I must have been out for some time. When I finally opened my eyes, it was pitch black inside the old plane and there were little streams of water making their way down the walls of the rusty fuselage. I assumed that the storm had lasted for more than 6 hours because all the lights were out (so the backup batteries must have died). I couldn't see anything and I wasn't really even sure what had happened. After a few minutes, I began to feel more alert. In fact, I felt unusually alert and quickly turned around to look behind me. I could see the faint outline of a tail swishing back and forth in the near-darkness and I assumed that Nairobi must have been there. I reached over to pet him and I jumped up in shock. I realized that Nairobi was nowhere to be found and that the tail I had reached for was my own.

I tried to remain calm but it didn't work. I managed to stand up straight and as soon as I could balance on my four legs, I ran to the opposite end of the plane. I probably looked ridiculous, or terrifying... I never knew which. After lighting a candle which was affixed to the distorted wall at the end of the plane, I started, noticing a clawed hand holding the match. I took a few steps toward the mirror (almost tripping over my own legs again) and saw the same foxtaur from last time.

“At least I'm not dead...” I said nervously, trailing off.

I was surprised that I could even talk. In fact, I was really surprised that I still sounded the same. The reddish colored foxtaur was staring back at me through the mirror. I was roughly the same height as before, although my once dirty blond hair had been replaced by red fur. My ears were now pointed and had a black tint (they were also very wilty, probably because I was upset) and I had all of the markings of an ordinary Red Fox. This seemed strange since Nairobi was definitely not a Red Fox, although I wasn't sure which variety he belonged to. I sat on my haunches in front of the battered desk realizing that my notes from earlier were still strewn about. In fact (as usual), it looked like a tornado had made its way through the fuselage. There were damaged monitors and various devices strewn about on shelves and other makeshift surfaces. On top of the equipment, there was an almost impermeable layer of papers. There were diagrams and equations, charts and journals that seemed to be evenly distributed over everything. I realized just how messy I had become since arriving on the island. Suddenly, I heard a soft “thunk” ring through the plane that startled me out of my dazed state. I became nervous again. Nairobi had just jumped down from a hiding place (he must have been behind some boxes on one of my shelves). The little fox approached me. He spoke first.

“D...Doctor? Do you recognize me?” he said, very nervously.

Although I would later feel flattered that he called me by my proper title, I found the fact that a fox had just spoken to me very disturbing. I jumped to all fours and tried to back away from him, accidentally knocking the mirror off the wall. A shower of glass made its way across the room. I ended up backing completely into a corner and growling out of instinct (apparently I now had instincts). Then, Nairobi did something that amazed me. He continued to approach, ever so carefully.

“Doc?..... Don't hurt me. It's OK. Doc?” He said.
“Get away from me!” I shouted, through my gritted teeth.

I must have been hysterical from the stress. Looking back, I am glad that I was able to remain rational enough no to hurt Nairobi. I don't think he realized that I was in dire psychological condition even before turning myself into a foxtaur. I wasn't even sure of my own sanity. He spoke again.

“Doc. It's me, Nairobi.” He whimpered.

I finally managed to snap out of it. I stopped growling and just stared at him for a while. He made the mistake of trying to approach me again.

“Hold it! You'd better answer a few questions right now.” I shouted.
“What's the matter?” He said softly. I lost it again.
“WHAT'S THE MATTER?!?!? HAVE YOU HAD A GOOD LOOK AT ME? I APPEAR TO BE HAVING SOME DIFFICULTIES, ALRIGHT?” I screamed.
“It's OK. You don't look that bad. Honest.” He replied.
“ARE YOU KIDDING? I'M SOME KIND OF FOX CREATURE? HOW CAN THIS BE GOOD FOR ME?” I shouted, even more loudly than before.
“But Doc. I thought you were going to die. That's why I gave you the answer.” He said. I became intrigued.
“Wait a minute. You knew about the algorithm? Your the reason I figured it out so quickly?” I replied.
“Yes.” He said. “I knew it would have taken you months to figure it out on your own. I thought you would have been more careful with it.”
One thing was really bothering me. “Hold on...” I thought for a moment. “If you're some kind of magical talking fox whose got all the answers, why didn't you just TELL ME to be careful?”
He looked really upset. “I... I don't know. I was never supposed to tell anyone what I was. I was just nervous, but I didn't want you to die Dr. Moreau...” he added, dejectedly.

I was starting to feel terrible. Nairobi wasn't a monster. After all the years we had spent together, I was tearing him apart and as it turned out, I was not the only resident of La Isla who encountered a personal struggle from time to time. For the last couple of decades, he had been dying to talk to me (figuratively) and I had been dying to talk to him (literally). This had not exactly been an ideal first encounter. After a few thoughtful moments, I softened my expression. I took a step forward and picked him up.

“We've got a lot to catch up on, huh?” I said, sounding relieved.
“Should I go first?” He asked.
“I would appreciate that.” I answered.

As it turned out, on that dark and forbidding night, Nairobi finally spilled the beans. His life story was both sad and lengthy, therefore I will not go to the trouble to recount it entirely. In short, Nairobi described himself as the last living descendant of a long line of Kitsune. Over the centuries, Kitsune had become genetically diluted and as a result, Nairobi was nothing more than a talking fox with an interesting family tree. I would have considered this claim utterly ridiculous, but for my present condition. He told me all about the ancient and majestic Kitsune of Japan and the wondrous things they were said to have done. I was absolutely sure (whether he knew it or not) that he was exaggerating, but I listened on. Toward the end of his story, things seemed much more credible.

Apparently, during a political upheaval that occurred some time ago in Japan, Nairobi was discovered by an eccentric researcher named Dr. Feng. Hold on, there was something unusual about that name.

“Wait a minute.” I said. “Do you mean Dr. Masaharu Feng?”
“Yes. That's him. Why?” Nairobi replied.
“Well, let's just say that I went to college with a man named Dr. Feng.” I said.
“Were you friends?” He asked.
“Um... not exactly... I mean, Masaharu was a nice man, but I ceased to have professional contact with him during my Junior year.” I answered.
“Why was that?” He asked, looking puzzled.
“Well, I'm a bit embarrassed to say this now, but I really did believe that he was crazy.” I said.

I laughed a little and promised that if I ever saw Dr. Feng again, I would apologize to him. Although absolutely brilliant, Feng had always seemed like a crackpot to me. On numerous occasions, I pleaded with him to give up his fascination with myths and legends and to pursue a respectable scientific career. His response was always the same: “Despite what you may believe, there is always truth in the untrue, and peace in the chaos.” After completing college, Feng returned to Japan and I never saw him again. It made me sad to think that I hadn't once considered his words. La Isla Vulpes had become my own “peace in the chaos” to a certain extent.

Although I must have been mumbling to myself, Nairobi continued his story unperturbed. Apparently, Dr. Feng had found him in a remote region of forest in the heart of northern Japan. Although Nairobi never spoke to him, Feng explained all of his research to the little fox. He had spent years following leads from ancient texts to pinpoint the most likely hiding place of the Kitsune. He even compulsively trapped and studied wild foxes, looking for clues. Nairobi could see that this bothered me and he assured me that all of the other foxes were freed. Feng must have completed genetic profiles of thousands of foxes, but Nairobi was different (this I knew). He also noticed the strange algorithm in Nairobi's DNA, but couldn't make any sense of it. Feng seemed to struggle with the idea of publishing his findings for some time. I can only assume (it was his nature) that Feng had made some powerful enemies in Japan. Nairobi described to me the last thing that Feng ever said to him:

“I don't know if you can understand me, little fox. But I know there is something unique about you. It has come to my knowledge that you are special in many ways, and I have concluded that I mustn't allow the scientific community to abuse you. Your past must forever remain secret. I am a fool of a scientist, for it is not the discovery that I love, it is the thrill of legend. The legend has become part of me and, you see, I can never let it die.”

Feng seemed to grow nervous. He even suspected that Japanese agents were after his research. Perhaps he had given up too much information in writings and seminars as Japan's leading expert in mythology. After hearing this story, I began to feel bad for Feng. We really did have a lot in common, having both been ousted from the scientific community. In fact, we both had our research stolen.

As time dragged on, Feng realized that his outlook was becoming increasingly grim. In an act of utter desperation, he brought Nairobi with him on a trip across the ocean, to a tiny little island he had discovered in his naturalistic studies. Feng was forced to leave Nairobi alone on the island, for fear of being followed. He believed that he had saved the last descendant of the Kitsune from a corrupted government. As I would discover later in my life, Feng was one of the only people alive who had ever set foot on La Isla Vulpes. It felt strange to think that some decades ago, another man had walked along the coast of my little island and stood, watching over it from the peak of its solitary cliff. Looking on the pained face of Nairobi, I could see that he was tired. After exhausting the rest of my beef jerky supply, I fell asleep with Nairobi laying across my side.

The next morning, I woke up to see that, ah yes, I was still covered in fur. It seemed that I always expected to wake up looking completely normal and to find out that I was nuts after all. I never fully understood Nairobi and his infatuation with sleep, but nonetheless I carefully transferred him to a cardboard box by my desk and walked out into the sunny morning. The storm must have been much worse than I thought because the island was a complete mess. Bits of debris had been flung all over the place amongst a few toppled trees. I made my way through the dense undergrowth, along the (now very wet) path, and up to the peak of the cliff. It occurred to me that I had never named my favorite spot on the entire island. After a few moments of contemplation, I decided to name it Nairobi's Point, since I was accustomed to naming things after him. I put my paws on the edge of the cliff and looked down. I could see the entire island, as well as the side of the cliff which was extremely muddy and rugged looking.

“It is your turn now, you know...” a voice said.

I was startled so badly that I almost fell off the 40 foot cliff. Nairobi had just snuck up behind me. After gathering myself, I spoke.

“What do you mean?” I said.
“Well, you did say that we had a lot to catch up on... and I have told you my life story...” He replied.

This made me uneasy. I really didn't want to talk about my life. Although I did tell Nairobi many things about myself and my professional career, I never actually told him why I was on the island. I said nothing to him and began to walk briskly back to my plane. He didn't leave me alone. When I made it back to the fuselage, I shot him a nasty look. He followed me inside anyway.

“I think you owe me an explanation.” He said.
“I owe you no such thing.” I replied. Nairobi looked at the rusted metal door at the end of the corridor-like space which I lived in.
“What's that?” He said.
“None of your business.”
“Oh Yeah?”
“Absolutely.”

Nairobi was determined to hear all about me even if he had to put himself in danger. He was always very stubborn that way. As he approached the weakened door I yelled to him.

“Stay away from there.”

He continued to move, and when he arrived at the door, he somehow managed to head butt it open and slip inside. I was furious at him for having invaded my privacy. I bolted through the door and leapt at him. We both landed hard on the cold metal floor and immediately looked at one thing in particular. Amongst rows and rows of supplies in this back end of the damaged plane, there was one steel girder sticking out of the floor at a grisly angle. On top of the beam were a wilted rose, and a note written in my handwriting. It read: “I will never forget you.” It was my only memory of Samantha, my best friend, coworker, and almost-wife. We were engaged when I was asked to relocate my studies to China. When the plane crashed, I watched her die, pinned against the wall by the very beam I was looking at now. I felt completely numb.

“Doc... I'm sorry... I didn't know...” Nairobi said. I'm sure he had seen Samantha's grave out in the woods. I was no longer mad at Nairobi, only myself. I thought about everything I had been through for a moment and finally decided to confide in him.
“Fine. You want to hear the whole story, you got it.” I said, and I proceeded to tell him the entire story of my life. He interrupted every now and then to make sure I was all right. The following is a short summary of my first 28 years as a thinker and recluse:

I was born in the Ardennes of France in the Winter of 1950 to Bayard and Linette Moreau. I was an unnaturally reclusive child. My mother was always easy on me because of my rare disease but I knew it was really in my nature to be less than personable. In 1956, my parents decided to move to the U.S. after my father's agricultural business had gone under. We were always very poor and I must have lived in 15 different states. Whenever things started to look grim, my parents would just pack up and head wherever the money supposedly was. As a child, my only distinguishing characteristic was my intelligence. At the age of 13, I had mastered calculus.

Although my future appeared to be quite bright, I was kicked out of my own home at eighteen (much to the dismay of my mother) by my father who disowned me for refusing to continue his tradition of entrepreneurship. I returned to France on my own and attended the College de Sorbonne, one of the most famous colleges in the country. This is where my short contact with Dr. Feng took place. I did not return to the U.S. until I turned 22, at which time my parents were living in Colorado. I quickly got a job as a lab assistant and purchased a home in Florida. One year later, I published a book called “Systeme Genetique” which was an attempt at breaking the study of genetics down into its constituent components. Shortly after writing this book, my professional career took off. I gained national notoriety and I thought that I just might have achieved my dream. I was all too wrong.

In 1973, I was approached by a top secret branch of the U.S. Government about my research. I remember vividly, being escorted via a bus with blacked-out windows, down a barren road to my job interview. I was led down a sterile corridor at a government compound to the desk of a man known as Robert McKinley. On this day, I did everything I could to impress McKinley. It was the worst mistake of my life. McKinley was a tall man who always wore a black suit. (I never saw him wear anything else.) He had a harsh face and watery blue eyes. His hair was of a faded red color and was always parted on the left. He really was a nasty man. Our first conversation exemplified this:

“You are going to make a very explicit decision within the next hour Mr. Moreau.” He said. He proceeded to hand me a questionnaire which asked some very personal questions.
“What seems to be the problem?” He said, after I spent a few moments looking puzzled.
“Is all this information really necessary?” I asked.
“It's not up to you to decide if it is necessary, Mr. Moreau...” He replied. This interview seemed more like a threat than an offer.

In short, McKinley bribed and bullied me into accepting a job with ENA (the name of the agency). I was forced to sign my life away to the U.S. Government. My social security number and related records were destroyed, I was presented with a badge, and I moved to a research facility in Idaho that was right near the border of Nevada. For the next five years, I rarely left the facility. I remember its dark, sterile halls well.

One great thing did happen to me during this time of my life. I met Samantha who was also an avid researcher. Although I appeared to be a couple of years younger than her, I was actually a bit older (due to my disease). We quickly became the best of friends and made sure to apply for positions on similar projects so that we would be able to work together. For two years of my life, I was truly happy. My mother even came down to Idaho and we met her in a hotel 40 miles from the compound. My father wasn't there, and I never saw him again.

At the end of these two years, the trouble started. I began to suspect ENA of supporting some very unethical studies involving animal testing as well as the development of biological and chemical weapons. It wasn't long before my suspicions were confirmed. I was brought aside from the general research center to work on a top secret project. For three years, I worked completely alone, developing a virus that I named “19” simply because upon being exposed to it, you had 19 hours to live. At the end of the three years, my worst nightmare was realized. McKinley approached me about testing 19. I was livid.

“Dammit Moreau! I don't care about the ethics involved!” He said, banging on my table.
“You can't just 'test' something like this, it's too dangerous!” I protested.
“I can, and I will. I don't make the rules Moreau. If the U.S. Government wants a biological weapon, then it's my job to make sure they get one.” He said.

Up to this point, I had been very foolish. I never really thought that 19 would be anything more than an idea, something to puzzle over that always remained on paper. I made the decision to betray my oath to McKinley and ENA. This was not a mistake. I secretly moved all of my research to a safety deposit box inside the Bank of Idaho. Something prevented me from destroying 3 years of work entirely. This was a grave mistake. When McKinley found out that the research was missing, his rage must have been indescribable.

Surprisingly, McKinley did not approach me after I committed this brash act. I simply received a letter that stated I was to be moved to a collaborative study in China and that the 19 project had been canceled. It was beyond me how the agency could just suddenly let things go. I had expected to go on trial, or even to go to jail, but I just couldn't live with having created the virus.

I never thought that the relocation to China could have been a trap, but it was. On April 17, 1978, I boarded a large army cargo plane headed for China, along with the love of my life (she had insisted on coming).

I sat nervously in my seat on the massive plane. Flying had always made me uncomfortable. I examined the huge interior of the fuselage. There were racks upon racks of scientific equipment chained to the floor along with some various supplies and rations. The plane really was equipped to set up an entire new facility in China. I suspected nothing. Samantha leaned against my shoulder and fell asleep. We had been engaged only weeks prior to the flight.

A few hours later, I was jolted awake by the most horrible noise I had ever beheld. The plane had begun to spiral downward and I could see flames erupting from the cockpit. I looked out the window and could see debris flying off the plane at an alarming rate. Samantha clung to me but I pushed her away and ran for the cockpit. I pried open the steel door and stepped inside. The windows were all blown out and most of the controls were damaged and smoldering. I saw the mangled figure of the pilot, still sitting in his seat and made the conclusion that there must have been a small bomb planted on the plane. I tried to pull up on what was left of the yoke. Nothing. The ground was getting very close. “Wait a minute? Ground?” I thought. We appeared to be passing over an island. At the last moment, I ran from the cockpit to get Samantha. She was still in her seat along the wall of the cargo hold. I started to reach for her.... and there was darkness.

I awoke (probably hours later) in terrible pain. Somehow, when the plane crashed, I had been hurled into an industrial sized crate of insulation. I must have broken the crate with my own body from the force of impact. Then, I heard a voice call for me. It was weak, and is was also Samantha's. I forced myself to get up but I could hardly stand. I looked at the interior of the plane. The entire fuselage was cracked in half and there were huge chunks of the walls missing. About half of the mammoth plane had completely disintegrated and I was still inside one of the (somewhat) intact pieces of hull. I looked over in horror and saw Samantha pinned against the steel girder. Her last words were “I love you.” I fell to my knees and wept. Thus, the first 28 years of my life had come to an abrupt end.

I looked over at Nairobi and he was wearing a very sympathetic expression. I put my head down on the cold metal floor and wilted. After some time, Nairobi decided to comment.

“Doc?...” He said. I took my time answering.
“Yes.” I replied.
“There's still something I don't understand...” He said.
“And what is that?” I asked.
“Well...” He began. “Why did they crash your plane in the first place?”
I sighed. “Now that, Nairobi, is a good question. I have spent a lot of time thinking about it and I have come to believe that McKinley somehow found out about my safety deposit box. I think he had me 'killed' as a convenient cover-up so he would be able to steal my research. I had become too well known for him to simply step in and take the plans from me...”

Nairobi curled up in the middle of the cargo hold. He still stared at me like something was amiss. I tried to ignore him but finally spoke up.

“What is it now?” I said.
He looked thoughtful for a moment and asked “If you've always been so sad, then why did you use E-109?”
“Look... I don't know” I said, in an exasperated tone.
“Maybe you did it for a reason Doc. Perhaps you can still make a difference...” He replied.
I looked at him with an astonished expression. “Are you suggesting that I leave the island looking like THIS?”

I realized that I had filled in that last part myself. I must have been crazy, but there was still a tiny spark in me that wanted to do good. I had originally set out with a single goal, to help humanity in any way I could, and I had failed miserably. For the first time in decades, there was a tiny fire of hope building within me and as I looked upon the face (or muzzle) of my only friend, I began to plot my way off of La Isla Vulpes.