FSE

Furry search engine

formerly SoFurry search engine

Rey

I wake up panting--no surprise there. Probably another nightmare I can't quite remember. Breathe in, two, three, four. Breathe out, two, three, four. That old breathing exercise I learned in the military helps calm me down. I sit up, reaching for the bottle of water on the desk next to my bed. As I bring it to my mouth I realize I've punctured it with my claws. Shit, not again. I retract my claws, quickly trying to chug the water before it can escape from the holes I made. Then I flick the empty bottle toward the trash can sitting by my desk. Unfortunately, I don't have as good as an aim with bottles as I do with bullets. It misses and ends up hitting the little alarm clock my mother gave me before I left. I start to panic as my shoebox-sized room fills with silence. Quickly, I stand up and pace over to my desk, tapping the glass covering the clock's hands. The ticking returns. I sigh, taking a moment to bask in the dimmed light of our sun pouring in through the blinds of my shaded window above my desk. After a moment, however long a moment is, the light disappears and I get scared again. The constant ticking proves to me that time is still moving in here, but I'm not so convinced that it's moving out there, in that dark void of space.

I get nauseous every time I look outside. Something about the cold glass, or the dead, isolating nothingness pushing against my window, reminds me of the first time I left for training. But it feels different.

Worse.

There's an unsettling feeling that comes with the fear of not knowing how much time is passing. I'm not on Loana anymore; sunrise and sunset don't exist. When I'm not in my room the only way I can tell time is by trusting my metal wristband. I tap the clock icon on the screen to see fluorescent blue digits: 5:44 AM. It's helpful, sure, but the fact that I can't sync my biological clock with the view outside is depressing. Everything looks the same from when I fell asleep, apart from Loana shrinking in size. I sit at the edge of my bed and stare to the left of me, watching our planet drift away. From aboard Petri, our spaceship, everything looks so small. Everyone's worries, fears, differences. So, so small.

It's still a bit early, but I can tell by my rapid heartbeat that I won't be able to fall back asleep. I cross my room to my shower, pushing the "On" button and setting the temperature to a nice, warm 75 degrees. All the stressful thoughts that prod my mind are swept away with the hot water that cascades down through my striped fur. Many of us were thrilled about having heated showers on board. I like to believe it keeps everyone calm and mentally stable. Luxuries like this were hard to come by during the war. For everyone, not just us military soldiers. Although, we still had to be careful about how long we spent in the water's comforting embrace. Five minutes per animal, per day. Three minutes for otters, but they get their own pool to swim around in whenever they want.

I finish rinsing off the soap just as the water automatically shuts off, the gentle drip of the faucet letting me know my five minutes are over. I open the narrow glass door--the thing I hate most about my room--to grab a towel hanging on the wall opposite my bed. They could have made it a little wider; we tigers are pretty big after all. At least I don't have it as bad as the deer. I overhear stories all the time at work about naked male deer getting stuck in their showers because their antlers can't fit through the doorway. Either that, or they can't even get into the shower and end up stinking up the place. Poor deer.

Once I'm dry I dress into my black military suit. My skittish hyena of a boss prefers an actual Programmer's uniform--which I have, now that they finally found one--but it's a bit too small for me. Plus, I like the way this black suit contrasts with my mostly-orange fur. He's letting it slide for the time being, but I think that's just because he's afraid of tigers.

Everything I need for work is sitting on my desk: my Programmer's handbook, my earphones, and a post-war picture of my mother and me. I pack them all into my shoulder bag, sling the bag over me, and walk toward the door. The motion sensor signals the motorized door to open, and I walk out. My paw print is verified by a scanner, its bright green light passing over my fingers, as I place my paw against the cold touch-screen to the left of my door to lock it. Then I begin my long walk to the cafeteria.

The very few animals I see when I arrive all look tired and hopeless; a skunk is frowning at his veggies, a frustrated snow leopard is struggling to cut her food with flimsy plastic flatware, a weasel is sleeping on one of the tables. My old Streak members often wore the same faces when we were still at war. I'm brought back in time for a moment, back to that rainy day when everyone was worried we'd be abandoned after a simple scouting mission went awry. They kept asking me what we should do, and all I could say was wait. Their hopes fell as the hours passed. I tried to distract them from their doubts, telling them my own experiences of how the air teams always pulled through no matter how hopeless it seemed, but even those stories had their limits.

As the smell of bacon and eggs pass by my muzzle I'm brought back to the present. A young female ram wearing an ugly green polo shirt and khaki shorts greets me curtly, scans the bar-code on my wristband, and hands me my ration of food. I thank her and scan the tables for anyone I might know. Surprisingly, I spot one of the members of my old Streak--one I wasn't so fond of--sitting by the huge, sun-protected window that makes up the southern side of the cafeteria. The familiar responsibility of making sure he's doing okay overpowers my desire to sit anywhere else.

"Hey, Milo," I say, sitting down across from the black and white husky.

"Oh... Hi, Rey," Milo responds, his canine ears twitching timidly. His sky-blue eyes flick to me and then back to his food.

"How are you? Haven't seen you in a while." The eggs are delicious to my surprise.

"Not bad. Enjoyin' myself up here," he says, stuffing his mouth full of pancakes.

I scoff, "That makes one of us." I think I catch a glimpse of him rolling his eyes. "Anyway, what have you been up to?"

"Not risking my life for people who haven't learned general respect." He pauses for a moment to glare at me, then looks back at his syrup-drenched pancakes. "You?"

"Working," I say shortly, poking at my eggs while I watch him. "Trying to be helpful on this floating piece of garbage."

Milo stops chewing, matching the anger in my eyes. Then he folds his arms and leans back against his chair. "You saying I don't belong here?"

I point my form at him steadily, "Well I sure ain't sayin' you're carrying your own weight." I wasn't sure why the Pets wanted someone like Milo on board. He was a decent soldier, sure, but I wasn't happy with him getting paid up here for writing bullshit news articles. Breaking News: nothing is happening!

He simply shakes his head, giving me that signature half-smirk, "You'd think an ex-Dancer would be more respectful of their squad-mate."

I bang my fist on the table, "I still am a Dancer. We still are Dancers."

"Oh, please," he scoffs, "You think our ranks still matter here?" His voice quivers a bit. He points out the window toward our dying planet, "If you haven't noticed, we're not on Loana anymore. We're in space. There are no sides, nothing to fight for, no one to impress with your fancy titles." He starts to calm down, even chuckles a bit. "Nothing matters anymore."

I pause for a moment, trying to analyze what he's thinking. "The Pets need us for something," I say gently. He looks down at his food. "We wouldn't have been approved to board if we were just civilians. You know that."

Milo stares out the window, the edges of his muzzle lighting up from the muted glow of our sun. His ears cant backwards as his eyes slowly fall from Loana. It takes him a while before he speaks again, his voice settling back down to its soft, mellow timbre. "You don't have to tell me twice."

Having lost my appetite, I stand up and saunter away, grunting goodbye to Milo. He doesn't respond. As I place my food tray on the rattling conveyor belt I try to recall any conversations he had between our squad-mates during the war; specifically, any conversations in which he mentioned someone close to him. I was always thinking about my mother, wondering what she does all day and how she deals with being alone. I don't think Milo has anyone left. No parents, no siblings, no one. If he did, he would have told me about them, right?