FSE

Furry search engine

formerly SoFurry search engine

Special thanks to psydrosis, DukeFerret and fopfox for proofreading!

Chapter One

I'd Like to Tour the Eighties

The lovely white mist across his naked hips left nothing to the imagination. Wavy, light green natural marks across his back told a story of age and wonder as the dragon stared across the peak of the cliff, undeterred by the cool breeze that undoubtedly tickled his genitals. The moon was high in the sky, and so were the stars, but as he looked out onto this quiet, humble night, he wondered, "Why...why did you have to go?"

But I didn't go anywhere.

The truth is, I was right there.

As if on cue, I saw his system perk up. He knows that I'm here. I approached him with caution. Not because I feared him...but because he feared himself, you see_._All the deaths...all the killing...it all led up to this one moment. I took my steps carefully, one by one.

"Oh, my greatest love!" I shouted triumphantly. "And I thought for sure that the kingdom had killed you!"

"You thought wrong, my love," he moaned softly under a wry smirk. "The truth is.................I'm right here."

Tears welled up in my eyes. I couldn't take it anymore. I lunged myself at the dragon prince and wrapped my arms around him, my hands running all over his rough, manly scales. And as he hugged me as well, pressing me with his love, I remembered how much truly stronger he was than I. And as the tears streamed down my cheeks, I knew that the whole world could burn to the ground right now, and this would still be the most perfect moment of my life.

But that wasn't all.

My eyes looked over his shoulder. Beyond out across the horizon, blue turned to orange. Could it be?! It was true...the sun was coming up, into a beautiful horizon. I looked into his eyes, and I knew that this was it. This was the moment we've been waiting for for seven thousand years.

"Oh, how I love you, Prince V'lok'delswik!" I uttered, tears pooling out my eyes. "I love you more than life itself!"

"Then kiss me, you fool," the hunky prince commanded, waggling his eyebrows provocatively. "Kiss me like your mother did when you were just a little child."

As the final tear dripped from my chin, I plunged my lips into his burly dragon lips and hugged him deeply, feeling the warmth of the early morning sun wash us both away. And as I stood there, lost in his everlasting love, all I could think of was that this was the most perfect moment of my entire-

Click

The pointed, clawed finger pressed atop the metal flying saucer shaped device sent the blue holograph whirlpooling back into the base. It was called a Pod, and under it sat a desk, a floor, under that, a floor; twelve, to be exact, with thirty-three more above. And most importantly, this was an office decked out with many, many impressive awards.

All belonging to Mr. Swanson, who was all grey, from his light scalp boasting strands of unkempt hair to his dark suit, except for the patch of black around his jaw, snout and cheeks. His sleeves shimmied down enough to show his white forearms as his palm clasped over his face, slunk deep in his chair.

"Rodney," the fox groaned, "what...the hell...is this?"

A pot of marigolds baked on the windowsill behind his leather office chair as it cast a wide shadow, barely skimming the brown, upside down trapezoid hair across from him. Nervously, the chubby, tan-and-brown thirty-two year old raccoon drew toe circles in the ground as he tried to forget what had just happened. Mr. Swanson didn't blame him; he couldn't look at him, either. The raccoon's unintelligible whimpers and urgent fidgeting with the cuff of his light blue suit weren't winning him over.

"Dragons, Rodney?" the boss uttered. "Really?"

Rodney scratched himself behind the neck and looked at one of the awards plastered on the wall, instead. A wooden plaque labelled, _"Six Time Leadership Award for Conduit, Inc." _

"Rodney..."

He shifted nervously as his lip began to quiver. No plan B.

"Rodney!" the fox boomed, finally catching his eyes. "Look at me. Are you serious?"

The tepid raccoon whimpered, "I-it's called...roleplaying, Mr. Swanson...."

The boss's snout crinkled as he swiveled from side to side, his hand still at his forehead.

"Roleplaying?" he repeated like he was practicing the syllables. "Wh-what is roleplaying?!"

"It's when you play a role, in a...story, and...do stuff," Rodney shrugged. "It's fun...."

"You don't 'have fun' with paying customers!" Mr. Swanson yelled. "You sell them shirts and expensive coffee cups!"

"No, no, wait, let me explain that part," Rodney blurted apologetically, shaking his palms out in front, "I was just telling him about the new line of shirts we had in office, and he - the one with the, uh, 'Revolution' logo, I mean - and he reminded me of this movie they made in the 80s about anoles overthrowing the dragon empire, and so we started talking about that, and then we started talking about how bitchin' the main villain looked, and...."

The defeated boss buried his face in his hands.

"I thought maybe that'd get him to come back more often?" Rodney offered. "Uh, either way, I know now that it's totally not cool."

Mr. Swanson sighed like a depressed opossum. "First of all, I know what movie you're talking about, and I'm pretty sure that guy killed three children. Secondly-"

"Yeah, to save a whole crib," Rodney stated, index finger up. "Very important to the plot."

"Sure. Secondly, the budget took another hit, and I don't know how we can afford moves like this."

Rodney gulped. "I'll work overtime, then, I can make this up!"

Mr. Swanson groaned. "Jesus, Rodney, you're about to make me jump out the window...listen, it started with the fifteen extra minutes on your lunch break. I was willing to let it slide. Then, it turned into more bathroom breaks. I assumed you were just burnt out. But for the past few months, you've been missing calls, meetings, appointments, office parties, Rodney, what's next?"

He closed his eyes and shook his head like it'd shake off the bad thoughts.

"I don't know, either," Mr. Swanson sighed, leaning. "And frankly, I'm not gonna risk it. We're done here."

Rodney stood up and sat back down as his boss tapped on the top of the Pod, and the tip opened up in three parts, projecting a screen of blue holograms. He began to swipe his fingers through them, the projections passing like electronic screens on a smartphone, a blank expression overtaking the aggravation he used to have. The silence was devastating, and it begged to be destroyed.

So, Rodney spoke up: "What are you doing?"

Mr. Swanson stared aghast at him. "Come on, Rodney. What do you _think_I'm doing?"

"Checking your schedule?"

"No."

"The time?"

"No."

"Something else work related?"

"Okay, instead of me sitting here explaining to you what every menu on this thingymajig does, let's just skip right to the list of people who work for me." He sighed loudly and swiped to a tower of about sixty or seventy rectangular prism blocks stacked on each other, then jabbed his finger downward. "You see that? That's you at the bottom."

He looked at Rodney intently, expecting his response, but he'd never seen anything like this. Sighly gruffly, he poked his finger at it, examining the data panel that expanded from it. Nodding, he danced his fingertips through the panel until it sucked back into its original form, this time as a bright crimson. Without a second thought, he swiped it to the side, sailing past the projection's radius and disintegrating into nothing. "You're free to go, now. Don't come back."

The bewildered raccoon blinked. "But we haven't dismissed the meeting!"

"Rodney, that was your data. It's gone now."

"Data?"

"The stuff that keeps you existing in this building."

"I'm still here."

Mr. Swanson slapped his face, pontificating his speech, "I have just taken your entire identity in the context of this company and erased_it. Disappeared. Gone. _Forever. Now, of all the reasons you can conceivably grasp, why do you think I would do such a thing?"

Rodney felt lifted. "You want to give me a clean slate?"

"No, Rodney, you're fired."

"Fired? What? That's impossible."

"...Are you serious?"

"I've been working here for fourteen years, why would you-"

"You're fired!" Mr. Swanson snapped, pointing towards the door. "Get out!"

And just like that, the clock had ceased. His outstretched arm felt like a wave that made Rodney numb and speechless, ears folded back, standing up, showing teeth, an omen for the near future. All time seemed to stop. Seconds passed, and a firecracker erupted within his mind and body, the sparks and embers like prickles to his skin. When the dust settled, it had felt like it'd be a thousand years already. He checked the clock on the wall just to make sure: it had only been ten seconds.

"Now, are you just gonna keep staring at me, or are you going to pack your things and leave?" Mr. Swanson growled.

"O-okay!" Rodney nodded as he pushed himself up by the armrests. "I'll...see you later!"

"No, we won't," Mr. Swanson said, still aggravated, then taking another swig from his metal thermos and averting his eyes for good, tapping the panel on his desk to alight it to its own menu.

Though a moment of his time lingered as Rodney struggled to look the other way. He took cautious steps away without a handshake, twisting the door handle with his full hand like he'd crush it in his palm.

Back to the cubicle honeycomb he walked. The hues of pale yellows and whites couldn't look paler, like the texture was bathed in the blue characterized from the A/C, pumped up so high it was easy to forget it was the middle of June. Rodney stared out one of the tiny windows over the desks for the tiniest sliver of sunlight over the telemarketers staring boredly into a computer screen as they waited for their next excuse to stretch their legs.

He approached his U-shaped cubicle faced towards the wall, the center of a whole line of them. It amazed Rodney how messy a desk can look when you've got to leave. He shoved the objects in all their corners and didn't give them a second thought. He collected the black binder of telephone numbers and shoved it in the black bottom cabinet. Then, he grabbed every useless souvenir, miscellaneous smiley button, peace sign, and anything that kept him busy and amused at the time, and promptly dropped them all into the red duffle bag below embroidered with "KUNG FU KITTIES".

To his left peeked the face of a spotted leopard, watching him brush the crumbs off his desk into a trash can. Pursing her lips, her scarlet fur showed bright under white spots, and her dark grey suit complemented her long, striped blue and grey tie.

"You going somewhere?" she asked. "Is it lunch break already?"

He knew what he had to say, but he didn't have the strength to look at her. Sighing into his desk, shutting his eyes tight, he took a moment to brace himself before the bombshell.

"That's not what's happening here, Jean," he mumbled, straightening up, shuffling his shoulders. "I have become...

...unemployed."

On cue, Jean slouched in her chair upsettingly and shook her head slowly. Just on the desk before her peek of a young siberian husky's head around the corner of one of the walls that bisected their desks, adjusting his black, square glasses. The next second, his face lowered.

His voice was young, but mundane, his eyebrows sincere, "Bro, that...that really sucks."

"It's not all bad," Rodney smiled childishly. "Look at the bright side! More time to binge my list of 80s movies."

"Something happen?" mumbled a snow leopard sitting to the right, turning to look at the empty desk. "Oh. That makes sense." He then hunched back over to his Pod. "Sir, could you repeat that? I apologize for the inconvenience."

Rodney watched him and drew his thumbs over his tear ducts, a look of severity now across his face. "Oh, Terry. It's amazing how far three months of passing notes can lead us to. Except, well, every time, they started from me, and...every time, you'd write back one letter: 'K'; Terry, I'll tell you something: each and every time, I was disappointed. But now I realize the truth...it was because of how focused and confident you were on doing what was right in front of you." He extended his brown hand and patted him dearly on the shoulder. "You're gonna go far, kid."

"Dude, stop," Terry muttered, covering the phone and leaning even further away.

Rodney nodded, staring at his back like he expected a response to show. Behind him, the husky had rolled his chair halfway into the aisle to stare over Jean, who was too busy looking at her pink nails to deal with any of this. Hardly acknowledging this, Rodney walked about seven desks down to look at the fat, brown mink in the maroon suit, the whites patches of fur around his half-open eyes doing nothing to compensate.

"M-Dawg!" Rodney brought out a fist for his friend to bump. "I'm sure you've heard the news already."

He stared blankly at the fist and then let out a yawn. "Yeah, you made that pretty clear."

"Remember that time I broke my last pencil on my notepad," Rodney said, "and you, with that giant eraser in the corner of your desk, became my last hope in this desolate, eraser-less world?"

Michael paused, looking up to his forehead, bobbing his head slightly, "Oh yeah, I guess I did that."

"Ever since that day," Rodney explained, "I've been using it for every single note I've jotted down. Every sketch I've ever done! I haven't used the back of a pencil in years! And all because that big, bright eraser was ready to knock my socks off. But it's not about the eraser, Michael. It's about you. Ever since that day, you held a special place in my heart, my soul, and my spirit. You were no longer 'Michael', Michael. You were_...The Eraser Guy."_

Rodney whispered out the last words, placing his jazz hands out, watching the newfound hero blinking, ever so slightly nodding in mild acknowledgement, songs of telephones and typing keyboards filling the silent air; Rodney cleared his throat.

"So before I go," he said, reaching into his pocket protector, "I wanted you to have this back," pulling out a large, pink wad, smooth and curved at one end, jagged and darkened at the other, small, pink crumbles spilling out as he placed it on the table.

"I have no need for it, now," he hushed. "Please, Michael, my special, morally ambiguous friend...take good care of it."

The mink stared at the eraser for a moment, then let out an exasperated sigh.

"Yeah, sure, I guess," he said at last. "You sure you don't want it? Paper hasn't been used in forever."

"Do whatever you want with it," Rodney's wailed dramatically, a hand across his brow, looking away. "it's out of my hands. Returning it is the least I can do to make this right. Goodbye, Michael." He drew in a deep breath from the ceiling. "As you would always say...'Tier Three for life, bro.'"

As he shrugged and went back to work, the spectating duo from earlier watched the strange raccoon walk from desk to desk, giving all sorts of these speeches, yet being speechless, themselves. Through the secondhand embarrassment spawned almost a sense of urgency, like the clock was ringing louder in their ears to get back in the sacred sitting position, but something in the way somehow fascinated them away from it.

"Uh, Jean...what is he doing?" the husky asked.

She sighed, not looking back at him. "Trust me, Richard, you get used to it."

"And Jean!" Rodney turned to her dramatically. "Jean, Jean, Jean. My friend! My tiermate! My fay-vor-ite co-worker!"

Jean looked away and waved her hand, "I'm good without the banter, thanks! Just a little tired."

"You sure?" he asked. "I can't just leave without giving my final office cupcake of the spoken word."

"Well, you better get moving, honey," Jean said, "and if you're lucky, we can always meet by the town center. The one with all the cakes?"

"The place at District Twelve?"

"Eleven."

"Same thing!"

"Yeah, it's easy to mix them up. I'm trying a new jogging route through there, so we could meet up by luck. It might work for me, it might not, but maybe I'll run into you?"

"I bet you will! I've got the time now to jog the whole district, if I didn't collapse in sheer agony in the first two seconds! Gosh, the more I think about it, I can't believe how much time I have now!"

"Welcome to Tier Five," Jean shrugged.

Richard shook his head, whistling. "Must be rough there. Imagine being in a social faction lower than the kids in school chilling in Tier Four. They made a whole 'nother tier just to tell you to get your ass back to work. Even the government's out to get ya."

Rodney's eyebrows perked. "Eat me, Richard. This'll be a piece of cake. I'll just walk around for a few days, find a new, totally awesome job, talk to some awesome people, get back to Tier Three, and be bakin' pancakes by noon. Sounds so easy I could put it off 'til next month."

Jean stood up, a disturbed, angered raise in her eyebrow. "Rodney, I don't think you heard what Rich just said. Do you even know what happens to the dipshits who think they can pitch a tent in Tier Five?"

"No?"

"Exactly. They just disappear. Without an employer to look at their work and alter their Social Credit, there's nowhere to go but down, until it dips so low that it's irredeemable without action. We don't even know what the project is about. But since nobody is stupid enough to actually sink that low, they just assume you're bad for society and throw you out."

"So what? You work on some project for a couple weeks and then leave."

"Are you serious? Try months, if you're really unlucky_.And whenever they _do come back, they're never the same. Remember when Kane dropped out and three weeks later came back and couldn't stop talking about tic tac toe? Yeah. It's some freaky shit. So in case you haven't noticed, you're in the danger zone, and if you don't get your ass moving soon, you could be staring at flashlights by next week.

Rodney paused to weigh the options. She was right, after all. It was rarely a topic that had come to mind in these offices, but the way they dealt with the last tier was always a red herring. No government came without a set of raised eyebrows, and everybody knew this quite well, but Uquaria always had its ways to point them forward. Perhaps the trick was to simply let it do its job.

"You forgot one thing," he said, "those are the delinquents who can't work in the first place. Let's set it straight: if I fail, I go to a camp and then come back as a brand new Rodney. If I don't, then I'm all good in the hood. Maybe even in a better place! But crime? That's never gonna be my vibe. This ain't the danger zone, honey," he pulled his shades out from his bag, "it's the zone."

With that, he kissed his hand and waved goodbye, bouncing as he walked out of her sight, paying a few more overenthusiastic visits before finally finding his way to the elevator. Then she turned back to her phone and filed some papers, the glazed look in her eyes coming back to her like a ghost possessing her for nothing at all.

The first step outside tasted like a game of frisbee and a glass of lemonade: warm, serene, though ironic, given the roasted weenies stand nearby. The smooth air flowed in the fur of his cheeks, a song of serenity whispering faintly. Not that he could hear it with all the passers by hustling around each other, shuffling for tough meetings, conferences, whoever's on the Pod with them, and best of all, it was all their problem.

A line of trees dotted the sidewalk, equally apart, boasting leafy branches like palm trees. Four for every block, potted in a square carefully around the pavement, equal length apart from each other. His apartment was fifteen of these trees away; that's how he remembered it. All the same paths start to blur into one as times go on. He counted them as they went by, this time letting their hanging leaves brush up against his face, much to the eye rolls and awkwards glances he received in the process.

Between the sidewalks and stores in the lanes rolled the dome-shaped, self automated cars making wind tunnel-like sounds. Reminded him of a double cheeseburger wrapped in glossy, violet glass; better pay up the further you want to go. And the hustlers outside dressed in bright orange and blue, you could bet were either had something to prove or trying to swindle a couple dollars - both, if you've been in District Sixteen, those crazy Tier Two bastards, they'd say anything at all except the words, "I'm homeless." Because nobody here was. Insurance was paid for. No rent. No nothing. Put in your hours and smile for the ride.

His pace sped up to a skip, a hop, an aroma of cinnamon and charcoal and cheap wine and memories of all the stores that couldn't make it, but god damn, was it amazing for them to try their best! And the pizzeria smelled divine from beyond the door, that old District Nine scent of pestled salvinen and jalapeno, Old Javier smiling on the logo. And the gift shop of seashells and baked mollusks had the desperate lovers crowding, memorizing the colors in the straw baskets like a code they'd tattoo onto the backs of their hands. Though they weren't from here; God knows where they were, and who ever cared. The imports from Out There made this place alive and well, and you could feel it every time you woke up in the morning, that tinge in the air that said the overnight imports reached somebody's doorstep. Always something new to buy, to share, and if not, then look harder, because Uquaria was alive and bustling, and it can't wait to meet you.

And Rodney grinned at the thought of all the time he had to enjoy it, a confident stride to push back the anxiety to the back of his brain like the oldest book in the bookshelf. He hadn't read one in ages...probably should download one on the Pod next chance he got. He glossed it over in his head, now walking on the curb instead of the sidewalk, less people in the way. Lost his balance only twice that block, new record! A walk signal blared in the box on the street lamp, so he hurried up to catch it, trying not to bump into people along the way. They still seemed to take some sort of offense, though. He considered it as he walked, his semblance now placid...maybe all the new time outside would be a bit more of a hassle than he thought. Where's the best place to get a book, anyway? Didn't take a second thought.

Took the next right instead of the left, walked two more blocks down to District Fourteen, just to the right of District Nine. Funny thing about the sixteen trees thing: this was also sixteen trees away from work. Above the door, there's the rectangular sign, a whirlwind of rainbow colors of which the chipper raccoon now felt mutual with around the vertically written words, "THE WARP".

As he pushed open the glass door into the thin room lit like a cheesy arcade, he heard the large, circular fans roar loudly in the corners as they rocked the tie dye shirts on the clean, steel carousel racks like a clothesline on a windy day. Over the speaker played the hair metal chorus everybody's heard before, and you know you'd hear that voice on the CD shelves, that ten foot long row of old 80s albums stretching from the middle to the back of the store, all in alphabetical order. Rodney gave them one look and knew that a new shipment had come in from last week. Wait...right, the bookshelves; they stood tall all the way in the back near the back door, right beyond the bomber jackets hung on the racks right below the T-shirts mounted on the wall, both displaying the store's logo, each black letter sized differently, bordered with white over a dense spiral.

He breathed in that familiar aura. Even though it was just air, it always smelled a little bit like home; history, even. Then he heard the familiar, pleasant talking bisected by laughter and tapping, metal keys. Like he could see through walls, he looked straight past the rack of keychains numbered one through twenty-five, walked around it to see the koala tapping his tan fingers at the cash register, his dark, circular sunglasses hiding his eyes.

"All righty, the computer's just received the five hundred Bits," the clerk said, his voice game showy and faded, "have a radical day, homey!"

"You too!" said the grey wolf as his palm-sized, circular pod zipped in the holographics on the face like an airlock as it slid into his pocket. He then picked up his plastic bag full of goodies off the counter, the material inside oddly clashing with the navy blue suit and tie he wore. As the clerk watched the customer sidle between Rodney and the rack of keychains, he caught sight of his chubby companion and instantly gasped in delight, speed walking over to him to embrace him in a hug, leaving short strands of his light orange fur in Rodney's suit.

_"Rodney!"_he exclaimed, pulling away, his voice grungy and inviting. "Ha ha ha! Good to see you, man! What are you doing here so early?"

"You too, Harvey!" he answered, his smile bright with appreciation. "Got let out super early, you know I had to come down! This place is legit!"

"Chyah!"_Harvey said. "The stocks have been _killer today! So many people are into 80s nostalgia that I was finally able to afford the 50s nostalgia for the 80s guys with 80s nostalgia!"

He jutted a finger at a small corner of the room, the only section painted in black and white, holding a tray of dusty albums.

"I spent all day just shearing off dust from a wooden plank to get the sorta vibe, you know?" He was squinting his eyes behind the glasses. Rodney snickered, silently shocked at how far his marketing character overtook him. "You like it?"

"Love it!"

"Awesome! I've been makin' a lot of upgrades these past couple weeks, so I gotta make sure my best buds are onboard."

"You know you have my word," Rodney smiled, looking towards the fully stocked movie shelves. "Full shelves, too? Is this now?"

"The wires are clickin' together, man," Harvey said, then caught an eye of Rodney's bag. "Oh! Kung Fu Kitties! Man, that brings me back. Remember when we used to watch that in my car on the DVD player?"

"Yeah, and I ate so many gummy bears I had to puke out the side," Rodney added, and Harvey punched him on the shoulder.

"Ha ha! I could _never_forget that day!"

"Yeah, you must've," Rodney pointed at the tie dye shirts, "now you're sellin' it everywhere!"

"Sure am!" Harvey said. "Hey, when they give me that big 'ol Tier Two award, I'll make sure to honor you by puking on the mic!"

They laughed like kids on a lunch break, immature, Rodney pressing his forehead on top of a clothing rack. As it lingered, it got the attention of some other customers browsing about, who simply went back to their business a second later. Rodney straightened, then he realized he was serious. "What? I've never heard you say that before."

"I'm telling you man," he shrugged. "I've been making good amends with the peeps that own this hood, too, and our imports, and that jazz. My cred's going up, man, and thinking about what's next puts my heart into _maximum overdrive!" _

Harvey stuck himself in a power stance to accentuate his speech, getting a few laughs from the surrounding customers.

"But seriously, seriously, I don't know what I did with the merch, but people are lovin' the vibe."

"It's you, man," Rodney said, putting a hand on his shoulder. "They love you. I keep telling you this and you don't listen to me!" Something about it still hurt to say.

Harvey waved his hand dismissively. "Aw, Rodney, you're sweet, but there's a lot more to it than just that."

"Well, either way, you're a lot more on track to get Tier Two than I'll ever be," Rodney stated. "That's where all the high tier business owners are, after all, I'm sure you'll get there. Me, though, I've just been in that same building for so long, I forgot what the ground looks like. Every single moment, actually...."

"Same place? Rodney, you're not tellin' me you've stayed at that same job for all this time?" Harvey asked, and Rodney silently cursed himself for letting it slip. "You've been keeping that from me all this time?"

"I don't know," Rodney said, slightly defensive, "I'm sorry I never told you. I just got comfortable, and satisfied, and, well, that's a wonderful feeling. I got a bed at home and a roof over my head. I can walk to the burger joint whenever I want, what else do I really need?"

"It's not about what you need, man," Harvey said, tilting his head and sulking in sympathy, "it's about whatever you can get. You need to be consistent. And if you're sitting around waiting for some invisible elevator to take you to the top before you're prepared for what's on the other side, you're gonna regret being there in the first place. That's what work is all about, to me."

His friend laced his hands behind his back and seemed to pace, now looking towards the ground in silence.

"Two things," Rodney whimpered. "One, I don't have a goal. Not anymore, really. I guess I just like it when things aren't complicated. Two...I respect you, man, but it really isn't that easy around here."

"I didn't say it was easy," Harvey said softly, much to his mellowed friend's surprise. "Hey. You wanna see something? Look out that window."

Harvey motioned his eyes over to the display window just in front of the display case of old, tattered books, a backwards arc of letters spelling "COMICS, MUSIC & RAD STUFF" stuck to the upper section. Beyond that was the sight of a great, silver spire, reaching so high into the sky that the tallest floor seemed to overlap the cirrus clouds overhead. Harvey put his arm around his friend's shoulder.

"That's right," Harvey said, now sounding softened. "One heck of a view up there, ain't it? And I think to myself, 'what'd I look like up there?' And I don't know, Rodney. I don't know what I'd look like. But I can't take my mind off it these days. Up there must be a hell of a sight."

"You'd probably get a bit dizzy," Rodney said, "I hear the floors up there are never steady. Something about the altitude or whatever, but don't quote me on that."

"Word," Harvey patted his shoulder. "I bet they aren't steady at all."

____________________________________________________________________________

Project, Six Edition Q. Latest and greatest edition in...no. Project Six, Edition Q. Ladies and gentlemen, I give you...no, that's informal. No. How do I....

As the words flowed through Miles Turner's skull, the deadpan, navy blue suited lynx sat silent and motionless during the mid morning rush. The dress shoe shuffles, the water cooler bubbles, the uncomfortable A/C...it was good to be lost in the window for a fleeting moment. Its radiant landscape, but the mystery ahead was the main course, that great, big object in the distance he'd never unsee. The one he'd always seen before, that no one ever forgets.

A sigh, a slump, he scratched the grey fur on his cheek, right beside the charcoal colored spots around his eyes that otherwise dotted and lined throughout his body. His hands balled together at the center of the desk. His own Pod laid at his knuckles. The sleepless nights hadn't paid off quite yet. So he repeated the same lines to himself again and again and again, a thousand different ways. He couldn't help it this time. That object in the distance. The greys seemed to blend with the blue skies, but the sun blocked out the details. Now his fingers drummed, the space between him fascinating him, and that fascination brought a harder beat to his heart than a synapse of-

vrr vrr

Pod's rumbling. A hologram displayed the clock: 2:28 PM. Miles fixed his tie and closed the blinds again, scooping up the Pod as he pushed in his chair, as did the man sitting next to him, in that order. His eyes fixed forward as he nearly bumped into another coworker walking in the other direction. The heavy metal doors were just nearby, the panel to its side glowing a blue wave with the words, "Please scan your Pod to use the elevator."

"Hey, I'll get that."

His ears perked; father's voice. Neil Turner. By instinct he stepped aside and watched as the darker grey figure with a fur pattern all too similar to himself approached the panel. He ruffled back the sleeve on his black, spotless sports coat and scanned his hand onto it. His big, green eye held a certain, unexplainable aura as it looked at him; not quite deadpan like him, but sharp, poignant, even.

"Why are you coming along?" Miles asked.

"I want to make sure this goes right," Neil said. "And if not, we can talk about ways to make it that way."

Miles paused. "They didn't tell me visitors were allowed."

His lips pursed, shook his head. "They do now."

Miles hid his aggravation with a nod. He turned to the man beside him as if he had answers, looking down slightly by the shoulder of the cat's tan suit as he fixed his attention to a corner in the distance. And as the elevator door opened, the three walked inside, Miles now standing tall, proud, cracking his neck.

Project Q, the salvation of our struggles. Our passion. No, that has nothing to do with it. Project Q, the salvation of....

He couldn't help but fidget with the Pod in his paw. Don't drop it. Don't break it. That'd be a bad look. Can't afford that, now. Can't afford that, ever. But the thought gave him chills. They probably looked at him like he was a fool. You're not worth it. You're nothing like them. You are. You're not. Hey, stop that. Eyes up. Fix the collar already. Damn, when does this elevator end?

Speak of the devil, the heavy doors parted aside, and the office light made them squint for a hot second. The idea that it was just three floors above his usual office boggled his mind. Though he kept his face straight as three of them walked through the king sized room, now surrounded in all glass walls, arrays of stone faced corporate cats, canines and marsupials perched at stainless steel tabletops. The holograms of data in boxes glowed blue from them, the same shade of the Pods, and the workers swiped from side to side as each of them parsed another block of Social Credit. Another life in their palms. So this was how the Tier Ones worked. Sure beats the blue light sleep deprivation. Something about this had a sense of beauty to it, but he wasn't going there now.

His father unlocked the panel of door 80A at the end of the hall, then a loud "chunk" was heard. As he pushed it open, an uncomfortably dark arena unfolded, like something was supposed to jump out at them. Miles coughed, felt his heart race...in a strange placebo, it was a little harder to breathe, though he figured that was how it was. Below was a desk, and to the sides, an auditorium full of businessmen and women chatting amongst each other, the indigo aisle illuminated with lights like a movie theater. No windows. Just a downward, angled look at the bottom where a table lay, a metal crevice in its center. They made their way down the alley, Miles wading to the center as the other two disbanded to the sides. Now the whispers were a lot clearer. He turned to look at the auditorium filled with at least thirty Tier Ones all around him. It made Miles straighten himself even further for the greeting.

"Good morning, one and all," Miles said, putting his hands together, "I thank you all for allowing me in. My name is Miles Turner, I work for Wyred Inc. under my father's lead, and I've recently been given the top Technological Production position. Now, I've been told that we're in need of newer ideas to encourage harder work ethics from our people so they can reap better, more satisfying rewards. It's a topic that I, myself, have found keeping me up late at night. Well, after all the long nights of building and scrapping, I'm proud to come forth and propose this to you."

He then lay the Pod in the center of the table, and the base outlines grew blue and bright as it projected two drawings on the wall behind it: one, a five-by-five interlocked grid numbered one through twenty-five, counting in columns up through down, and beside it, a rectangular spire of pipes that reached to a tip, schematics displaying its dimensions. An arrow drew from the drawing to the center of the grid, and Miles drew his finger across it as he spoke.

"Project Q, the salvation of the common man," Miles said. "I come to you with a short proposal: we build a beacon in the center of Uquaria. Sixty feet should cut it. The purpose of this tower is to collect daily Pod information from workers across Uquaria each day across every business and calculate that to a percentage that nets them rewards by the end of the week. Some may gain extra hours in the gym. Others may earn days off from work, and an expense trip to exclusive prototypes we haven't released yet, and that could net even further job opportunities should the message get out. Real benefits. Actual rewards. And for us, never before seen marketing data. It's win-win. The equation of which decides it can be publicly seen to ensure that everybody's in the same game, which I'll leave up to our talented mathematicians to design."

Miles paused, trying to decipher a possible reaction. It took all his willpower not to sway as the whole stage mumbled amongst each other, at first seeming humble, but their talk was quick, and a bit too high in tone to assume they were taking this seriously. All this knocked him completely off his style.

"I'll, uh...I'll open the panel up for questions," he said. "I have other designs. I, uh, understand that you have technology that may match the need for a tower-"

Suddenly, one of them tapped their microphones.

"Miles, is it?" a woman in the most brightened up desk asked, who Miles immediately recognized as Ms. Croid. "I, um...I don't know how to say this, but I don't think you understand the point of Social Credit."

Miles blinked. "I don't understand." A few chuckles sparked.

"The point is to incentivize people to improve their self image," she said, "if we were to use it as some corporate popularity contest like you're describing...well, it would go nowhere good."

"I could see the entire population going crazy over this," a shadier figure on the top left chimed in. "Productivity isn't a popularity contest."

"With all due respect, I've been reading that it is," Miles said. "With all the talk of maintaining our self image, no one ever seems to want to improve it. No one talks about elevating to a Tier Two for as long as I've lived. This beacon, if passed, would show them the bigger picture and bring a better society to all of us. The potential of this idea, if you'd give it a chance, is limitless. More people will be knocking on the Tier One door than ever before; we just need to give them a _chance._I ask you all again, why not incentivize that competition? Is there no point in incentivizing competition?"

That caused a bit of a ruckus. As chaos continued, Ms. Croid began frantically tapping her Pod until it displayed flashing red lights and shrieked out an alarm. As everybody quieted down, she held the button again, silencing it, telling them to go one at a time.

"I suspect not," someone in the middle row said. "An old philosopher stated it's easier and more sound to improve one's self than it is to improve the wellness of others. We can't just give people a reason to doubt that."

Miles could hardly respond, but the whole panel's barely visible chins seemed to nod in agreement.

"I think we're done here," she said. "I vote no. All in favor?"

One by one, the panelists obliged, and everybody in the stage shook their heads, scratched themselves behind the ears, looking away, as if they were resetting themselves back to indifference. The frontmost ones clicked open their Pods and swiped their fingers through the blue projection until it displayed an array of panels, and one by one, swiped the topmost one to the side. Miles clicked the top of his own Pod off and walked out without a word.

He was scowling hard as the door opened. Finally, the tan-suited man from earlier walked up behind him and held his shoulder.

"It's not all bad," he said. "You tried your best."

"It's not that, Martin," Miles responded. "I just hate going back to the drawing board all the damn time."

"Miles, time to go," his father said. "It's all right. You'll get it right next time."

As much as he wanted to, he couldn't. His curiosity got the best of him and hooked his attention to the open walls. Martin gulped and swayed uncomfortably, hands in his pockets, wiping his feet on the ground like it were a doormat.

"One simple request," Miles said, "can you let me stay up here a little bit longer?"

There was a long, somewhat strange pause as they traded suspicious stares.

"Why's that?" his dad asked.

Miles sighed, lost, drifting towards the radiance; he was sure he had an answer, but it left him. Wading at the walls, he wrapped his hands around the titanium cylinder railings just inches away from one of the glass walls and leaned on it. A gruff sigh escaped his mouth as wordless thoughts ran through him. On all angles, all sides, stood the colossal limestone, cemented wall, boxing all four corners of the entire country in infinite protection. Its shadow inside ticked like a sundial, three districts behind him in nighttime, but the view outside looked so sweet. Before, it could hardly see the horizon, but now, just three floors up, it seemed to open up at the brim with one single faint green line. Too light to be fake, too dark to be real. Above that, only sky and sun.

They say witnessing fine art brings out the best in people, but with the fervor came a sense of dread. An understanding of the distance between him and it, whatever it was. A winter tinge in his mind accompanied the biting feeling it was nothing at all, though goosebumps were never meant to tell lies. Only to enforce the feelings that come from it, a mantra he'd remind himself every time he'd suit up for an important meeting or another date with rush hour. No reason to project something like this from so far up, and all too convenient to the men at this altitude. Miles wondered if they ever looked out and saw it as the same portrait of hope as he did. Low breath, gaze deterred, he could feel it washing through every cell in his body if he stood still enough. Breathtaking, literally, Miles feeling his lungs as empty as the ground below, tilting like it was calling his name.

"You distracted?" his father asked.

Miles shook his head, the presence behind him reeling him right back.

"I was cooking your noodles the other night," he said. The garlic infused ones you showed me a while ago. It was real quiet, and I got bored, so I was staring out the window instead. I saw a stoplight from a ways away, and I was just watching it change for a while. I don't know why, but suddenly it dawned on me how strange it was that it was miles away, and I was still able to see it. And when I look at that line, I feel the same way. It's...how do I describe it? Feels like the idea of talking about it itself is pointless. I really want to see this place. Even if there's no one else there." He exhaled aggressively. "God..."

Neil paused. "If I could tell you what that was, I would, but that's classified information. But when you're a Tier One, I'd be happy to take you."

Miles sighed. "I don't think that'll be a part of it a long, long time."

"Don't be so sure of yourself," Neil said. "There's plenty of people your age that have gotten there."

"You saw how I looked in there," Miles said, thumb to the door, "I don't even know how to present myself to these people. Now I just put myself in the perfect position to be swept under the rug for good. How am I supposed to convince them that I deserve to be in their place?"

"By not talking about outside," Neil said. "We've talked about this, Miles."

"I know," Miles sighed. "I know."

"Do you really want to see what's out there?" his father asked, and Miles raised an eyebrow.

"...Yes, of course."

"I don't blame you. You've been cooped up in your room your whole life doing all the same shit, of course you're gonna get curious. But listen, there's a lot of complications beyond The Great Barrier, and that means you have to be a lot more than just a great worker. You need to be dependable. Smart. Cunning. And I mean really smart, Miles, are you listening?"

"Yes, Dad."

"Good, because I need you to listen to this next part. There's a reason why we rarely talk about Out There. We've got a responsibility right here, and that'll always be the case whether or not we're outside. The trick is to never fall behind, but don't get ahead of yourself. Nobody who's late to the show gets the potluck, and you've gotta show them who's boss."

Miles turned to him at last. "Did you say 'potluck?'"

His father straightened, nodding, looking around the room to the stone faces but didn't answer. Miles thought about it, calming down, but as the despair took him back, he stiffened up inch by inch, and then shrugged. "That'd be nice."

Though they didn't say anything after that, they could feel the awkwardness linger between them. Miles kept looking forward, a somber guize now overtaking his face. He let a sigh escape his nostrils, and that green line taunted him like it would disappear to a shade of grey should he look away. So he didn't.

"I've got a meeting in a couple hours," he said, "but that's in a couple hours. Just let me stay up here for a while. It's nice."

He waited for a response, but it never came. So he kept staring. Stretching out his muscles, the shivers down his spine overtaking him. The electronic whirring behind him startled him out of his funk, so he turned around for a brief moment.

"Miles."

Neil stared sternly at him from the elevator, hands in his pockets, Martin by his side, distracted by the Pod up to his ear. Even as it dinged, he didn't look away.

"One tier," he said.

"One tier," Miles repeated, forcing a nod, a drop of anxiety creeping through him as he watched the heavy, steel doors shut.