FSE

Furry search engine

formerly SoFurry search engine

I sat in the rather boring, nondescript waiting room fidgeting slightly. I was there for an interview, a graphic design grunt job. Most likely, it would be nothing more than “Change this red to this other color of red" and “Change this typeface. I don't know what to, but make sure it doesn't suck!" I wasn't excited to be there, not really. I was definitely nervous though. This was the first place that had agreed to give me an interview - the first place in over six months of searching. My education wasn't great, nothing more than a high school diploma actually, but I was only sixteen and my portfolio was full of independent projects rather than classroom examples. I was confident it showed my talent in ways that grades never could. The tick of the clock above my head clicked at odds with the stream of tapping from the secretary's keyboard creating an uncomfortable staccato in my head.

I was dressed conservatively for this interview, dressing for the company rather than my own comfort in a worn but clean and pressed dress suit I'd borrowed from my mom. My long auburn hair was drawn up in a ponytail. I'd struggled to pin my ears down with my hair, but the pesky pointed feline ear tips kept peeking out. I felt my fingers twitch as they itched to try to smooth the tips down...again. At least I didn't have whiskers to deal with!

My foot wanted to tap. My fingers wanted to drum. However, I kept myself calm, taking slow deep breaths. I'd arrived very early for this interview; not many busses ran on regular schedules through the Community Project districts, where I called “place that I sleep and keep all my stuff." I was convinced calling it home was a denigration on the word.

The sharp voice of the secretary cut into my internal musings. “Ms. Night," she sniffed disdainfully as she called my name. “Mr. Tillman will see you now."

I smiled to hide my grimace. I'd arrived 15 minutes early, exactly as all my career research had suggested. I'd been prepared, with my resume available and my portfolio of work in a presentable manner. I had waited for over half an hour past my interview time. I expected to see someone come out of the hallway Ms. Perkins, the secretary, was pointing me down; an interview running over would have made sense, but there was no one. “Thank you, Ms. Perkins," I said in my warmest professional voice. She stared at me as if I was no more interesting than a bug crawling across the carpet.

For a design firm, I'd decided this company was pretty dull. Shouldn't there be examples of past design work on the walls? At least something on the walls? The hallway was as nondescript as the waiting room had been: carpet not quite grey and not quite brown, pale beige walls, brown doors with plastic nameplates - either brown or gold like Mr. Tillman's was. His door was closed, but Ms. Perkins had told me he would see me so…I knocked on the door three times, not too soft, not too loud, and then opened the door carefully.

I could tell immediately that Mr. Tillman was used to intimidating people. He was a large man behind a large desk and he boomed at me with a large voice, “Come in, Miss Night. Have a seat." I walked in, gauging my stride to be not hurried, and closed the door behind me.

“Thank you for this opportunity to interview with Design Chest, Mr. Tillman," I said brightly, offering one gloved hand forward to shake. The gloves were thin unobtrusive bits of fabric, but they hid the small trails of fur that made their way down my arms and ended in points on the backs of my hands. My mom had called them “church gloves" this morning and said they were more appropriate than my normal leather gloves, but they would still 'hide my deformity.'

It wasn't a deformity, not really. At least, I didn't see it that way. I was just me, one of the city's Kemonomimi - half-breed children from human parents, like my mom, and full anthros like my dad. We'd been around for at least a generation, but many people still see us as abominations, even worse than the anthros from which we came. I'm not sure where my mom actually stood on that topic, but I know she approved of my attempts to hide who I was.

Mr. Tillman didn't shake my hand. Mr. Tillman did look me over and I could almost see every time he reached something “abnormal". Strike one - too sharp of canines. Strike two - green gold cat eyes. Strike three - the twitching of my ears as my nerves started to get the better of me. This interview was already over. I decided to muscle through it anyways. I handed him my resume, though he seemed hesitant to accept it, and sat down careful to adjust for the tail hidden down my trouser leg. I knew his eyes would pick out the address and if he bothered to read any farther, he'd see the dates of my schooling. I watched his eyes do the dance and gave a resigned sigh. “I understand some of that might come as a surprise, but I did bring my portfolio and I know I could be an asset to this company if just given the chance!"

Mr. Tillman pushed his chair back and stood up to his full height. “Listen, Ms. Night," he said gruffly. “We've already filled this position. I'm sorry for wasting your time. My secretary should have informed you of that earlier." He crossed his arms and looked pointed at the door.

I rose quickly, but instead of meekly leaving this debacle of an interview, I just stared at him for a few seconds. “Mr. Tillman, not only did your secretary not mention the position being filled but when I called this morning, she assured me the post was still open." I could feel my tail trying to lash with my annoyance, but I tried to keep my voice even and calm. “I understand that I'm probably not the average type of person you get applying here. I don't have as much formal education as your average applicant; most of my graphic skills are self-taught and hard won. I'm a hard worker, Mr. Tillman. I just need someone to give me a chance!"

Something I said must have crossed a line for Mr. Tillman. I saw his face darken in a flush. “Listen here you, you young hussy," he said through gritted teeth. “I'm in charge of hiring here and I can tell you that no self-respecting business would ever hire a half-breed abomination of your kind. You dare call yourself a person? On par with humans, no doubt. Forget it! You are scum, not worth a second glance." He rounded the desk and grabbed my portfolio, now standing between me and the door. “It doesn't matter what quality of work is in here if this," he gestured towards me, “isn't quality itself. I recognize your address; you live in that shit hole community that was built to keep the rest of society safe from you. Do you really think I want to expose my workers to your filth? You're probably diseased, carry fleas, and have a nasty habit on top of it." My cheeks burned as the dressing down continued unabated. Several times I'd opened my mouth to defend myself, but he pressed on. My mind flashed back to my mother, relegated to a factory job that left her physically drained and in pain every day. She had turned to a dizzying array of downers just to make it through the day.

“You think you know so much about my life?" I asked quietly, then again louder. “You think you know who I am? What I am? You think you're so much better than I am, so pure." I spat the words like acid, enjoying the sight of him flinching before me. “You know what I see? I see a lonely bigot who got stuck at a dead end desk job for a shit hole of a company. I have more talent in my little finger than in your whole body," I yelled, holding up my little finger and extending my claws through the thin glove fabric. I grinned as I saw his eyes go wide at the sight of my claws. “And I can say that because I want it more. Whatever it is, I want it more than you because I live with assholes like you constantly telling me what I'm worth." I grabbed my portfolio back, careful to avoid actually scratching him. Use of “animalistic characteristics" in a fight turns your basic assault case into an assault with a deadly weapon.

“Get out of here," Mr. Tillman hissed in my face. This was not at all how I had imagined this interview going. I had been thrilled to get a call back from Artistic Designs, Inc. They were the only company who had called me back in months. They were a terrible company who did incredibly boring work, but they paid better than the factories. They paid enough that I could have saved up enough to get out, go to college, do something besides exist and die.

“With pleasure," I hissed as I threw open his office door and stormed down the hall. I could hear him calling Ms. Perkins over his intercom but I wasn't paying attention. I could already feel the sting of tears and I would not give anyone from this company the satisfaction of seeing me cry. I clutched my portfolio to my chest and concentrated on my breathing. When I turned the corner, all of my calm shattered around me.

Ms. Perkins was standing next to two large security officers. I skid to a halt and just stared at them. The grey, ill fitted uniforms were too tight for one and too short for the other. The human guard was tall. I could see at least an inch of tan skin between the tops of socks and the bottoms of his trousers. I stared in surprise as I finally looked over the other guard. “You're an anthro," I said bluntly, so shocked that all I could do was state the fact.

I turned back towards the human as he took a step closer to me, his fingers practically itching at his baton. “I'm Officer Roget. He's an anthro. You're a neko. Now that we've cleared that up, I'm here doing my job. He's here doing his job. You're here causing trouble." Officer Roget, apparently the only one of us good enough to get a name, rolled his eyes for effect. The grizzly bear cop had the grace to look at least a little embarrassed by his partner's speciesism.

If I had been thinking more clearly, I probably would have shut up and let them escort me from the building. I wasn't thinking clearly anymore. “Causing...trouble? I'm here causing trouble?" I asked incredulously. “I'm a graphic designer and I came here for an interview! Instead, Mr. Tillman decided he could just spit whatever hateful comments he wanted in my face. I did not come here to be treated like trash and you two gentlemen," I narrowed my eyes at the word, “can step aside because I am leaving this disaster of a company right fucking now. No 'escort' necessary!"

I ended up being escorted off the property anyways, and not gently. I wasn't tall, but I was 5'7" at 16 years old and I had already surpassed most of the other 'mimis I knew in height. 'Mimis are generally shorter than humans, though some of the smaller species of anthros can be shorter than us. I guess I had gotten used to being “the tall one" over the years. The human security guard was even taller than I'd first thought and easily picked me up by my arms and carried me out of the office. I was so shocked when he swung me around and wrapped his arms around my torso that I couldn't even muster a proper objection. Once we were out of the direct office, he put me down again and the anthro guard came around behind me. He pinned my wrists behind my back and frog marched me out of the building. If I'd been shorter, I probably would have had trouble with his pace. As it was, the fear of my jacket ripping was more important than the feeling of my shoulders slowly dislocating. The jacket was cheap, but it was my only professional jacket. I'd never get a job if I didn't look the part!

Bruised, with mussed hair and clothes in disarray, I started the long walk to the bus station where I would wait for a long time for an even longer bus ride back home. I knew that I might find more accepting places of employment closer to the 'jects, but I also knew they were less scrupulous about wage theft...and outright assault. I'd faced facts a long time ago; I lived in a shit-hole. A grade-A unpleasant place. But it was all I had right now. Not that I spent a lot of time there anyways. Between my recent job search and losing myself at the 'mimi friendly nightclubs, I was basically only home to sleep. I couldn't tell you the last time I'd shared a meal with my mother.

I peeled off the gloves from my mother, now in tatters around the fingertips, and dumped them in a trashcan at the bus stop. I looked at the schedule and down at the cheap plastic watch that I'd stuffed into my pocket for the interview. Hey! Luck was actually going to be on my side today; the bus back towards the Community Projects was due in only half an hour. I'd be home by late afternoon, maybe even in time to change and catch a ride back into the city. I smiled as I folded myself onto the bus stop bench to wait, ignoring the looks and whispers from the poor humans who were stuck waiting for the same bus. I could feel my tail tip twitching inside my trouser leg and wished I could pull it out and stop squishing it, but I didn't want to take any chances. My “friends" from security might have decided to call for a neighborhood patrol car and if I missed this bus, it would be another four hours of waiting if I wasn't picked up on suspicion of...something.