FSE

Furry search engine

formerly SoFurry search engine

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Tank sighed as he trudged along the dusty path. Another day with nothing but iguanas in the traps. There'd been signs of something larger out there, but the footprints didn't hint at prey. Almost a foot across with four toes, elongated like a large iguana or the likes, but the regularity of their pacing seemed to point at a bipedal creature, with claws at the end of each foot. He shook his head. No, not prey, but what then? Not human, the nekkies had 5 toes, not 4, no claws and he'd never seen a human with as large feet as these. It wasn't another Cat either; they were elongated, not round. It could be a gecko, except they were too broad footed to make tracks like this.

_ Never mind_, he thought, shaking his head, there's enough nasties out there as it is! No need to invent more at the sight of few yards of half-erased paw prints. He'd had his run-ins with everything from the geckos to molerats and radscorpions. He didn't need another one of the wars freaky mutations to deal with.

Half an hour later he bent down by a stream, cupping his paws and bringing water to his face, eagerly lapping it up, letting the cool liquid rush down his throat. He unhooked his canteen from his belt, the metal glinting at the sun as he dipped it in the river. Looking at his reflection in the polished metal, he saw a clear picture of himself. Across his shoulder was a leather strap with a holster containing the pride of his possessions: a Desert Eagle, 2 spare clips in a pouch hanging from the right side of his belt, counterbalancing a combat knife on the left side. His head was covered in a loose hood, tan as the rest of his gear, his yellow eyes and white fangs the only visible features in the hoods' shadow. Across his back hung a sharpened spear in two loops in the leather strap, crossed by another strap in which today's catch, 3 green iguanas, hung. His legs were covered in a short pair of faded leather pants, reaching right past his knees. Knees and elbows had round leather pads strapped to them, barbed wire imbedded in the pads on the elbows. His fur was black, only a small patch of yellow fur with black rings broke the monotony, placed on his left foot. His tail swung from the lower part of his back, held just high enough to not drag across the ground.

Peeling his gaze away from the reflection, he hooked the canteen in his belt, the familiar weight of his gear shifting into balance bringing a smile to his face. He swung his tail around his right thigh, keeping it off the ground and looked towards the sun. It was a few hours past noon, and he headed back north, towards the Den.

As the sun swung downwards towards the horizon, he noticed a cloud of dust in the distance.

_ Traders?_ Strange, the O'Malleys aren't scheduled to swing by the Den for another ten or eleven days. He crouched down and shaded his eyes with a paw, squinting against the sun's rays.

_ Damnit, why'd they have to come from the west?_ He counted 7, maybe 8 tiny silhouettes, as well as what looked like 2 carts towed by the two-headed Brahmin. What was it Kras had called them? Cows? He grinned; the old leopard enjoyed naming things after the pre-war creatures they descended from.

_ Well, if it isn't the O'Malleys, they'll need a guide, the Den is easy to miss and there's no other settlement in weeks' reach from here._ He got back up and ran towards them, his powerful hind-legs carrying him at an astonishing pace, his tail keeping him balanced on the run. As he got closer, he slowed down, assuming a leisurely pace as he walked the last hundred yards towards the caravan.

"Hey! Stop right there! Hands in the air!" One of the front figures pointed an assault-rifle at him.

"Relax, cousins!" He let his paws reach for the sky, continuing undeterred towards the group. "I mean no harm, as you can see, I'm alone." He came to a halt a couple yards in front of the man with the rifle. He let his eyes run down the man, noting his armored clothing. He was carrying what appeared to be leather armor, metal spikes protruding from the shoulder pads and elbows. Across his chest two chains of ammo crossed, presumably for the rifle. As he looked at the men behind him, he noted they wore roughly the same, one of them holding a huge hammer in his hands instead of a gun, throwing knives in a strap over his chest, the armor looked metallic.

"We decide who's friend and who's prey, dusty," the raider spat at the last word in a demeaning manner, the word unfamiliar to Tank.

"Boss?" one of the other men looked at the man with the gigantic hammer. "He, uhm, he's got a tail!"

"Of course I have a tail!" Tank grinned good-naturedly at the observation, then shifted into a slightly more defensive stance as he saw the sudden aggression in the mans eyes. A quick survey of the group showed that he wasn't the only one. "I'm a Cat, we all have tails..."

"Look at those fangs," another of the men said and raised his weapon to point at Tank "Those ain't natural, boss!"

"No, they aren't," the leader said. "Gotta be a mutie. Kill it, and let's be on our way."

As he finished the last sentence, the first man raised his weapon. Not waiting for him to execute the order, his boss had given, Tank let out a growl of anger. Quicker than the eye could follow, he slid out his claws and pounced him. "He who seeks to kill shall be the first to be embraced by death!" Tank shouted the old verse as he swung at mans throat, wincing at the metallic smell of the blood that poured forth, when his claws raked through the naked flesh of his victims throat. He rolled over, dodging a stream of bullets as the group opened fire on him. Another warcry escaped his throat as he jumped between them, preventing them from firing unless they were willing to risk shooting each other.

_ I'm not gonna survive this,_ he thought, but I'll be damned if I won't take some of them with me! He smiled grimly as his claws swung out again, raking through the leather armor at the abdomen of another man, blood spraying through the air as his bowels were revealed, guts spilling out through the now gaping hole. He felt a sharp pain in his thigh quickly followed by another two as a stream of bullets crossed his path. He let out a defiant howl of anger and rose to stare menacingly at his killers before going down, only to widen his eyes in surprise as death-screams flew through the air. Surreal as it was, he couldn't deny what his eyes were conveying to him: a spray of green glows flying through the air, accompanied by burst of reddish beams in the damp light of approaching dusk. What the hell? He thought, not understanding how someone else could have snuck up on him like that. Before thinking further about it, a sharp pain hit the back of his head and the world went black.

"Wake up, boy!" The voice, faint and distant repeated itself, annoyingly persistent, accompanied by an increasingly painful slapping against his cheeks. Grudgingly, he complied, opening his eyes slowly as he regained consciousness.

"He's awake, sir." The voice came from somewhere behind him, answered by a gruff voice somewhere to his right. "Good! about time, too!" A shuffling sound of what reminded him of heavy footsteps, a metallic creaking blending in with the sound, followed as the second person moved closer. Instinctively he unsheathed his claws and prepared to defend himself.

"There won't be need for that, kid. We aren't your enemies- yet." He felt a pair of hands under his shoulders urging him to sit up and complied, a bedroll was then pushed in to support him as he leaned back. His eyes had adapted to the light, or rather, lack thereof, and he looked around. He was lying inside what appeared to be a simple shelter, three metallic-looking posts supporting a greenish canvas. There were four people inside, all men it appeared, another two outside, their steady breathing faintly registering to his ears. The last two men, who hadn't yet spoke, were sitting on two metallic trunks, fiddling with what appeared to be plasma rifles. Impossible, he thought, none of those survived the war intact! Then he remembered the glows striking down on the party which had attacked him and decided not to be so stubborn. Survival chances, he'd been taught, were directly proportional to keeping an open mind. After all, who would've thought he'd even survive the last encounter?

"Who- who are you?" he asked tentively, letting his gaze rest on the first man to have spoken, the insignia on his chest vaguely familiar. A blue stylized wreath of a sort, a sword pointing up through the wreath, three individual gears in a copperish color in the background, two on the left of the blade, one on the right. His armor appeared to be made of a dull, metallic compound, meticulously well-kempt it seemed. As he walked towards Tank to stand in front of him, a faint sound of servos somewhere inside could be heard and explained how a man could walk with such a heavy suit so easily.

The man looked him in the eyes, his gaze unfaltering and hard. "I am Sergeant Anthony Burk of the Brotherhood of Steel," his words as unfaltering as his gaze, not without a certain amount of pride as he mentioned his affiliation. "My men and I are here on recon when we ran into you and your... friends." He grinned, the man beside him returning the grin as a low chuckle came from the two on the chests behind Tank. "You did quite well with them, considering the odds. Quite well indeed. Now, enough about us, what I want to know is who you are. And, more importantly, what you are."

"I am Tank," he returned the gaze, pride in his voice as well. "and I am of the Cats."

"The Cats? So, there are more of you." It wasn't as much a question as a statement.

"Yes"

"How many? Where do you live? Where do you come from?" The questions came rapidly, his gaze demanding answers.

"That is none of your business." He stared hard into the sergeant's eyes with an uncompromising feel to his glare. "We Cats protect each other. Until I know more about you, I will answer none of those questions. For all I know, you're nothing but a rival clan to those raiders out there, and I will never endanger my family, my friends, my people."

The onslaught of words was obviously unexpected, the sergeant had a surprised look to his eyes as he recoiled slightly. "Feisty, are we?" A low snicker was audible from one of the men behind them, the sergeant oblivious to it. Perhaps he couldn't hear it?

"Don't underestimate me. Those scumbags took me by surprise. You won't." His head had cleared up by now, and with a growl, he jumped up to grip the sergeant's throat, letting his claws slide out to press against the skin. He froze as a low hum echoed from behind, the sound of the others in the tent rising in response to his actions. "Put your weapons down or I will rip out your sergeants throat," he growled, letting a claw draw blood as it cut through the first layers of skin.

"Fast as well," the sergeant stated, his grin fading slightly. "It's alright, boys. I was asking for that." He could hear the men relax, out of the corner of his left eye he could see the man closest letting his weapon point back down at the ground. "Now, if you would please release me? I have no intentions of hurting you, but should you choose not to comply, my men will kill you as well. You aren't the only one willing to die for his family."

Tank looked closely at the man and, finding no hint of betrayal in his eyes, decided to trust him for now. He sheathed his claws, a drop of blood forming where he had cut the sergeant before. "I will trust you. For now." He said, stepping back a step and crossing his arms across his chest in a less threatening pose.

"Trust... It's been a long time since I have heard that from someone not a brother. It's a... refreshing feeling." For the first time, the sergeant smiled. "Now, I ask you again, what are you?"

"I told you, I am a cat. I, myself, am a hunter and a tracker. I keep an eye on our perimeters and supply my pride with extra food as well as skins. And that, sir, is all I will say until you've told me who you are, and what you're doing in Cat territory."

"Fair enough." The sergeant turned around and stared at the night sky through the open part of the tent. "I am a soldier in the expanding organization called the Brotherhood of Steel. We survived the war with our knowledge intact, originally part of the armies of the pre-war nation. We built a bunker where we settled and flourished. To make a long story short, the world around us slowly became ready to regain the knowledge it had lost, and we began to mingle with the re-rising civilization, letting our knowledge become available to those deemed worthy and ready. As the surrounding areas have slowly expanded, so do we expand, sending out recon patrols to find any other cities, villages or the likes who need our protection, as well as any new threats. We have dealt with some already and, no doubt, there are more out there. We find them and deal with them accordingly."

"Accordingly?"

"Yeah, accordingly." One of the men behind him snickered and a low hum became audible from his weapon. "If you aren't with us..."

"...you better not be against us. And that's quite enough from you, James." The sergeant looked at the man sternly. "We have the means to deal with most threats. We protect civilization if required and help it re-rise once it has matured enough. Any sort of threat to what we try to accomplish withers under our touch."

"And what do you call a 'threat'?"

"Anything preventing freedom to individuals, anything furthering itself at the cost of others. We live by the Code of the Brotherhood, a core rule to our organization." He curled his right hand into a fist and thumped it against his chest, the clang of metal on metal echoed by four thumps as the others did the same. "Live with Honor, fight for Honor, die with Honor." He bowed his head for a second before raising it again to look Tank into the eyes. "Anyone acting against that rule, actively working against it, is an enemy. Anyone else has the potential to redeem themselves and earn our aid."

"This-" he pointed at the crest painted on his chest and shoulders, "is our symbol. The sword symbolizes men as me, the Paladins. We are the elite among the Brotherhood fighters, and the only ones allowed the honor of wearing the Power Armor." He gestured across his body. "The wings-" and Tank realized the wreath was really that, two blue wings extending from the hilt, completing a full circle where their tips met at the top, "are the Council of Elders, our leaders of the brightest and most honored members, leading the sword. The gears are the knights, scribes and initiates who make the whole thing come together. The people with me, James and Rogers here as well as McKay and Anderson-" he gestured at the opening, obviously referring to the two guards outside, "are all knights, still proving their worth. They carry our own reinforced version of combat armor, made with our own polymers and enforced with ceramic plating."

"So you're a military organization?" This was something he could understand, rank, file, order.

"To the core," replied the sergeant. "Now you know about us, I believe it's time for you to tell us about you, mutie." A snarl curved his lips at the last word, quickly erased, but not before Tank had noticed it.

"Mutie? No, I am no mutant. Or, well, I am and I am not." He smiled slightly. "We had some mutants come by once, a small detachment of large human-like creatures who came to our home, following the orders of whomever leads them. They didn't know about us and paid the ultimate price for their intrusion. As you are about to as well." He grinned as his ears caught the faint rustling sounds of paws silently covering ground.