Behind Yellow Eyes: Chapter 4
Chapter 4.
Marcus heaves the polymer distribution machine back onto its face, having just replaced its abrasive disc. That he is a mere janitor doesn't really bother him, this job at the biggest spaceport on the planet Tatchit was hard to get. Especially for a human, one of the few still around. He is used to being treated as second rate, compared to Rhenthar. That's who mostly lives around here.
He smirks, thinking about his grandfather's high hopes that humans will one day rise back up. If only he knew what Marcus's dreams and fantasies were. They certainly didn't involve humans, that's for sure. If only things were different. Life is so unfair, he thinks.
He squeezes the trigger on the machine and it starts up, emitting a deep hum and vibrating the floor under his feet. He swings it to the left and right, darting glances at all the entrances and exits around him, looking for his floor status safety emitters. Each sends out low strength pings to signal wetware that the floor in the area might be slippery underfoot.
Various Rhenthar walk around him, coming and going, the area he is polishing is the main mezzanine on the first tier. It's important that it looks good, so he's spending extra effort on it. There is a high ceiling here, open to several of the other floors. The walls catch sunlight through broad windows, emitting a blue sparkle. They have pristine surfaces that repel dust using ultrasound. That won't work on the places that feet come into contact with, it would produce an unpleasant tingle. If not for that, Marcus wouldn't have much of a job.
As Rhenthar pour in around him, headed to ships if they're coming, and leaving them if they're going, he covertly stares at each one. He enjoys the view under tails and between legs. Rhenthar never wear clothes, so his imagination doesn't have to be good in order to see what he wants. Certain breeds he enjoys much more than others, the sleeker arctic ones are his favorite, though they're rare. Next up are any that look close, with erect ears and fluffy coats, wolves are hot, too, but he almost never sees them.
A German shepherd type walks by, and his gaze lingers, he glances between her legs and feels a pang of disappointment. Boy, will his grandfather ever freak out when he finds out he's gay. He likes beef burritos, not fish tacos.
That's another discussion he's been putting off. It seems the older he gets, the harder it is to bring up, which is the opposite of what he expected. His one remaining family member has such great hopes of him somehow saving his species. Someday, he'll have to level with him, Marcus thinks. Just lay it all out and get it into the open.
Once he graduates college, he's sure he'll have the stability he needs to be on his own. Screw what his grandfather wants, this is his life, and he can decide his own future. He's so tired of other people's desires enveloping his life and limiting what his future has in store.
He almost stumbles when he spots a huge white and black Siberian Husky Rhenthar walking in through entrance 3. The black on his head and shoulders stands out, as though it's sucking the light from the room to become even brighter, if that's somehow possible. His sheath is long and obviously full of what's important, with very little fluff around his nuts, he must have to shave them to get that kind of evenness in his fur, Marcus thinks.
Intense green eyes visible from across the expanse catch his gaze, sending electric tingles down his spine before he can glance back down at the floor. He makes bigger circles with his polisher, feeling his cheeks redden. He looks at the battery readout display, knowing it'll indicate what it always does, charge remaining somewhere in the nineties. He only plugs it in once a month, but it's something to pay attention to. He pushes the readout button and pretends to fiddle with it.
Peering behind him, he sees the Husky still staring at him, but contact finally breaks when he turns to disappear down a hallway, headed to section A. The last thing Marcus sees is his fluffy tail, black on top of white, held out with that curly bend Husky's so often get when they're either happy or excited. He wonders what it would feel like to play with that tail, running his fingers through the smooth fur. What else might make him happy or excited?
Marcus snaps back to reality when he realizes he's done with the floor. How long has he been polishing the same spot? He thinks back to when the tugging resistance of the polisher faded away, when the floor quit putting up a fight because of how smooth it turned. He can't remember, so it must have been a while.
His boss, a Greyhound Rhenthar with tons of white on his muzzle, often calls him a scatterbrained human who needs to attend some memory enhancement classes. Yet he has no trouble remembering the last thing he's paid attention to.
That Husky is a ten, by his rating system. All that silky white fur, the striking black markings, perfectly even on both sides. Symmetry is a must. Thick muscles, big paws touching down on the floor he polished, one at a time. Digitigrade, but with long legs like a man. He knows Rhenthar are sensitive about what they put their feet on, and he wonders if the big Siberian feels any relief, knowing how clean the floor is after Marcus has tended it so well.
He switches the machine off and methodically goes around, picking up each of the safety emitters, bright orange cones of transparent aluminium, about a meter tall. He absentmindedly stacks them one on top of another, weaving through the crowd all around him. He's learned a lot about crowds in the last six months working here. He knows they hardly ever notice him, and he likes it that way.
His college set him up with this job as soon as he started his first semester. He began with apprentice pay, a stipend provided by the college itself, while his labor came free to the starport on a trial basis. At the end of 150 hours worked, the starport had the option to hire him with no additional fee. Though he was human, his boss had taken a liking to him by then, often calling him the dreamer. Marcus frequently discusses his wild ideas of travelling around the galaxy in search of those in despair. He got the job.
His boss walks up to him, and Marcus wipes sweat from his brow onto the arm of his uniform, an all-black one piece jumpsuit with a silver shooting star over the left breast pocket.
"Floor looks great," says his boss, while staring at various areas with a careful eye. "You got the third tier done already?" He opens his muzzle and pants, letting his long pink tongue hang straight out.
"Yessir. I just finished it before this one. Do you still need me to purge all the cyk bins?" The laws say garbage cans can't recycle their contents until three hours after the last item was deposited. Sometimes people toss things into them that don't belong there.
"No, I'll take care of them. You can head on out if you want, put the scrubber up and set it to charge, if it needs it. I'll clock you out at the end of the day, my treat." A gray eye winks. "Youth is wasted on the young. So enjoy yours, while you still have it." He smiles.
"Yes sir! Have a good day, I'll see you tomorrow." His boss nods, and Marcus feels a rush of joy race into his stomach, all the bliss and excitement of being released from mundane tasks, the same way he always feels when the last bell in school rings. Finally, time to go home and back out into the rest of the world.
Marcus kicks the wheels of his polisher into transport configuration and pushes it toward its storage room at a good clip, small pneumatic tires emit a steady buzz as he turns corners, deftly avoiding tipping the machine over, he slides it around the last bend. He palms an access panel and pushes the machine through the door.
Normally, the lights turn on when motion enters the room, but they're already on. His boss was probably just in here. He wheels the machine up to its charging stand, not bothering to connect the cables, it certainly won't need it for a while. He turns around to bolt toward the door, and almost runs into a wall of white fur. His high-fric boots squeak to a halt and he stumbles backwards, landing hard on his butt with his back against the polisher, staring up into a menacing green gaze.
"Did you think I wouldn't notice you eye-fucking me, back out there?" The white and black Husky asks, pointing a claw at the door. His voice is full of growl.
"Um, um... I, uh, I wasn't..." Shit! They can smell your lies , his grandfather once told him, so long ago.
He holds out a huge paw with his fingers spread wide. "Stop. You forget yourself, human. Don't waste my time with your fake stories, your lies... they aren't worth the breath you use to make them."
Marcus stares past the Husky, at the door, trying to estimate what it would take to get around him. But the door would need to be pulled inwards. He'd never get it open in time, this dude is huge!
"Um. Er. I'm sorry! I didn't mean anything..."
The Husky turns and looks behind him at the door, glancing back at Marcus with narrowed eyes, they seem to be glowing bright green from within a black mask of fur around them. They lose their focus for a moment, and the door's emergency lock slams home, the status light next to the handle flashes red. Locked.
That's impossible, Marcus thinks. The AI controlling the station would never allow that to happen. Surely, it knows he's gained access to it. Maybe help will come?
"My name is Mist," he says. "You would do well to remember it. I have questions that need answers. Stand up, human. Tell me your name."
Marcus untangles his legs and gets up, feeling shaky and afraid. His Caucasian body is thin and he's tall for his age, almost a meter and three quarters. He's had a growth spurt recently, and his grandfather said all the men in his family would grow one last time, from his age of 18, until when they were around 21. His legs and arms seem too long for his torso, and his boss bitched at him last week about needing to order a new set of jumpsuits.
"M-my name, my name is Marcus. I'm. I'm just a janitor, here. I'm nobody; I'm no threat to you." Another thing his grandfather had said, some of them have instincts you need to be careful of. Direct eye contact and other threatening postures can spell disaster. If only he could remember the rest, but he's never pissed off a Rhenthar before. Humans and Rhenthar tend to avoid confrontation. Too much unpleasantness in the past.
Mist cocks his head, as if he's amused. "If you were a threat to me, you'd already be dead. That's not my concern. Why were you looking at me like that?" he asks. "Do you think I look funny?" he pauses. "Is it because I'm so big for a Husky, is that it?"
Marcus shakes his head. "No, no. I swear! It isn't that." Oh, god. Don't lead to the truth, you're cornered, think of something. By saying that , you just implied it was something else.
Mist flares his nostrils, and nods with the barest grin at the edges of his muzzle. "Well, it certainly is something. You smell as if you're still trying to hide what that might be. What was it? Tell me, Marrrcus. You can trust Mist. Why were you staring at me?" Without waiting for a response, he reaches out and grabs Marcus's face in one of his big paws, squeezing claws tight into his fleshy cheeks, inspecting his bone structure. "Go on..."
Marcus nearly pisses himself. He almost flinches, but realizes at the last moment that if he pulls away, those sharp claws will tear his face apart. He holds still while he's examined, occasionally staring into huge green eyes, his wet black nose twitching vigorously in front. He can feel heat from the massive furry body standing so close to him; it's as if he's standing in front of a fire. The warmth almost burns his neck and face.
"I... I. Um. I..." He can't believe it. His stupid body decides right now to get a stiffy. His emotions heighten, yanking fear into embarrassment. His cheeks burn with a new heat, one of their own creation. He wants to be anywhere but here. He needs to run and hide under his blankets at home.
Mist takes one last inhale and freezes. His eyes open a little wider, and he leans down and uses his other paw to squeeze Marcus between the legs, confirming his identification, a particular thread of scent. His touch isn't unpleasant, and Marcus's boner throbs from it. He'll have to change his briefs when he gets home, he's surely leaking into them.
"Well well well. The plot thickens, along with something else." Mist lets go and stands back up to his full height, the breath from his nose blows Marcus's short brown hair around as he takes in his scent even closer. "You work here, so you're immune to Dee-eight, right?"
Marcus nods quickly, at least as well as he can while a hand as big as his head is holding his face.
"You're attracted to me." He lets the accusation hang in the air for a moment. "Try denying it."
"Um. Um, oh god..." he swallows hard. "I, um..." he blushes even harder. Just die, he thinks. Please let my heart stop beating, so I can die.
Mist releases his head and leans down to look closely at the marks his claws have left, wiping the little dents with his paw pads. He backs up a half step and eyes Marcus's coveralls, pinching the shiny black fabric at various spots in order to get it to stand straight, staring closely at the outline his body makes inside it.
"I actually enjoy the attention from males, Marrrcus. If that's what it is," he rumbles. "You know? Not all of us were born as what we wanted to be. No. Some of us wish we were born as something else. What does this concept mean to you, hm?"
Oh god.