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Burn Down the Tower: Chapter 1 - Hollow

"Good god, man! Just how long can you hold your breath?" the strained voice above me said through a heated pant. I could feel the hands on the back of my skull, my hat having long since fallen down by my knees, enjoying the way the claws raked through the fur behind my ears, holding me steady.

Ezekiel had quickly become a friend of mine when we found out we shared the same desires. Barely any better off than myself, the coyote was always eager, and always asking me if I wanted to fool around. He must have come to realize that the answer was almost always going to be a 'yes.'

That was how I ended up here, on my knees behind an old building in New York City. My shirt was open, hanging down off one shoulder with my suspenders pulled off. I had one of my hands rubbing over my own chest while the other held the coyote's hip, holding him steady while he thrusted forward, filling my nose with his masculine scent. He was a laborer and worked hard every day. I never minded the scent, since it reminded me a little of my childhood.

I could feel him thrusting forward, sliding along my tongue and between my teeth without so much as a scratch. I had come a long way from that mostly innocent boy off the boat and had learned a thing or two around men, especially men who were thick like Zeek. I didn't let him pull away, my hand coming up and holding his rear end, pulling him closer so he had to apply more strength behind his thrusts.

I ignored the pre and saliva trickling down my chin, my eyes were closed as fingers curled into my slightly longer headfur as Zeek inched closer to his peak. I could always tell he was getting close, the muscles on his legs tensed up and his breathing got heavier, faster, like he was running a marathon.

"God damn, Simon..." Zeek said over me, out of my line of sight but I could picture how he stood, back against brick wall, shirt open, chin tilted up to the sky, tongue lolled out of the side of his muzzle as he got the first sexual release in days, if not a week. We didn't always run into one another, but when we did we somehow ended up in a position like this. "I'm not gonna last much longer, fox..."

I didn't respond. I didn't need to. I knew the drill. It was also a signal that I should not change anything I was doing, so I kept my lips tight and the suction high, my head mostly still as the coyote pushed forward with each thrust, sliding down the back of my throat with each pass and not getting a gag from me. I think he liked to test that -- to see if I would choke on him. I had no idea why so many people wanted to see if they could make me choke. I was here for pleasure and nothing else. I guess other people had different priorities.

"Unf... Simon...!" Zeek said above me, gripping my head tighter. I could feel his blunted claws scrape along the back of my head through fur right down to my flesh. "I'm gonna... I'm gonna...!"

And he did.

I felt his testicles clench up and lift more toward his body, his stomach flex and tighten as he came. His shaft thickened up and pulsed, hot jets of seed pouring out across my tongue and down my throat. I pushed my nose right down into his pubic fur, holding on with both hands as he pulsed and drained himself right into me. I held my muzzle steady until I felt his spasms end, then slowly pull off him with a wet slurp.

I rubbed my muzzle with the back of my hand and looked up at the coyote, who was leaning exactly as I had imagined he was. I enjoyed having that kind of power over men. It made me feel... full.

"Damn. I've had my cock sucked, but you English boys are somethin' else," Zeek said, looking down at me with a lazy lopsided grin.

"Comes with the accent, mate," I replied, pushing a thicker accent than I normally used for effect. These last five years in New York had definitely changed how I spoke. But you don't know how you sound until someone points it out.

I remained kneeling there for a moment, considering masturbating... but the moment had passed. Plus I didn't want to press our luck. We were in public, and if we were caught we would easily be arrested, if not beaten. I may have found that out the hard way once.

I began to fix my clothing, pulling my shirt back on and buttoning it before standing and fixing the suspenders and hat. I reached into my pocket and pulled out a cigarette and my lighter (both hidden within the rim of my cap) and took a drag. I exhaled a little bit and leaned against the brickwork as Zeek tucked himself back in his pants.

"Thanks, Simon," he said with a relaxed sigh. "I really needed that."

"I know," I said, exhaling some smoke and not bothering to look at the coyote. "I did too. It's been a stressful week."

"Rough times?" He pulled out a cigarette of his own and lit it with a match. "You know, if you're looking for work or something, I can speak to my boss. We're always looking for strong guys at the factory."

"Not really what's on my mind, and nah, I have a job. But thanks," I said with a half hearted smile before looking away again. "Just not sleeping all that well. Hard to stay focused when you haven't had a solid eight hours in awhile, you know?"

"Not really," the coyote said with another exhale of smoke. "I sleep like the dead. It's never an issue for me."

"That's 'cause you don't have a care in the world," I teased, looking at him with one eye and a grin. Why did this feel so hard? It felt so fake. Like I was just going through the motions of being friendly. Why didn't I feel anything toward someone who was, objectively, a nice guy?

"True," Zeek said and winked at me. "But that's just being lucky." He looked up at the sky. "I have to head home now. I'll see you later. You should try and get some sleep."

"Trying and doing are two different things, but you're right." I waved a hand at him as he started to leave. "Be safe, Zeek."

"You too, Simon." With a smile, the coyote headed down the alleyway, leaving me alone once again.

Not the start of what you expected for my time in New York City, is it? I can't blame you. If you had asked me what my life would have been like in New York City when I was just a kid, I would've told you some fantastical story about making it rich before I hit twenty. Now... not so much.

I remember, often, sitting on top of roofs and just looking out across London and thinking about the world. I thought about what it would be like once I finally crossed the Atlantic and got to America, to New York. I thought about all the stories we'd heard as cubs that talked about making a name for ourselves, being rich, not having to worry about nothin'. I remembered sitting and talking with G-- my friends, and just pretending what it would be like while we ate some food and tried not to get soot on everything. I know life wasn't easy back then, but god damn do I miss it all the time.

Or maybe I miss the people.

Ever since I got here, I've not felt like myself. Like I didn't belong. People enjoyed pointing out my accent, and I honestly couldn't hear it, but everyone here sounded so strange at first. I remember Bensley once told me that Americans talked like they were stretching out the whole word, and to their credit that did seem to be the case a lot of the time. But this was also a place of immigrants so all manner of language and accent flowed through the city. Natives of Brooklyn had taken me a long time to understand -- and I used to think understanding a drunk Scotsman was difficult to listen to.

I looked left and right and jumped up, grabbing one of the low hanging bars of the fire escape and hauled myself up and onto the metal "deck" before quickly scurrying up the rest of the way to the roof of the random building I had stopped by.

With a sigh I flopped down onto the edge of the building and leaned my back against the chimney, listening to it burn and feeling the heat radiate from the bricks. It was familiar but also strange.

I had grown too big for that job while I had been out at sea. The ship I had "bartered" my way on had indeed gone to New York, but not before making several stops along the way, especially in the Carribeans.

Still, it wasn't so bad on the ship: I got some money, learned the rigging, and grew, as the Captain said, like a weed. I needed new pants every time we stopped at a port because I kept growing out of mine. I had gotten taller, somehow, complete with broader shoulders and muscles. Some men said I was handsome. Gorgeous even, if you can describe a man like that. I think people here just like flattering the guy who's about to gnob his knob.

I guess you also want to know why I'm so... eager to sleep around with other men, even in public where being caught could end up with me thrown in jail, or beaten by someone offended by my mere existence.

In London, I never did anything like this, but... out at sea, you got used to certain ways of being. When I got here in the U.S., I found that my looks could get me things I needed to survive. I also found I rather liked it. Like I felt like my old self again. But it's also hard to describe. Being with another man just makes me feel like the world ain't so bad and that someone wants me around, even if it's just for 20 minutes.

Still, I try not to rely on that specific skill set. I don't want to ruin the experience for me. The last thing I want is to actually turn sex into a chore. So I worked as a courier for a business owner named Patrick who... is not the nicest of men, but he pays me pretty well.

And that is how I spend my days in the Big Apple. I wander the streets if there's nothing to deliver. If I need money, I may start turning a trick or two at Arc-en-Ciel, also known as "the Arc," the brothel where I also worked part-time.

I sighed and let my hands dangle between my legs, back bent forward with my head hung low. I looked down at the people below me, walking about their lives, people smiling and happy, enjoying the cooling afternoon as winter started to approach. My mind often went to dark places when I had little to do, and now it was happening again.

I always imagined what my friends would think of me if they knew what I was doing with my life. I imagined, often, Alister being so disappointed in me, Gideon looking sad, and Avery... well, confused, I guess. As for Billy... heh, honestly, I wouldn't be surprised if Billy was actually doing this kind of job back home in London. After all, he did seem to take to that Molly House like a fish to water. If he is, at least I hope he's happy.

I know Bensley wouldn't approve. While he had nothing against a homosexual, he did not think peddling one's body was a noble profession. He had often warned me to stay away from certain roads in London where powerful men were looking for boys like me. It would be easy to just agree, make more money than I had ever seen in my life in one go, and then be stuck in that world... or so he said. Here I never saw that kind of money, but then I wasn't actually sleeping with powerful men, even when I went to the Arc. I never looked for a man who had power anyway. I wanted to find someone who could help me feel anything again. People would say I was picky -- and I could be -- because I didn't need the money from sleeping around to get by. Sure, sometimes I turned a trick or two, but it was never my primary way of making money. I liked to think Bensley would be okay with that distinction, that he would see it like a side job of washing windows.

...Who am I kidding? I knew he wouldn't.

What am I doing with my life anyway? Not much, that was for sure. I'm sitting in this city hoping that, even after all these years, Gideon will walk off a ship. Despite what Alister's ghost -- or whatever the hell it was I saw at the dock that fateful day -- told me, Gideon is probably dead, but where else would I go? I've never even left this city since I got here.

Going out west was always an option. I heard tales of people heading over in the direction where the sun always headed to make a fortune for themselves. Some did, most didn't, as far as I could tell from what others told me. But I knew nothing about California and San Francisco. I didn't know if I could even get by out there. At least here I had a job, of sorts. Working in Patrick's shop as a "shut up and do whatever the Hell I tell you to" assistant wasn't bad. And I said, he paid quite well. But it didn't feel right at the same time.

In the years since I had run from Spring Heeled Jack and figured out Mordecai Crossbell was the man behind the mask, I had gone about learning what I could about the man: old money, friends with the royalty back home, lots of businesses, well-liked, a gentleman and a scholar. But it was only recently that he had taken a more active interest in his company's affairs. From what I had read in the newspapers, he enjoyed doing what he wanted... but now he ran the company himself, hence the office here in the city.

I saw a newspaper lying on the roof next to me. I supposed someone had tossed it on the ground, and the wind picked it up and carried it all the way up here. Picking it up, I saw that it was a few days old, but the headline made my heart freeze:

Crossbell Industries' New Crossbell Tower Grand Debut Wows Audience!

There was a picture of the bastard himself, in that same suit of his that he had worn to Bensley's when we met that day, complete with that damned top hat. I clenched my teeth as I bunched the paper up and threw it over the side of the building.

There was only one reason why he would even be here in New York, and that would be me. He must have gotten Gideon to talk. My heart ached briefly when I thought about my old... friend, being hurt and tortured until he gave up our silly little plan to come to New York. I wish I had been stronger then.

When I was on the Paramour, I worked my body constantly. The rigging and the heavy lifting had done wonders for my strength, but I was a poor fighter. I got into fist fights just like anyone would on a ship or in cheap pubs. I could hold my own for a little while but I just didn't have it in me to be much of a fighter. I often thought about what it would be like hurting someone just because we couldn't talk it out.

Even Mordecai, the man I hate with every fiber of my being, I don't want to kill him. I want him to just go away and leave me alone, let me try to find the old threads of my life and weave something more for myself. I'm tired of feeling like I'm being chased.

I still don't know why that caracal cares so much about what I saw that night. I was a stupid kid who saw him stab a tiger I didn't know. Then I saw him kill Bensley. If Gideon is dead, then I'm the only one alive who knows his secret. But I'm just a stupid kid. Who would believe me? I could tell Queen Victoria herself and she wouldn't take my word at face value; not one person as smart and as charming as Mordecai Crossbell was the target of the accusation. He'd easily weave a story about how I wanted his money or something. I'd spent countless nights thinking how to tell my story to someone who could do anything about it. The problem always boiled down to the same frustrating item -- I just didn't have proof.

I got up from the ledge and stretched my arms, then headed back over to the fire escape, bounding down it in steps two at a time until I got to the alley again. I nearly bumped into a woman with a shawl wrapped around her and I apologized, tipping my hat in acknowledgement.

I headed out and stopped at a fruit stand to buy an apple. I flipped a nickel to the old badger behind the cart and continued on my way, biting into my sweet treat. I looked around and watched people move about again, watching them and wondering what their lives would be like.

I heard laughter ahead of me and looked up. I saw a raccoon and a wolf, about my age, the both of them, talking and jabbering about something or other. A stocky coyote followed them behind and was listening in.

"...You really got honey all in your fur?" one of them said.

"Was an accident!"

"No, your trick just backfired, mutt," the coyote said with a playful grin and a friendly little shove to the wolf. He stumbled and turned around, not afraid to square off against the coyote who was girthier than he was.

"I... I lost my favorite hat that day, okay?" the wolf said with a dramatic sigh and flattening his ears, clearly looking pathetic on purpose. I grinned as neither of his friends bought it and laughed.

"You seemed to've found another one. Down by the docks or something? It stinks!" the raccoon said as they walked past me. I caught the wolf's eye briefly and he nodded. I nodded back, and just like that I was reminded so much of my old friends my chest hurt. Part of me wanted to turn and follow them, join them, but I was just a stranger to their world. Besides, I probably didn't look like the most fun to be around right now.

I exhaled a heavy breath and started walking quicker and quicker, but I kept hearing their voices in my head, the comments about how I had dropped so low so quickly. About how I had let them down. Voices of the people I cared about and would die for. Why couldn't they just believe me that I was doing the best I could?

I grunted and bumped into a well dressed feline, stumbling and twisting to try and maintain my balance and falling on my ass in a puddle. I quickly rolled to my side and yelped, trying to keep my pockets dry. I fished out my cigarettes and looked up to glare at the man I had bumped into.

"You shoulda looked out where --" But I was smacked across my muzzle with the end of his umbrella. I yelped and growled, quickly getting up and spitting blood. The rich cat tilted his head at me and quirked a brow.

"Boy," I heard someone say beside me. "You don't want to tussle here. Coppers around every corner. Just go... let him win."

I watched the cat puff his chest out in smug superiority and started to walk away. But as I passed the man I cocked a fist back and punched him right in the nose, getting a yell of pain as he fell into the puddle I had been in. I loomed over him and picked him up by his collar, punching him again.

"That one was for hitting me when I was down," I spat at the man. Then, as I let go of his collar, I immediately turned around and ran from the scene.

I could hear the whistles behind me of the police officers and knew I only had a few moments before they would catch up to me. I slipped down an alley and ran faster, harder, leaping over trash, twisting around people, jumping to grab onto the fire escape. I jumped through a hole in a window of an abandoned building and rolled onto my feet, quickly moving away and up to the next floor. It was dirty, abandoned... but I could see the coppers running through the alley. They passed the building I was in, climbing a fence and continuing on.

I sighed in relief.

Why did I do that? Why did I not back down from a fight? That happened more and more often these days. When I felt like something wasn't going right and I was not in the wrong, I got stubborn. That could have gotten me arrested had I not known my way around this part of town very well. Being street-smart had its quirks.

I leaned my head against the wall, swallowing. I was not going to risk coming out of here until sundown.

I slid down onto my rump and sighed again, bending at the knees with my arms draped over them, I sat there and closed my eyes, trying to think of nothing... but I kept hearing a voice. It was faint at first. But I could hear it clearly.

Fear no more the heat o' the sun,

Nor the furious winter's rages;

Thou thy worldly task hast done,

Home art gone, and ta'en thy wages...

The voice belonged to someone young and somehow familiar. The accent in the voice reminded me of my childhood, the grimy city of London that had given me so much toil but also some happiness. The voice that I knew I would never hear again.

Golden lads and girls all must,

As chimney-sweepers, come to dust...

"...The hell is that?" I said, looking up from my sadness.

There, sitting on an old table, kicking his legs, sat a small wolf boy in a newsie cap and old clothes. He was humming a tune that went with the lyrics I had just heard. He was looking out the window with two beautiful eyes... two impossibly beautiful yellow eyes... smiling brightly. When he looked at me, my heart froze.

"Hey Simon," the wolf boy said. "Did you like the poem?"

My muzzle hung open.

"Simon?" Avery asked, jumping down from the table. "What's wrong? You look like you've seen a ghost."