FSE

Furry search engine

formerly SoFurry search engine

_ Re-Re-Re-REMIIIIIIIX _!!!!!!!! *Obnoxious Airhorn!*

He-hey there, denizens of the wild and weird world of all that is fuzziful! You thought I was dead, didn't you? You thought I was gone forever, huh? Well YOU WERE WRONG! HA-HAHAHAHAHAHAHA! GUESS WHO'S BACK, BOYS AND GALS?!?

...Me. I-It's me. I'm back. Well, sorta-kinda. I found enough time to recombobulate this thingie majigger, anyways.

So, I'm going to go ahead and admit my bad on the whole 'going dark' thing I've done for the past few years. Not really mad at anybody or "disenchanted from the fandom" or anything like that. I've just had a lot going on and very little motivation to write anything. One thing that I HAD been planning on doing for quite some time was going back and revamping this little tidbit raght heah! And now I've finally done it!

I've gotten so much positive feedback and so many wonderfulcomments on this story over the years. So many amazing people telling me how mywork affected them, whether it drove them to tears or warmed their hearts. I'llbe the first to admit that it was a HUUUUUUUUGE ego trip for me. I didn't go "mahd wit powah" or anything, but I did sort of have rose-tintedglasses about it for the first little bitFor all the praise it's received, however, every time I looked back at it as the years went by, I couldn't help but begin to pick it apart, like a... like a... thing that people pick apart? <_< >_> "0_o' I acknowledge that the idea is solid - one of my best, in fact! That's why I wrote it. It just needed polishing. A LOOOOOOOT of polishing! So that's what I attempted to do here - polish up all those rough (pun not intended!) edges and flesh out those areas that seemed sort of thin, while still keeping the heart and soul of the story in its original, unmolested state.

Oh! Disclaimer thingy! If you're under the age of eighteen, or even twenty-one in some backwards, archaic societies, DO NOT GET CAUGHT!!!!!! I will not be responsible for what your parents and/or the authorities will do to you if you are too dumb to lock your door or cover your e-tracks. This contains at least one scene of graphic (a.k.a. Totally awesome) sex between two consenting adults, as well as violence, harsh language, and death. If the previous does not apply to and/or offend you, feel free to brave the dangerous waters of the following furry smexy-ness (This writer is also not responsible for sore eyeballs due to skimming paragraphs to find said smexy-ness).

---

Send a message to the unborn child

Keep your eyes open, for a while

In a box, high up on the shelf

Left for you, no one else

Lies a piece to the puzzle known as life

Wrapped in guilt, sealed up tight

Whatever happened

To the young man's heart?

Swallowed by pain

As he slowly fell apart

Shinedown, ".45"

***

Through the Fire and Flames

He was running. He had no idea where. All he knew was that for some reason he couldn't see - couldn't breathe. The air was thick with... something, he couldn't tell, but it made everything feel heavier in some inexplicable way. There was a smell. Something he knew all too well, but wished he didn't for some reason just beyond his grasp. It was bright. Very bright. Extremely bright. Painfully bright. It wasn't a natural light though. It was something more primal - more malevolent.

He heard a scream from somewhere ahead and off to the left. He knew that voice; had heard that scream before, but where? He stopped as another scream sounded, closer this time, more desperate. Who was it? Where was it coming from? Why the hell was he even here?

He fell to his knees and threw his hands to his head as a third scream rang out. This one was the loudest of all, and his own voice rose to match it. But while his exclamation was one of fear, confusion, and desperation, this one was equally full of pain. No, more than pain. Suffering. Anguish. This was the scream of a person being put through the worst kind of physical torture. This was the scream of someone who was dying.

"Mother!" he heard himself cry, but it wasn't his voice, not really anyway. It was higher, lighter. Everything was rushing back to him, like a runaway train. The air, the smell, the light.

Heat.

Smoke.

Fire!

He screamed again as the ceiling in front of him collapsed, and all at once he knew, without a doubt, that what his mind told him was right, because the rubble in front of him was on fire, and the heat and smoke went from annoying to unbearable.

He was frantic now. He tried to find a way over or around the flames, but every time he got near them they seemed to grow larger. Jumping and flickering. Eager to swallow him up.

"Help!" he heard the voice he now recognized as his Mother's shout. He didn't know how he knew it was her, but he did all the same, and he knew he had to get to her before the inferno in front of him did.

"I can't!" he begged, pleaded to her, "the flames are too high!" He had to make her understand, make her see why he couldn't get to her, couldn't help her, couldn't save her.

"Try!"

"I am!"

"Not hard enough, boy!" a different voice said. It was full of sarcasm, venom, practically dripping with malice. A face, then a shadowed body appeared behind the flames, towering over him, sneering down at him. He cowered before it, fearful of what even that figure's voice could do to him. He knew that voice as well, and he hated and feared it with a passion that equaled and maybe even surpassed that of the love he had for his mother.

There was a rush of air, a blinding light, and the heat became a burning, and...

***

...and he woke up screaming. He sat up, still yelling at the

top of his lungs, and began to swat and bat at himself, trying to put out the

raging fire his sleep-addled brain told him was slowly consuming his body.

He slowly came to his senses, getting a grip on his

surroundings. He wasn't in a burning hallway alight with flickering flame, but

in his little, rundown, and all together not-on-fire apartment room, lit only

by his digital clock, which read o:00 A. N., but probably meant 6:00 A. M. The

sensation on his skin wasn't tongues of flame licking at his body, but the cold

sweat that covered him and his sopping wet bed.

He became aware of a noise, a pounding and shouting. All at

once he realized that it was his neighbor, one of them at least.

"Hey! Keep it down over there! Some people are trying

to sleep!"

"Gee. Thanks for caring, jackass" he muttered.

"So much for 'citizens caring for citizens in Verona' !" He looked

back at the clock, standing up with a grunt and a sigh and beginning to get

ready as he realized he would have to be at school in a couple hours anyway.

Michael North scratched at the back of his arms as he began

to put on his shirt, long-sleeve, even though it was Summer, and the weatherman

hadn't reported anything other than sweltering temperatures for the next month

or so. He walked to the bathroom, flicking on the dim, yellow light and

checking over his reflection in the mirror on. Everything seemed normal. 6'

1" human male. A decent build. Short brown hair, eyes the color of muddy

earth and a stubble on his chin that suggested he hadn't shaven in at least a

few days. He frowned at himself. He'd have to take care of that sometime. For

now though, it could wait. It wasn't as if he had anybody to look presentable

for, anyway.

Michael thought back to the details of his dream - his

nightmare, brow furrowing in thought as he took up his toothbrush and gave his

mouth the quick scrub required to ensure his teeth didn't start falling out of

his head. It had been different than usual. There had never been a hallway

before. They hadn't even had a hallway. As he continued to ponder it, he

realized that his Mother's voice had been different somehow, too. In fact, it

hadn't even really sounded like her, from what he could remember. His frown

deepened as he ran a comb through his hair enough to make it look as though he

hadn't been trying to sleep on a running treadmill.

He sighed, splashing a handful of water from the faucet on

his face to try and force it to relax. He flicked the light switch again as he

left, plunging the room into purple pre-dawn darkness, and picked up his keys

and wallet from the nightstand by his bed as he made his way to the door;

kicking aside piles of clothing, old pizza boxes, and other assorted junk as he

went. It was best not to dwell on these things, he decided. A dream was a

dream, the past was still the past, and what was dead was dead.

---

You don't call what happened to me a sacrifice?

Okay, okay! So maybe it did, but at least he doesn't hate

you, doesn't fear you.

I would think he has every right to!

That was a mistake!

A mistake?

Yes, a mistake. You know I never would have done that if I

were in my right mind, and anyways, I've already paid for it.

Yes, and you're still paying. So I suggest we drop this

whole thing and focus on the task at hand.

Yeah, whatever.

Understand?

Yes!

Good.

---

Verona was a quiet town, for the most part. Hardly anyone

outside of the community even knew it existed. It wasn't even really a town,

more like an extremely large suburb to the even larger city of Mab. Mab was

where the action was. Mab was where the movers and the shakers and all the corporate

bigwigs wheeled and dealed and bet millions on schemes that wouldn't see payoff

for the next twenty years. Mab was where the difference between law-abiding

business and criminal enterprise was a few forms and taxes and which branch of

the Feds was breathing down your neck.

Verona was mostly residential, with a couple malls, some

parks, and a handful of apartment complexes mixed in. Verona was quiet. Verona

was plain. In Verona, no one wheeled or dealed or did any sort of scheming at

all. Plans were made on the short count, or they weren't made at all. Verona

was, to put it bluntly, boring.

Verona suited Michael just fine.

Michael sat on a bench, lazily picking at a sandwich on his

lap. He was pretty sure that more than half of it was going to the birds that

crowded on the brick walkway in front of him to beg for scraps. He never really

ate lunch, but holding the food made it look as though he wasn't just staring

at the people walking by. Not that he was, but there was a no loitering sign, and it wasn't as if the security here had

anything better to do than give him hell for quite literally doing absolutely

nothing.

The park that Michael was currently seated in was

conveniently located right next to C and M Community College - his college. It

wasn't much, but it had what he needed, and more importantly, it was much

cheaper than going to a State University. Cheaper college meant cheaper loans,

and cheap loans were all he could afford if he didn't want to be in debt until he

was a grey old man. Accountants weren't paid minimum wage by any definition,

but they didn't exactly break the bank either. He couldn't complain, though; it

was what he wanted to do. He'd always been good with numbers. Numbers were

safe. Michael liked safe. Let the Type As eat each other to death trying to

make it big and do it loud. Michael didn't need big or loud. Michael was just

fine with safe and quiet. And if he had to make due with a smaller TV or

off-brand cereal, then he was okay with that too. Maybe his life was rather...

Spartan, but he could do Spartan. Spartan suited Michael.

Michael scratched at the sleeves of his shirt.

It was late April, just getting into the heat of summer, and

hot enough to cook an egg on the sidewalk. Nobody was doing much. A girl

sitting on the edge of the large fountain fanning herself with her hand. A guy

fiddling with a small electronic device Michael assumed was a phone. And on the

other side of the park, off to themselves, the furs.

There weren't any segregation laws - nothing legally

separating the two groups. At least, not anymore, but there was still a stigma

• a hostility that acted as a wall between humans and furs. There were people

on both sides that perpetuated it. There were those that still wanted both

human and fur to remain apart. It was less... overt than it had been in the

past, but still there. Less an open hate and more a mutual distrust that led to

a inborn sort of apathy. It didn't stop Michael from scanning the scattered

crowd around him: canine, feline, cervine, bovine, equine. Not really paying

attention to individual faces. Just an abstract search for... what? He didn't

know. What was he looking for?

Just something to look at, he guessed.

His eyes wandered to a vixen sitting by herself near the

edge of the group. She was leaning against a tree with a book in her lap, a

calculator in one hand, and a pencil in the other. Pretty plain, all in all.

Pretty, true, in that abject, artistic way in which all femininity is

inherently pretty. The sweep and curve of her lines against the backdrop. The

play of light and wind in russet fur. Pretty like a portrait. Pretty like a

flower. But pretty plain, too. Nothing that really should have drawn his gaze.

So then why was he gazing?

And not just gazing. What he was doing now qualified as

outright staring. The dull glint of a claw as she turned the page of her book

and fleshy, mottled pink of the pad which cradled the spine. The tuft of white

peeking from the top of her - Stop staring! What was different about this girl

• about this vixen? Why should she attract his eye, and not someone a little

less... exotic?

His answer came to him in the form of a huddle of three

human males that broke from the crowd and began to walk towards the pretty,

plain vixen that he was staring at; each grinning like the hound that caught

the proverbial fox. But though they smiled, these men were very obviously not

her friends.

Michael sighed and, throwing the rest of his sandwich onto

the ground, stood up. He navigated his way slowly but surely through the various

knots of students, making certain to act natural and not draw attention to

himself. There was something odd about those men. Each of them was shaved

completely bald and had Leonardo Da-Vinci's "Vitruvian Man" tattooed upon

their left shoulder. The bald thing might not have bothered Michael by itself,

but nobody wore that symbol as a simple fashion statement. Not unless they

wanted the tar beaten out of them and the offending ink (as well as any surrounding

skin) ripped promptly and violently off of their arms. It could only mean one

thing.

The People.

The People meant trouble.

Michael hated trouble.

The People, as they liked to call themselves, were a "Human

Heritage Activist" group - basically KKK for furs. They were founded soon

after the first furs came off the line, back when the government had first

legalized genetic engineering. People had paid big money to have their own

partner built for them; essentially, sex slaves or personal bodyguards. The

government quickly put that down, but it resulted in thousands upon thousands

of "abominations", as The People called them, left roaming the

streets to fend for themselves.

Most of them went back to what they knew best, turning cheap

tricks as prostitutes and killing for hire as mercenaries and assassins, but a

small portion took to society, got jobs, houses, found each other, and started

families. A few even became quite wealthy. It was this group that The People

targeted.

It began in the South, as these things often do, but it soon

spread so far that the People knew no region, nor even nationality. It wasn't

everyone, but there was a substantial portion of the human population that

either belonged to or openly supported the People and their cause. Most of the

others just turned their heads.

The People's MO was petty crime, at first - vandalism and

theft. Things that could be dismissed. Things that could be ignored, but then

they started to get out of control. Furs began to disappear, others turned up

beaten senseless in front of hospitals, hardly even recognizable to their own

families. The People's signature was to hang a collar on a porch or in a tree in

front of a house they'd "purified". To show them where they belonged,

and who they should belong to.

Then one day - Martin Luther King Day to be exact - the

world finally had to take notice. There was a protest in DC. A march for equal

fur rights. It began as a peaceful demonstration, but then the People showed up

in a countermarch. Nobody knew who fired the first shot, and nobody cared after

the first shot was fired. The peaceful march became an all out riot. Chaos. A

bloodbath. People, human and fur, dying in the streets. A city on fire. The

National Guard called in. The President forced to declare martial law at the Capitol's

very doorstep. A national embarrassment the likes of which hadn't been seen

since MacArthur drove his tanks over the Bonus Army.

Soon after, the UN and Interpol began to raid the People's

chapter houses worldwide. There were tense standoffs, chaotic shootouts. It

nearly became a war. Eventually the ringleader was caught cowering in a hole in

some third-world country, and the rest of the People disbanded, but so-called

"nonviolent" chapters remained in operation. They paid off corrupt

cops and officials to remain standing, performed favor hits on political rivals

and problem gangs, and did everything they could to keep their names out of

every fur killing reported. The bottom line, the People were alive and well in

the world, and willing to recruit every loser, weirdo, brainless bruiser, and

distraught youth with hate in his heart and a will to direct it at the closest

and most convenient minority.

The thugs moved forward until they were right in front of

the fox-girl. Startled out of her trance-like studies by the sudden change in

light, the girl looked up to see three tall shadows towering above her.

The first one was small and lithe, with a jittery little

twitch and a demeanor that suggested being a few marbles on the South side of

sanity. The second was huge, his arms were easily larger than the average man's

waist, and his butchered smile revealed that he was no stranger to a fight. The

third seemed to be the brains of the operation. He was arrogant, fairly

intelligent looking, wiry but far from scrawny, and acted as though he was used

to getting what he wanted, when he wanted it, and if he was still interested in

it by the time it got to him.

The anthro girl's fur bristled, fluffing in an instinctual

urge to make herself look big and intimidating before these obvious predators.

She quickly glanced back down, realizing how ridiculous she must have looked,

and attempted to smooth out her inflated pelt. The leader stepped forward and

began to nudge her with his foot.

"Hey fur! What'cha lookin' at, huh?" His friends

chuckled. The vixen muttered something, her eyes flickering back and forth in

their sockets.

Murmuring something too quietly for Michael to hear from his

vantage point, the vixen began to gather her things in an attempt to leave, but

stopped as the two remaining thugs moved to either side, hemming her in between

themselves and the tree behind her.

"Whoa!" the first skinhead exclaimed in mock

surprise, "The fox talked! I didn't know foxes could talk! Say something

else." The vixen shook her head in the negative and tried to slide between

a gap in the impromptu crowd, but was caught short when the big one grabbed her

by the arm and roughly threw her back against the tree.

"Answer when yer spoken to, bitch, 'r are ya just

stupid?" She struggled against his grip, but he held tight and, for good

measure, began lifting her up off the ground until her feet were barely touching,

scrabbling for a grip. "Understand?" he asked her. She nodded

fearfully, looking around for any means of escape."Good. Now, wag your

tail n' bark fer me like a good lil bitch."

Fear shone in her eyes as her body began to tremble,

glancing at the leader in a silent plea. Hadn't they humiliated her enough?

Surely they'd more than proven their point. His cool, cruel gaze met her own,

waiting. Swallowing the icy lump that had formed in her throat with a soft

whine, she began a slow, mechanical wag of her tail.

"Goooood. That's it," the man murmured in a voice

that would almost have been soothing if it hadn't been so cruel. "Now the

other part. Bark for us like a good puppy." A smile graced his face, his

gaze gaining a hungry edge. "Do a good job and we might just make you our

little pet."

A chill of raw terror ran down her spine as the big thug's

hand began to wander, groping at the slim contours of her stomach, inching

slowly lower until his fingertips brushed the denim waistline of her jeans.

"Hey guys! What's going on?" Even as the words

left Michael's lips he regretted them. The three turned on him, arms raised,

ready (and even eager, in the case of Mr. Big) for a fight. The fox-girl,

afraid to try another escape, slid down until she was sitting on the ground again

with her back to the tree. In Michael's defense, the big one hadn't looked as

big from far away, but up close? He had to be at least two feet taller than

him. It was an intimidating sight.

"The fuck do you care?" the lead skinhead asked

with a snarl as he turned. He stopped for a second, seeming to recognize the

boy in front of him. "Hey! Aren't you that North kid? You are, aren't

you?" he raised hand in a gesture of greeting, " Sorry about that. I'm

John, John Greene. My Dad knew yours." he smiled. "What's the

matter?" he asked as Michael scowled. "You want a piece of the

action?" He stepped aside, gesturing toward the vixen in invitation.

"No," Michael replied, "What I want is for

you to let her go". What the hell was he doing? He didn't even really like

furs! In fact, he probably had every right to blame them for the way his life

had turned out. Why was he putting his neck on the line for some stupid fur

bitch?

A small voice somewhere in the back of his head told him

that it was because she wasn't just some dumb bitch. She was a person, just

like he was a person, just like everyone was a person. His mind re-rationalized

it, translating the message into a form his conscious brain could comprehend.

These guys were scum, and scum like them didn't have any right to hassle

anybody, not even a fur. Yeah, that would work, that would work nice.

"Oh, really?" John asked calmly. It was a calm

that held something behind it, something sinister. It was the calm right before

your house was hit by a tornado, like the quiet at the scene of a murder.

"Shame, I respected your Father, I really did, but if that's what you

want..." He gestured to Big, who promptly cocked back an arm and struck

Michael across the jaw, hard. Michael fell to the ground with a thud, tasting

blood in his mouth.

John stepped up to Michael and knelt down in front of his

face, smirking down at him with his arms on his knees.

"Have fun with your bitch, dog-fucker," he

smirked. He stood up and began to walk away, gesturing for his cronies to

follow. The big one spitting a stream of what appeared to be tobacco juice onto

Michael's cheek, and the twitchy one stopping just long enough to deliver a

swift kick to Michael's gut as he tried to get back up, before he too ran off

to join Greene and Big.

Michael stood back up slowly, wincing as he gingerly felt

around his ribs and jaw, wiping off the spit and blood there with the back of

his left hand. He limped over to the vixen and stuck out his hand in offering,

buy she slapped it away, standing herself up and glaring daggers his way.

Michael cocked an eyebrow curiously, eyes following her as she rose up to his

level, or about a foot below his level, to be exact.

"I don't need your help!" she snarled. Teeth

bared, eyes glaring and fur bristling.

"Oh, I'm sorry," Michael retorted, "I suppose

I should have just let that asshole and his little friends beat the crap out of

you, and then do God knows what afterwards, huh?"

"You don't think I see through your little

charade?" She asked. "I'm not stupid, you know? The big, brave,

dashing human comes in the knick of time to save the vixen-in-distress from the

terrible, horrible band of ruffians! You and your stupid friends didn't have me

fooled for a second!"

"What!" Michael sputtered, offended, "You

actually think I'm friends with those little fucks?"

"Yeah, Prince-charming, I do! The first one even said

it himself. Your folks are old fucking pals. And you know what else?" she motioned

him in closer with her finger. Michael lowered his head until her mouth was

practically inside of his ear in an attempt to humor her. She drew in a

breath... and socked him right in the stomach.

"Your fake limp needs work. Gave the whole thing away."

Michael felt something in his chest crack, and for the third

time that day, he fell... and didn't get back up. The last thing he thought

before he blacked out was that something must have gone wrong with his vision.

He'd seen her eyes. They were purple, the irises at least. He'd never seen

anyone with purple eyes before. There was a strange smell in the air too; an

odd mixture of cinnamon and citrus fruit. He kind of liked it...

The fox crossed her arms over her chest, frowning and

tapping her foot like an impatient mother, waiting for him to quit the act. She

growled softly under her breath. Michael, for his part, remained still and

quiet in the dirt.

"You're not fooling me, you know..." she stated

after a while, nudging his prone form with a toe, he still didn't get up. She

gave a miffed sigh and knelt down, placing an arm on his shoulder and shaking

him this time. "Hey, buddy! It's not working. Come on, you don't really

think I'm that gullible, do you?"

She flipped him over and gasped as she finally noticed the

blood slowly leaking from between his lips. There was already a small pool of

it collected on the ground below him. She had no idea where exactly the blood

was coming from, except that it kept trickling slowly out of his mouth. That

shouldn't be happening. She hadn't hit him nearly hard enough to cause any

internal damage. That is, of course, unless-

"...It wasn't an act, was it?" she breathed to the

unconscious boy. Oh shit, she'd killed the poor kid, and all he'd done was try

and help her, but why?

She decided that it was best to ask questions later, when

there wasn't a guy hemorrhaging his life's-blood away at her feet. She stood up

quickly. "Hey!" she shouted, "Somebody help! This guy's

hurt!" She looked around, pleading with her eyes, begging for somebody,

anybody to help her.

"So what?" a buff tiger off to the left answered

nonchalantly. "Why should we care? Let his kind help him."

"Well?" she asked to a group of humans across the

path. They didn't even give her the courtesy of an answer. Some of them turned

their heads, others began to walk away. The most brazen just stared straight

through her like she didn't exist.

She sighed. Draping one of Michael's arms around her

shoulders as she half carried, half dragged him off towards the parking lot and

her car.

"Sheesh, buddy!" she muttered, "lay off the

cheese-burgers, why don'cha!"

---

Wow! they've only just met, and she's already broke him!

Sarcasm doesn't help anybody.

I'm just stating a fact.

No, you're being difficult, and it's bringing back memories.

Good memories?

If only...

Hey! I thought you said that sarcasm didn't help.

Just focus on what you're supposed to be doing. Unless, of course,

you'd rather go back?

Don't! Don't even joke that! Do you have any idea what it's

been like? Day after day, year after year without being able to be near you,

talk to you, and now we're together again and all you want to do is fight.

We're not here to talk, we're here to do a job, and, lest

you forget, this job could mean the difference between life and death for more

than just one person. Now go do your little scary ghost-y thing!

Yeah, Yeah! I hear you.

And for Heaven's sake, give it some effort this time!

---

Smoke.

Fire.

Laughter.

*BANG!*

Michael gasped, mouth gaping, sucking in air like a stranded

fish. He sat up, bewildered, and fell straight out of the tiny white bed he had

been laying on. He scrabbled backwards across the tile floor, backing himself

into a corner. He screamed, loud. Where the hell was he? How had he gotten

here?

"Where the fuck are my clothes?"

Suddenly the room was flooded with white coated men and

women. They were on him in a second. Grabbing him and quickly depositing him,

kicking and screaming, back onto the tiny white cot. Michael couldn't help

himself. He fought them, wild eyed, incoherent, struggling with all his might

to escape their grasp. A man was saying something into his ear, but he couldn't

hear him.

Someone grabbed his arm, straightening it and sticking in a

long needle. He saw more than felt it sinking into his skin, watching as the

blue-tinted fluid was pumped into him. It spread upwards and outwards, like

liquid ice through his veins, chilling him, and he was tired... so tired. It felt

so good to relax, and his eyes were so heavy. Sleep would be good, his sluggish

brain told him. Yes, sleep sounded like just the right thing...

Michael became aware of himself, slowly, achingly. He was

sore as hell. Good, that way he knew he was alive. Head, fingers, toes, arms,

legs, all accounted for. He began to test them, twitching, then wiggling, each

in turn. Once he had movement down, he tried sight. Colors and shapes swirled

in his vision. That was green, that black, and that one was definitely

white.... or grey.... no, white. Hearing came after that. He heard a strange

snicking noise, like the sound of a latch being unlocked. The door opened, and

a white-clad man stepped through the doorway and into the room.

"Oh good! You're awake!" he stated cheerfully.

"I'm not surprised. They pumped you full of enough tranquilizer to down a

bull elephant, but then again, you fought like one."

Michael attempted to sit up, and found himself unable to. He

looked down his body and found the straps crisscrossing him, holding him

tightly to the hospital bed. It reminded him of pictures he'd seen of men

prepared for the lethal injection.

"Why am I tied down?" he asked. "Wait, did

you say tranquilizer? You drugged me!"

"We didn't really have a choice. You were half-crazy

with pain, unresponsive. We tried to calm you down, and yes, a broken nose and

a few bites and scratches later, we finally had to use the syringe. Sorry about

the restraints and the lock and everything, but we couldn't have you moving

again, for your safety, as well as ours. You nearly undid your stitches, and

those things are a pain to have to do twice."

Michael stared disbelievingly at the doctor, "Broken

nose? Bites and scratches? You can't be serious!" The medic pulled up his

sleeve, showing him the large bandage wrapped around his forearm. Michael

blushed, "You mean I really... I mean... I honestly... I... sorry."

he finished lamely.

"Don't be, I've seen worse. In fact, we've got a guy

one ward over that's been giving me heck all day! His sheet says 'abdominal

hernia', but whatever they've got him on for the pain must be the good stuff,

because when I asked him if he knew why he was here, he kept insisting that he

had herpes in his eyeballs!" Michael laughed, he couldn't help himself.

"Ouch!" he exclaimed as he fell a sharp pain in

his chest.

"Sorry! Shouldn't have done that, and here I was the

one warning you about busting your stiches."

"What happened to me?" Michael inquired.

"That's what I was just about to ask you. Your file

says you're... Michael North?"

Michael looked away, avoiding his gaze. "If that's what

the file says."

He gave a knowing smile, "Are you saying you're not Mr.

Michael J. North, land-holding resident of the commonwealth of Verona,

Colorado?"

"I'm saying that I agree to whatever it says in your goddamn

file, and that I'd really appreciate it if you didn't go shouting my name from

the rooftops, thank you very much!" Michael growled through gritted teeth.

"Why not?" he asked wryly.

"I think you know very well why not. That's not a name

many people want to have. In fact, several of my relatives changed their names

because of what that name stands for these days."

"Now calm down!" the doctor chuckled, "This

is a hospital, not a courthouse. We don't judge people here. You could have

blown up your own meth lab like the guy in the room over, but that doesn't mean

I won't still treat your burn wounds."

Michael suddenly became very uncomfortable. "You never

said what happened to me."

"Oh, yeah! Sorry about that. Some girl carried you into

the E.R., screaming and yelling for help, blood all down one shoulder, and you,

draped across her back like some macabre scarf. Caused quite a stir, matter of

fact."

"Girl?"

"Vixen, about so high, jeans and... oh, yeah! Her eyes

were purple! Know her?"

Michael shook his head no. He thought it best not to mention

that she had been the one that had put him here in the first place. Showed him.

That'd be the last time he'd ever put himself on the line for someone else.

He must have frowned, because the doc flashed that

all-knowing smirk of a smile again.

"Thought so. Anyways, you're lucky to be alive. One of

your ribs broke and punctured your left lung, collapsing it. As strange as this

is going to sound, that's what saved you. If your lung had been inflated at the

time you would have suffocated. Basically, drowning in your own blood.

"That being said, however, doesn't mean that it was any

less expensive to fix you. Bio-glue to re-attach that rib, and one very complex

procedure to re-inflate your lung. Costs quite the pretty penny. Round fifteen

grand, cash price."

"What! I can't pay for that!" He started to thrash

about in a panic, "I don't have any insurance and I'm up to my ears in

school loans! I live in a Goddamn one-room apartment of Chrissakes!"

"Relax, relax!" Now it was the doctor's turn to

laugh. "Your friend paid for everything."

"Seriously?" Michael head was really in knots now.

First she kills him, then she pays to bring him back. This was one seriously

whacked-out chick. "Where is she now?"

"Gone. Left right after she heard you'd be okay."

"Did she leave a name, an address, anything?"

"You mean did she tell me who she was or where she was

from? Nope." Michael sighed, dejected. The surgeon's smile, however, only

grew wider, "She did charge your bill to her credit card, though. It would

be highly unethical, as well as a complete violation of HIPAA, but..." he

drew the word out, "I suppose I could, maybe, pull a few strings."

His eyes rolled upwards, suddenly becoming very interested in counting exactly

how many little black dots were in the tiled ceiling, but Michael could see the

ghost of a smile on his lips.

"You'd really do it! Thanks so much!" He tried to

sit up, but couldn't. Then he remembered the cords that tied him to his bed,

and fell back.

"Hey, hey, hey! Calm down! I said maybe. I'll see what

I can do. As for you," he pointed an accusing finger at him, "You

need to rest, buddy-boy. First we need to heal that rib. Then we can worry

about getting names and numbers. He winked over his shoulder as he walked out

of the room, shutting the door behind him.

"Hey, wait! You forgot to untie me! Aww, c'mon! I'll be

good! ...Mister?"

---

Michael stepped out of the cab, glancing at the address in

his hand for what had to be the thirtieth time to make sure it was right.

Michael had realized why the driver had been so surprised when he'd heard where

he was going from the moment they'd turned into the neighborhood. Every single

house in the sub-division was gigantic! Not one had less than two stories, and

all of them had to contain at least five bedrooms.

He paid the man with the cab fare they'd given him at the

hospital and watched as he drove out of sight. As he turned back towards the

house, he got the feeling of being alone in a very strange place. He gulped,

gathering his courage, and began the long walk to the doorstep. He paused as he

reached the entrance.

What was he even doing here? Obviously the girl didn't want

to speak to him. Why else would she just leave like that? He sighed, there was

no way around it now. He would have to knock, if only to ask to call a cab back

home. He would never make the walk to his apartment, not even if hadn't just

gotten out of E.R.

He was about to ring the doorbell when a voice crackled to

life out of the intercom system next to the door.

"Whatever you're selling, we don't want any," a

male voice stated coldly. Michael looked around, deciding it must have spoken

to him. He pressed the reply button.

"Um, I think there's been some mistake. I'm not selling

anything. I'm looking for a..." he checked the card again, "Miss

Sarah Coulding?"

"And why, may I ask, should I open the door for

you?"

"I... I'd like to thank her for... something she did

for me." There was a long pause.

A very long pause.

Michael gasped as the door opened, and he suddenly found

himself staring down the barrel of a very real, very deadly, military grade

pump action shotgun. His hands instinctively rose above his head, and he began

to back slowly away from the door, and the gun totting human male holding it

open.

"I think it would be in your best interests to leave,

sir," the man said with a smile. It would have come off as polite had it

not been for the twelve gauge casually cradled in his right arm. He looked to

be in his late twenties, and extremely fit at that. The black and white penguin

suit clashing strangely when juxtaposed against the firearm in his hands. He

opened the door fully, bringing around his other hand to smoothly load a round

into the breach. The way he handled the weapon suggested that he was no

stranger around a gun, and the careless smirk he wore, that he was no stranger

to using said gun.

"Wayne?" A familiar female voice asked from somewhere

inside, "who's at the door?" The fox-girl, Sarah, appeared over the

man's, Wayne's, shoulder. She let out an exasperated sigh as she caught the

glint of metal in his arms, "Wayne! How many times do I have to tell you.

We don't... Oh!" She stared at Michael, finally realizing who he was,

"It's you..."

"Would you like me to escort him off the premises,

ma'am?" Wayne asked with an eager smile. He hefted the gun onto his

shoulder, glaring at Michael hungrily.

Sarah seemed to collect herself, "Um.... No, I don't

think that will be necessary Wayne. You can, however, begin preparations for

dinner." Wayne gave her a dubious look. She returned with a stern one of

her own, and he backed off, heading off with hands raised in a gesture of

surrender down one of the several corridors that lead off the main entryway.

"Oh, and Wayne?" she called after him. His head

popped around the corner, much too fast for someone who should have been quite

a ways down by that time, Michael thought with a smirk. "Set out an extra

plate, will you? I think we'll be having a guest for supper." Wayne rolled

his eyes, but rounded the corner again with a, "Yes, ma'am!" and headed

for what Michael assumed would be the kitchen.

"Follow me..." Sarah said flatly. She set off at a

brisk pace, turning this way and that through a literal maze of hallways and

rooms. Michael nearly had to run to keep up; something which, coincidentally,

was extremely hard to do with a recently mended rib.

Every time he turned another corner to continue following her

she got a farther and father lead on him. Eventually he found himself

completely alone and utterly lost. He walked to the end of the hall, looking

left and right for any sign of Sarah.

"Who are you?" she called. Her voice resounded off

the walls, seeming to come from everywhere and nowhere all at once.

"You mean you don't already know?" he asked

incredulously.

"Should I?" she shot back.

"No! Erm, I mean... They didn't tell you when you took me

into the Hospital?"

"I kind of left in a hurry, remember?"

"Oh, Yeah... You did, didn't you."

"And do we have a name, oh mysterious stranger?"

"Michael. I...." he swallowed the lump that had

been slowly growing inside his throat, "My name's Michael."

"Hello, Michael," her voice resounded. The effect

was extremely intimidating, despite the fact that he already knew the ghostly

voice's owner could do no more harm to him than a fly could, "I'm Sarah.

Now may I please ask just exactly how it is you found me here?"

"You used your credit-card to pay my way through

surgery, I just asked for the billing address," he turned about, searching

for where her echoes were coming from.

"I don't know whether to feel worried that they just

gave out my personal information like that, or creeped out by the fact that

you'd ask," she laughed, but it was a monotone, emotionless bark of one.

"I guess they didn't think I could do much harm in my

state, could I? That and I couldn't do much with your credit information. I

don't look much like a female fox-morph." This time she really did laugh.

"No, I guess not. That still doesn't explain why you're

here, though."

"I... I wanted to thank you, I guess..."

"For what? Calling you a liar, or giving you that

pretty new hole in your lung?"

"For paying to fix me afterwards, most people I know would

have just left me at that hospital's doorstep. A few wouldn't even have done

that... The way I see it, we're even."

She stepped out of a door to his left, a sad smile playing

across her face. "You must not know many good people then."

"No... No, I guess I don't. To be honest, I don't

really know that many people at all." Her ears twitched, head cocking to

the side in a very canine fashion.

"Oh, the introverted type, are we? And what do your

parents think about all this?"

"My parents... aren't really around anymore." He

shuffled a little, suddenly becoming very interested in his own feet.

She frowned, "They abandoned you?"

He laughed, "Oh no! Nothing like that! They died."

"Oh my God!" She gasped, hands moving to cover her

gaping mouth, "I'm so sorry!" she squeaked.

"It's okay, really! It happened a long time ago."

Her muzzle poked through the crack between her hands,

"What happened?"

"I...I don't really like to talk about it."

Her hands went back over her face, "Oh God, of course

you don't! I-I'm so sorry!"

"Quit being sorry!"

"Sorry!"

"Stop it!"

"Mmph!"

"What?"

"N-nothing!N-n-nevermind!"

"Thank you." He let out a blast of air from

between his lips, leaning his back against the wall.

"Wait," she cocked her head again in that curious

dog fashion, "So that means...what? You live alone?"

"Yeah... I guess. Until recently I was a ward of the

State," He stared off over her shoulder, eyes glazing over as though his

mind was some place far away. "I moved around a lot, never stayed in one

place for long," He chuckled. "I met some pretty interesting people,

though. This one old lady, she kept, like, twenty cats. I think she might have

thought I was one of them..." He paused for a second, thinking. He shook his

head, "They sure were tasty, though."

"The cats?!"

"No, no, no! She made these awesome cookies. Oatmeal, I

think. Then there was this one couple. Don't get me wrong, now... I mean, I'm

perfectly fine with a little Religion in the home, but these people were,

pardon my language, Jesus-freaks. Every time I was in the bathroom for more

than ten minutes they thought I was masturbating and sent me to Church for

confession."

"Were you? I mean..." She blushed, clearing her

throat.

"No! Not usually at least. Sometimes I would, just to

screw with them a little," Her blush intensified.

"But, umm... what I meant to say was-uh... You don't

have anyone to take care of you?"

He thought for a moment, "Nope, can't say that I do...

Why?"

She stared at him, and Michael sighed inwardly. He knew that

stare, he'd been getting that stare since he was a kid. He'd seen it, heard the

whispers of people he passed in school or around town. He knew what they were

saying.

"Such a pity..."

"And his Mother was such a good person, too."

"Wonder who's

taken him in this time..."

She pitied him. Why did everyone pity him?

"When's the last time you had a home-cooked meal?"

she asked, jerking him from his reverie.

He bit his lip, "Does microwave pizza count?" She

smiled coyly. Michael didn't like that smile. There was something behind it,

something deeper, something scheming.

"That does it," She said matter-of-factly,

"You're not leaving until you've had a good meal."

There would be no arguing the fact, he could

tell that much. Even if he ran, which he seriously contemplated attempting, she

would catch up to him in a heartbeat. He didn't put it past her to tackle an

injured man, he'd learned that first hand. Best to humor her, he decided.

Anyway, a free meal was a free meal, and he had never been one to look a gift

horse... fox, in the mouth.

---

Admit it. It's working.

Maybe...

Oh, come on! Look at them!

All I see is a hungry kid and a fox who can't bring herself

to turn away an injured guest.

Well, at least it's a step in the right direction. You can't

deny that.

Okay, okay, I'll give you that much, but I won't believe any

of this until I have proof.

What do you want to see, them doing it on the kitchen

counter?

That'd be proof...

You little pervert!

I didn't say I wanted to see it! Just that it'd be proof.

It's still nasty!

You said it!

Alright! What about a kiss?

One kiss?

One kiss.

Okay, one kiss. On one condition, though. It has to be a

real kiss, not just some innocent peck on the cheek. A full-on, open-mouth

kiss.Deal?

Alright, it's a deal.

And if that leads to them doing it...

Perv!

---

Michael had never seen so much silverware in front of one

plate. There were three spoons, knives and forks of various lengths and sizes,

a set of chop-sticks, and several pairs of utensils whose purpose at the dinner

table defied his woefully limited culinary knowledge. He tried to look to Sarah

for cues, which was hard, due to the fact that she had chosen a seat halfway

down the seemingly mile-long table from him.

The dining room itself was immense, decked out with more

class than any five-star restaurant. Banquet hall would have been a more

fitting word for it. The floor was made of solid white marble, and a huge

crystal chandelier hung high above at the apex of the twenty-foot-high ceiling.

A spotless white table cloth covered the long mahogany dining table, and the

center piece consisted of a tiered tray covered in hundreds of long, pale

candles. Their light was drowned out by the electric bulbs in the ceiling that

illuminated the table, and the diners seated at it.

The fact that only Michael, Sarah, Wayne, and five other

servants were present made the room seem all the bigger. They were all to one

end of the table, talking and chuckling amongst themselves, while Michael sat

near the other. The way they kept whispering as though they did not want him in

their conversation made Michael feel a little ousted. He couldn't blame them

however; Michael had just crashed their party, so to speak.

Michael cleared his throat, "So, um, what is it exactly

that your parents do for a living?"

Wayne turned from his plate, staring daggers at Michael,

"That's an extremely prying question, and I wouldn't blame Miss Sarah for

refusing to even acknowledge it was asked!"

"I can speak fine myself, Wayne." she laughed, but

even Michael could tell the meaning behind her words. She didn't approve of the

way Wayne was treating him. Just the thought made him feel warm inside. Why was

that?Probably just seeing that stiff-necked starched collar get taken down a

peg. Yeah, that was it...

She continued, "They trade stocks, mostly. We may look

human, but there's still enough of our animal instinct left over to tell when

and where to buy and sell. Some would call it an un-fair advantage. I just say

it's playing the field using whatever means you have." She gave Michael a

predatory smile that made it suddenly very hard to swallow.

He finally downed the bite, washing away his cotton-mouth

with a sip of water, "You said mostly. What else do they do?"

"My Dad sells real-estate on the side. This used to be

the only house around here, then my Dad came along, and this neighborhood

sprouted up around us like a brickwork forest."

"And your Mom?"

"She's a psychiatrist, works out of the house. It can

get awfully annoying sometimes, living with a person who knows every clinical

reason for the mood you're in or a dream that you had. She also has this

uncanny ability to ferret out the truth."

"What do you mean by that?"

"She can tell when you've lied or when you've left something

out of the full truth. She says she can read peoples' body language, but I

think she reads their minds!"

Michael gulped, "Minds?"

Sarah laughed, "Relax, it was just a joke. If you don't

mind my asking, how do you support yourself? I mean, money doesn't just fall

from the sky into your lap, does it?"

"Hell no!" Michael exclaimed. Sarah gave him an

odd look, "I mean, no, it doesn't. I..." he blushed. He hoped it

wasn't visible from this distance, "I-I work in a... in a pizza joint."

Wayne coughed into his napkin, but Michael could tell it was to cover up his

laughter. "I guess we all know what you do. Hey, servant boy?" he

snarled

"Excuse me?" Wayne stood up, tipping his chair. "I

make triple your annual salary in a month!"

"Well at least I enjoy my job!" Michael spat

sarcastically, also standing.

"Are you questioning my loyalty to Miss Sarah and the

Coulding family?" They advanced until they were nose-to-nose. Glaring into

each other's eyes.

"I'm not questioning anything! I just wonder if you'd

still do it without that nice little pay-check at the end of each month."

"Why you-"

"That's enough!" Sarah shouted, ending their

little staring match. "Wayne, I would never question your loyalty to this

family, bu-"

"Thank you, Miss Sarah," Wayne said with a bow.

"-but we do not judge other people by their

income."

"Thank you, Miss Sarah," Michael mocked with a

flourishing, exaggerated mimic of Wayne's bow.

"After all," She continued with a mischievous

glint in her eyes, "Why mock someone's lousy pay when you could comment on

his pasty complexion, weak jaw-line, grubby clothing....."

"My clothes aren't grubby!" Michael defended as

the servants at the end of the table began to giggle. He looked down at himself

as Sarah cocked an eyebrow, "Okay, maybe they are grubby, but between

being in the hospital and coming to find you I didn't have much time for

washing."

"Speaking of washing," Sarah interjected,

"when's the last time you had a bath?"

"Uh... A couple days before our little incident

together.So about... two weeks or so?"

"Ugh!" Sarah reeled back as if he had the plague,

covering her nose to protect herself. "That's it! You're not leaving here

until you've scrubbed soap on at least one part of your body."

"Do my hands count? I washed them before supper."

"No, they do not. You need to at least get under the

shower and run some water over yourself. I don't care if I have to hold you down

and soap you up myself!" Michael blushed, that odd feeling coming over him

again. He tried to change the subject to cover his embarrassment.

"First a meal and now a bath? Next thing you know I'll

be sleeping here!"

Sarah thought for a moment, rubbing her chin with a hand,

"Good idea!" she concluded.

"What!" Michael and Wayne shouted simultaneously,

glancing to each other before turning back to stare open-mouthed at Sarah. They

both began to babble incoherently.

"B-bu-but... m-my stuff! I-I hav-have to-"

"Miss Sarah! Are you... Do you... You're sure th-"

She waited for the noise to die down, only speaking after

they had been silent for nearly a minute, "Look, you're dirty. Your

clothes are dirty. You look exhausted, and I don't like the idea of you getting

in a cab by yourself at this hour. It's dangerous."

"Wait a second. A week ago you broke my rib, and now

you're worried about me getting in a cab by myself?"

"That was different. A week ago I thought you were just

another human."

"Hold on," Michael pointed an accusing finger at

Wayne, "He's human."

"Yes, but he's different."

"I'm different. Everybody's different."

"-And thank you for showing me that," she patted

him on the head, and a shiver went down his spine. Damn-it! She couldn't even

touch him without him practically fainting. What was wrong with him?

'Nothing,' the voice in his head replied.

Okay, he'd admit it. She was pretty hot, but she was an

animal for Chrissakes!

'No, she just looks like an animal,'

But she's a fox!

'A hot fox,'

Alright, a hot fox, but still a fox.

'So what? Interracial couples have worked out before,'

We're not talking interracial here! This is interspecies, and

who said anything about a couple? She didn't even know him!

'-and yet she's inviting you to spend the night at her house...'

"Michael? Michael! Earth to Michael, are you with

us?"

"Huh? What?" Michael shook his head, jostling away

his internal dialogue. He looked around and found that the entire room had

cleared save him and Sarah. The food was gone from the table, and the sounds of

dishes being washed filtered in from the kitchen

"I was saying that you could take one of the guest

suites. They've all got full baths. You can clean yourself up and then get a

decent night's sleep. We'll wash your clothes... A-hem, burn your clothes,

" she said after giving his shirt a sniff, "and then I we can go

shopping for some new ones in the morning."

"Erm, I don't really... have any money on me."

Michael mumbled.

"Who said you were buying them?"

"I can't just let you spend all that money on me!"

"Please,"she rolled her eyes, 'It'll be

chump-change. Rich, remember? Anyway, think of it as a gift for me from myself.

After all, I'm the one who has to stand next to you, stinky-head!"

"What do you mean stand next to me? When are you going

to be standing next to me?"

"A lot, hopefully,"

'Yes!'

"We are friends now, aren't we?"

'Damn! Friends!'

"Er... Oh... Friends."

"Yes... friends," she said slowly, pronouncing

each word carefully as though she were speaking to a slow person,

"Friends... Good! We. Like. Friends. Yes?"

"Alright, alright! We're friends. On one condition,

though."

"And that would be...?"

"You have to get declawed. I don't need anymo-"

*Pow!*

She punched him right

in the nose, laughing as he fell back in what she thought was a fake gesture of

pain. He clutched at his face, rolling around on the ground as blood began to

pour from his nostrils.

"Oh God!" she muttered, "Not

again."

---

Michael pulled the wad of tissue from his left nostril,

sniffing and rubbing at his nose. He stole a glance at Sarah, who was running a

wash rag under a faucet in the bathroom of the massive four-room suite he would

apparently be spending the night in. It had a bedroom, master bath, living

room, and even a small kitchen complete with fully stocked minibar.

She pulled the cloth from under the stream of water, turning

the knobs to the off position and wringing it out over the basin before walking

over to where Michael sat on the edge of the huge four-poster bed that would be

his, at least for tonight.

"Here," she said, rolling the damp rag into a

small log and pressing it tenderly against the bridge of his nose. Michael

yelped, "Sorry!" she pulled it away, "does it still hurt?"

"No! It's cold!"

"It has to be. We have to cool that schnozz of yours

down so it doesn't get any bigger than it already was to begin with," she

bit her lip to try and keep herself from laughing. It didn't work.

"Oh, Ha-ha! Very funny!" he said crossly, "I

think I'm starting to notice a pattern here."

"Yeah, you can't stop getting beaten up by girls!"

she gasped, head falling between her legs in an effort to dam her fit of

giggles.

"One girl, and it appears she finds this whole thing

very amusing."

"Very?" she snickered

"Very. She eve-"

The rest of his jab caught in his throat as their eyes

locked.

"Well," she drawled after a poignant silence, extending the word for a few

extra syllables and blushing beneath her fur, "I guess I'd better let you get to sleep. We've got a

busy day tomorrow!" she stepped around the bed and began to make her way

out of the room.

"Wait!" Michael called after her. Her head poked

around the corner of the door, cocked quizzically, "What about my

clothes?"

"Oh!" she blushed, "Um... I'll just,"

she went back behind the door, leaving it cracked open, "step over here,

and you can pass them around the door. I'll have Wayne bring you some of his so

we can go shopping in the morning."

"I... Okay. Alright, that's fine. I... I just... Just don't

look?" Michael asked, puzzling Sarah. It seemed a childish question to put

forward. Sure, there was the whole 'girl seeing me naked' thing, but it wasn't

as if Sarah hadn't seen it all before. She'd been with a few guys before, and

had even done a few things with a couple of them. None of them had been human,

of course, but they were all definitely male. He had asked it with enough

genuine fear in his voice however, that Sarah's tone was dead serious when she

replied.

"Promise." she assured warmly, smiling.

"Thanks," came his muffled reply, and if Sarah's

ears weren't fooling her, it sounded as though he was almost on the verge of

tears.

Sarah thought better than to ask why. She decided she had

caused enough grief to him already. First she'd hit him, then she'd made fun of

his dead parents, and then she'd hit him again. Making him cry would only add

to the guilt she felt whenever she was around him.

Sarah's ears twitched atop her head as she began to hear the

sounds of clothing being shed filtering through the door. That was a good sign,

she guessed. At least he wasn't so self-conscious that he couldn't force

himself to do it. She rested her back against the wall, sighing

absent-mindedly.

"Do you wear contacts?" Michael asked suddenly

from his side of the door.

"No..." Sarah replied, taken aback,

"Why?"

"Your eyes, they're purple."

"Oh... Oh, yeah! It's weird, really," she began to

play with her hands, twiddling her thumbs back and forth. "You see, when

they first began creating furs, there were some unexpected side-effects."

She tapped at her eyelids, although she knew he couldn't see it, "This was

one of the less harmful ones.

"You know that blue eyes are recessive, right?"

she heard an odd rustling noise that she took for a nod from Michael,

"Well, something in my one of my ancestors genes gave us the possibility

to have a pink tint over our blue eyes, making them show up this ice-purple

color. It has half the chance of occurring that the blue-eye allele has, but

it's not uncommon."

There was another long pause.

"Hey Sarah?"

"Yes?"

"You never intended to let me leave here tonight, did

you?"

Sarah chuckled, "Well, I thought you would have guessed

that when I said, 'why don't you stay here tonight'."

"No, I mean before that, in the hallway."

"Oh!" she giggled, "Maybe?"

"Hey Sarah?"

"Yes Michael?" Sarah replied. For some reason she felt

she wasn't talking to Michael anymore. At least, not the same Michael she had

been talking to before. He seemed somehow smaller. It was almost as though she

was speaking to a child.

"Thanks..." With that single word, Michael spoke

volumes. Thanks for the dinner. Thanks for the room. Thanks for defending me.

Thanks for keeping my ego in check. Thanks for what she had done, what she was

doing, and what she was going to do. Thanks for caring, and thank God for

understanding.

Sarah smiled, "You're welcome". That was exactly

as long as it sounded, but had no less gravity. Thanks for that too. Michael

passed his clothes around the door, making sure she only saw the barest tip of

his hand.

"Night, Sarah."

"Sweet dreams, Michael. See you in the morning."

Michael could have sworn, in that one single

instant, that it was his Mother, not Sarah, saying those words from behind his

bedroom door. The thought somehow comforted and warmed him as he got into bed,

falling asleep without even pulling the covers over himself, and for that one

night, he didn't have a single nightmare.

---

I can't do it.

What do you mean?

I mean I can't do it!

Why not?

Look at him! Just look at him!

He's asleep, just like every other time...

He's happy! For once, he's got a chance to be happy... to

have a good, happy life, and I don't want to be the one to steal that from him.

Why do you care all of the sudden?

Because that was the one thing I could never do! I could

provide for him, I could even teach him a lesson once in a while, but I could

never make him happy!

That's... not true.

Oh really! Name a time! Name one time that he was happy

around me, and then I'll admit that I was wrong and go back to haunting him,

back to making him miserable again.

...

See! I knew it! I... I can't do this anymore... Not now, not

tonight. Just... just leave me alone right now... I need to think.

...We're not here to make him happy.

What?

I said, we're not here to make him happy.

I... I can't believe this, not from you. You, of all people,

are telling me that our son can't be happy...

I'm only telling you the truth. You and I both know why

we're here. We knew the job we were being asked to do before we ever agreed to

do it. Yes, it's terrible. Yes, I feel even more terrible about because it's

our own son that we're doing it to, but the good outweighs the bad. Dozens -

maybe even hundreds of lives will be improved because of what we're about to

set in motion.

So, what? He's going to be some sacrificial lamb? He has to

suffer for my sins - for what I did wrong? Well that's not right! If that's how

it has to be, then I'll just go back. I'll do it gladly, because I know it's

the right thing. No 'greater good' should outweigh the health and happiness of

our own son!

It's not like we're strapping him to an alter and carving

out his heart! He'll get to choose, just like we both got to choose to set this

whole thing in motion in the first place. If everyone's destiny was set in

stone, then good would cease to be good and right would be just another word.

I don't give a damn about any of that! I'm not a fricking

philosopher to say what's good and what's right! All I know is that, for the

first time in years, our son has a chance to be happy! Even if it's just for a

few days! I don't want to ruin that! Just... just give him tonight. Please?

...Alright, you've got tonight off, but tomorrow, no matter

what the circumstances, you're going right back to it. We've got a job to do,

and, although I can't believe I'm saying this, we can't let sentimentality get

in the way.

Thanks, dear.

It's Caroline...

...Thanks... Caroline.

---

Wow! Michael felt rested, relaxed, rejuvenated, and all

around content with the world and everything in it. He hadn't felt like that in

a long time. In fact, he could hardly remember ever feeling like this, except

for when he was drunk. Actually, he felt kind of drunk right now, that special

little high you get when you're right between sleeping and waking, caught

between the real and dream world. He was so enraptured by how good he felt,

that he almost didn't see the dark silhouette lurking in his doorway.

His eyes flew wide open. That was it, he was awake, and

painfully so. He was on his feet in a second, fight-or-flight kicking in. His mysterious

attacker was covering the single exit to the room, so fight seemed to be the

only option at the moment. He ran, screaming a primal, guttural warcry, straight

into his assailant's stomach, throwing them both to the ground. They hit the

floor with a thump. Michael snarled in triumph, prepared to deliver the final

blow.

"What, in the name of all that's holy, do you think you

are doing?" Wayne asked calmly from his position under Michael. Michael

shook his head, blinking several times before he looked, really looked, at the

man beneath him. His eyesight was still blurry from sleep, so he couldn't tell

if the expression on Wayne's face was one of annoyance, bemusement, or a mix of

both. Probably both, with a little confusion and shock thrown into the mix for

good measure. It was about that time that Michael remembered he was naked.

He leapt from atop Wayne like he'd been struck by lightning,

and even if a bolt from Zeus himself had thought to come down on him at that

moment, it probably would have missed. Michael was back in his room in a

second, slamming the door and pressing his back against it, blushing in

embarrassment. The embarrassment quickly turned to anger as he cracked the door

back open, sticking his head through to glare at Wayne.

"What the hell are you doing staring at me while I

sleep?" he hissed, eyes narrowing, waiting for an explanation from the now

apparently voyeuristic butler.

"I was not staring! For your information, I had just

opened the door, and was about to wake you."

Michael cocked and eyebrow, "Who said I needed

waking?"

"Miss Sarah. She told me to wake you up at nine so you

could bathe and make yourself presentable for your trip to the mall. Speaking

of which, I've already run your bath," he gave what he assumed to be an

inviting gesture towards the bathroom, "If you would just step out here, I

can make some final adjustments to the temperature and be out of your

way."

Michael's blush deepened, "I can turn a knob myself..."

"Good! Then you'll be able to open that door the rest

of the way and come out where I can see you." Lord, Michael had walked

right in to that one.

"This really isn't necessary..." he said,

searching for a better argument.

"I don't really care what you think is necessary,"

Wayne stated condescendingly, "Miss Sarah has asked me to provide for you

the same services offered to every guest of the Coulding household, and I

intend to follow her instruction to the letter." He emphasized the last

word as he grabbed the door-handle and pushed, knocking Michael off balance and

causing him to fall back, door opening to throw light onto a shocked and very

naked Michael. As he fell he had twisted to catch himself and ended up lying

buck-naked on his belly, staring up over his shoulder at Wayne. Wayne's casual

smirk was wiped from his face as he caught sight of Michael's exposed back and

arms.

"What... What happen-What's wrong with your-" he

stuttered. Michael quickly got back on his feet, rounding on Wayne with a look

that spoke something akin to murder.

"Out!" he shouted, screamed. "Get out

now!" He grabbed Wayne by the collar, tossing him out of the suite's

doorway and into the hall. Wayne hit the wall and slid down to the floor,

raising his arms as if to protect himself.

"I didn't - I mean - I promise! I w-won't..."

Wayne stammered. He looked terrible. Flustered, confused, embarrassed, but

mostly, he looked as though he felt sorry for Michael, like he pitied him.

Michael hated it! It enraged him, made him want to hurt someone, throw

something! He did, grabbing an expensive-looking vase and hurling it at the

wall beside Wayne's head. Flowers scattered across the corridor in a flurry of

reds, yellows, and blues, like a multicolored snow-storm. A piece of ceramic

shrapnel from the vase struck Wayne in the face, leaving a small cut on his

cheek that was already beginning to ooze blood. If he felt it, it didn't show.

The only thing that was showing on his face was a mutely stunned expression as

the maroon fluid began to drip from it, falling softly to the ground below.

Michael's eyes widened, suddenly realizing what he'd just

done. His glance flickered between the shattered vase, Wayne's cheek, and the

blood that was now forming a small puddle on the cream carpet. He swallowed a

lump in his throat, blinking away the salty droplets that were beginning to

form in the corners of his eyes.

"I-I'm going to take that bath now. I won't need any

help." He looked into Wayne's eyes, searching silently for forgiveness. If

there was any, Michael didn't see it, just that same blank stare. He continued,

"If you could please get me some clothes... something with long sleeves. I

would really appreciate it." He tried to be as courteous as possible.

Right now, he would understand it if Wayne were to leave him there to walk

around naked for the rest of the day. Hell, he would understand it if Wayne

called the cops on him. He had just technically assaulted him. But he didn't.

He picked himself up, dusting himself off and dabbing at his cheek with a wrinkled

sleeve.

"Certainly," he said curtly, turning on his heels

and marching quickly down the hall and around the corner. Michael continued to

stare at the space where he had been not a minute ago before quietly closing

the door. He made his way into the bathroom, stepping over to the jacuzzi bath

and testing the temperature with a finger. It was perfect. He cursed, loud. It

could have been anything - too hot, too cold, but no, it was perfect, fucking

perfect! He stumbled over to the sink, leaning against it with both hands and

glaring at his reflection in the mirror through his bangs.

"I hate you," he whispered to the face staring

back at him; teeth clenching as he drew back a fist. He threw it forward,

driving it through the reflective surface and into the medicine shelves behind.

Bottles and tubes cascaded to the floor in a waterfall of cosmetic remedies and

vanity paraphernalia. His fist connected with something sharp, and he cursed

again, crying out in pain and anger as he saw the disposable razor blades he'd

just punched fall to the tile floor as well. He turned on the faucet and ran

his hand under the water for a few seconds before snatching up a displaced roll

of gauze from the floor to bandage his hand with.

Michael threw himself onto the floor next to the tub,

sitting against the wall and groaning as he ran a hand through his hair. He

looked up and saw that half of the mirror lay intact upon the floor. He snarled

into it.

"I hate you!" he screamed. He kicked out with his

foot, watching through blurred eyes as thousands of his doppelgangers cried

silently back at him in the shattered remains of the mirror. The sink had begun

to run over onto the tile, sweeping away the reflective shards and causing the

walls to flicker and sparkle as they shone off of them. It reminded Michael of

flames licking across the wall and ceiling, a raging inferno caused by his

anger and hate. Hate for his family, hate for the way his life was going, for

how it had gone, hate for this town, hate for all the stupid, ignorant jerks in

the world, hate for the world itself, but mostly... hate for himself. He curled

himself into a ball, hugging his knees to his chest and rocking himself gently

back and forth as he wept bitterly.

"I hate you."

---

Sarah arrived to find a clean, smartly dressed, and smiling

Michael waiting for her at his door. He had taken his bath, dressed in the

clothes given to him by Wayne that he didn't deserve, and stuffed the broken

vase and mirror into the bottom of a waste basket somewhere, along with all his

repressed feelings of rage and other assorted emotional baggage. He'd also

washed the tear stains form his face (not an easy thing to do without a mirror

for reference, mind you). His red, puffy eyes and cheeks could be explained

away as a symptom of overly-hot water, and the bandaged hand on one

sharp-cornered dresser. Add a happy face and a pleasant demeanor and boom, you

get one snazzy guy who looked nothing like he just half-destroyed a room,

assaulted a butler, and spent the next twenty minutes bawling his eyes out

naked in the fetal position.

Michael had to hand it to Wayne; he knew when to keep silent

about something. He'd managed to act normal around Michael the entire time

they'd been at the mall, even though he'd been forced to sit right next to him

in the car on the way there. When they finally arrived however, he'd hung back

from them, lingering at window displays or staring absent-mindedly at the

scenery. Sarah, for her part, remained blissfully oblivious to her servant's

silent plight, giggling like a schoolgirl as she used Michael like a human doll

to try on various outfits, all of which were long-sleeve, at Michael's mumbled

request.

Finally Sarah left them, to "go use the little girl's

room" she'd said, and at last, they were alone. They'd taken a seat upon a

sunny bench, lit from above by the panoramic skylights in the roof. They

remained quiet for what seemed like an eternity, and the tension was so

tangible that people walking past began to shy away after a single glance at

the two. Finally, Michael said something. He had to! If he didn't, he'd explode,

leaving nothing but a black stain on the bench and a plume of smoke hanging in

the air where he'd been.

"I'm sorry!" he burst out suddenly, causing the

heads of several nearby shoppers to turn. "I didn't mean to hurt you! It's

just I-I mean...I-I-I...you know? I nev-I mean... I woul-"

"It's okay!" Wayne interjected quickly, placing a

hand over his mouth to shush his stammered explanations, "Really! It... It

was my fault."

"Oh..." Wait... What! He'd attacked Wayne, cussed

him out, thrown a freaking pot at his head, and Wayne was apologizing him?

"I shouldn't have forced the door open like that,"

he continued, blushing softly, "and I shouldn't have said that there was

something wrong with you... there isn't, you're perfectly normal, just like

me."

"No," Michael whispered under his breath,

"I'm not."

"What?" Wayne asked, leaning in closer in an

effort to hear him better. Michael thrust his right arm at Wayne, causing him

to flinch back. He reached up slowly with his other hand, pulling down his

right sleeve to show Wayne the blotched, pink scabs that deeply contrasted the

olive color of his natural skin. Scars crisscrossed the back of his arm,

extending up beyond where the sleeve still covered, and all the way around to

his shoulders and back. They weren't the thin lines of slash or shrapnel

wounds, but the spotty, pale lumps of a severe burn victim. By the looks of

them, they had to have been at least third degree burns, and from what Wayne

had seen back at the manor, they covered nearly a fourth of his body.

"I'm scarred," Michael said softly, "I'm

ugly, a freak born of prejudice and hatred. I've suffered my entire life for

the sins of my ancestors, of your own, of our entire species, and I'll continue

to suffer for as long as I live."

"What are you talking about?" asked Wayne,

confused.

"You know my last name?"Michael queried.

"Yes, North, but I don..." A look of recognition

crossed his face. Michael nodded a mute confirmation, "No... It

couldn-"

"-Be the Michael North?" he finished. "It is,

my father and mother are Gregory and Caroline North. I'm their son, last surviving

member of the North clan. Their legacy dies with me, along with their ignorance

and blind hate."

Wayne looked around, making sure no-one was eavesdropping

before continuing, "But what happened to you?"

"You don't know?"

"Wayne shook his head no, "Well... I remember

something about a Gregory North in the news as a kid, and I remember mentioning

a son who survived, but they never said anything about how badly he... you,

were hurt, or what happened to him... you, afterwards."

Michael sighed, "It's funny," he chuckled, "

the things that you remember. I still recall vividly the dream that I had that

night. It had been right around Christmas, and I'd been asking all year for a

puppy. That's what I woke up from when I heard the screen door slam shut..."

***

He sat up, ears straining, and sure enough, he began to hear

the sounds of muffled voices filtering through the door. That could only mean

one thing, Dad was drunk again. It always started out calm, she would ask him

something, and he would answer. Their voices would slowly rise as each question

was asked and each answer given, until it became a fierce shouting match that

could be heard throughout the entire neighborhood, let alone Michael's room.

Something was different this time. Mom's voice didn't sound

angry, there was a completely different emotion there, but he didn't quite know

what. It was still a loud one, though. Michael got out of bed, tip-toeing over

to the door to better hear the conversation. Mom was saying something about how

Dad had to leave, that he couldn't stay here. She wasn't ordering him to do it.

In fact, it sounded more like she was begging, pleading with him to go. Michael

suddenly realized the emotion in her voice. It was fear.

He opened the door, peeking his head out to see what it was

that could cause his Mother to be fearful. She was backed up against the

counter, hands raised in front of her body as though to protect herself from

some unseen force. That force was, of course, his father, who was beyond his

field of vision, which was limited by the doorway. Dad could, and most likely

would, beat Mom when he was drunk, badly. She had gone into work many a day

claiming to have tripped on the sidewalk on the way to her car, or have taken a

slip on a wet bathroom floor. It was this thought that caused him to come

running to his Mother's aid when he saw that she was in trouble.

What he had failed to see however, was the liquor bottle

cradled in his Father's left hand, the snub-nose revolver in his right, and the

lit gas range behind his mother. Michael reached his mother just as she

realized he had come running, and was quickly swept up behind her. Something

about the sudden movement or the rush of noise had set his dad off, and he

threw the bottle with all his might, aiming to hit his wife's head, but

missing, and shattering its highly flammable contents all over the lit burner

of the range. There was a loud bang, followed by a rush of heat and light, and

then everything went black...

***

"...Then the stove exploded. My Mom had bent down to

pull me behind her, but her head was just high enough that the metal grill was

able to hit her right in the right temple, killing her instantly. I was lower,

so I just got the flames across by back and arms, and Dad was knocked clean

through the door, hitting his head on the ground and blacking out. He woke up a

little while later, saw the pistol lying beside him in the grass, and put a

round through his head. Then the cops came, bundled me up, and took me down to

the station for questioning. I... I was the only witness."

Wayne shook his head, "I just don't understand. What

would make anybody do something like that?"

"He was a member of the People," Michael stated

simply.

"But I thought they hated furs, not humans."

"They do. He and a few friends had been drinking in a

bar. One of them had the gun. They thought it would be fun to go scare some

local furs with it, and went to the house of some family of skunks, busting

down the door and scaring the heck out of all of them. Someone got edgy,

though, and they ended up killing them all, husband, wife, and all three

kids," he sighed. "The youngest one was five... Dad knew he'd end up

spending life in prison for what had happened, figured he had nothing left to

live for..."

"So he decided to kill you?"

Michael glanced up, looking somewhere off in the sky as he

said, "If he had nothing to live for, why should we? We're family,

right?" he finished sarcastically. Wayne opened and closed his mouth a few

times, looking as if he was about to say something, and then deciding against

it.

"Wayne?"

Wayne, who had been staring at the floor, suddenly met

Michael's gaze, "Please don't tell any of this to Sarah." This was

it, the moment that could make or break whatever relationship he and Sarah

might have. One word of this from Wayne to Sarah, and she would drop Michael

like a hot potato. If she ever heard anything about this, she'd be horrified,

she'd be scared to even look at Michael. If he said anything...

"...I won't."

"What?" Michael exclaimed, "but I thought you

loved her!"

"I do," Wayne said, reaching out a hand to cover

Michael's gaping mouth, "I love Sarah like best friend, like a

sister."

"But you don't 'love her' love her?"

Wayne laughed, "Oh no! I'm gay!"

"What!" Michael jumped from his seat as though

scalded.

Wayne sighed, "Yes, that's usually what every straight

guy I tell that to does..."

Michael thought back. Had he?... Oh no! "You saw me

naked!" he squeaked, eyes practically popping out of their sockets. "You

were watching me while I slept, and then I was on top of you.... and I was

naked!"

Wayne shook his head, eyes rolling to the ceiling in an

expression of exasperation, " My Lord!" he grabbed Michael by the

jaw, who finally ceased his struggling when he his gaze met Wayne's. There was

something hypnotic about his eyes, it repulsed and attracted him at the same

time. Wayne spoke slowly, making sure the full meaning of each word was received

by Michael, "Just because I'm gay does not mean that I want to screw every

single living male on this Earth. Are you attracted to each and every girl in

the world?"

"Well..." Michael thought for a second, a

particularly unsavory female from his school suddenly popped into his head.

Eww! Hell-"... no, I guess not."

"See!" Wayne stated matter-of-factly, tapping

Michael on the tip of the nose with a finger.

"So you find me unattractive?" Michael frowned.

For some reason the fact that Wayne didn't think he was good-looking annoyed

him. Not that he felt anything for Wayne, but being told you were ugly to your

face still hurt, even if it was another guy saying it.

Wayne blushed, "Now I never said that... but you're

obviously not interested in me, plus you're off-limits."

Michael did a double-take. Off limits?... "What's that

supposed to mean?"

"Isn't it obvious?" Wayne giggled, "She likes

you!"

"Who?"

"Oh, good God!" Wayne muttered under his breath,

"Do I have to spell it out for you? Here's a hint, starts with an 'S', ends

with an 'arah'."

"You're kidding me..." She liked him too? Wow! He

must have missed a huge clue somewhere. Why couldn't girls just be

straight-forward for once? If someone liked you, why didn't they just come out

and say "I like you!", but no, that'd be too easy, wouldn't it?

"Nope," Wayne chirped. Holy hell, he'd chirped.

Guys did not chirp. At least, not straight guys. Michael was amazed he hadn't

seen it earlier. Wayne was, for lack of a better word, flaming. "She's got

a huge crush on... Miss Sarah!"

Michael blinked, "She's got a crush on... Sarah?!"

He jolted as a furry arm touched his shoulder.

"Who's got a crush on Sarah?" a disembodied, but

clearly feminine voice asked from somewhere behind him. Michael followed the

red-furred arm up from his own to its owner, gazing up with what he hoped was a

casually innocent smile when he saw Sarah staring quizzically back down at him.

"Erg... Emily!" Wayne blurted quickly, thinking on

his feet.

"Emily? Emily-from-the-house, Emily? That Emily?"

she gave Wayne a disbelieving squint.

"Er... Yes ma'am, that would be the Emily I was

speaking of..." Wayne said with a look that suggested being slightly hot

under his starched collar.

"You mean she's..."

Wayne chewed absent-mindedly on his lip, "Like a...

Like a flamingo, ma'am!"

"Huh," Sarah said with a shrug, "Never would

have guessed..." she paused, thinking for a moment before shaking her

head. 'Well... Live and let live, I say! C'mon boys. We still have half a mall

to raid!" she began to march off towards the next store on her seemingly

infinite mental list. Wayne began to move off, but Michael stopped him,

grabbing him by the shoulder and pulling him in close.

"Who's Emily?" he whispered into Wayne's ear.

"She-she's a maid back at the house..." he

stammered

"Is she really...?"

"No!" he covered his eyes with a hand, "She

has a boyfriend and everything! She's gonna' kill me!"

"Well..." he couldn't do it. He couldn't hold it

in any longer. It burst from him like an alien, laughter so severe he had to

double over to keep it from tearing him apart. "Good luck with that!"

he said finally, wiping his eyes and giving Wayne a sympathetic pat on the

shoulder before walking off to find his Foxy host who, it just so happened,

looked great walking away. Michael was afraid people may begin mistaking him

for a bobble-head doll. Wayne shook his head sadly, punching himself mentally

as he went off to join the two.

Unbeknownst to the group, another threesome had been

watching the entire affair from across the hall. John Greene turned from the

poster he had been pretending to examine for the past few minutes or so. Big

and Twitch shared a glance before looking to him expectantly.

"What're we gonna' do, boss?" Big drawled slowly.

John frowned, eyebrows knitted together as he thought. "Well?" Big

asked.

John walked a short distance away, a smile beginning to

spread across his face as an idea slowly formulated itself in his head, "I

know exactly what we're going to do!" he said.

"What?" Big and Twitch chorused.

"We're gonna' have a little fun with North and his

little bitch, that's what we're gonna' do!"

"Yeah," Big said, "but... how?"

"I'll tell you in the car," John said,

brushing past the two as he made his way towards the exit. "We've got to

go get some stuff. Stuff you can't find in a mall..."

---

Well, things seem to be going as planned.

And we make our way slowly towards the endgame...

Stop that!

What?

Talking about this whole thing as though it's a game of

chess.

A game? This is no game. In a game, both parties have equal

ability to win or lose. His fate was decided from the moment he was placed on

the board. He's the loser, the fall-guy in this little charade, and the

winner...

The winner is the world.

You keep saying that! You keep telling me that all of this has

the power to change the world, to make a difference, but in reality...

I don't have the answers, I didn't make the rules, I just

play my part, and you should too. We have to trust that what we're doing is for

some kind of good. Why would they lie to us?

Because they like watching us puny mortals cook our own

goose...

You and I both know that isn't true. You're just trying to

give yourself a reason to quit.

What does it matter anyway? You, me, and little Mikey down

there... we're all pawns, the queen's a fox, and the bishop is a goddamn homosexual

butler! Jesus! Whatever happened to the lightening and thunder? Whatever

happened to parting the seas and raising the dead and all that?

People don't believe in that stuff anymore. All

the miracles can be explained away, all the magic can be rationalized... or

ignored. It's us, it's people that have to make the miracles now. It's man that

has to make the magic...

---

"You bought me a

suit?" Michael hoisted the offending three-piece, staring at it as though

it might bite him if he let it get too close. "So... what? I'm going to be

joining Wayne as co-chief-butler-guy, or something? 'Cause if you want me to

get a job I can, but I'm not really one for the whole 'servant' thing..."

"Aww..." Sarah whined, bottom lip quivering piteously,

"but I think you'd be great as co-chief-butler-guy, and it looks so good

on you!" She walked around behind him, placing the suit between Michael

and the mirror to superimpose it over his current attire. Sarah cocked her

head, ears canting back and lips pursing in a appraising manner. Whatever she

had been looking at seemed to check out okay, because she smiled, moving to the

bed and folding the suit neatly before placing it on top of the covers.

"Besides, if you don't like it I can always bring out the bit and

bridle..."

Michael put a hand to his chest in mock disgust, "I'd

rather go naked!"

"That can be arranged..." Michael gulped, looking

away quickly in an attempt to hide his blush. "Oh-ho!" Sarah

exclaimed, raising a triumphant finger to the sky, "Struck a nerve, did

I?" She advanced on him, pinning him against the wall and running a hand

along his cheek and down his neck. Michael shivered. "Admit it," she

whispered, "You like me..." Michael was taken aback by the sudden

assault, and found himself speechless. "Say it..."

"Never!" Michael stated bravely, realizing at once

that the whole thing was a joke. He hoped it was one of those jokes that was

kind-of-a-joke, but had a crunchy nugget of seriousness at the center. Michael

loved those jokes.

"Say it or I'll tickle you!" She didn't even give

him a chance, moving from assault to battery as her hands went to work,

tickling and scratching at his torso and the underside of his jaw.

"Alright! Alright!!!!" he gasped, pushing her away

from him and causing her to plop down onto the bed, "I like you! I worship

the very ground that you walk on! And sometimes I secretly wish I could shave

off all of your tail-fur and make it into a teddy-bear so I can snuggle it

whenever I want, but I couldn't stand seeing you walk around with a hairless

little rat tail, so I'm forced to settle for the real thing!" He pounced

on her, grabbing the offending appendage and hugging it tightly to his chest,

sneezing as she used the tip to flick at his nose.

"Well I'd love to give it to you," she snickered,

continuing to flicker it against his sensitive sinuses, "but I'm afraid

it's attached to my butt!" Michael suddenly remembered where he was, and

how close he actually was to said butt. He jumped up off of her, dusting

himself off and clearing his throat in embarrassment.

"Sorry..." he said, offering her a hand to help

her up as well. She took it, using his weight as leverage to pull herself off

of the downy surface.

"It's a good thing you're so modest, you'll need it

when you meet my parents tonight."

"What?" Michael asked, flustering himself even

more.

"This is their home you're staying in," she

reminded him, "and they're having a party tonight. That's the real reason

I bought the suit."

"A party?"

"Yep, and from what I understand, there's supposed to

be a lot of well-to-do folks coming, too. I figured we needed someone to cart

around cocktails and such, and you just happened to be handy, so..." she

crossed her arms, staring expectantly down her nose at Michael.

"Will I have to wear a little hat and call everyone

sir?"

"Only my Father, that and explain to him exactly what

it was you were doing in his big, empty house with his baby girl... alone,"

she rolled her tongue on the last word, giggling into his ear as he blushed yet

again. If it were possible to worry yourself into a coma, Michael would have

out slept Rumple-freaking-stitchkin.

"But I-I mean-I didn't-You know I never would

have-" he stammered.

"Ah... but does he know that?" she asked coyly.

"Oh, you're evil..."

"I hope you know how to make a really good grey-goose

martini..." she leaned against the door-frame, giving him one last glance

over her shoulder before rounding the corner with a playful little shake that

began in her rump and ended somewhere around the end of her tail.

"Damn she's hot..." Michael muttered.

"I heard that!"

"Joking!" Michael loved those jokes.

---

"So, Mr..." he extended a hand, crushing Michael's

own in it's iron grip and shaking it about like a piece of meat. Michael had

almost fainted when he'd first seen him. Mr. Coulding was a big fox, by

anyone's standards. He was by no means chubby, but Michael would never make the

mistake of calling the man scrawny.

"Er..... Holdin," Michael thought quickly. He couldn't

tell them his real last name, not yet.

"Mr. Holdin!" Sarah's mother said brightly,

patting his arm.

"Please ma'am, it's Michael..."

"Well, in that case," she said teasingly,

"you can call me Jenny!"

"Honey, I think you're embarrassing the boy," Mr.

Coulding whispered to his wife.

"I can't help it," she retorted, "he's so

shy, and so sweet!" she smiled apologetically.

This was good, no-one was throwing things, and he hadn't

been called a racist bastard once, as far as he could tell. It was a big party,

and there was a great deal of hushed comments wherever he went. He was, after

all, the supposed new boy-toy to the heiress of a multi-million dollar stock

fortune. Michael had even heard one hushed comment of "won't last a

week...", to which he'd replied by "accidentally" stomping on

the older human male's toes as he walked by.

"I'm giving myself two," he'd whispered into the

man's ear as he'd pretended to check if he was alright, walking off before the

old man could say anything more than a few angry splutters.

The party was taking place in the manor's rear grounds, a

series of hedgerows, fountains, ponds, waterfalls, and flower-gardens that

meshed together to form a lavishly tiered courtyard that rivaled anything

Washington had to offer. The entire area was lit by citrus-scented tiki torches

and underwater landscape lights that cycled through a myriad of colors. Which,

when combined with the warm summer's night, came together to give the whole

affair a very tropic feel.

The gala had slowly begun to wind down as guests made their

way back to their limos or, in one Middle-Eastern Fennec Oil-Prince's case,

helicopters, some stumbling or weaving slightly based on how much alcohol each

had consumed, and how well he or she could handle their liquor. Michael, to his

great worry, had suddenly found himself alone with Sarah's parents, who were,

to put it lightly, a little bit more than a little bit tipsy.

"So..." Mr. Coulding said again, covering his

mouth as he slurred the word slightly, "Sarah tells me you got her out of

trouble with a couple of thugs!"

"More like she got me out of trouble. They beat the

crap out of me!" Michael laughed, a little bit too loudly, he noted

somewhere in the back of his head. He didn't drink... normally, but something

about the atmosphere had loosened his inhibitions slightly, which were further

unhinged by his first few drinks. Big, sweet, and girlie, in the spirit of the

night, but that didn't mean they weren't strong. Michael could have sworn the

guy behind the bar had emptied half of its contents into his glass before

handing it to him, smelling strongly of strawberries, pineapple, and top-shelf

booze.

"From what I heard, so did she," he said,

chuckling at his own joke.

Michael made an indignant noise, waving a hand and nearly

knocking himself off balance, "Please, she didn't hurt me that bad!"

"You want to see the doctor's bill I got to prove

that?" Mr. Coulding asked.

"Okay, maybe she did, but those guys softened me up

first." he leaned back in his bar-stool, which really did knock him off

balance, causing him to topple out of his chair and onto the floor. It probably

should have hurt, but a mixture of liquor and adrenaline made it feel more like

a dull thud as his back connected with the concrete tiles.

"Smooth move, sweetie," Michael tilted his head back

to meet Sarah's upside-down and slightly blurry gaze.

"Since when did I become 'sweetie'?" he asked,

extricating himself from the stool and rising unsteadily to his feet.

"Right after you graduated from 'pompous

asshole'," she replied, sticking out her tongue.

"Well," Mr. Coulding sighed, wrapping an arm

around his wife and giving Michael a farewell pat on the shoulder, "I

guess everybody else can find their own way out. As for us, I think it's time

we hit the hay." They turned to leave, "Oh... and sweetie?" he

said, turning back to the two. Michael and Sarah exchanged a glance, staring

back at Mr. Coulding for a second.

"Me or her?" Michael finally asked, causing Mrs.

Coulding to roll her eyes and snicker.

"Her!"

"Yes Daddy?"

"Tell the boy that I'll cut his balls off if he gets

you pregnant," Michael's eyes grew to the size of saucer pans, addled

brain taking a few minutes to relay that it would be physically impossible for

him to impregnate Sarah, her being a fox, and that Mr. Coulding's remark must

have been a joke. By that time; however, he had already disappeared into the

house, muttering something along the lines of, "Now where the hell is our

room?" under his breath.

Michael felt a sudden weight on his shoulder which, upon

further inspection, turned out to belong to the hiccupping muzzle of his

slightly buzzed hostess, who had apparently decided that his arm made a fairly

comfy pillow.

"I'm drunk," she stated simply, blinking up at him

with sleep-heavy eyes.

"I can see that..."

"So are you," she said, yawning loud and lewdly.

"And?" he asked, not even bothering to deny his

blatantly obvious state of intoxication.

"Would you care to escort a lady to her room?"

"I would if I could find one..." he replied slyly,

earning a smack to the back of his head for his trouble. "Couldn't Wayne

take you?" he asked, rubbing the back of his sore skull with a hand.

"He'll give me a huge lecture and tuck me into bed like

I'm a kid!" she whined, pulling at his shirt-sleeve piteously.

"I take it this isn't the first time this has

happened?"

"What's fifteen more than twelve?"

"Er..." Michael tried to count it out on his

fingers, giving up after he remembered that twelve was more than ten,

"Fifty-two?" he guessed. He was never good at multiplication.

They arrived at Sarah's room after two hours of aimless

wandering and set of directions in broken English from a French ferret maid

that, Michael was not afraid to tell, was extremely hot. It took Michael

another twenty minutes or so to figure out how to open the door with his arms

busy keeping a semi-conscious Sarah from becoming very good friends with the

hallway carpeting. After finally defeating the devious doorknob by crouching

down and jiggling it open with his teeth, he tossed Sarah unceremoniously onto

her bed and turned to leave, wobbling slightly from exhaustion and inebriation.

"Hey, Michael?" Sarah called feebly from her bed.

"Yeah?" he asked, rubbing a hand across his eyes

in a failing attempt to rub out the sleep there.

"Can you c'mere for a second?" Michael stumbled

his way back to her side, leaning in to hear what she had to ask. He panicked

as he found himself drawn into a deep and unexpected make-out session. His

attempts to pull away slowly faded and died. He melted into the kiss, wrapping

a hand behind her head and leaning in further to kiss her back, tongues waging

a tequila-scented war between their joined lips.They finally broke, partly to

catch their breath, and partly to avoid the stereotypical

puking-into-each-other's-mouths bit that was so popular in the movies.

"That was... amazing!" Michael gasped.

"What's it for?"

"For... for everything," she replied. "For

putting up with my crazy parents, my over-protective butler, and me, for

standing up for me with those bullies and all the rich jerks that were spreading

rumors about us tonight, and for... for saving my life." She started to

cry, tears matting down her fur.

"Hey now..." he said soothingly, "Your

parents rock, Wayne and I turned out okay in the end, and you... you're

awesome," he kissed her again. "As for standing up for you, I would

have done it for anybody, but it helps that I've secretly had a crush on you

since the moment I saw you."

"Really?"

"Really," he whispered, chuckling softly into her

ear.

"You're just teasing me..." she said, pushing

against his chest. He kissed her a third time, deeper and longer, trying his

hardest to put every single emotion he was feeling for her at that moment into

the kiss. It was a long kiss, but he didn't care, he was feeling a lot of

emotions at that moment.

"Does it feel like I'm teasing you?" he asked.

"I wasn't joking earlier. I really do worship the ground that you walk on,

and I'd spend my entire life wearing a silly little hat and serving cocktails

to rich jerks if it was the only way I could see you."

"Does that mean you really want to make my tail into a

teddy-bear?"

"Alright, so I was joking a little, but your tail is

really cute."

"So are you," she replied, grabbing his nose and

waggling it back and forth playfully.

"Only when I'm drunk."

"I'll have to remember to slip something into your

drink next time you're here. I like you like this."

"I like you like this..."

"Want to like me even more?" she murred, pulling

him onto the bed and rolling him over so she was straddling his chest. As

Michael watched on in amazement, she proceeded to pull her dress over her head

and toss it off into a dark corner of the room, leaving her wearing nothing but

a bra and a tiny pair of silk panties.

She was beautiful! The white of her hands, feet, and

tail-tip was shared in the ivory stripe that ran from the underside of her

chin, between her breasts, and finally disappeared into her underwear. The rest

of her was a vibrant rusty-red, making her ice-purple eyes stand out all the

more. Her bust was generously proportioned, while not seeming overly-large, and

there was no lack in the curves department. Her panties were small, pink, and

frilly, and the matching bra showed an ample amount of cleavage without coming

off as slutty or vulgar.

"Whoa, whoa, whoa!" Michael stammered, tearing his

eyes away from her body long enough to make another half-baked escape attempt

when her hand found its way beneath his pants and into his boxers, "That's

not what I meant!"

"You don't like me?" Sarah asked, dismounting

Michael's torso as tears sprang to her eyes once again.

"No!" Michael exclaimed, "I mean-Yes! Yes, of

course I like you! I love you! You're incredible... and that's why I have to

leave... right now, before we make a huge mistake and ruin our whole

relationship." He walked over to where Sarah stood, wrapping his arms

around her waist lovingly and smiling warmly into her eyes.

"I'm clean," she said quickly, thinking he was

afraid she had something. "I get checked every year, and..." Michael

silenced her, hushing her and standing silently with her for a few minutes ,

rocking her gently back and forth to help calm her down.

"That isn't what I meant either," he said after

she had stopped crying. "It's not that I don't want you, or that I think

you're diseased or something, but I can't trust myself to know what's best

right now. I know when I'm drunk, and right now I'm somewhere between hammered

and plastered, so I can't honestly say what I'm feeling for you right now, but

I know that I want to feel it for the rest of my life, and if we do this now,

I'll never be able to forgive myself, 'cause I'd be taking advantage of

you..."

"But I want you to take advantage of me!" she

whimpered.

"I'm... going to go try and find my room now," he

told her sternly, giving her one last kiss and body slamming himself in his

head for walking out on what was essentially a free ticket to hot, wild sex

with the most beautiful girl he'd ever seen.

"Wait," she said, "Could you just... just

stay with me tonight? Just lie here with me?"

"I don't know..." he sighed. He still didn't know

if he could trust himself.

"You'll never find your room in your state, I don't

even remember where it is right now. We don't have to do anything, I just want

a little company. C'mon," she cajoled, massaging his shoulders in a

soothing manner.

"Well..."

"Please?" she asked, giving him a dose of her

perfectly pitiful puppy-dog eyes to hammer the last nail home.

"Okay, but just so long as it's limited to cuddling

only, and you have to be in the back," he added on a last thought.

"Why?"

"I... Let's just say I don't want things to get awkward

if I get a little excited in my sleep."

"Oh!" she said, blushing as she realized what he

was talking about. Michael removed his jacket and dress pants, stripping down

to his long-sleeve undershirt and boxers and pulling aside the covers to allow

himself and Sarah to get comfortable underneath. The last thing he remembered

before he fell asleep was hearing Sarah whisper the words, "I think it

just got awkward anyway..."

'Damn you underpants,' he thought, 'You and your inability

to adequately hide an erection...'

---

Well, that's it.

That's it.

You win.

I win.

What were you supposed to get if you won again?

I don't remember. Did we ever actually decide?

Now I guess... I guess it's time to get down to business.

I guess so.

This would be a lot easier to do if you'd stop repeating

everything I say.

Sorry.

Alright, let's do it.

Let's do it.

---

Sarah's ears were sore. She realized why as she began to

wake up fully. Michael was sitting bolt upright, eyes wide open and staring

blankly into space. He was screaming, stopping only long enough to refill his

lungs before unleashing another blood-curdling wail.

"Michael!" she shouted, sitting up and placing a

hand onto his shoulder, shaking him in an attempt to break himout of his

terrifying trance. "What's wrong? What's the matter? Are you hurt?"

He hit her, knocking her off of the bed as he continued to scream, trashing

about, banging his skull against the headboard over and over as his body was

wracked with almost epileptic spasms.

Sarah crawled into a corner, sitting horrified with her

hands over her ears, rocking herself silently until he became quiet. She stood

back up, stepping timidly to where he sat on the sheets, still staring off into

the air, shuddering like a wounded animal.

"Michael?" she asked softly, reaching out a

shaking hand to touch him again. He turned, head jerking about with unnerving

speed.

"Mom?" he said, staring at Sarah as though he

didn't quite know who she was.

"No.... No, it's me. It's Sarah......" She pulled

him in close to her, wrapping her arms about him. He was freezing cold, and he

still couldn't keep himself from shaking like a leaf as he sobbed into her

shoulder.

"You have to believe me Mom, I never meant to let him

hurt you! I couldn't move! I was scared. I was so scared........"

"It's...... Its okay. Everything's alright Michael.

Everything's going to be okay." Sarah didn't know what to say. Michael

thought she was his Mother. What had happened to her to make him this upset?

All Sarah could do was hold him, shushing him softly until the whole thing

rolled over. Michael fell against her, trapping her underneath him and weeping

into her neck.

"I'm so sorry Mom. Please! Please just tell me you

forgive me....."

"It's okay Michael......"

"Please........"

"I......" she paused, breath catching in her

throat. This was terrible! Sarah was going to pretend to be Michael's dead

Mother to try and comfort him. It was wrong! It was disrespectful! It was......

"I forgive you Michael...... I forgive you." She patted the back of

his head gently, holding him to her chest until he went silent again. She

looked warily down at him, as though she were afraid he would start again if

she made a wrong move.

She couldn't believe it! He'd fallen asleep, nuzzling into

her chest-fur and snoring loudly. She didn't know whether to laugh or cry.

She did both.

---

Michael woke to find himself alone in Sarah's bed. There was

still a warm spot in the sheets where she must have been laying earlier. It

smelled like her, a mixture of cinnamon and citrus fruit that Michael couldn't

get enough of. He lay there for a while, letting the light and the cool

Summer's breeze from the open balcony doors bathe over him.

Wait a second. Michael didn't remember a balcony, nor did he

remember the doors being open when they'd fallen asleep last night. In fact, he

didn't remember much about last night at all. He looked up, finding Sarah

leaning over the railing and gazing out at the sunrise.

"Morning!" he said brightly, walking over to wrap

a quilt around her shoulders. "You looked cold," he explained as she

gave him an odd look. They stood there for a few minutes, Michael's expression

becoming more and more troubled as he saw how anxious she looked. "Are you

okay?" he asked after a while.

"Yeah...." she replied distantly. She shook

herself, clearing whatever thoughts that had been occupying her attention out

of her head. "I'm fine," she said, giving him a reassuring smile,

"How are you?" She frowned again, pulling the quilt tighter about her

while her ears flattened back against her skull.

"Actually, I feel great!" he said, which made her

frown deepen for some reason. "Did I....... Did something happen last

night?" he asked finally, afraid the blank spots in his memory held some

dark secret.

"No... Nothing," she said quickly, which only made

Michael's suspicions of foul play even greater.

"You're sure? 'Cause if I did anything that I shouldn't

ha-"

"You behaved very gentleman-like," she said,

cutting him off. She wouldn't be able to stand it if he thought he'd done

something wrong. She had to change the subject. "That reminds me... Last

night you said you didn't know how you felt about me..."

"Yeah, I remember saying something along those

lines......."

"So?....." she asked, bumping shoulders with him

playfully.

"So what?" He bumped her back.

"So.... How do you feel about me?" This time she

gave him a shove, pushing him back into her room so he fell to his rump on the

floor.

"I'd tell you if you'd stop beating me up!" he

stuck out his tongue at her.

"Oh please! I'm beginning to think you like

it...."

"Only when it's you doing the punching," he

retorted.

"You're avoiding the question."

"What question?"

"You know very well what damn question!" she said

in mock exasperation.

He was smiling from ear to ear, but his eyes told her how

serious he was when he said, "I love you. To the ends of the Earth, I love

you. Even if I had to walk through hell and back, I love you!" He grabbed

her around the waist, swinging her, laughing and screaming, in a circle around

himself.

"You still feel drunk?" she giggled as he set her

back on her feet.

"I always feel kinda' drunk when I'm around you,"

he teased.

"You know what I mean. Does it still feel like you've

got alcohol in your system?"

He thought for a second, "Nope, I feel pretty

sober."

"So do I. So I can honestly say that I am extremely

horny right now." She pushed him back onto the ground, going to her knees

over him and pulling him into a passionate kiss.

"Same here," he gasped when they separated,

"but......." he swallowed the jittery lump that had formed in his

throat, "You're sure you're ready? It doesn't feel forced or rushed

or......"

She silenced him with a finger to his lips, "It feels

perfect, and it'd feel even better if you'd stop second-guessing yourself and

just do what feels right!"

That was it. There was nothing else Michael could say, no

argument that he could possibly give that could ever stop the beautiful train

wreck that was about to occur. Off came the bra, her wonderful breasts spilling

out for all the world, er.... all the world that happened to be in Sarah's room

at that time, to see. Her panties quickly followed, experiencing a brief

occupation change into a sling-shot as they joined the rest of her clothes.

Was there a word better than perfect? Sarah was...... impeccable?

No, that sounded too uptight. Glowing? No, that made her sound pregnant or

something. Stunning! Sarah was stunning! Her breasts were firm and round, with

smallish pink nipples that stood to attention in the crisp morning air. Michael

felt his eyes wander South. She was great there, too, the soft pink of her

folds creating a beautiful contrast to the clean, bright white of her inner

thighs.

She wasn't kidding when she had said she was horny, she was

already hot and practically dripping, creating a small wet stain on the leg of

Michael's boxer-shorts. She began to tug at the hem of Michael's shirt,

stopping upon his request.

"Please.... just not now, maybe tomorrow, but.... just

not today. You'd hate me."

"Now c'mon..." she said, giggling into his ear as

she gave him a loving peck on the cheek, "How could anything in there be

that bad? You know there's nothing about you that could ever make me hate you.

You're kind, and caring, and funny. You're the perfect man!"

'You have no idea how wrong you are....' Michael thought.

"Please.... not today. Later, but not today."

"Alright!" she conceded, "but this?" she

purred, clutching at the fabric covering his clearly aroused crotch, "This

has got to come off if we want to get anywhere." And so she said it, and

so it was. The briefs flew through the air, falling to join the small mountain

that had formed in one corner of the room. She rested his member in one of her

hands, examining it for a few moments.

"Not the most remarkable you've seen, huh?"

Michael said as she continued to stare.

"It's perfect," she assured, "In my

experience, all the huge guys have egos to match, not to mention their

self-image, which is somewhat akin to that of an overweight peanut."

"Wow... Now I'm glad I didn't buy those

pills......"

"You actually considered buying pills?" she

snickered.

"They were on sale at the mall...." he mumbled

lamely.

"Well don't worry, I'm sure you'll do just.....

fine!" she gasped, sinking herself onto him with the last word.

She was wonderful!Michael closed his eyes, taking a sharp

breath as she slid him home within her. Her tunnel felt like someone had liquefied

the world's hottest satin and poured it around him, but no.... that seemed

rude. It depersonalized what she was doing for him right now, the gift she was

giving him. It felt like her, that's all.

That's all Michael needed.

He gasped again as she began to thrust herself down on top

of him, changing her speed every now and again to give them both the maximum

amount of pleasure. Michael knew what she was doing, she was going to make sure

they both finished at the same time, but Michael wasn't going to have any of

it. She could probably orgasm five times before he was done, and he would make

sure she lived what they were doing to its fullest.

He grabbed her by the scruff of her neck, pulling her off of

him only to replace her position on top, thrusting into her hard and fast. As

he experimented with Sarah's different depths and regions, he found a specific

spot that made her moan and writhe underneath him. He smiled, 'gotcha!' He

picked up the pace, hitting that same spot over and over. She spasmed around

him, 'That's one...' She clutched at his shoulders, digging through the fabric

and skin hard enough to draw tiny pinpricks of blood.

"Oh God!" she stuttered, "I-I'm so

sorry!"

"It's fine...." Michael grunted into her ear, gasping

as she shuddered again, crying out in pleasure, 'That's two...' Sarah began to

hunch herself back against him, meeting each of his thrusts with her own.

Michael, to his dismay, realized all too suddenly that he wasn't going to last

for five, or even four. He hissed through his teeth, scrotum drawing tight

against his body as he came forcefully inside of her, which caused her tunnel

to clench itself around him one last time, milking him for every drop he had to

give, genetics providing nature's perfect condom.

He fell against her, sighing as they both came down from

their shared afterglow. He felt something warm and fuzzy worm itself around his

leg, laughed as he found Sarah's tail wrapped around his leg like a furry

boa-constrictor.

"That was....."

"Amazing?"

"I was going to say incredible, but that's fine

too."

"Do you always have to one-up me?" she asked,

shaking her head in defeat.

"Two..."

"What?'

"One-up implies that I got one up on you," he said

matter-of-factly, "I got two."

"Okay Mr. Mathlete... What's twelve more than

fifteen?"

"Twenty-seven. Why?" he queried, confused as to

why she'd asked such a simple question.

"You really don't remember much about last night, do

you?"

"Do vague blurs and your terrifyingly hulking Father

telling me he wanted to cut off my junk count?"

"Geez," she muttered, "You really were

plastered."

***

"Boom."

John smiled, watching on with an eerily child-like

fascination as the flames slowly consumed the old, decrepit shed that was

acting as their guinnea-pig, paint-chips and ashes floating away on the cool

Summer's breeze.

They'd come out into these God-forsaken woods test-run their

payback for Michael and his fox-bitch. Molotov cocktails were surprisingly

cheap and easy to make. All you needed was a bottle, preferably glass, of cheap

liquor, an old rag, and a lighter. The effect was impressive, a burning ball of

molten booze and red-hot glass shrapnel that extended eight feet in every direction.

Deadly, but, if all went as planned, they wouldn't need to be.

They didn't want to kill anybody, how would they scare the

damn kid away from the fox if they were both dead? No, if everything went off

without a hitch, they'd create a lot of damage and chaos, without having to

spend all those years in jail for murder. That's how he'd finally convinced the

other two to go along with it. He'd neglected to tell them that what they were

doing was technically felony arson, which would mean around fifteen to twenty

years if they were caught. What they didn't know wouldn't hurt them.

"Okay, put it out,' he told Twitch and Big as the

surrounding foliage began to catch fire as well. "We don't want anyone to

notice this fire." The two set to work, using a pair of fire-extinquishers

to methodically douse the inferno.

This would be easy.

This would be fun.

***

"You're sure you don't want to come in?" Sarah

asked, paddling her way over to the edge of the pool. Michael nodded his

confirmation.

"I'm fine," he assured her, taking another long

draught from his glass and wiping a hand across his forehead to try and dam the

river of sweat already forming there.

Michael was not fine.

This had been going on for over an hour. Sarah floating

lazy, rambling circles in the crystal clear water, stopping every now and then

to check on Michael and his increasing state of discomfort. It had to have been

over a hundred degrees, and the balmy wind that had been blowing this morning

had slowly died as the day went on, cranking the heat-index up to nearly

one-hundred and ten. Needless to say, Michael was slow-baking in his spiffy new

turtleneck.

"Your loss," she shrugged, back-stroking her way

out to the middle of the man-made swimming hole.

"You know I'd love too, but I didn't bring any

trunks!" he called out to her.

"Then jump in with what you have on!" she called

back, spitting a stream of water at him through her teeth.

"My shirt'll shrink!" he whined, reminding Sarah

vaguely of a dorky kid she knew in grade-school.

"So...?"

"So... You bought it for me, and I don't want to be

ungrateful."

"Then just take the damn thing off!" she shouted,

smacking the water in annoyance.

"You know I can't do that."

"No. You won't do that, there's a difference. What's

got you so worked up you won't even take off your shirt around me? If it's

because you think you're fat, I think you'd have sweat off all the extra weight

by now."

"It's... It's not that." he said, avoiding her

gaze.

"Then what? Do you have, like, a third arm or

something? Ooh! No wait, I know!" she exclaimed raising a finger to the

sky in triumph. "You're a robot, an alien-robot, and you won't take off

that shirt 'cause it'll expose all your circuits and gears to the UV radiation

from the sun, frying you like an alien-robot sausage!" she gave her best dramatic

fake-death, gasping and clutching at her throat, sinking below the surface so

that only one twitching hand was left above the water.

"Ha-ha! very funny..." Michael said sarcastically

when she had re-surfaced.

"Okay, Mr. smarty-robot. What then?" She climbed

out of the pool, shaking the excess water from herself before placing her hands

on her hips, waiting expectantly. "You don't have to hide yourself from me, you

know?"

"I don't want to talk about it."

"Oh, c'mon!" she whined, pouncing on him and

tugging persistently at the turtle-neck, "You won't fry that fast, will

you? All I want is one little peek!" She continued to tug and pull at the

hem, despite Michael's increasingly desperate pleas for her to quit. After

being repeatedly yanked in two directions by the tug-o'-war between Sarah and

Michael, the fabric had had enough, giving way with a loud ripping noise.

"Oh God, no," Michael muttered, slamming himself

back in the lounge chair to prevent her from seeing anything. The shirt was

torn clean in two, hanging in tattered strips from his torso.

"I don't see anything..." Sarah said, confused and

annoyed.

"See, I told you it was nothing!" Michael said,

giving her a push to remove her from his lap.

"You're hiding something!" she accused.

"No I'm not!" He shouted, pulling the shirt about

him to prevent her from glimpsing anything he didn't want her to see.

It was too late.

Time seemed to slow down as Michael watched on in horror.

Sarah grabbed him by one arm, tugging hard so that he flipped out of the chair,

catching himself instinctually. The sweater snagged on the arm of the lounger,

ripping the rest of the way off of him and exposing his raw back and shoulders

to her. She gasped.

"What... What-"

Michael jumped to his feet, rounding on Sarah, eyes blazing

in the midday sun. He grabbed her by the throat, clutching so tight that she

began to choke a little, gagging slightly as the walls of her wind-pipe

touched. He brought her in close to his face, glaring deeply into her eyes. She

gasped again. There was something there, something that hadn't been there before,

had never been there before; a fiery glint in his eyes she'd never seen, never

dreamed she could see in Michael. It was animal. It was primal. It was almost

murderous. He picked her up, lifting her bodily off the ground with that single

hand before tossing her backwards. She hit the water with a splash, sinking

below and sitting there for a while, absorbing the shock of what had just taken

place.

"I didn't-I didn't know," she spluttered when she

had come back up, mortified and more than a little frightened. "I'm so sorry,

Michael! If you had just told me why, I never would have done something like

that!" tears began to streak their way down her already soaked face. "I... I

didn't know!"

"Yeah? Yeah? Well now you do! Huh?" He

kicked aside a table, causing the glass top to fall to the concrete, shattering

in a shower of glass shards. He turned the backs of his arms to her, scratching

them deeply with his fingernails until they bled, thick streams of the viscous

liquid pouring down them, glistening in the sunlight as it dripped to the

ground below. "Now you know everything, right?" He thought for a

second, sneering as an idea formed itself like a black, poisonous cloud in his

head, "No wait! You don't know anything, do you? You don't know a damned

thing!" He laughed - a terrible, horrible, manic laugh. "Well then, I'll

tell you! I'll tell you everything! Everything you ever wanted to know about

me! Since you seem to be so damn curious!

"My father was a hate criminal and a thug! He was a loser

and a drunk who couldn't even hold a minimum-wage job, and he spent every penny

he did earn on more booze to drown himself in! When he wasn't hanging out with

his skinhead buddies at the local dive bar and commiserating about anything

with a tail, his favorite pastime was beating my mother and I black and blue,

and blaming it on us!

"But you wouldn't know anything about that, would you? You

never had to stand up to a raging drunk, four times your size, to keep him from

breaking a bottle over your mother's head and giving her another concussion! You

never had to learn when to go limp, so he didn't hit you so hard you couldn't

make it to school the next day! You never had to hear your mother lie

to you afterwards! Tell you it was alright when she knew it wasn't! Tell you it

would be different when she knew it never would! Tell you that it was

over when she knew damn well that tomorrow you would both wake up in the same

damn hell

that you had to call a childhood and relive it all over again! Day! After!

Fucking! Day! You spent your whole life in this sheltered little upper class

villa; with your loving parents, and your big pink bedroom, and your pandering

servants, and your butler, and your... your fucking pool!"

He told her everything. His Dad, his Mom, him, the burner,

the gun, everything. He cried, he screamed, he sounded crazy, and he knew it,

and he didn't care. He felt crazy. He was crazy. He'd been crazy ever since that one moment; that one, single, damn night! So he

told her, laughing, screaming, crying, and then he was done. It was gone, as if

it had never happened, but then he looked up, and he saw Sarah crying too, and

he realized that it wasn't gone. It had moved, but it wasn't gone. It was in

her now. Now she had his pain, his confusion, his anger. She hadn't asked for,

she didn't deserve it, but he'd given it to her, tossed it off to try and alleviate

some of his own frustration, used her as an emotional punching bag to help rid

himself of some of his own hurt. He'd acted selfishly, inconsiderately, he'd

acted... just like his Father!

Michael screamed, pounding, punching himself in the head

until he saw red. He grabbed the remains of his shirt, wrapping them around his

arms to try and stem the flow of blood. He turned, running up the walkway and

into the house, not stopping until he was through the front doors and out onto

the street. He started to walk. He didn't know where to, he didn't really care.

All he wanted to do was get as far away from this place as possible, get as far

away from her face as he could. He had to hide himself, hide from himself, lose

himself for a while, if he didn't he'd kill himself. Even now he had to strain

to stop himself from throwing his body in the path of each and every car that

passed him on the street.

He never recalled exactly how he got to his

apartment, but suddenly he found himself on his floor, outside of the door that

led to the dive that was his home. His hand went to the doorknob. He turned it,

looking numbly around the empty room. All of his stuff was gone. He wasn't

surprised. They'd probably assumed he was dead, thrown away what they couldn't

pawn off for quick cash. His mattress was still there, and he threw himself

onto it, falling into a deep, restless sleep almost immediately.

---

"Get up, boy. It's showtime."

Sirens. Lights filtering through the dirty glass of the

windows. Red and white. The color of winter. The color of flame. The color of

blood on the snow. He knew those sirens. He knew those lights.

_An ancient memory. Cold

and heat in the night. Those same lights, reflected not through glass, but off

the black ice that covered the sidewalk. He was on his stomach. In bed. He was

awake now. Had he been sleeping? He was moving. The bed was moving. It wasn't

his bed. It wasn't as comfortable as his bed. Not that his bed had been very

comfortable to begin with. Men in uniforms were pushing his uncomfy not-bed.

One slipped on the ice, cursing. Another hushed him._

_They passed a form,

crumpled and sprawling in the lawn. Red on white. Deadly steel still smoked in

the snow. Still hot. Ice cold. A third man began covering the form in a sheet.

Michael wished he had a sheet. He was freezing. No. No, he was on fire! His

back! His arms! Burning!_ He _was

burning! He_ hurt_! Those same sirens

pierced the silence of the night. Someone was screaming._ He was screaming!

_Mother! Where was

mother? Mother wasn't there. Mother was in the house. The house. The house was

burning._ His house was burning! His mother _was burning! Eyes raised. Crying for

mother. Screaming for mother. Mother, help! Help mother! Hands raised.

Stretching for mother. Stretching for the house. The house was groaning. The

house was in pain. The house was dying. The house was falling! The house

screamed. He screamed. He was falling. He and the house hit the ground. He was

groaning. He was in pain. He was in_ so much _pain. He was dying. Eyes raised. The house was gone. Mother was gone.

He was gone. It was all gone._

Sirens.

Lights.

Red and white.

Eyes closed.

Back to himself. Back to his room. Still sirens. Still

lights. Now reflected through the windows. Not ice. Not cold. Back to his bed.

He was on his back. He was hot. His back was cold. His arms were cold. Sweat on

the bed. Soaking. He stumbled to his feet, glancing through the shades at the

street below. Sweat on the window. Trickling. Reflecting light. Light like

fire. Red and white. There was a truck. Red and white, like the lights on its

roof. Men hung off, like performers in some twisted circus act, wearing thick

yellow jackets and strange red helmets. Men in uniforms. Firemen. Fire truck.

Fire!

He looked further down the road, watching as smoke billowed

its way into the purple sky, silhouetted against the sunset horizon. That

couldn't be what he thought it was, where he thought it was coming from, but

somewhere deep in his heart, he knew it was. It had to be.

"...Sarah."

He ran. Out of the room. Out of the building. Sprinting down

the middle of the road. Hopping fences like hurdles in a race. Anything to help

him get there quicker. His lungs breathed fire. His veins pumped battery acid.

Every inch of his body screamed to slow down. Every neuron in his mind screamed

to go faster. Somewhere halfway through his marathon it crossed his mind that

that he was still completely naked from the waist up. He didn't really care.

There was only one thing to care about. He rounded a corner, skidding to a halt

as he finally caught sight of what he had been praying existed only in his

nightmares.

There was Sarah's home, curtains and smoke flowing out of

broken windows like the oozing wounds of some great beast. Sarah's home

groaned. Sarah's home was dying. Fire trucks and ambulances parked haphazardly

on the lawn and street. Sirens. Lights. Red and white. He walked amidst them,

watching on, as if in a dream. Employees of the house and emergency workers

brushed past him. Some cried into hands or handkerchiefs. Some shouted orders.

All were frustrated and confused. Someone slipped on wet grass, cursing.

Someone else hushed him.

Two men carrying a boy in a bed passed him by. The boy was

burnt. His back. His arms. The boy cried, reaching for Sarah's house. The boy

was screaming. Michael turned, taking a second look. He knew that boy. The

problem was, what was he doing here? The pieces slowly came together in his

head, and Michael snarled.

"You!" He grabbed Jonathan Greene, lifting his

torso off of the gurney to glare into his eyes. "What the hell did you

do?"

One of the EMTs hooked him around the waist, pulling him

away and holding him back. "We've got to get this kid to the hospital!

He's got third degree burns all over his back and arms."

"He'll survive long enough to answer my question, damn it!

Now get the hell off of me!" He gave the medic a hard elbow to the ribs,

returning to Jon's side and shaking him about like a ragdoll. "What

fucking happened?"

"I-I don't know-"

"Don't give me that! What did you fucking do?" he

slapped him across the face.

"W-we threw a Molotov through the window. It was just

one. That house is fricking huge! It shouldn't have gone up that fast! We never

meant to hurt anyone. We were just trying to scare you away! You gotta believe

me!"

Michael's eyes widened in horror, "Who's hurt?" he

asked, knowing who it was before the answer had even begun to form on John's

lips.

"I-I..." he looked away. He looked to the house.

"God damn it, John! Who did you hurt?" he shook

him again.

"The girl!" he blurted, "She was in her room

when the fire started. They tried to get to her. I tried to get to her,

but... but the flames were too hot! They'd already taken up the entire hallway

leading to her room. There was no way through! But I tried! You have to believe

me! I tried!" Tears began to run down his face, Michael realized

somewhere in the back of his head that they must be tears of remorse, but he

didn't care. The boy was crying. The boy reached for the house. The boy had

failed. He was no longer the boy. He was running for the front door before the

boy even began to fall.

He was almost there when somebody tackled him. They

struggled on the ground. Michael wrestled for freedom. His assailant to keep

him from it. He flipped himself over, prepared to do whatever it took to get

out from under whoever was holding him back, when he saw who it was.

"What the hell are you doing?" Wayne asked

fiercely, bringing an open palm across Michael's cheek in an effort to snap him

out of whatever kind of insanity had come over him.

"It's Sarah" Michael pleaded, pushing at Wayne's

chest to get him off, "She's still in there!" Wayne didn't move.

"You don't think I know that?" he screamed,

"You don't think I realize that she didn't make it out?" he shook

Michael till his teeth rattled in his skull. "God knows I know she didn't

get out! We all know she didn't get out, but none of us are trying to kill

ourselves over it!"

"Please?" he begged. "Please! She's all I've

got! If I don't at least try...?" Tears began to stream down his face. Tears

of sorrow.Tears of rage.Tears of helplessness.

"God fucking damn it, Michael! She's dead! She's

fucking dead...and it's your fault!"

"Don't you dare put this on me! It was that Greene kid

and his fucking racist buddies! You know that!" Michael punched him across

the jaw.

"You don't think I saw your little fight today?"

he punched Michael back. Michael tasted blood. "Sarah was in her room because

you!" He hit him again, "couldn't get over your fucking ghosts long

enough to realize that she fucking loved you!" He hit him a third time,

and the corners of Michael's vision began to grey out, "That she was

fucking crazy about you!" Another blow, Michael blacked out for a second,

but he was still able to hear every sorrowful, every rage filled, every

helpless word Wayne said. "She sat in her room for hours afterwards,

bawling her eyes out... because she loved you." Michael felt droplet of

liquid falling onto his face, and as his vision returned, he saw that Wayne was

crying. So was he.

"Hit me again," he slurred, wincing in pain as

something within him shifted. He must have broken something. He could worry

about it later.

"What?" Wayne asked.

"Hit me again. Because if I don't go in there? If I

don't do everything I can to save her? Then I've got nothing left to live for."

"...You told me your Dad said the same thing. Why

didn't you listen to him then? Then Sarah wouldn't be in that damn

building."

"Then let me do it," Michael whispered, "Let

me go in there! If it works? You get Sarah back, and you never have to see me

again. I'll leave! I'll go off into some dark corner and die. If it doesn't

work...? You still don't ever have to see me again."

Wayne's eyes buzzed with thought, glaring down at Michael.

Finally, he let him up... and punched him again, knocking him flat on his back.

"Come back with Sarah, or don't come back at all."

Michael stood, spitting a pinkish mixture of saliva and

blood into the dirt, "That's the plan."

---

Michael's journey through the Coulding Manor was a much less

pleasant one than he'd had last time. Last time there hadn't been flaming

debris falling from the ceiling, or weak floors that gave way as you tried to

cross them. It seemed as though every room in the house had caught on fire.

They probably had; Michael had noticed that the manor was older, and had gas

heaters that were all most likely connected to a central tank. That Molotov had

probably hit the starter flame that remained on throughout the year, and the

fire had spread through the entire mansion through the gas lines. Michael could

only hope that Sarah's room hadn't burned up worse than any of the others he'd

seen. The problem with that hope was that each room he passed seemed to be

burning worse than the last.

He turned the corner onto the hall that lead Sarah's room,

and was brought up short by a wall of smoke and fire so thick it might has well

have been a solid mass. The entire hallway had been engulfed by the blaze,

disappearing behind a curtain of flickering flame. Fear struck him like a blow

to the chest, drawing out what little breath he could snatch through the thick

smog of smoke and ash that filled the air in a sharp gasp. He couldn't move. He

couldn't breathe. All that he could think of was his dream.

The burning hallway.

The voice.

A scream ripped its way through the inferno; a sound of

pure, unadulterated horror. He knew that voice. He'd heard that very scream

night after night. It had haunted his nightmares for longer than he could

remember. His mind reeled - his world unraveled at the seams to crash about

him, like so many broken shards of mirror; each reflecting a different facet of

his own horrified visage. And as he screamed in terror, each one screamed back

at him, and each one was screaming the exact same thing. It hadn't been his

Mother in the dream...

It had been Sarah.

"Oh God, no."

Another cry tore through the hallway, more desperate, more

fearful.

"Please God, no!"

"Oh-ho God... Yes!" a voice sneered from behind

him. Michael turned, staring into the mirror that hung on the wall, but the

face that gazed back at him was not his own.

It was his Father's.

"You," he whispered, clutching at his thundering heart as he

gazed upon the very face of his every nightmare. The monster that he had been

forced to call 'father' as a boy, now sneering at him from the silvered panel

that hung, ghostly on a wall that should not have been able to hold its weight.

"No. You're dead. Y-you died! You shot yourself in the head with a .45! You're...

you're dead! This isn't possible!"

" 'Possible' goes out the window when your nightmares come to

life," the hellish face in the mirror smirked, spurts of flame flicking out

between his teeth with each word; his eyes alight with the reflected blaze as

smoke rose lazily from his smoldering clothes. "Don't question what you see.

You'll only be wasting both our times. Come to grips with what you're looking

at, or you and your vixen bitch are both going to die in this hellhole!"

"Fine!" Michael spat in hate. "Fine, you're there. I'm

not crazy and you're really there. Or I am crazy and it doesn't matter anyway. What

do you want from me? You took my childhood, my home, my mother. What more could

you possibly do to me?"

"Anything," he laughed, "Everything!"

His voice softened, "but I don't have to."

"What are you talking about?"

"The fox," he replied. "She's not dead yet,

but she will be soon. That is, unless you can do something for me in return."

"Why do I feel like I'm making a deal with the

Devil?"

"Actually, it's the exact opposite." he said.

"What?"

"I'm here to make a bargain alright, but the guy

calling the shots isn't of the cloven hooves and pitchfork variety. There's

more going on here than you know. I can't go in to all the details right now.

There isn't enough time."

"What's the deal, then?" Michael shouted, fighting

to be heard as the wind from the roaring inferno blew his hair in every

direction. He was running short on time already. He didn't know how he knew,

but he did. The flames got higher and hotter with every passing second, and as

they did they spread. In little under an hour, the building would collapse in

upon itself as the fire ate through the supports that kept it standing, burying

anything left inside it in a combination tomb-and-funeral-pyre. That hardly

mattered, though, because the flames would most likely burn through all the

breathable air in the vast mansion in around half that time. Even now, Michael

could feel his head swim with the effort it took to draw a single breath of air

into lungs that were already beginning to sear from the heat.

"The deal's you," his father stated simply,

"Your life for hers."

"Is that all?" Michael asked, forcing a laugh that he

regretted immediately; coughing and hacking as he sucked hot soot.

"Yes." The face in the mirror replied, charred lips pressing

into a grim white line.

"You're... You're serious, aren't you?" he asked.

"Yes." it repeated.

"So... So, then I'd actually...?" he let the question hang, too

afraid to finish.

"Die?" the bodiless reflection of his father finished for

him."Yes. You would die, and she would live. You don't have to do it. No one is

forcing you. If you choose not to, though, she dies in your place."

"What the hell kind of choice is that?"

"It's the most cut-and-dry decision you will ever make. Save

your girl or save yourself. That's all there is to it. It's your choice."

A dilemma, then. He wished it wasn't. To a better man it

wouldn't have been a difficult choice at all to make. Michael wished he was a

better man. If he were, he would have done the right thing without any

reservation. But the truth was, Michael did have reservations. Many

reservations. He loved Sarah. He knew that much. But he was afraid to die. He

knew that as well. Would it hurt to die? Would he die quick and simply, or

would he have time enough to regret his decision before the end? It was all

very poetic and chivalrous to speak of dying for the one you love, but could he

really do it? More importantly, could he live with himself if he didn't?

That was the answer then. The thought of death was

frightening, true enough. The thought of life without the one he loved, though?

The thought of living with his choice for the rest of his days - of living

because he had chosen to live, while she had never been allowed the same

choice- of living at her cost? That was not just

frightening; it was horrifying. It was unthinkable. He couldn't even imagine

it.

So he didn't.

"What do I have to do?" he asked when he'd made up his

mind. A wooden beam in a room off to his right cracked loudly; splinters

exploding outwards as it split in two, dragging half of the room's ceiling with

it. A loud groan filled the air as the house shifted and shook. He was almost

out of time.

"Walk. All you have to do is turn around and walk down

that hallway."

He looked back, "That hallway is on fire!"

"Did I say it would be easy?"

"Easy!" he shouted, "Easy? This is

impossible! How can I play the hero and sacrifice myself for her if I burn up

before I even get to her?"

"You don't have to do it. Nobody's forcing you to. You

can just turn back and leave. I wouldn't blame you."

Michael swallowed, amazed that he still had the spit left in

him to do so. "No. With her or not at all! That's what I said! That's how it's

gonna be!" He took a deep breath.

"Deal."

His Father smiled, not a sneer, not a snarl, but a pure,

genuine smile, "'Atta boy! I may not have done much, but I didn't raise

you to be a coward."

"You didn't raise me at all," Michael said coldly,

"I picked it up myself."

He sighed, "You're right, but... and I know it sounds

crazy. This whole thing is crazy." His smile broadened, "Just know

that I'm proud of you boy. I don't know if you care. Hell, I wouldn't give a

damn if I was you, but it's the truth. I've been so proud of you... all your

life! Since the first moment I held you in my arms in that hospital, with your

Mother watching on. You were a fighter then, and you're a fighter now.

"She's proud too," he continued, laughing again,

but it was different this time, warmer, "and she wishes so bad that she

could be with you right now-"

"-I know she does," Michael interrupted, "You

stole her from me."

"I know," he said, eyes downcast. "I did wrong

by you, son. I did a lot of things wrong. My whole life it seems was just one

big series of wrong turns and mistake. I know that doesn't make anything I did

to you and your mother... or anybody else, right, but we can argue about that

later. Right now we've got a job to do. We all do. Now go get'em, Mikey! We'll

be waiting for you on the other side."

His image faded from the mirror, and Michael couldn't help

but feel alone.

He heard a third scream, louder still.

He took a deep breath, holding it for a few seconds, before

releasing it with a soft sigh. He turned.

He stepped forward.

'This is my fire,' he thought, 'This is my forging,' The

flames leapt, broiled, bounded, eager to receive him, to embrace him as an old

friend, as an ensnared enemy.

'This is where I'll walk,' They licked at his shoes, curling

laces, singing leather, melting soles.

'This is where I'll tread,' they whipped at his legs,

charring denim black.

'This is where I'll thrive,' they found his skin, wrapping

molten fingers around his ankle, flesh chapping, cracking, blistering.

'Through the fire and flames.Through the valley of the

shadow of death.Through hell or high water (Please God, high water). That's how

far I'll go. That's how long I'll fight. Set the marker high. Set the target as

far as you like. Give me an impossible goal. I'll prove you all wrong. I've got

a reason to live, at least for a little while longer.'

The fire raged, swirling around him in a blazing cyclone of

searing air and flickering flame. Michael balked, crying out in pain and

frustration, falling to his knees, covering his eyes and gritting his teeth to

protect them from the blaze. He couldn't go on. It was too hot. It was too

hard.

'Are you gonna give up now?' his father's voice asked

fiercely from within his head, 'After all that hype, all that jazz? You're just

gonna give it all up because things got a little too hot? I thought you were

stronger than that! I thought you were a fighter! You're just gonna quit when

the job's only half done?'

"No!" Michael screamed

'Then get up. You're almost there. She's right around the

next corner. All you have to do is get up!' a blast of air lifted him to his

feet, tousling his hair and causing him to stumble forward a few steps. His

eyes flew open, smoldering with a fire of their own, and a wall somewhere

within him shattered, flooding him with a new strength.

'One more step.'

One more step became his mantra. One more step became his

life. He had to keep telling himself that'd soon he'd be out, soon he'd be

done, soon he'd be free.

Free from pain.

Free from anger.

Free from hate.

One way or another, it would all be over soon, but for now?

For now he had to stop being such a selfish little bitch and think of someone

else for once in his life! He could feel pain later. He could be angry later. He

could hate himself and everything that revolved around him for the rest of

eternity. Right now he was running on borrowed time. Right now he had a girl to

save. He wasn't living for himself anymore.

He was living for one more step.

He was living for one more chance.

So he walked. He had walked nearly five extra feet before he

realized that he was out. The only thing that had snapped him out of it was

Sarah's voice screaming his name. He looked to his left, watching her wave and

shout at him through the window of flame that covered her entire doorway. He

couldn't tell what she was saying. He couldn't really tell much of anything

right now. He just turned.... and walked straight through. He'd already crossed

an entire hall filled with the stuff, what was one more step? He passed

through, and the flames stopped, dispersing as if blown apart by a strong wind.

"Michael!' Sarah shouted, pulling him to her and

holding him tight.

Michael shushed her softly, "It's okay Sarah.

Everything's going to be alright. You're safe now. You're safe."

"Oh God, Michael! I was so scared!" She buried her

head in his shoulder, her own heaving as her body was wracked in a sobbing fit,

"I was asleep, and then everybody was yelling and-and running. I tried to

get out, b-but the flames had b-blocked the d-d-door!"

"It's alright Sarah. It's all over." He pulled her

away from him, looking her deep in the eyes, "Now I need you to listen

carefully to what I'm about to say to you."

"What are you talking about?" she asked,ice-purple

eyes widening in panic and horror, "What's wrong?"

"Nothing!" He reassured her, "I-I just... I

need you to go first."

"What do you mean? Wh-Why can't we go out together?

You're coming with me, aren't you?" The fear in her voice grew.

"Of course!" he lied, hoping she couldn't see

through it, "I'll be right behind you, but I want you to go ahead of me...

To make sure you're alright."

"N-No..." she stuttered, "We're leaving here

together, side-by-side, or I won't go!" She clung to him like a stubborn

child, squeezing him tight to get her point across.

"Alright, alright!" he smiled,squeezing her back,

"Side-by-side...."

They weren't going to leave side-by-side. Michael would make

sure of it....

Something crackled above the door, like dry firewood.

"We don't have much time," Michael told her

sternly.

"No. No, we've got plenty of time!" she said

desperately, knowing deep inside that she was wrong. It didn't stop her from

saying it. She had to. She needed to, "We've got all the time in the

world! We're going leave here, a-and we're going to have a house... and a

family! I know we can't have kids, not real ones anyway, b-but we'll adopt!

I've always thought little bunnies were so cute! And they breed like, well,

rabbits. So there's plenty of them in the orphanages, just waiting for a good

home like ours!

"We-We'll move out to the ocean! California! Or

Florida! I've always loved the ocean, and I think you will, too. Buy a little

beach house, and you can get a job fishing out on the sea. I'll sit by the big

bay windows every night that you're gone. Just staring out at the waves, and

knitting o-or reading while the baby sleeps, and then I'll see your ship coming

into the harbor. a-and we'll both be waiting for you when you come home... all

salty and grizzled. We'll have a big party to celebrate!" She laughed,

tears streaming down her face as she did so.

"We'll watch our baby grow, an-and go off to school,

and then college! The best, cause he'll be s-so smart! He'll go to Harvard, or

Princeton, or Annapolis. He'll be a lawyer, o-or a doctor, or a b-big, brave

Admiral in the Navy. We'll b-both be s-s-so proud of him! We'll watch him find

somebody, and start his own family, and give us the most beautiful

grandchildren. And we'll grow old together!

"And then one night, when we've both lived long, happy

lives?" She kissed him, hard, fiercely, desperately. "We'll pass on

together, warm and safe... an-and happy! In our wonderful bed - in our

wonderful home , surrounded by pictures of our wonderful family! Not here.

Not now. Not like this!" She looked him in the eyes, smiling at him and

wiping away the tears that had gathered there.

"Sarah..." he said sadly, hugging Sarah tight and

kissing her for, what they both realized, would be the last time, "I hope

you're right. I hope to God you're right. I hope you live a great life.The best

life. With someone who loves you. Someone who adores you as much as I do. More

than I do, but not me..."

"Why not you, Michael? Why can't we do that?"

He wanted so badly to cry. To fall to his knees at her feet

bawl his eyes out like a baby, but he couldn't. He had to stay strong. For Sarah's

sake, "I am so sorry. If I could change it, I would. All of it, but..."

"Michael!" she said fearfully, "Michael, no!

Oh God, no! I won't let you do this! Whatever it is, I won't let

you!"

"I know," he whispered to her tenderly, holding her close to

him, pressing himself against her to try and make up for a lifetime of intimacy

and comfort that he knew now he would never be there to give. "You don't have

to, because I do it freely. I do it without asking. I do it for you."

The door crackled again, louder this time. Without a second

thought, he lifted her up and heaved her through the doorway just as it

collapsed. There was a tiny crack left exposed. He could see Sarah's face through

it.

"Sarah?" He called through, "Sarah, you've

got to go! The way's clear now. Just go where there aren't flames."

"Michael!" She called back, "Michael... I-I

love you!"

"Sarah, I...". Crap. He'd known. He'd known for a while

now, and he'd known that he loved her the same way, but he couldn't say it. He

couldn't let her love a dead man. Wouldn't let her."You have to go now!"

"I'll send somebody back for you! I won't just leave

you here!"

"Get out of here now, damn it!" He screamed. He

hadn't meant to sound angry or frightened, but he guessed some of it had

slipped out, because she was gone in a flash.

The room became quiet, all but the cracking of the fire as

it slowly spread across the floor. It was odd, but Michael felt a strange sense

of calm as he watched the flames creeping slowly towards where he stood. He

felt as though he'd just received some great prize, like he'd just won a gold

medal in the Olympics. He smiled. He felt... fulfilled.

Maybe it was his imagination, or maybe his body was hallucinating

from the lack of oxygen to his brain, but he could have sworn, in that moment,

that his parents appeared in that doorway, as though they'd walked straight out

of the fire. They were smiling, and holding hands. They looked younger than

he'd imagined they would, like they hadn't aged a day since that night back at

his old house. They were transparent, see-through, part smoke and part spirit,

but still substantial enough to walk across the floor without falling through.

"Mom?" He asked them, 'Dad?"

"We're so proud of you," She said, voice echoing

across the silence.

"It's been so long... I've got so much to say."

"Well then, looks like you're in luck!" His Father

chuckled, sounding a lot like Michael, "You two have got all the time in

the world to catch up."

"What about you?" He asked, "You aren't

coming with us?"

"Maybe someday," He said, reaching out a hand and

patting him on the shoulder, "But I've got to go somewhere to go first.

I've still got time to serve..."

"But.... But you're not bad!... Not really. Maybe-maybe

me and Mom can say something...."

He laughed again, "I appreciate the sentiment son, but

I made my mistake. I knew what I was doing, and I did it anyway. A man's got to

take up for what he's done in life. It's something I should have taught you

myself."

"So what happens now?" He said softly.

"Now?" A sad look crossed his Father's face,

"You're not dead yet, son. We can worry about what's next when we get over

that hurdle. Together."

He took a hold of one of Michael's shoulders, and suddenly

it began to get very hard to breathe. His lungs searching for air that wasn't

there to give, consumed as the fire continued to crawl like a hellish crab

across the room.

"Mom?Dad?" His vision began to fade, going red,

then grey, and then black, but still he remained conscious to everything going

on around him. "I'm scared. What if it hurts?"

He felt two sets of arms wrap him up in a tight embrace,

"We'll be right here," his Mother's voice whispered into his ear.

"The smoke'll get to you before the flames ever do, if

that's any comfort to you," came his Father's voice. It wasn't, but at

least he was trying.

His hearing started to fade as well, their voices sounding

as though they were coming through a filter.

"It's almost over Michael. Just a little bit more...."

"But it hurts!"

"It's just like getting a shot back when you were a

kid? Remember that? You'd cry and cry, and then we'd go get some ice-cream...

and you'd be all smiles again, like nothing ever happened."

"Is there ice-cream where we're going?"

"It's heaven. There's whole oceans full... If that's

what you want."

"No. No. What I want? What I want... is to know that

Sarah'll be happy, that she'll have everything she wanted, all the things we

talked about, but mostly... That she'll find somebody else. Somebody who'll

treat as good as she deserves, and give her everything she ever wanted.

Everything she needs..."

"We can't say. That's her choice... but I'm sure she

will. You asked her to, after all.... and she'd never go against what you said.

She's crazy about you."

One last thought crossed his mind, and he laughed, "She

was wrong. She said I saved her life, but she saved mine, and more. She saved

my soul."

A white pinprick appeared in the center of his eyesight,

widening slowly, as though Michael were coming to the end of a long tunnel. He

smelled something, not burning. It smelled good, like cinnamon and citrus

fruit. Michael couldn't get enough of it.

So he didn't.

Epilogue

"Why am I still not used to this?" Michael asked,

wincing in pain as his head connected with a tree-branch that hurt a surprising

amount, considering he was dead. He grabbed ahold of the limb, clinging to it

to keep himself from floating off like a ghostly balloon.

"It takes some time," his Mother chuckled, taking

a seat on the branch before pulling him up to join her, "You'll get used

to it eventually."

"I wish I were used to it now..." he muttered in

annoyance.

"Patience is a very good virtue to have when you've got

the rest of eternity ahead of you to practice it," She said sagely.

"Speaking of eternity... How long has it been since...

you know?" he coughed

"Honey, Hours and days were invented to monitor the

passing of that little imaginary loop that mortals call time. It doesn't really

apply here, but... around three or four years?"

"Years?" Michael asked in disbelief. 'It hasn't

even felt like three or four days!"

"Like I said, time doesn't really apply here... At

least not their sense of it."

They stared out over the park. It was a beautiful place, and

any other would have been completely filled with people on a bright, sunny day

like this, but right now the only occupants were a man, a fox, a bunny, and row

upon row of polished white stones.

"Who's the dude?" Michael questioned.

"You won't believe this," she warned him.

"No..." he said, looking closer. He wasn't angry,

just amused and slightly amazed at what he saw before him, "That can't be-"

"-John Greene," She confirmed with a nod.

"What happened to him?" He asked as he noticed

that John was wearing a long-sleeve shirt, not unlike the kind Michael used to

own.

"He got burned in the fire," She explained,

"Scarred up his back and arms. Ironic, huh?"

"Yeah, but how'd he end up with Sarah?"

"She went to visit him in the hospital, upon her

Mother's request. She said it's what you'd have wanted."

Michael shook his head in bemusement, "Sarah wasn't

kidding when she told me that woman could read minds... So what happened?"

"He saw her eyes," She said with a smile,

"They had him so drugged up on painkillers that he didn't even notice when

he told her that they were the most beautiful he'd ever seen."

Michael chuckled, "What did she do?"

"Hit him," He winced, knowing how badly Sarah's

punches could hurt when she wanted them to, "Knocked him out cold. Then

she walked up to the front desk and paid for his treatments... in full."

"How many times has she done this before?"

"Just once. With you, actually, but when you find

something that works..." She shrugged.

His gaze shifted to the little rabbit-boy between them,

"What about the kid?"

"Theirs.Adopted."

"Well durr!" He said, "I meant... How old is

he? What's his name? Stuff like that, you know?"

"He's seven."

Michael floated closer, "Rough age? He doesn't look too

happy."

"No. He just doesn't understand why his Mom and Dad

have to drag him out to this old, creepy cemetery on the same day each year so

they can put flowers on an old grave and just stand around there for

hours."

Michael frowned, "Well that's considerate of

him..."

"He's seven, remember? Not a big sense of reverence...

or attention span at that age."

"Oh please!" He rolled his eyes, "When I was

his age-"

"-You couldn't even stand being around your Grandma

when she was alive," She reminded him.

Michael looked away, sulking, "What's his name?"

"Michael."

"Really?" he looked back, "They named him

after me?"

She nodded, "Michael Blaze Greene."

"Michael Blaze Greene?" He asked, "Oh c'mon!

That's sick!"

"I like it," She snickered, "At least it has

some meaning behind it. Names like that are hard to come by these days, even in

biological children. Right Jeremy?" She snickered again.

"Hey!" He exclaimed, "You chose my middle

name, not me!"

"Whatever," She laughed, "Now c'mon. We've

got to go."

"Aww!Really?"

"Yes! Now let's go!" She hopped off the tree.

Flew, actually, fading as she got higher, "Sheesh! You die once, and

suddenly you're five years old again..."

Michael smiled, taking one last look back at the three

before moving off to join her. He'd have liked to stay around, but the world of

the living was just like it sounded, for the living. Besides he had an ocean of

ice-cream to get back to. Cinnamon and citrus fruit, his favorite.

Hey, a guy could indulge himself every once in a while,

right?

End

---

Whew... Holy Hell! Two whole months! It's finally over! Do

not be surprised if you see a strange man dancing through your streets. It's

probably just me celebrating having finally finished this... this

whatever-it-is. And yes, I know. I was weak and said the words "He

came" once, but I was tired, and it was 4AM when I wrote that part.

Oh yeah! All characters in this story are copyright to me.

All votes are welcome, and so is constructive criticism, but

please... For the love of God! Do not comment if all you have to give is a

running commentary on exactly what it is you were doing while reading this!

Edit: August 31, 2008 - Tweaked some minor spelling and

grammar errors, reformatted the last half of the story, which was all in

italics for some odd reason.

Edit: 2015 - Tweaked all of the MANY

spelling and grammar errors (and ellipses), and fleshed out some of the thinner

areas of the plot.