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The white burst of the flash chased away what shadows still hung about the room, the light casting in sharp relief edges and lines in fur and limb, but that would all be softened later in post-production.

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Writhing, twisting, arching his back as his claws dug into the thick rug that was as pure white as driven snow, as pure white as his own fur, Piper ran his paws down his body, looking into the winking, flashing eyes of the lenses.

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The whirring of mechanisms, the constant clatter of the shutters, the barely perceptible whining of the flashbulbs as they stored energy before flashing, all mere background noise, the elevator music to the never ending babbling of the photographer.

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"Show a little more fang, Piper."

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"You belong to the camera, Piper."

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"You're a slut for the camera, Piper, make me believe it!"

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"Show me a smile, Piper."

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"Smile for me, Piper!"

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"We're not getting anything from the kid, Rainier." It had been going on so long it took Piper a few seconds to realize the cameras had stopped clicking, that bulbs had stopped flashing. Piper sat up on the rug, staring out at the crowds of photographers, lighters, managers, makeup artists, and other general hangers-on that always seemed to be at these shoots.

The head photographer, a tall weasel Piper had never seen without his camera, was looking at Piper with an exasperated sneer on his muzzle, while numerous faceless nobodies hurried to and fro about him, checking this and fixing that, lowering and raising lights, making everything absolutely perfect for the shoot.

Piper was vaguely aware that everyone was unhappy with him, but he really didn't care at the moment. Like it always did, everything seemed to be happening far away, and to someone else, and now his head was starting to throb as well. Maybe it was from the flashing lights, or the never-ending whir and click of the cameras, or maybe he was just tired. He didn't really care right now.

Suddenly Rainier was at his side, crouching beside Piper on the plush rug, fumbling for something in his pocket as he brushed a few errant hairs from Piper's perfect, stunningly blue eyes. The middle-aged otter was looking even more harried than usual, and his demeanor was as brisk and gruff as ever as he looked the semi-naked Piper up and down.

"Come on Piper, give the cameras a smile, huh?" He said, but Piper just sighed, blinking blearily.

"I always smile for the cameras, Rainier, or pout, or scowl. I'm sick of it." He replied, running a weary paw through his headfur.

"Don't start this shit again." Rainier said, scowling, his short, thick fur bristling in frustration. "You always get like this on a long shoot. Just take some of these to loosen up, and it'll be over before you know it. Then you can go get some rest, huh?" He said as he pressed a few light-blue pills to Piper's muzzle. He only half-heartedly resisted them before pressing a water bottle to his lips, tasting the bitter chemical bite of the pills before the cool water washed them down his throat.

He looked up and saw the photographer and the crew at least had the decency to look away while he downed the pills. That's all he was to them, just a picture, just a job. The real fox was invisible, only ink on paper when the day was done. Rainier patted him on the shoulder and said something he didn't quite hear as he walked away, Piper blinking slowly, trying to look shy as he stared back out at the forest of lenses, winking at him like alien eyes.

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There he was, only twenty-two and already a major model, used to sell every kind of product imaginable. His slim build, stunning baby blues and pure white fur had made the arctic fox a natural for the industry, made him a natural vehicle to sell clothes, cologne, cars, everything. That's all he was though, just a vehicle, a tool to sell a product. His face was in nearly every magazine, every town, but that's all it ever was. Just his pretty face, his damned, boyish, million-dollar face.

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Today he was wearing designer jeans as low on his hips as he could without the pictures becoming pornographic, hooking his paws in the belt-loops and tugging them down as he rolled and displayed himself for the hungry lenses, doing whatever he was told as the cameras clicked and whirred endlessly. A silver crucifix dangled from around his neck, something he found vaguely amusing in its irony, the religious icon shining in the light of the flashbulbs as he was ordered to look like a total slut.

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He felt the pills starting to kick in and felt his body free up, his smile become more natural as his eyes began to droop. That was okay though, it made him look more demure, or so Rainier always said. The pain didn't go away, but he found he just didn't care about it any more, obeying the photographer's every command.

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He arched his back and ran a paw across his crotch, smelling the arousal coming from half of the crotches in the room as they traced the curve of his body with their eyes. He wasn't sure whether to be flattered or feel sick, so he just ignored it, fluffing his tail playfully as he looked side-on into the wall of lenses. The trick to modeling was just acting like a pair of jeans would make your life into a non-stop orgy, where everyone was perfect, where everyone was a flawless, beautiful statue. Flawless on the outside, that is. The camera doesn't lie, it tells exactly what's in the picture. Why?

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Because that's all people want to know, just the picture, just the scene in front of them. In the picture, it's all action, all beauty, all happiness. With a picture, you don't have to worry about the back stories, the boring details, the truth. Its true that a picture says a thousand words, but those are just the kind of words that sell magazines, that sell cars, that sell jeans.

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Words like 'Perfect'

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'Beautiful'

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'Flawless'

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Where do you think the phrase 'picture perfect' came from? Piper thought to himself as he continued to writhe and turn on the rug, biting one of his claws as he looked back over his shoulder at the camera. He could barely hear the words of the photographer now, he could barely feel a thing but the heat of the lights on his pure, perfect fur. He didn't need to hear the photographer, he was running off an internal script, one he'd followed for so long it came as easy as breathing to him.

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Show me sexy.

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Show me vulnerable.

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Show me happiness.

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Show me how to be happy, how to be complete, by buying what you're selling

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Show me a picture.

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Show me anything but a story, because details are boring.

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And with each picture taken, Piper became more invisible, became nothing but the jeans he was wearing.

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It hadn't always been like this though. Piper remembered a time when life had been more simple, when it had been easier, when there was no agencies, or photo shoots, no socialite parties, no valium or vicoden, no manicures and beauty treatments, no crowds of pushy people who wanted nothing better than to have him wear their clothes, stand by their cars, do what they wanted and then snap his picture. He wasn't sure what he used to do back then, back when he hadn't spent his days under the scrutiny of a lens.

He remembered his home where he grew up, remembered the grassy backyard where he used to chase butterflies as a child. He remembered his mother and father, and the school he went to, but only just. That seemed a long time ago, before he moved to the big city and started selling himself to sell products. It was strange, the strongest image of his childhood was chasing those damn butterflies in his backyard. He wasn't sure what made it so special, made it stand out so much, but he could vividly remember those sunny days at the start of spring, when the air was full of the promise of new life, and the first of those green-winged beauties would emerge for the season.

Being an arctic fox, Piper and his family had always stuck close to the snow, and they lived not far above the snowline for most of his childhood. Much further south and they'd all end up a couple of fried foxes, Piper remembered his father saying. The butterflies didn't survive long, not in that climate, but when they came, even for such a short time, it was a burst of beauty, a glorious shine of life that would never ever leave his memory.

The hot light dappling their wings, vivid, brilliant green like the most verdant field, the way they just hung and fluttered in the warm air, the sound of his own laughter in his ears as they danced just out of reach of his paws, always just out of reach, it was always so damn vivid. If he thought hard enough, it was like he was there again, like they were dancing in front of him again, just out of reach of his paws. Even when asshole photographers were barking orders at him as he stripped to sell clothes, all he had to do was close his eyelids and he was there, chasing those green butterflies again.

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Now he was at a party in some actor's loft, a beer in his paw as he talked to people he didn't know about things he didn't care about. He wasn't even sure what city he was in tonight, with all the flights he'd been taking lately; always there were flights, climbing on, getting off of planes, no idea where he was going, Rainier talking but his words having no effect as his little pills worked their magic. Who knew where he was tonight? New York, Paris, London, Madrid, Berlin, Tokyo, Sydney, his passport was more stamped than most international pilots' were.

The lead singer of some flavor-of-the-month band was talking to him, Piper nodding and smiling politely as he listened to him talk about his guitar, or maybe it was his car. Piper wasn't really sure, and he found it very hard to care. This guy, he was a tall wolf with his silk shirt half-unbuttoned to reveal his broad, dark-furred chest and whose ears were adorned with diamond studs, he thought he was pretty hot shit, but so did every single beast who talked to Piper these days. He sighed inwardly, still trying to seem interested in the wolf's words. He didn't mean to be so apathetic, but he met so many people, every single day of the week, so many names and faces that flashed and were gone, it was impossible to know all of them. So he chose to know none of them.

It's not like they were interested in him anyway. All they were interested in was the curve of his hips, the sultry smile he wore on numerous billboards, the tight little rump he sported under a slender tail. He was invisible, of course. All they saw was the jeans, the shirt, the cologne, the convertible. They just wanted to fuck the item for sale, fuck the status symbol. It was the next best thing to buying it, Piper supposed. The wolf, Mr. flavor-of-the-month, would probably end up doing just that. Maybe Piper would enjoy it, maybe he wouldn't. It didn't really matter, he still wouldn't know the wolf in the morning.

The only person Piper really knew was Rainier, his manager. The otter had used to be a model just like Piper, but the march of time had forced him to retire, but the otter was one of those who lived their job, whose every minute of existence was devoted to their career. When he'd been told they could no longer use him for modeling because he just wasn't pretty enough anymore, he didn't collapse in despair, or start selling discount food processors on late-night infomercials, like so many others did. He stayed in the industry, became a manager, channeling all he had learnt into selling the next young thing, making him perfect, making him what so many others wished they could be, so he could sell whatever he was paid to sell.

"Beauty is an ugly industry." He used to say. And then he'd start talking about the next shoot, the next appearance, the next party. And Piper would stop listening to him, his eyes closed and his dreams full of butterflies.

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One day, when Piper had been having eyeliner applied by a Dalmatian stylist before a commercial shoot for a new cologne, he had asked Rainier, with all his experience, what he had felt about being invisible.

"What?" The otter had replied distractedly, still listening with one ear to a cell phone.

"Being invisible. You know, always being the centre of attention, but no-one ever seeing you." Piper had replied.

"What the fuck are you talking about? There's a forty-foot billboard of you wearing nothing but jockeys and a smile in fifty-six cities across the globe! How can you be invisible?" Rainier asked exasperatedly, fixing Piper with a stare. Usually the otter was doing so many things as once, dividing his attention so many different ways, to have it focused all on one thing, and that one thing being you, it was an unnerving experience.

"Well..." Piper began, unsure himself of what he meant. "It's like...everyone sees me, but not...me, you know? They just see the jockeys, and not me." He said, his conviction wilting in the furnace-like intensity of Rainier's stare.

"Oh yes, this dilemma." He said savagely, rolling his eyes as he slammed shut his cell phone. "Every model has this dilemma at one point or another. Yes, that's all you are. A pair of jeans. A car. A set of fucking underwear. So is everyone else, that's all they are, just labels. Doctor, lawyer, clerk, it's all just labels. The only difference is, your label comes with a bigger price tag." He said, flashing him a mirthless grin.

"Is that all life is to you? Money?" He asked, and he still remembered the cruelty in Rainier's laugh.

"You think that's fucked up? What about you?" He replied. "When was the last time you saved a family from a burning building? The last time you saved a life? I don't see any fire fighters, any doctors, any of those people up on billboards, only you. You're the hero, and you do fuck all!" He said, leaning in close to Piper as he sat there in his chair. "They idolize you Piper, they worship you."

"They only worship the image though!" Piper had almost wailed, desperate for Rainier to see his point. He wasn't his friend, far from it. He was an insufferable asshole, but he was the only person Piper could actually talk to, the only one who he could trust to actually listen. He was the only one who actually saw Piper, not just the watch or the cufflinks on the billboard.

"Well what else is there?" He replied simply, quietly, the statement cutting the fox deeper than anything else he had said. What else was there, other than that image? Was there any person beneath the billboard, any being other than that which was captured on film? Rainier had smiled coldly at him, flipped open his cell phone, and resumed his conversation as the Dalmatian went back to work, applying blusher to the empty shell sitting in the makeup chair, preparing it for when it would be filled up and made into something else.

Beauty was an ugly industry, after all.

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Now he was back at the party, out on a private balcony that overlooked the crowded, busy city streets far below. An intake of breath as a rush of white powder barreled up into his nostril, his eyes watering a bit as he pawed at his muzzle, handing the rolled up hundred-dollar bill to Mr. flavor-of-the-month singer. He had no idea how he had got out onto the balcony, no idea why he was doing this...not with this loser, anyway. Usually he was with much higher rollers than this wolf, with his flashy diamond studs and bleached-white teeth, who no doubt would be in the unemployment cue next month when the crowds lost interest in him. It didn't matter anyway...the colors in his vision seemed to shimmer fiendishly as his brain slipped further away, the city lights dancing before his eyes. It was better now, he told himself, he felt more alive, felt that everything was better and brighter than it had been. This was better.

It had to be...gods, he'd hate to see what was normal after this was better, he thought, his head rolling uncontrollably.

He was looking out over the streets below now, clutching the railing as he looked down on the people below, scurrying here and there, their lives seeming so small and pointless to Piper...but, something about the simplicity of their lives was beautiful, so fleeting and pointless seeming, but elegant and stunning nonetheless.

"All those people...they're just like the butterflies." He said to himself, lost in thought and the haze in his head.

"Yeah I know, they're all fucking insects." Mr. Flavor-of-the-month was saying, snorting another thick line of the drug behind Piper. The fox sighed and turned back to the wolf, looking down on him with a mixture of pity and disgust. Were they all like this, the rich, famous and beautiful? Where did they come from? Was there an asshole factory somewhere, churning out bastard after bastard, that the masses worshiped for no reason other than that they were bastards?

Was Piper like that himself? It was a scary thought, but one that had to be considered. Maybe he was...but if he was, he wasn't always like this. As hazy as his memory was, Piper could almost pinpoint the moment of his change, even though it seemed an age ago.

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It had been his first photo shoot. It sounded like something out of a movie, but he really had been spotted in the street, fresh in the big city. Rainier had seen him walking down the road and grabbed him, promising him money and fame in exchange for his image. Piper had been wary, but he had been almost out of money as well, so he took the offer. It had sounded like an easy job, right?

He remembered he was just supposed to be doing a few shots for what Rainier had called his 'portfolio'. Piper had been so naïve when he first came to the city, he didn't even know what one of those was. The photographer had first asked Piper to remove his shirt, then to start unbuttoning his trousers. At first he had agreed, but he had refused in fear when his shaking paws couldn't unbutton his pants.

"Hey kid, I thought you said you wanted to do this?" Rainier had asked as the photographer had waited impatiently. It was the same weasel who had photographed Piper so often, still clutching that same camera in one paw as his foot tapped impatiently, a rapid staccato tapping that echoed the fluttering of his heart.

"I don't want to get naked, Rainier!" He had replied, his voice quivering in fear as he spoke.

"No-ones asking you to kid!" Rainier had laughed, making Piper feel like a fool. "We just want you to show a bit of fur, that's all!"

"It's just...I'm scared." Piper had replied.

"Look, you said you were almost broke, right?"

"Y...yeah." The fox had replied sullenly.

"Well do this, and you won't have to worry about money ever again. Trust me kid, you're a natural! You're a star!" He'd said. Piper had still hesitated, his paws still shaking, so Rainier had fished into his pocket, looking for something. "If you're still nervous, just take a couple of these." He'd said, producing a few pills, baby-blue like Piper's own stunning eyes. "They'll loosen you up, make you relax."

Piper had hesitated again, but the look in Rainier's eyes, the mocking tone in his voice, the impatient tap-tap-tapping of the photographers foot, all made him feel stupid, like he was just some stupid bumpkin kid in the big city. So he took the pills. And he let them take his picture.

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Another memory now, a random image like flicking through a fashion magazine. Metro, Avenues, Kray, Essence, except every image was Piper, every snapshot was another empty image of him hawking some crap with his slender body, with his stunning baby-blues and long, almost feminine lashes.

Now he was at a photo shoot out in the middle of the desert, among the rusted hulks of aircraft the government just dumped there and left to rot. It was cheaper for them to just leave them out there, and call it a 'reclamation-field' than it was to scrap them all, so that's what they did. That day out there, it was him and another male model, a sable-furred panther named Max, and the two of them were supposed to be in the act of making out, their lips hovering an inch apart but never brushing, never touching. Why?

"Because out is the new in, baby!" The photographer had laughed loudly, snapping photo after photo of the two bumping and grinding, climbing on the wreckage until Piper was furious. The laughter, the insipid hooting that never stopped coming from the photographers throat as he ordered the two of them about, it slowly worked away on the fox's nerves until he wanted to just wrap his fingers around his throat, to choke the air from him until his eye bugged from his skull and he rattled his last breath. His feelings must have shown, because Max had asked him what was wrong. It was when the panther was acting out dominating him, pressing his arms down to the sand as he straddled his slender waist.

"Nothing..." He'd replied. "It's just...beauty is an ugly industry." He'd quoted, and Max had made a face.

"No it isn't. It's the most beautiful of them all. Look at all of us!" Max had said, laughing just like the photographer, Piper hating him in an instant.

"Show me gay, boys!" The photographer had cried, his camera clicking endlessly.

"I mean, don't you ever hate being in all these images, being worshiped, and no-one ever knows who you really are?"

"Show me queer!"

"I dunno. It's just a good way to pay for my Ferrari." Max had replied, shrugging, and if Piper could have hated him any more, he would have.

"Show me homo!" The photographer had yelled, and Max had shrugged again, leaning down to lock lips in a fierce kiss with Piper. It must have looked great on camera, but like everything else in the industry, it had no passion, no feeling, no life. It was just the image of a kiss, the echo, the idea. Nothing of what it was about, just what it was.

"That's right! Show me faggot!" The photographer had yelled, and Piper had to choke back tears as the panther kissed him.

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Faggot. Remembering that word had bought up another memory, had opened the sealed section in the fashion magazine that was Piper's memory. Snapshots of an argument, of raised voices, of yelling and sobbing. And of that word, used only once, only at the end. Before that it was only 'sickness', like popping a few cold and flu pills would get rid of it, like you could pop down to the pharmacy and get the faggot antidote.

Excuse me doctor, can I have the faggot antidote?

Now I want to be happy.

Now I want to be in love, can I have that pill?

Piper wished it was that easy...all he had now was the pills that made the pain go away. But even with those, he still felt the sick feeling in his gut when he heard that word, when he remembered the first time someone called him one...Faggot. He clearly remembered when his father had called it his sickness, and the quiet, strangled way in which he said it.

But when he said faggot he had yelled it, spat it like a curse, and Piper had left for good, never looking back, never gone back to the home where he used to chase butterflies. That life was over now. Now all that remained life was snapshots, photos in the glamorous, glossy magazine that was his memory. He had once told Rainier that was why he had left home, but the otter had just shrugged impassively. Oh well, he had said. It wasn't uncommon, not these days. Times had changed. Ideals were different to this generation.

He had said Piper wouldn't remember, but there had once been a whole decade devoted to nothing but peace and love. Well, not really, there had been war and hatred, but that's what everyone had hoped for, had worked for. That's how history remembered those years. The summer of love. Then came the decade of technological advancements, of computers and microchips. After that, the time we spent worshipping ourselves, confident in our place in the world, confident we were at the very pinnacle of our existence. Those are the years that will be remembered as the years that we thought we were finally on top of the world. Now though, now was the opposite.

Every week, a new scare. The polar ice caps are melting. Immigrants are running the country. We're running out of oxygen. Innumerable epidemics to fear. Everything has now been proven to give you cancer. Terrorists are coming. They might already be here. Trust no-one. The future was no longer something that we looked forward to, it was something to be feared, like a dark storm that hung on the near horizon. Piper remembered it was the one time Rainier had ever spoken sadly, as if he felt it was somehow his fault. These would be the years remembered as the years of fear, he had said. If there was anyone left to remember them, he had added.

And then, grinning cruelly again, his swagger suddenly replaced:

"But who gives a fuck? We're just here to sell. Sure, we might be on a sinking ship, but we're the last shop open on the titanic." He growled, as if this was something to be proud of.

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Now flash back to the party in the actor's loft, Piper was breathing heavily as Mr. flavor-of-the-month fucked him from behind, his hot, grunting breath washing over the fox's back as he rutted hard into the fox. How had this happened? Had Piper agreed to this? Surely not...but here he was, the feeling of the wolf's cock sliding in and out of him like a bite of pain and pleasure with every stroke.

Piper could taste seed in his muzzle with every labored breath, the musky taste as familiar to him as the burn of flashbulbs or the bitter taste of the pills. Looking below him he saw his chestfur was streaked with strands of milky white cum, but his dripping cock was still hard and throbbing beneath him. How long had this been going on for? Piper wasn't sure, not sure what had actually happened as he felt the wolf run his paws deep into the fur on his back, his claws digging right down to Piper's skin to scratch across it roughly.

Each stroke the wolf seemed to pound deeper into Piper's tight, slender little ass, and the fox couldn't help but give out a moan as he felt the wolf's knot press at the entrance to his already stretched anus. As good as it felt though, Piper just wanted it to be over, just wanted to be rid of the musky smell and diamond-stud swagger of this damned wolf. He just wanted to go and shower, to wash himself until he finally felt clean, but that could take him years.

The thick, matted strands of semen across his fur, the musky taste of seed in his mouth...maybe Mr. flavor-of-the-month hadn't been the only one in on this little party, Piper thought as he heard the wolf grunting and panting as he fucked him. He was the only one left now though, his knot now stretching Piper as he forced it into the fox roughly.

"Oh...oh yeah, you're a good little slut..." The panted gruffly into his ear, sounding for all the world like the weasel photographer. All Piper wanted was for it to be over, but he knew it wouldn't be done for a while yet. He wondered who the wolf thought he was fucking. Was it the Kayline jeans? The Proscio fragrance? The Pluto convertible? That's all he was fucking, just the image, just the product.

There was no way he was fucking Piper. No-one even knew Piper existed. There was a world full of people who couldn't get enough of his picture, but were deaf to who he really was. And somewhere out there, just above the snowline, there was a little house that always seemed to attract butterflies in the spring, where a few foxes he had once called 'family' didn't want to know Piper either.

Thoughts dashed now, the drugs and the wave of orgasm inside him washing away all else but the feeling, the lust, the image. Piper pulled himself upwards, one paw reaching behind his neck and grabbing the back of the wolf's neck, the other gripping his own knot tight as he let out a long moan. The feeling, the sound, rose to a crescendo as the dam broke, Piper stiffening as his cock sprayed a milky arc. It would have been beautiful, the photo op. Out is the new in, after all, he thought, his mind again playing back to that internal script, the words he lived every day of his life.

Click.

Give me penetration.

Click.

Give me lust.

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Give me detachment.

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Give me apathy.

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Give me two pills every hour, two bitter little lifesavers, as flawless and blue as Piper's eyes, resting on a tongue as plush and velvety as any red carpet the fox had ever strutted upon.

Click.

Give me anything but real feelings.

Click.

Give me anything to help me ignore who I really am.

Click.

Whirr.

Need to replace the damn film...

Pop.

Click.

Whirr.

Let the photo shoot start again.

Click.

It was night. The air was still chill and fresh, but it held the promise of warmth that spoke of the coming springtime. The street was bathed in darkness, with little pools of light interspersing it from streetlights and houses. Piper stood in one of these, on the porch to the place he had once called home, his fists balled as he tried to keep his lip from quivering.

In front of him was the fox he had once called his father, fury and disgust written across his face as he stood blocking the doorway. Piper could hear sobbing inside, out of sight, but he knew his mother would not come to see him, not to see the son that had disgraced her. A suitcase was at his feet where his father had thrown it, looking forlornly small for something that now held all his worldly possessions. Piper paid it no attention though, staring fixedly at the fox in the doorway.

"I gave you a chance, boy." He said. He wasn't like his son at all; his shoulders were wide, his arms thick and brawny. Piper got his lithe, feminine frame from his mother, his long lashes and silky soft fur were hers. The only thing he got from his father was his eyes - two pairs of matching, stunning baby blues were locked there on the porch, the only likeness between father and son. "I gave you a chance to change, but you couldn't control your sickness, could you?"

"It's not a sickness." Piper said, trying to keep the tremble from his voice as he felt tears sting at his eyes. "There's nothing wrong with what I am."

"Yes there is. It's not right!" His father barked.

"Right? Why do you get to decide what is and isn't right? I'm not going to change, not ever. I'm proud of what I am, even if you can't be." Piper replied. He felt sick, he felt like he was about to burst into tears, but something wouldn't let him back down.

"Then go!" His father had snapped. "Get out of here, faggot! We don't ever want to see you again!" And with that, he slammed the door in Piper's face. Piper just gaped at the woodwork, his mind suddenly blank. He was dimly aware of wailing inside growing even louder and more wretched, and of windows lighting up and doors opening up and down the street to see what the disturbance was. He could feel eyes burning on him, everyone watching him, desperate to know his secrets, but all he could do was stare at the closed door in front of him.

At first he thought the door might open again, that they might come out to him and beg reconciliation. When that didn't happen he had the sudden urge to try that himself, to plead for their forgiveness, to get back into their house, to try and again make it his home. But like the old fox had said, they never wanted to see him again. There was nothing he could do now but leave.

There was nothing for him here anymore, no longer a home, no longer a family. Already it seemed strange, fake, a memory, a picture in a magazine. There was nothing left for him here but the memories of the butterflies. And so he picked up his suitcase, and stepped off the porch, out of the pool of light that had once been his home, and into the night.

Click.

Piper's eyes flickered open slowly, descending from the arms of sleep into the horrible reality of being awake again, staring blankly at the unfamiliar ceiling as he tried to remember what had happened the night before...it all seemed a blank to him, just snatches of memory within the darkness.

He had been at a party...then he was doing coke on the rooftop with some self-proclaimed hot-shit musician...then he had...Piper made a face, feeling ashamed. Had he really let him do that to him? He couldn't be sure, it all felt like a dream...and then he had been dreaming of the night...he sighed. He hadn't had that dream for a long time, and he had been glad for it. That night had haunted his dreams for a long time, the shame and hatred he had felt on that night as strong now as it ever had been.

He tried to push the thoughts from his mind as he sat up, blinking blearily as he looked about the room. It was a hotel room, obviously, the walls all passive white to match the furniture, the walls bare except for a few pieces of inoffensive corporate art. He had slept on a big double bed, not even bothering to climb between the sheets or undress. He felt a little dirty as he staggered to his feet and padded unsteadily through the hotel room, his mouth dry and his head throbbing from the night before. His joints were stiff and sore, and his shoulders were aching as well as he looked around the interior of the room, wondering how he had got there.

After a few minutes aimless wandering around the living area of the suite, he found a note for him on the countertop in the kitchen, Rainier's familiar, rough handwriting catching his eyes.

"Put you up here last night kiddo. Shoot at two. Will send limo. Look pretty. R." Piper read it over a few times, not at all surprised by the short, abrupt nature of the otter's message. He sighed and rubbed at his sore neck, ignoring the stiff complaints from his joints as he did so. Why should he expect any more than that from him? He was just an object, an item, just something else to sell to the otter. Just next to the note, hanging off the back of one of the chrome barstools, was a zipped up suit-carrier, and when Piper hefted it he could tell the otter had been picking out clothes for him again.

'Look pretty', the note said. 'Look how I tell you too', in other words. 'Do what I tell you to do'. 'Be what I tell you to be'. In the vast, larger than life being that was Piper, the Piper that adorned billboards and magazines, with a face that could make them weep and a body that could drive them mad, Rainier was the hidden puppet-master, the one that controlled what the public saw. He was the master, the man behind the curtain in Oz, and Piper was just the hologram. Larger than life, but only a dream. An idea, a form that could be molded to any purpose that Rainier chose for him.

Watch the screen folks, watch the show. Do not pay attention to the otter behind the curtain.

Piper sighed, closing his eyes. It was too early in the morning to be thinking like this. There was still an hour or so before the limo arrived to take him to the shoot, so he retreated to the shower to try and clean some of the filth of the previous night from his memory.

Standing there under the head, his pure white fur plastered to his body as the water drummed against his closed eyelids, the steam filling the room and making everything fuzzy around the edges...Piper could block out his thoughts there, pretend that he was somewhere, someone else.

He stayed like that, just standing there under the spray for as long as he could take it, until he could finally avoid it no longer, climbing out of the blessed warmth and back into his own cold reality. He cleansed the water from his fur in the fur driers and then dressed in the clothes Rainier had left for him. Tight, dark-grey pants that hugged his every curve and rode low on his hips, a tight white t-shirt that seemed to melt into his fur, and a matching red belt and scarf. This was the 'in' look of the season, so Piper vaguely remembered being told. Neutral tones, with a touch of vivid color.

There was a single tone from the hotel room's phone, and he knew his limo was waiting for him downstairs. He cast about for a few moments and swore; he must have lost his sunglasses the night before...they were gone now, wherever they were. It was always so much easier to face the day when his eyes were protected from the sun. It was like there was a shield between him and the rest of the world...but he would have to do without them now.

He glanced into the mirror and saw his own stunning reflection, and flashed himself a dazzling smile, a million dollars worth of bleached-white, ivory bones, smooth and perfect, the borders to that velvet-plush ruby-red tongue. It wasn't a real smile though, it was just the one he gave the cameras. When they said 'smile', this was what he gave them...when was the last time he had smiled without prompt, he wondered? When was the last time the contracting of muscles in his jaw that brought his lips up was caused by something genuine?

He was still thinking about this when he made it down into the lobby, walking with the same aloof gait he had picked up from being a model; the type of walk that pulled every eye to his body without him doing anything. He could feel their eyes on him now, the desk attendant, the bellboy, the elderly badger staring over the top of his newspaper at him...and there was one more, too. Standing by the doorway, his eyes fixed, unmoving on Piper as he strode towards him, was a tall husky in a chauffer's uniform, his silver buttons sparkling as he reached up now to tip his cap to Piper as he approached.

"Transportation for Mr. Piper?" He said, his voice calm, warm and measured.

"That's me." The fox replied, betraying absolutely no emotion in his voice as he spoke.

"Good day sir." The husky replied to him, holding open the hotel's doors for the fox as he passed by. As Piper stood blinking in the sunlight the chauffeur hurried around him and opened the back door of a jet black limousine that sat shining dully in the sunlight in the entranceway to the hotel.

Climbing into the dark interior of the limousine was a blessing, the thick shaded windows blocking the light out and saving Piper's sensitive eyes. He sighed as his fur slid across the cool dark leather, working his shoulders into the seat to make himself more comfortable. He closed his eyes and tried to gather his thoughts as he heard the chauffeur climb into the limo up front, starting the engine with a gentle purr, the slightest tickle of vibration that Piper could feel in his body.

"How are you this morning sir?" A voice said, breaking Piper from his stupor. He looked around once or twice, blinking owlishly until he realized it was the chauffeur speaking to him over his shoulder as he drove.

"Huh?" Piper offered unintelligibly before his brain responded. "Oh. Alright, thank you." He said, slightly nonplussed. He wasn't used to be talked to by chauffeurs, or waiters, bellboys, all those little service people that usually seemed to scurry about him. He wasn't used to being talked to at all; most just seemed to talk at him.

"It's a lovely day today, isn't it?" The driver said, and Piper grimaced as he glanced out the window. Even with all the tinting shielding his gaze, it still seemed too bright for him to handle. Still, the sky was clear, the air was almost still, from what he could see...

"Looks that way, yes." Piper always found driving in limousines disorienting. Usually everyone could see him, and he couldn't see them, but behind this tinted glass it was the opposite...he could see them all, and they were all oblivious to his existence. He gave an inexplicable little shiver and brushed at his pocket, a wan smile brushing his features as he heard the rattle within; Rainier knew him too well, he had stowed a small bottle of those little blue lifesavers in his clothes.

Piper's hand snaked into his pocket, semi-numb fingers fumbling clumsily at the child-proof lid as he opened the pills. Two on the tongue, the bitter taste familiar, comforting as they slid down his throat, falling into his empty stomach and beginning to fizz away immediately. Piper stowed the bottle away again as he waited for the fizz to reach his brain, catching a glimpse of the driver's eyes in the rear view mirror, watching him.

"Oh, are you sick sir?" The driver's voice said, his brows knitted as they watched Piper. Piper couldn't help but notice the color of those eyes as they watched him, that rich, brilliant green that seemed so familiar to him.

"Yes, driver, I'm very sick." Piper said a little coldly, irritated by his intrusion, still staring at those eyes, unable to place them, unable to guess why they were so familiar to him.

"Let me know if I talk too much sir, and I'll stop. I used to be a taxi driver, and it's a hard habit to shake." The driver said, and now Piper saw his eyes crease in the mirror as he grinned, and Piper softened a little.

"That's alright. It's fine." He said quietly.

"Thank you sir. Can I ask you a question sir, if it's not too personal?"

"What is it?" Piper replied.

"Why do you seem so familiar to me sir? Have I seen you somewhere before sir?" The driver said, and Piper felt his bitter mood return as he was reminded of who he was.

"I don't doubt it." He said, unable to keep the harshness from his voice. The driver made no reply though, sensing he had touched a sensitive nerve, and they drove on for a few minutes in silence, Piper, staring out at the metropolis as it went past. The limousine pulled to a halt at an intersection, cars crawling past in front of them, and Piper heard a low breath of surprise from the driver.

Piper craned his slender, elegant neck to see what the driver was looking at, and felt his heart sink even further as he saw what it was. They were at the head of the queue of cars, and directly opposite them, plastered across a billboard was Piper, larger than life, sprawled across an obscene length of building, his posture and dress just as obscene.

There had been trouble with this particular advert, he remembered that much. It was too suggestive, they had said, but they got away with it somehow...Piper was on his back, entirely nude, only a crooked knee hiding his maleness from sight, his slender chest and thighs fully exposed. Looking up and back at the camera was Piper, his eyes half-hooded from effort or from Rainier's little pills, he wasn't sure, he couldn't remember the shoot.

Piper's thin paws were across his chest, holding lightly against each other, a gesture that half beckoned and half turned away...his tail was just visible as a ruff of pure white near his crotch. Seventy-two separate panels made up this billboard, seventy-two boards that added up to make one obscene, larger than life fox, his lips pulled back just enough to show a little fang, just enough to 'make them hungry', as Rainier said.

In the corner, almost invisible, was the silhouette of a cologne bottle, and the words 'Proscio: Pour Homme'. And that was all there was. Fifty million dollars, seventy-two panels, twelve stories high and eighty feet wide...for a bottle of cologne. They had tried to sell everything, to market everything...so it made sense, that sooner or later they would just be selling people, that the actual product was no longer important. Sooner or later it would just be people on the market, their lives just something to buy and use, use and break, break and throw away. And then the consumers could just buy a new one.

Piper could tell what the chauffeur was thinking; it what was everyone was thinking when they saw him on a billboard like that. He was wondering what it would be like to fuck him, to use him, abuse him and throw him away, a product just like everything he sold. He sank a little further down in his seat, ashamed and disgusted at what he had become, at what everyone must think of him...

"They're perfect." The chauffeur said.

"What?" Piper replied, confused. This wasn't the response his image usually elicited...

"His...your eyes. I knew I'd seen you before..." The husky said, his brilliant, strangely familiar green eyes flicking back between the Piper in the limousine and the larger-than-life Piper across the intersection. "That's one thing they always fix...the eyes. But yours, yours really do look like that. Just as sky-blue, and flawless and beautiful."

"Beautiful?" Piper breathed, taken aback.

"Yes. They're perfect." The husky said. And then the lights had changed and they were moving, past the billboard, past the obscenity, past it all until all was left was the comment that still hang in the air, even after it had been said. All was left was that one word, 'perfect', and the strange little smile that just wouldn't vacate Piper's muzzle.

And no-one had even pointed a camera, no-one had said action...

No-one had said smile.

Click.