

---

Two exceptionally beautiful women entered the "Evil Petting Zoo," a large, open-sided shed sheltering a row of a dozen steel cages.  Also under the shade of the roof were a pair of café tables, each with four chairs, and a small serving table off to one side.  In addition, between the cages and the tables was a row of three armatures or frameworks, each with dangling medical-style straps and restraints suitable for securing large, uncooperative "animals" so their furry bodies could be intimately examined by visiting guests.  The floor was neatly raked sand and the shed itself was part of a compound of mostly adobe buildings near a semi-dilapidated white Victorian mansion somewhat overgrown with tropical vines and in need of fresh paint.  The entire complex was surrounded by lush green jungle, but a pleasant stretch of sandy beach and a turquoise lagoon were visible beyond a modest grove of coconut palms.

Annie Wersching as...       Edith Stanton, M.D. Former "Mad Doctor." Now a Sisterhood "Associate."

Tricia Helfer as...         Bebee Bonde, M.D. The former "Doctor Bondage." Now a Sisterhood "Associate."

The women were both wearing bikinis under unbuttoned white lab coats.  Their feet were bare.  One was a redhead, with green eyes and and an abundance of freckles.  The other was a blonde, with blue eyes and deeply tanned skin.  Their hair was loose about their shoulders and, as previously mentioned, they were exceptional beauties.  They padded down the row of cages, their lab coats parting and exposing their fit, firm, athletic and very curvaceous bodies.  Their smiling faces were focused on the occupants of the cages.

The occupants in question were all female and human... or at least they had started out human.  All were covered with fur, had paws instead of hands, most had swishing tails, and all had surgically altered ears, noses, and other features!  The Evil Petting Zoo was a menagerie of medical/zoological atrocities!  The horrid spectacle was not only medically unethical and grossly illegal, but the estate of H.G. Wells, the author of The Island of Dr. Moreau, was not being paid royalties!

It was all an illusion, of course.  The furry pelts were, in point of fact, costumes.  The altered visages were masks (full head masks), the paws bondage mitts, and the tails were mechanical.  The anthropomorphic beasts were all either Damosel Island employees rotating through what they called "Furry Duty," or island guests who had been "volunteered" by their alleged friends to serve a few days (or weeks) as caged human/animal hybrids.

To prevent them from "harming themselves" (meaning their costumes) the experimental subjects were all restrained in some manner.  Leather harnesses with locking buckles were a common method, as well as heavy duty canvas straitjackets (tailored to show the maximum amount of the wearer's furry anatomy, of course).  And the costumes included elements that were intrinsically restrictive, like the paw/bondage-mitts or the gag-muzzles of their species-specific masks.  In all cases, the animals' human voices were silenced, thanks to the thick obedience collars locked around their furry necks.  The collars not only punished any attempt on the wearers' parts to speak, but converted the resulting noise to the appropriate animal sounds.

In point of fact, there was an actual research program in progress, but it wasn't in unethical medicine or unscrupulous zoology, but rather in Materials Science.  Since opening approximately twenty-five years ago, the Evil Petting Zoo costumes had improved in leaps and bounds in terms of durability, realism, and "comfort".  The current mammal costumes could be worn for days at a time without causing rashes or any other problems.  The underlying body stockings allowed the skin to breathe and sweat to wick onto the "fur", and were completely washable while being worn, of course.  The adhesives used to glue strategic elements in place (like the fur of the breast cups around the margins of the areolae and the slit in the crotch around the anus and genitalia were hypoallergenic and durable, yet easily removed with the appropriate solvent.  And the appearance of the pile threads woven into the fabric of the underlying suits was getting more like realistic fur with every improvement.  Finally, the computer programs simulating the realistic swinging and twitching of the various forms of robotic tail were also showing great progress.

Fitting an individual subject into a specific costume was an involved process that could take up to two hours and started in one of the compound's "surgical suites" with the soon-to-be animal naked, strapped to a steel table, gagged, and (in the case of any guest volunteers who weren't in on the "joke") terrified.  They were sedated... and awoke in a post-op cage as a cat-girl, dog-girl, fox-girl, etc.  Their reactions to their new condition were usually... interesting... meaning highly entertaining (in a sadistic sort of way).  Even when they knew they were "only" trapped in a costume, helplessly restrained, locked in a cage, and hadn't been surgically altered into a cross-species freak they were fun to watch.

The blonde and redhead doctors in the bikinis and lab coats smiled and greeted each of their subjects as they padded down the row.

"Good morning, Emily," the blonde purred to the calico cat-girl in the first cage.  "Chin up.  Only one week to go, then it's back to the castle."

"Cheryl," the redhead greeted the occupant of the second cage.  Cheryl was, apparently, some species of New World Monkey, with wide rings of white fur around her eyes, a furry white belly (except for her exposed nipples), grey-brown fur overall, and a long tail then twitched as she lay in her cage and sullenly stared at the passing doctors.

The lab-coated "professionals" passed a she-wolf... a black cat... a poodle with curly white fur (and big breasts)... a red fox... continued past three unoccupied cages... then arrived at the twelfth and final cage.  It was occupied by a Red Panda, a raccoon-like mammal with brick-red fur that darkened to black on all four limbs, a long, fluffy, striped tail, and a round face with a short white muzzle and cheeks.  There was also white fur around her eyes, dark teardrop-shaped patches under her eyes, and red ears trimmed with white.  Actual red pandas are universally acknowledged as being incredibly cute, and this particular human/panda hybrid was doing a credible job of upholding that tradition.

"Good morning, Peyton," the blonde purred.  "Your 'restorative surgery' will be after lunch."

Restorative surgery meant the red panda (who was actually Peyton Frazier in involuntary disguise) would be dragged from her cage by a couple of the the clinic's strong and well trained "Nurses" (all of whom were actual Registered Nurses and wore skimpy "native" costumes), taken to one of the compound's Surgical Suites, strapped to a steel table, and anesthetized with "sleepy-gas."  While she was out, her costume would be carefully removed and set aside to be examined for wear and tear, then Peyton herself would be examined... in detail... every square inch of her naked skin.  Then, she would be wet down, scrubbed clean, and would begin her "post-op regimen."

This would be the third time Peyton had cosplayed as a red panda, each episode seven days in length and spent either languishing in her cage, being taken for "walkies" down the beach and jungle trails around the Mad Doctors' Clinic, or helplessly strapped down on one of the wooden frameworks while the redhead and blonde "Mad Doctors" sipped tea and watched their elegantly attired guests stroke and pet her fur and coo about how "cute" and "adorable" she was.  Sometimes, the guests in question were high-ranking "Natives" in flowing feather and/or silk capes and elaborate headdresses of feathers, fur, and seashells.  Sometimes they were Victorian/Edwardian women in long tea-gowns of lightweight fabrics appropriate for the climate, expensive and custom-tailored khaki bush costumes, or white linen suits.  And there was a third category: Female Buccaneers in exotic outfits mixed and matched from different cultures, but always rakish, daring, and showing a lot of skin.  The Mad Doctors' guests would also examine (meaning grope and goose) Peyton's nipples and private parts, using feathers and various phallic objects thoughtfully provided by their hostesses.  Usually, Peyton was brought to one or even two orgasms, but she was never allowed to partake in the delicious tea and dainty sandwiches on the venue's side table.

And now, Peyton was learning that her third week-long stint as an involuntary human/red-panda hybrid was coming to an end.  Unfortunately, this wasn't exactly good news.  Since coming to the "Clinic" she'd been either helpless and caged with her hands trapped in inescapable furry bondage mitts, or, when not caged, bound with rope or some sort of leather harness and still silenced by the shock-collar around her neck.  She was kept bound in some manner during daylight hours and locked in a bed-cage at night.  The Doctors (who, according to the Native Nurses actually were Medical Doctors) had both agreed that Peyton looked her best in freckles and therefore prescribed lots of exposure to the tropical sun.  Peyton often found herself spreadeagled on the sand near the beach, sometimes face-up and sometimes face-down, her body passing in and out of the shade of nearby the palm trees as the sun moved across the cerulean sky.  Sunscreen was always applied and studiously replenished every couple of hours.  As a result, Peyton was covered with freckles as never before, except for narrow bands of pale, pink, freckle-free skin around her wrists, ankles, and neck.

Prior to her transfer to the Clinic, Peyton had been incarcerated in the "Queen's Castle" a few miles up the coast.  There, she'd spent many, many hours naked, bound in chains, and incarcerated in a dank dungeon, only be taken out to be interrogated about her finances and illegal collecting activities, still naked and in chains, and in an actual torture chamber with a rack, horse, St. Andrew's cross, etc.  She was never actually tortured, per se, but in retrospect she realized the venue had strongly encouraged her to cooperate with her captors, and she had.

And then, after signing a flurry of legal documents, Peyton was transferred from the Castle to the Clinic.  Naked, bound, gagged, and tethered to the back of one of the island's peculiar Steampunk Jeeps, she'd stumbling down a sandy, unimproved track surrounded by jungle to her current location... and the nightmare continued.

"Breakfast?" the blonde doctor asked her companion.

"Of course," the redhead purred.  "Down by the beach?  We can swim afterwards."

The barefoot, bikini-and-lab coat-clad duo then padded from the Petting Zoo and disappeared down a jungle path.

Peyton-the-red-panda and her fellow involuntary human/animal hybrids remained behind.  They'd already had their breakfasts: oatmeal seasoned with ground up nuggets of animal chow force-fed through their muzzles and down their throats by two of the Native Nurses.

It was another balmy, lazy day at the Mad Doctors' Clinic on Damosel Island.

MEANWHILE
@ the Sisterhood's Action Directorate Academy
Somewhere in Central Asia

---

Cobie Smulders as...       Frankie Decker Agent of the Sisterhood's Action Directorate.

Frankie Decker, former investigative journalist and now full-fledged Agent of the Sisterhood's Action Directorate, padded down the dimly lit basement corridor of the Academy training complex.  She was dressed in the all-black "Casual Uniform" usually worn by Agents cycling through the Academy for Refresher Training (aka Ref-Tra).  It consisted of a pair of skintight, full-length, yoga-style exercise pants, and a sleeveless blouse, both woven in ballistic rip-stop patterns from the same synthetic material; but while the pants were stretchy and hugged Frankie's legs like spandex, the blouse was merely close-fitting and resembled washed silk.  Her feet were bare (the instructors being big on Agents having tough soles) and her gleaming brown tresses were loose about her shoulders, framing her unarguably beautiful face.

There were other uniforms in the closet back at Frankie's student quarters, including a camouflage spandex catsuit that included combat boots, knee and elbow pads, long sleeves, and a full hood that revealed only her eyes.  It was for field exercises in the surrounding wilderness.  There were also stunningly beautiful formal gowns and a variety of other civilian outfits.  An Agent needed to be able to infiltrate any occasion while still being able to defend herself and deal with her assigned target(s).

As per Ref-Tra protocol, there were no weapons or escape aids hidden anywhere on Frankie's person.  If ambushed or otherwise attacked, Frankie would have to rely on her combat skills and any found/improvised weapons to defend herself.  At the moment she was performing a follow-up on to her last scheduled combat exercise, but she remained fully alert and as ready as she could be for any unscheduled exercises that might spontaneously manifest themselves.  Playing dirty tricks on the students was part of the Academy's curriculum, both for Ref-Tra agents like Frankie and Cadets who hadn't yet graduated.

Frankie finally reached her destination, one of the several steel doors set in the concrete walls on either side of the corridor.  The biometric panel to the door's right recognized her thumb print, the "L"-shaped handle turned in her hand, drawing the bolt—Thunk!—and she entered the cell beyond.

Kassidy Roth was waiting.  Waiting was her only option.

A little more than an hour earlier, Frankie and Kassidy had fought in a nearby indoor arena.  Participating in the combat exercise hadn't been an option for Kassidy either.  Both contestants had been naked and unarmed, if you didn't count the single coils of conditioned hemp cord in their right hands.  The only rule was that neither fighter should cut, bite, bruise, or otherwise intentionally injure the other.  Kassidy had learned early in her new "career" as a Convict of the Sisterhood that violations of arena protocol meant serious punishment.  Of course, losing a match meant punishment as well, only not nearly as extreme or prolonged.

Kassidy was good.  She knew it, the Students and Staff of the Academy knew it, and they treated her with respect in the ring.

Frankie was good as well.  She wasn't the Academy's most skilled expert in unarmed combat, far from it, but she was good, very good.

It had taken approximately fifteen minutes of sparring and rolling on the sand floor for Frankie to best her opponent, but in the end she triumphed.  Both fighters had been panting, sweaty, and liberally soiled with sand, but Frankie was smiling.  Kassidy was not.  Also, the defeated Convict was tied up, and Frankie had used both coils of cord.  Kassidy's wrists were crossed behind her back and against her shoulder blades, and held in place by a single-strand kimono-harness that passed through her armpits, yoked her shoulders, passed above her breasts in front, and pinned her wrists to her spine.  In addition, her ankles were crossed and lashed together with the second cord.  She lay on her side in the sand and watched Frankie stretch and brush the sand from her glistening skin.

Suddenly, a melodic bell chimed and a disembodied voice spoke.  "Agent Decker, stand for inspection."

Frankie stood upright with her arms extended to either side and slowly turned in a full circle.  She knew the cameras mounted near the ceiling on all four walls and corners were focused on her sweaty, filthy, victorious self.

"Is that a bruise on your right thigh, Agent Decker?" the referee in the control booth inquired.

Frankie smiled at Kassidy.  This was an offer on the referee's part.  It was now up to Frankie whether Kassidy should be punished more than she would already be for having lost the match.  Frankie let a few seconds pass before answering... keeping Kassidy in suspense.  "I think I got that during yesterday's field exercise.  It's minor."

"Free-climbing?" the unseen referee asked.

Frankie nodded.  "Free-climbing."

"Very well.  Proceed with target disposition."

Kassidy wasn't gagged, but she knew better than to swear and complain about her situation.  She did glower in sullen defeat as Frankie heaved her onto her right shoulder and carried her from the field of battle.  Their first destination was a rudimentary shower room where Frankie used a hose to rinse off both her "target" and herself.  Now, with both women drenched and dripping wet but mostly sand-free, Frankie once again picked up her helpless, naked burden and carried Kassidy to the designated punishment cell.

In the cell, several coils of hemp rope were waiting, and Frankie proceeded to change Kassidy's bonds, crafting a stringent shrimp-tie.  Kassidy's legs were now crossed in a rope-enforced lotus—her upper body bound in an elaborate box-tie with her wrists crossed and raised as they had been by the capture-cord in the arena—and bent forward at the waist in a full crunch enforced by ropes passing behind her neck and tied through the front of her box-tie.  Her former cord bonds had been removed, of course, and as per Academy protocol, Frankie had made sure Kassidy remained helpless and safely managed throughout the change of bondage.

Frankie then made her exit, closing the cell door behind her.  It locked with an authoritative thunk!  And now, after a real shower with soap and shampoo, her hair dried and brushed, and changed into her black Ref-Tra uniform, Frankie was back.

Kassidy lifted her head and frowned at the triumphant Agent.  She'd been a sparring opponent for the Sisterhood's Action Directorate bitches long enough to realize it was unusual for Frankie to have returned at all.  Usually, it was what she thought of as her "Handlers" who would release her from her post-match punishment... and in any case, it was a little early for her to be untied.

"The 'Shrinks' asked me to talk to you," Frankie explained.  "I assume it's part of my refresher training, even though Psychology isn't by specialty."

Ask me if I care, Kassidy fumed silently.  She knew to keep her mouth shut until asked a direct question that required an actual answer.

Frankie heaved a sigh.  "Anyway... I know you're not enjoying yourself."

Kassidy continued to glower.  No, ya think?

"If you'd agree to let the head doctors continue talking to you," Frankie stated, "and convince them you're making a sincere effort to participate... eventually things could get better."

Yeah, right.  However, it occurred to Kassidy that maybe she could trick the shrinks.  It might be worth a try.

"And don't think you can play them," Frankie purred, as if reading Kassidy's mind.  "The Academy's head-doctors are the best there are.  You won't fool them, and if they think you're being purposely non-receptive, your situation could get worse... a lot worse.  And it might be several months before they let you try again."

Kassidy heaved a sigh of her own.

"Well, think about it," Frankie said, then turned and padded from the cell, closing the door behind her.  Thunk!

Kassidy heaved another sigh, then gave her bonds an exploratory struggle.  None of the ropes shifted or loosened.  Soon, probably, a couple of Handlers would show up and untie her... maybe in another hour.  And then she'd be fed, and she had to admit he food at the Academy was pretty good... even for Convicts.  The continual training and fighting wasn't bad either.  Kassidy liked being fit.  On the other hand the intermittent bondage sucked, especially since she had yet to win a match and was never the one that got to do the tying.

In any case, Kassidy wasn't ready to have her head shrunk, that was for damn sure, and that Frankie-bitch had probably been right about her not being able to fool the Academy's psychiatrists, or psychologists, or whatever was printed on their diplomas.  In any case, Kassidy wasn't ready to have her mind remade.  She didn't want to change her wicked ways.  Kassidy liked her wicked ways.

What she didn't like, however, was that Frankie-bitch's version of the shrimp-tie.  It was definitely punishment.

		Scads of Extra Credit	Epilogue
		& The Story	Entire
		The	End

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